Reheated Cabbage

  It's putting me off, I can feel myself going a bit soft.

  I pull out and gasp, — From behind now.

  She turns over, but she doesn't get up on her knees, just lies flat and smiles wickedly. I wonder for a second whether or not she wants it up her arse. I'm not into that. She looks good though, and I am rock hard again, the troubling Charlie associations all gone from my nut. All I can see is that long hair, slender body and peach of an arse, spread out before me. I struggle to push in to her fanny, trying to keep some of my weight on my arms as I thrust into her.

  It's going in though, and soon we're fucking away again for all we're worth. Lucy gives the odd appreciative groan, without making a big fuss. I like that. I'm looking at a spot on the headboard to avoid getting too turned on and blowing early, it's been a while and I . . .

  I'm feeling . . .

  WHOOSH . . .

  PHOAH . . .

  OH. . .

  OOOOHHH . . .

  No . . .

  I think I've blown it there for a bit, the room seems to darken and spin, but I come to my senses and we're still at it.

  The strange thing is that I'm suddenly aware that her dimensions seem to have changed. Her body is like it's rounder and fuller. And she's quiet now, it's as if she's passed out.

  And . . . there's somebody in the bed next to us!

  It's Melissa! Charlie's wife, and she's asleep. I look at Lucy, but it isn't Lucy. It's Charlie: I am . . . I am. . . I am fucking Charlie up his arse . . .

  I AM FUCK –

  A spasm of horror shoots through me, the rigidness going from my erection to my body. My cock instantly goes limp, as God's my witness, and I pull out, sweating and trembling.

  I realise, to my further shock, that I'm not at home any more. I am in Charlie's flat.

  WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS . . . ?

  I slide out of the bed. I look around. Charlie and Melissa seem to be in a deep sleep. There's no sign of Lucy. I can't find my clothes, all my gear has gone. Where the fuck is this? How the fuck did I get here?

  I grab a smelly old Millwall top with South London Press on it and a pair of jogging trousers that lie in a heap on a laundry basket. Charlie likes to run, he's a fitness fanatic. I look at him back there, still dozing, out for the count.

  I pull on the clothes and go through to the front room. This is Charlie and Melissa's place alright. I can't think straight, but I know I have to get out of there fast. I promptly leave the flat and I run like fuck through the streets of Bermondsey until I get to London Bridge. I head to the tube station but I realise that I have no money. So I trot over London Bridge towards the city.

  My head is buzzing with the obvious questions. What the fuck has happened? How did I get to south London? To Charlie's bed? To Char – it's obvious that my drink was spiked in some way, but who the fuck set me up? I can't remember!

  I CANNAE FUCKIN REMEMBER!

  I'M NO AN ARSE BANDIT!

  That fuckin Lucy. She's a weirdo. But no her brother, surely no. Me and Charlie . . . I can't believe it.

  I can't . . .

  But the strangest thing is that just when I ought to be fuckin suicidal, I am, in spite of myself, settling into this weird calmness. I feel tranquil, but strangely ethereal; somehow disassociated from the rest of the city. Although I'm still at a loss to work out what has happened, it all seems secondary, because I am cocooned in this floaty bubble of bliss. I must be daydreaming, as I cross the road at the Bishopsgate, because I don't see a cyclist come careering into me . . .

  FUCKIN . . .

  WHOOSH . . .

  Then there's a flash and a ringing in my ears and miraculously I am standing at Camden Lock. There is absolutely no sense of any impact having taken place with the boy on the bike. Something is up here, but I'm not bothered. That is the thing. I feel fine, I don't care. I head up Kentish Town Road, towards Tufnell Park.

  The door of my flat is locked and I have no keys. The girls might be in. I go to rap at the door, and bang – a whoosh of air in my ears and I am standing inside the living room. Yvette is ironing, while watching the television. Selina is sitting on the couch, skinning up a joint.

  — I could handle some of that, I say. — You're no gaunny believe the night I've had . . .

  They ignore me. I speak again. No reaction. I walk in front of them. No recognition.

  They can't see or hear me!

  I go to touch Selina, to see if I can elicit some response, but then I pull my hand away. It might break the spell. There is something exciting, something empowering, about this invisibility.

  But there is something wrong with the pair of them. They seem in as much shock as I am. It must have been some night they've had as well. Aye, girls: we pay for our fun.

