Reheated Cabbage (17 page)

— What is it? the barmaid asked.

— Bass n drum but, eh.

The woman looked over in some trepidation at the old guy reading his paper, but succumbed and put the tape on the deck.

Twenty minutes later Victor and Gavin were cunted and shaking their stuff around the floor of the deserted pub. The old guy with the pint looked up at them. Victor gave him the thumbs up and he turned away. The music was leaking into them from all sides. It was an excellent pill.

— J Majik. Wait till ye hear this cunt, Victor shouted at Gavin.

After a bop they sat down to vibe out and chat.

— Whoa, man, these are fuckin strong pills, better than that shite ah hud last night, Victor acknowledged.

— Aw aye, thir something else.

— Listen, mate, this isnae aboot you n me, ye ken that, eh? Victor was at some pains to express. After all, this was him and Gav.

— Tell ye what, Victor, n ah'm bein honest here, ah respect ye, man. Always huv, n aye, ah love ye. Yir a mate. Ah ken we're eywis in company, likesay Tommy when he wis here likes, Keezbo, Nelly, Spud n aw that, but that's jist the wey it goes. Ah love ye, man. Gavin hugged Victor hard and his friend reciprocated.

— Ah like you n aw, Gav man, ye ken that . . . if the truth be telt yir one ay the soundest cunts ah ken. Naebody's ever goat a bad word tae say against ye, man.

— Tell ye what though, man, Billy Stevenson . . . that fuckin shocked me, man . . .

— It cut ays up . . . it really cut ays up. Ah'd rather she went n screwed some fuckin jakey thin that cunt.

— Me n aw. Ah nivir could stick that wanker.

— That's his wey though but, wait fir a bird tae be feelin a bit vulnerable, a bit low, then steam in wi the smarm . . .

— Bit ah'm no like that, Gavin said, — it wisnae how it wis wi her n me. Ah widnae huv moved in if ah didnae think that youse wir history, Vic. Ah'd nivir move in oan a mate's bird. Ah mean, ah didnae even think ay her at aw until last night up Tribal, man. Believe it, man, ah'm fuckin tellin ye. Oan muh ma's life.

— Ah believe ye, man, it's jist hard tae take, eftir three years . . .

— Bit listen, mate, are ye sure thaire's love left? Hus it no jist gone sour? Mibbe yir jist haudin oan, fir whatever reason, mibbe ye ken yirself deep doon inside . . . ah mean . . . it wis like wi me n Lynda, man . . . ah huv tae be honest, it wis like . . . it wis gone, man, it wis gone n ah wis jist hudin oan. Ah dinnae ken what fir, bit ah wis.

Victor thought for a bit. He kept hold of Gavin; it seemed important to do so. The pain in his jaw was now a delicious throb. He had his arm around Gavin's shoulder and the throb in his jaw seemed to pulse with the afterglow of some deep communion. Maybe it was possible, maybe it really was over with him and Sarah. They'd been having some terrible rows. There was a tension and distrust between them, which, since both their infidelities had been exposed, now seemed more than just a malaise they could get out of. Maybe he had to let go, and move on.

Photek rattled around them.— Some fuckin tape, eh, Gavin acknowledged.

— Metalheidz, man, the fuckin best. Thuv no seen drum n bass here in Scotland, man, no real drum n bass.

Gavin knew that Victor headed down to London at least once a month for the Sunday Metalheadz sessions in the Blue Note. He hadn't been able to get the vibe before, being more of a garage and soul man, but now it was obvious. This was film music. Their film. Two friends, two comrades, two Hibernian urban warriors in a battle for the heart of the beautiful woman both loved. This was the soundtrack of that horrible, wonderful movie. Life. It was sick, gorgeous nonsense. — Listen, mate, whatever happens between us and Sarah, ah want us tae stay mates. Ah want tae go doon tae London wi ye tae one ay they Metalheidz dos.

— Cool. Victor squeezed Gavin tightly.

Gavin kissed Victor on the jaw. — Sorry, man, sorry ah hit ye, Vic.

— Goat tae admit, Gav, it wis a cracker. The first time ah've ever seen ye gub some cunt. Eywis thought ay ye as a gentle giant. Spud said ye wir a tidy cunt, at the school n that, bit that's Spud but, eh. Great cunt, bit ye take whit eh sais wi a pinch ay salt. Ah wis a bit shocked, man, tae be honest likes. Fuckin Gav, man, bang! Victor rubbed his jaw. — Tell ye what though, Gav, it feels fuckin nice now, the throb n aw that.

— That's good. Gled it's like . . . positive, ken what ah'm sayin? Gled ah've done something positive fir ye, man. Ah mean, that's aw ah want tae dae in life, man, spread a positive vibe. That's ma sole ambition. N what dae ah dae? Ah go n hurt a mate. That's no me, Vic, ye ken it's no me. Gavin shook his head and tears welled up in his eyes.

