Reheated Cabbage (12 page)

— Daft cunt. Should've taken one ay they microdots, eh? The Raven said that they were the business and jist tae take a half, but ah thought that wis jist the usual fancy sales talk. But naw. How good is this, Cal?

— It's good . . . Calum said doubtfully. This was not acid. This was something else. He'd been tripping for years, thought he'd seen it all; become blasé about the drug. Old fucked-up sages who now never touched the stuff because of that one-too-crazy trip had warned him: just when you think you've got the measure of it, you get hit with a trip which changes your life. They were right. Everything else he'd taken was just a preparation for this moment, and it was no preparation at all. Whatever happened, things would be different after this.

They walked on, with the minutes feeling more like hours. They seemed to be constantly double-backing, as if in the type of dream where you appeared to be going one step forward and two steps in reverse. They would pass narrow roads with pubs on the corner. Sometimes it was same pub and road they'd just passed, sometimes a different one. Eventually, however, they seemed to arrive at Chizzie's stair door without recognising any of the landmarks between the pub and their destination.

— Eh . . . ah dinnae ken which yin . . . Crooky tried to read the faded tags on the stair intercom system. — Thaire's nae Chizzie.

— What's ehs real name? Calum asked, as Boaby boaked up some bile. The pubs were beginning to leak drunks. It was important to get into the flat. Calum felt the presence of demons in the streets around them. At first it had just been a suggestion. Now it was unbearable.— Jist git the fuck in, the demons ur oot here, man!

— Dinnae talk fuckin shite! Crooky snapped. It was a thing they had when they were talking about tripping, about how tripping always brought out the demons. That was fine
after
a trip, but they'd always tacitly agreed never to mention it
on
the trip itself, and now this fucked-up cunt was . . . Crooky composed himself. — It's, eh, Chisholm, ah think . . .

— Fuck, shouted Calum, — jist press the fuckin loat! Press the toap yins! Whin some cunt opens git in the stair n follay the sound fir the perty!

— Aye! Right! Crooky did this and they gained entry to the stair. Their rubber legs carried them up towards the sound.

They were relieved to see a distorted but discernible Chizzie standing on the top landing. — Awright, chavvy! Chizzie roared. — Good tae see yis! Good night, aye?

— No bad . . . wir really trippin likes, Crooky admitted, slightly guilty about showing up without a carry-out or drugs.

— Whit yis fuckin like, ya daft cunts thit yis are? Chizzie laughed, then noted that they were empty-handed. — C'moan in, he said, with less enthusiasm.

The flat appeared claustrophobic to Crooky and Calum. They sat by the fireplace, drinking cans of lager, looking into the imitation coal fire, trying to blot out the party that was going on around them. Boaby, who had shuffled up behind them, went to the toilet and lurched back half an hour later, depositing himself in a pine rocking chair.

A square-jawed guy with a moustache approached Crooky and Calum. — Awright, boys. Raffle tickets fir sale. Club 86. First prize, Rover Metro. Second Prize, five-hundred-pound hoaliday voucher fae Sphere Travel, eh. Third prize, Chrismiss hamper worth a hundred bar. Pound a ticket likes.

— Eh, ah'm no wantin a ticket . . . Crooky said.

The guy looked at them with an expression of beligerent outrage.— Chrismiss draw-aw, he snapped, swishing the book of tickets in front of them.

— Eh, aye . . . Crooky fumbled in his pockets. Calum thought that he'd better do likewise.

— Chrismiss fuckin draw then, cunt . . . A pound a fuckin ticket fir a hamper or a hoaliday or a motor – dinnae dae ays any fuckin favours!

— Eh, ah'll take yin . . . Calum started to hand over a pound coin.

— Eh! One fuckin ticket! Moan tae fuck, ya tight cunt! Chrismiss fuckin draaaww! Club 86. Hibernian Youth Development . . . Yir no fuckin Jambos, ur yis?

— Eh . . . naw. . . ah'll take five! Calum shouted, with a sudden surge of enthusiasm.

— That's ma man! said the guy with the moustache.

Crooky, who was a Jambo, reluctantly handed over two pounds.

— Ye gaun oan Setirday? Calum asked the salesman.

— Eh? The man looked at him with hostility.

— Easter Road.

The man stared at Calum for a moment and shook his head in an aggressive, surly manner.— Ah'm here fir a fuckin perty n tae sell fuckin tickets, no tae talk aboot fuckin fitba.

He departed, leaving Crooky and Calum feeling extremely paranoid.

— Bevvy's the only thing for a trip like this. It's a depressant, brings ye back doon, Crooky said, raising the can of lager to his lips.

— Ah jist wish we'd fuckin brought some along, Calum nodded nervously as he drank.

— Thaire's a wee pile behind ays, but whin thir finished, it's your turn tae go through the kitchen n nab some mair, Crooky told him.