  — I still can't believe it, Yvette says. — A bad heart. Nobody knew he had a bad heart. How can something like that not be picked up?

  — Nobody knew he had any heart, Selina snorts. Then she shrugs, as if in guilt. — That's not fair . . . but . . .

  Yvette looks sharply at her. — You fucking cold cow, she hisses in anger.

  — Sorry, I . . . Selina starts, before slapping her forehead in confusion. — Oh fuck, I'm going to take a shower, she suddenly decides and leaves the room.

  I opt to follow her into the bathroom, to watch her take her clothes off. Yes. I'm going to enjoy this invisibility lark. Just as she starts to undress . . .

  WHOOSH . . .

  I'm not in the bathroom any more. I am pumping away . . . yes . . . ye-es . . . I'm fucking somebody . . . they're starting to come into focus . . .

  It must be Lucy, it was all some fuckin daft hallucination, some acid flashback or the like, it was all . . .

  But no . . .

  NO!

  I am on top of my mate Ian Calder, shagging him up his arse. He is unconscious, and I am giving him one. I can see we are on the couch in his house back in Leith. I am back up in Scotland, shagging one of my oldest pals up his fuckin hole, like I'm some kind of queer rapist!

  OH NO, MY GOD . . . NO IN FUCKIN SCOTLAND . . .

  I feel as if I'm going to throw up all over him. I withdraw, as Ian starts to make those delirious sounds, like he's having a bad dream. There is blood on my cock. I pull up the bottoms on my tracksuit and run out the house into the street.

  I am in Edinburgh, but nobody can see me. I am going mad as I run screaming, up Leith Walk, down Princes Street, trying to avoid people. But as I pick up speed on the corner of Castle Street I collide with this old woman and a Zimmer frame . . .

  Then . . .

  WHOOSH . . .

  I am in a prison cell, but I am fuckin well shagging this guy up his arse. He lies unconscious on the bed underneath me.

  OH FOR FUCK SAKE . . .

  It's my old buddy Murdo. He's inside for dealing coke.

  YUK . . .

  I pull out and jump down from the top bunk. I am sick, but in dry, racking coughs, holding myself against the cell wall. Nothing will come up. I look about as Murdo comes to, his face twisted in pain and confusion. He turns round, touches his arse, sees the shit and blood on his fingers and starts screaming. He jumps down, and I start to shout, crippled with fear: — I can explain, mate . . . it's no what it seems . . .

  But Murdo ignores me and moves over to his sleeping cell mate in the lower bunk, launching into a savage attack on the poor cunt. His fist thrashes into the startled jailbird's face. — YOU, AH KEN YOU! YOU DID SOMETHING TAE ME! AH KEN YOU! YA DIRTY FUCKIN SICK BUFTIE BASTARD! YA FUCKIN BEAST!

  — AAGGHH! IT'S HOOSEBREKIN AH'M IN FIR – the boy protests through his shock.

  WHOOSHHH . . . The guy's screams fade as I am . . .

  I am standing in a chapel of rest, at the back of the hall. The crematorium; Warriston, or Monktonhall, or the Eastern. I dinnae ken, but they are all there; my ma n dad, my brother Alan and my wee sister Angela. In front of the coffin. And I know, straight away, just who is inside that coffin.

  I am at my ain fuckin funeral. r />
  I'm screaming at them: what is this, what's happening to me?

  But again, nobody can hear me. No, that's no quite right. There's one fucker who seems to be able to; this fat old boy with white hair, who's wearing a dark blue suit. He gives me the thumbs up. The old cunt seems to have a glow about him, with shards of incandescent light emanating from him.

  I move across to him, completely invisible to the rest of the congregation, just as he seems to be. — You . . . you can hear me. You ken the Hampden Roar here. What the fuck is this?

  The old guy just smiles and points at the coffin at the front of the mourners. — Nearly late for yir ain fuckin funeral thaire, mate, he laughs.

  — But how? What happened tae me?

  — Aye, ye died when you were on the job with your mate's sister. Congenital heart problem you didn't even know about.

  Fuck me. I wis mair ill than I thought. — But . . . who are you?

  — Well, the old boy grins, — I'm what you'd call an angel. I'm here to assist you in your passage over to the other side. He coughs, raising his hand to his face, stifling a laugh. — Pardon the pun, he chuckles. — I've had all sorts of names in different cultures. It might help you tae think of me as one of the ones I'm least fond of: St Peter.

  The confirmation ay my death induces in me a bizarre elation, and no small relief. — So I'm deid! Thank fuck for that! It means I never shagged my mates up the arse. Ye hud me worried for a bit there!

  The old angel cunt shakes his heid slowly and grimly. — You're not over to the other side yet.

  — What d'ye mean?

  — You're a restless spirit, wandering the Earth.

  — How come?

  — Punishment. This is your penance.

  I'm no having this. — Punishment? Me? What the fuck have ah done wrong? I ask the bastard.

  The auld guy smiles like a double-glazing salesman who's about tae tell me there's nowt they can dae aboot their crappy installation. — Well, Joe, the truth is that you're not a bad guy, but you have been a bit misogynistic and homophobic. So your punishment is to make you walk the Earth as a homosexual ghost buggering your old mates and acquaintances.

  — No way! No way am ah gaunny dae that! You cannae fuckin well make me . . . I say, lamely tailing off as I realise that the sick old bastard has been doing exactly that.

  — Aye, this is your punishment for being a queer basher, the angel gadge smiles again. — I'm going to watch and laugh at you being crippled with guilt. Not only am I going to make you do it, Joe, I'm going to make you keep doing it until you enjoy it.

  — No way. You must be fuckin joking. I'll never enjoy that. I point at myself.— Never! You cunt . . . I spring at the bastard, ready to throttle him, but in another swish of sound and flash of light he's gone.

  I sit at a vacant seat at the back of the chapel, my head in my hands. I look around at the congregation. Lucy has come up for it, she's sitting quite close to me. That's nice of her. Must've been a fuckin shock for her. One minute you've a stiffer inside ye, the next it's just a stiff. Charlie's there too, he's with Ian and Murdo at the back of the hall.

  They are all standing up.

  Then I see him. That dirty old cunt of a priest.

  Father Brannigan. Him, putting me to rest! That filthy, evil auld cunt!

  I'm looking over at my parents, screaming silently at them for this appalling betrayal. I mind of me saying to them, I dinnae want tae be an altar boy any mair, Ma, and my mother being so disappointed. My old man never gave a fuck. Let the laddie dae what eh wants, he said. But when I didnae come tae our Angela's communion and I couldnae tell them why . . .

  Aw fuck . . . that dirty old cunt touching me, and worse, making me do things to him . . .

  I never would, never could say. Never. Never even thought about it. I always vowed he'd fuckin well get it one day. Now he's here, he's sending me off, his pious lies ringing throughout this chapel.

  — Joseph Hutchinson was a kind, sensitive, young Christian man, taken untimely from us. But, through our grief and loss, we should not fail to remember that God has a plan, no matter how obscure this may seem to we mortals. Joseph, who once served at the altar of this very house of the Lord, would have understood this divine truth more than most of us . . .

  I want to roar the truth at them all, to tell them what that dirty old cunt did tae me . . .

  WHOOSHHHH . . .

  Then I'm on auld Brannigan and he's screaming under my weight; his old skinny, smelly bones, crushed under my bulk. I'm giving it to the dirty old cunt; pummelling him right up his arse and he's screaming. I'm snarling in demented rage:— You cannae tell anybody, or God will punish you for being a sinner, and I'm fucking him and fucking him harder and harder. He's screeching beyond agony and bang! . . . his heart stops, I feel it stop as his last breath escapes him. Brannigan's body judders underneath me and his eyes roll towards heaven. I feel his essence rise up through his body and through mine, planting a thought into my psyche that says YOU CUNT as he floats away, a soundless cry coming from his spirit like a balloon farts out air as it flies into space.

  I'm sobbing and crying to myself, saying over and over again in my self-disgust, — When will it be over? When will this nightmare end?

  WHOOSH . . .

  And then I'm with my best mate Andy Sweeney; we grew up together, did almost everything together. He was always more popular than me – better looking, brighter, good job – but he was my best mate. As I said, we did everything together – well, almost everything. But now I'm on top of him and I'm shagging the arse off him . . . and it's horrible. — WHEN, I'm screaming, — WHEN WILL THIS FUCKIN NIGHTMARE END?

  And he's in the room with us, the auld St Peter boy from the funeral. He's just sitting in the armchair watching us in a studied, detached manner. — When you start to enjoy it, when you cease to feel the guilt, that's when it'll end, he tells me coldly.