Calum swallowed heavily.

After about an hour, however, they began to feel better, and decided that they would be less conspicuously out of things if they got up and started dancing with some of the others. Somebody had put on a trancy tape, which went well with the acid. Calum moved to the music, looking at some girls, then at Boaby, who was fast asleep in the rocking chair.

A wiry guy with a crew cut was shouting: — CHIZZIE! PIT MA FUCKIN TAPE OAN! MA FUCKIN TAPE, YA CUNT! PRIMAL SCREAM, CHIZZIE! He held up a red cassette box with a blue splash in the middle, stabbing at it with the index finger of his other hand.

— Naw . . . Finitribe, eh, a skinny guy with hair in his eyes mumbled. Crooky thought he recognised the guy from somewhere.

Calum was starting to feel a bit paranoid again. He didn't really know anyone at the party and he began to feel more and more out of place, as if he wasn't welcome. They should have brought along a carry-out. It was out of order, coming empty-handed like that. He sat down alongside Boaby.

— Boab man, this is really fuckin weird. Ah ken it's just the gear n that bit thaire's a couple ay cunts fae Lochend here n ah think one ay thum's the brar ay that radge Keith Allison, the cunt that chibbed Mooby. That whole family, man, total blade merchants. Ah heard a story that one time some cunt tried tae gless one ay they Allisons doon at the Poast Oaffice Club n eh jist took the gless oaf ay the boy, cool as fuck, and ripped the cunt's face apart wi it . . . ah mean, total psycho like, eh . . . thaire's that many bad things in ma life right now, Boab . . . a bad time tae take the acid . . . ken Helen, like? She's ma bird, ah mean, ah dinnae think you've met her like, Boaby, but she's goat this sister called Julia . . .

Boaby said nothing.

— MA FUCKIN TAPE THEN, CHIZZIE, YA CUNT! PRIMAL FUCKIN SCREAM! The wiry guy with the crew cut screamed, but not particularly at Chizzie, and then started frantically dancing to the tape that was on.

Calum turned back to the silent Boaby. —. . . it's no that ah fancy her, Boab, Helen's sister Julia like, ah mean, no really. It's jist thit me n Helen, wirnae really speakin, n thaire ah wis up the toon n jist sortay ended up at Buster's, n her sister Julia likes, well, she wis thaire wi some ay her mates. Well, the thing wis, nowt happened, no really. Ah mean, ah wee bit a neckin n that . . . thing wis, ah wanted somethin tae happen. Ah did n ah didnae, if ye ken what ah mean, eh? Ah mean, you ken how it is, eh, Boab?

Boaby said nothing.

— See me, Boab, ma trouble is thit ah dinnae really ken whit ah want oot ay ma life. That's whit it aw comes doon tae . . . fuck this gear . . . every cunt looks fuckin ancient . . . aw decrepit likes . . . even that Sandra lassie, she's here, mind her that used tae go oot wi Kev MacKay . . . you legged her one time, Boab, ya dirty cunt . . . ah mind ay that . . .

— Yi'll git fuck all oot ay that cunt, a skinny guy with black hair said to Calum, — he wis bangin up smack in the bogs. Bangin up in thaire whin thaire's lassies tryin tae git in fir a fuckin pish.

This guy looked hideous. He was like something from a concentration camp: he was skeletal. As soon as Calum got a sense of this, the guy actually
was
a skeleton.

— Eh . . . whaire's Crooky? Calum asked him.

— Yir mate? The skeleton's jaw rattled.

— Aye . . .

— He's through in the kitchen, ootay his fuckin nut. Bit ay a lippy cunt is eh no?

— Naw . . . eh . . . aye . . . ah mean, whit's eh been sayin?

— Too much ay a fuckin lippy cunt, eh.

— Aye . . .

The skeleton departed, leaving Calum wondering how to get out of this nightmare.

— Hi, Boaby, mibbe wi should go . . . eh, Boab? No that struck oan the vibes here, eh.

Boaby said nothing.

Then a girl in a red dress came over and sat down beside Calum. She had short blonde hair with light brown roots. He thought that her face was pretty, but her bare arms seemed sinewy and scraggy. — You here wi that Crooky? she asked.

— Eh, aye. Eh, ah'm Calum, likes.

— You're no Ricky Prentice's brother, are ye?

Calum felt as if he had been electrocuted. Everyone knew his brother Ricky was an arsehole. If they knew that he was Ricky's brother, then they would think he was an arsehole.

— Aye . . . bit ah'm no the same as Ricky . . .

— Nivir says ye wir, the girl shrugged.

— Aye, bit what ah mean tae say is thit Ricky's Ricky n ah'm me. Ricky's nowt tae dae wi me. Ah mean, he goes his wey n ah go mine, eh. Ken whit ah mean likes?

— You're ootay yir face.

— They microdots . . . eh, what's yir name?