  So there I am shagging my best mate up his arse. God, am I feeling disgusted and crippled with revulsion, loathing and guilt . . .

  . . . feeling sick and ugly, in constant torture as I am compelled to pump away like a rancid fuck machine from hell, feeling like my soul is being ripped apart . . .

  . . . going to a place beyond fear, humiliation and torture, and hating it, loathing it, detesting it so fuckin much . . . a pain so great and pervasive that I'll never, ever grow to feel anything other than this sheer horror . . .

  . . . or so I keep telling that daft cunt of an angel.

  Elspeth's Boyfriend

  Thaire's some cunts thit ye hit it oaf wi, n some cunts thit ye dinnae. Take Elspeth's boyfriend fir example; a right fuckin case-in-point, that yin. Ah mean, ah'd nivir even met the cunt until Christmas Day, but aw wi'd goat fi the auld lady leadin up tae it wis 'Greg this' n 'Greg that' n 'eh's an awfay nice laddie'.

  So that gits ye thinkin tae yirself, right away: aw aye?

  Christmas, eh. Some cunts lap it but tae me it's a load ay shite. Too commercialised. It's usually just the faimlay for us. But ah've fuckin moved in wi ma burd Kate, oor first festive season thegither. We hud a big row aboot it n aw; mind you, ye eywis dae at Christmas. Wouldnae be a fuckin Christmas withoot every cunt gittin oan each other's nerves.

  As ye kin fuckin guess, she's moanin thit wir gaun tae muh ma's instead ay hers. The thing is thit ma brar Joe n ehs wife Sandra n thair two wee bairns n ma sister Elspeth wid be thaire. Tradition n that. That's what ah telt Kate, ah eywis go tae ma auld girl's at Christmas. That cow ah used tae be wi, that June, she's takin the bairns tae her auld lady's. No thit it bothers me, but it means thit muh ma'll no see thum at Christmas. That's June but; fill ay fuckin spite.

  Ye cannae fuckin win wi burds at Christmas. Aye, Kate wis aw humpty n aw. She goes, well, you go tae your ma's n ah'll go tae ma faimly's. Ah sais tae her, dinnae start gittin fuckin wide, wir gaun tae muh ma's n that's that. Dinnae try n snub ma auld girl.

  So that wis that settled. Nearer the time ah gits oantae the auld lady, as
kin her when she wants us roond. She gies ays aw this, 'Oh lit me see, when did Elspeth say thit her n Greg wir gaunny come roond again . . . ?'

  Well, ye git the fuckin picture. By the time it's Christmas Day, me n Joe've hud wir fuckin fill ay Elspeth's boyfriend, this fuckin Greg cunt or whatever they call um. Ah'd been oot oan the pish aw Christmas Eve wi some ay the boys, n Joe wis in the same boat, ye could see it fae the cunt's eyes, he wis fucked n aw. Aye, it goat fuckin well messy that night. Lines ay charlie racked up every five minutes; boatils n boatils ah champagne bein guzzled. That tae me's what Christmas is aw aboot, jist littin yirsel go. Specially the champagne; ah love that stuff, could quaff it till the cows come hame. Must be the aristocrat n ays. Blue fuckin blood.

  Ye suffer the next day but, no half ye fuckin dinnae.

  So that Christmas mornin, me n hur huv this big argumint again. Ma heid is fuckin nippin, n ma sinuses feel like some cunt's went n poured a load ay concrete intae them. Tryin tae git ready tae go roond tae muh ma's hoose, n feelin like that, she asks ays, — What dae ye think ah should wear the day, Frank?

  Ah jist looks at her n goes: — Clathes.

  That shuts ur fuckin mooth fir ah bit.

  Then ah sais, — How the fuck should ah ken?

  She looks at ays n goes, — Well, should ah git aw dressed up?

  — Wear whit ye fuckin like, ah telt ur, — ah'm no gittin aw trussed up like a fuckin turkey jist tae sit peevin n watchin the telly roond at muh ma's. Levi's, Ben Sherman n Stone Island cardy, that'll dae fir me.

  So that seems tae satisfy hur, n she pits oan this sports gear. Casual but quite smart, ken?

  Aye, ah kin tell a mile away thit she's taken the fuckin strop, but. Ah jist think, well, if she wants tae be aw antisocial this Christmas, that's fuckin well up tae her.