— Gillian.

— They microdots, Gillian, no real.

— Ah nivir touch acid. Maist people that dae acid end up in the funny farm. They jist cannae handle it. Ah ken one guy thit did acid n went intae a coma . . .

— Eh . . . aye . . . no bad perty but, eh, Calum bleated nervously.

— Hud oan the now, Gillian said, suddenly distracted. — Be back in a minute.

As she rose, the guy with the crew cut started shouting again. — CHIZ-AY-AY! GIT MA FUCKIN TAPE OAN! PRI-MIL FUGH-KIN SCREEEM!

— Aye, Chizzie, pit Omelette's tape oan, Gillian agreed.

The loud guy called Omelette turned to Gillian, nodding in stern vindication. — See that. He looked over at Chizzie, who was rolling a joint on an album cover, and pointed back at Gillian. — Listen tae that! GIT MA FUCKIN TAPE OAN!

— In a bit, chavvy. Chizzie looked up and winked at Omelette.

Crooky came over to Calum. — This is too fuckin mad, Cally . . . n there's you chattin up that Gillian lassie n aw, ya dirty cunt . . .

— Ye ken ur, like? Calum asked.

— Yir well in thaire, a fuckin easy lay, Crooky smiled.

— She's awright, Calum said, slightly agog. — Seems a nice lassie, like . . .

— Filled mair jars wi abortions thin yir granny hus wi jam, ya cunt, Crooky sneered.

Gillian was coming back. Crooky felt a twinge of guilt as his eye caught hers and he smiled sheepishly at her before departing to the kitchen.

— Listen, Gillian said to Calum, — ye wantin tae buy tickets fir the Christmas draw? Club 86, she smiled, — Hibernian Youth Development.

— Aye, Calum replied, before remembering that he had already bought some. She seemed so pleased, though, he just couldn't refuse. He bought another five tickets.

— What wis ah oan aboot? Aye, the guy who went intae the coma eftir the trip . . .

Calum began perspiring. He could feel his heart beating wildly. He nudged Boaby gently, but Boaby fell out of the rocking chair and leadenly hit the floor with a heavy crash.

— Fuckin hell, Calum gasped, as Boaby lay prostrate.

People gathered round him. The guy with the moustache who had sold Calum the first batch of Club 86 tickets felt for his pulse.

Chizzie grabbed the guy by the shoulder.— Hi, Geggs! Lit me in thaire, he shouted. — You've no goat ma medical trainin. C'moan, Geggsie, ya cunt.

— Hud oan the now. Geggsie waved him away. To Calum, Geggsie's hair across Boaby's sickly chest looked like ugly, rat-tailed tentacles that were draining the life from Boaby's body. Then Geggsie sat upright. — This cunt's deid. Your mate. He turned to Calum accusingly, as if it was Calum who had murdered him. — Fuckin deid, eh.

— Aw fuck . . . dinnae muck aboot . . . Calum pleaded.

Chizzie bent over Boaby's body. — Aye, ehs fuckin deid awright. Ah should ken; medical trainin, registered first-aider at Ferranti's. They sent ays oan tae this course at Haymarket wi that St Andrew's ambulance crowd. Certificate, the fuckin loat, he said smugly. Then he sprang up. — Crooky! Sorry, chavvy, youse broat the cunt here. Ah'm no wantin the fuckin bizzies roond here, man. Yill huv tae take the cunt wi yis.

— Aw. . . Crooky said.

— Nowt else ah kin dae, chav. Try seein it ma wey. No intae the fuckin bizzies comin roond here, eh.

— GIT THE CUNT OOTAY HERE! the guy called Geggsie roared.

— Wi cannae . . . ah mean . . . whaire we gaunny take the cunt? Crooky gasped.

— That's up tae youse. Fuckin radges. Bringing a fuckin junkie roond tae some cunt's hoose. Geggsie shook his head bitterly.

— Nivir even brought a fuckin cairry-oot, another voice sneered. It was the guy with the blond crew cut, the one called Omelette. — Mibbe git ma fuckin tape oan now then, eh. Fuckin saw whit that yin did tae the boy, he laughed.

Crooky looked at Calum and nodded. They got on either side of Boaby, picked him up under his arms and carried him out the flat and into the stair.

— Sorry aboot the wey this's panned oot, chavvy. Yir mate thaire, sound boy, wis eh? Chizzie asked. Calum and Crooky just stared at him. — Listen, mate, ah ken now might no be the right time, but ah meant tae ask ye, ah'm floggin they tickets fir the Chrismiss draw –

— Goat thum, Calum snorted.

— Aye, well, right then, Chizzie said bitterly.

They began to carry Boaby's body downstairs. Thankfully, he was light and small. Gillian and another girl followed them.

— Half the fuckin fanny's away wi these cunts, Omelette moaned, before the door slammed shut.