— Ah ken that, Gav. Listen, Gav . . . love, man, that's the fuckin thing. Victor extended his hand and Gavin shook it, then held it and opened it, letting his index finger trace the long, deep lifeline on Victor's palm. — Lit's see what she wants tae dae, let's lit love decide, Victor urged.

Gavin looked into Victor's clear, wide pupils. His soul was pure, there was no duplicity about Vic.— Lit's dae it, he whispered, then embraced Victor again.

— Right, Victor said, his smile beaming broadly.

— Tae the victor the spoils, Gavin said grandly, then laughed. — Tae the Gavin the spoils it should be! Naw . . . may the best cunt win!

They clinked their glasses together.

Dr Ormiston had Sarah on the chair. He was looking down at her as she fretfully stared up at the ceiling. She was a fetching girl alright, her long legs in that short skirt, her hands clasped across what looked like a very nice chest, and that chesnut hair swept back from her face cascading out across the headrest of his chair. Yes, he conceded, he could see what all the hoo-ha was about with those two young bucks. He felt a flutter in his chest, as her scent filled his nostrils. There was nothing like the succulent flesh of a young female, he thought, licking his lips. — Open wider, he gasped, as his pulse skipped a beat and his cock stiffened.

There was no drill, she was thinking, thank fuck there was no drill. But there was the knife, and the sound it made; picking, prodding, rending and sawing at her flesh. She couldn't feel the damage, but she could hear it.

A beautiful mouth. It was the thing Ormiston noticed in a woman. Full lips, strong, white teeth. There was a bit of neglect inside here, however. A shameful waste. A woman like this should floss.

Sarah looked at the dentist's intense electric-blue eyes, the white hairs in his eyebrows which joined in the middle. It seemed that he was looking right into her, sharing a strange kind of intimacy with her that no man ever had. She saw her mouth in his mirror. But not the wound. She couldn't look at the wound. Nor the pliers – especially not the pliers. Something hard was digging into her thigh. It might have been a rest on the chair. The man's breathing was becoming irregular under the exertion. Ormiston was her saviour. This was the man who would liberate her from the sickening, all-pervading pain. This man, with his education, his skill and, yes, compassion, for a man capable of success in the field of dentistry could surely have chosen a more lucrative sphere. How much did they get paid? This man would sweep aside the misery and everything would be as it was. Victor would do nothing, Gavin could do nothing, but this man, he would take away the pain.

— It's got to come out now. He yanked and twisted, ripping into numbed flesh around the back of her gums. It was a shame to lose those wisdom teeth and Ormiston always mourned what he gloomily referred to as the death of a tooth, but in this case there was just no alternative. The girl simply had too many teeth for her head. The extraction of both bottom wisdom teeth was essential. He leaned into her and let his free hand rest on her hip. She squirmed a little and he apologised. — Sorry, I just need to get leverage . . .

The suction tube removed the saliva from her mouth. He moved his free hand up and pulled it languidly around inside her, poking it into every cavity, sucking all her sweet, sweet juices, oh God, her gorgeous mouth . . . he couldn't help but imagine his tongue in that mouth, the clean, sharp probing tongue of a man who used all the proven to be effective rather than gimmicky dental products on the market, and he let his hand move down, and why was she wearing that skirt, he could feel her naked thigh against his hand, the hairs on the back of it bristling and him now imagining it going between her legs and his fingers inside her wee cotton briefs and her hungry dripping pussy eating them and one more wrench and her tooth came free in his pliers as he ejaculated into his pants.

— That was a hard one, he gasped, as his cock spurted spasmodically into his trousers. He turned away as the spunk pumped into his flannels and his raw prick throbbed. — Ah . . . ah . . . a satisfactory extraction . . . he wheezed, trying to compose himself.

Sarah felt uncomfortable and went to mumble something, but he told her to keep quiet. He worked away at the second tooth and extracted it more easily than the first one.

He took great care cleaning and packing her wounds. Her mouth was numb as she spat out the wash but Sarah felt a tremendous relief.

— I thought I'd better get them both out at the same time to save you going through the same rigmarole again shortly, Ormiston explained.

— Thanks, Sarah said.

— No, the pleasure was all mine . . . I mean, you have beautiful teeth and you really should floss them. Now that those wisdom teeth are out, they shouldn't be so tightly packed together. There's no excuse now! Get that floss working!

— Aye, I will, she told him.

— Lovely teeth, Ormiston shuddered. — No wonder you have those young men fighting over you!

Sarah blushed and felt bad for blushing. It was just the man's way, however. He wasn't being creepy, he was a professional, it was just another mouth to him.

Ormiston
was
a professional man, and as such not wont to letting aesthetic or sexual considerations take precedence over finance, and he composed himself sufficiently to charge Sarah one hundred and twenty pounds, for which she had to write out a cheque.

— I'd like to see you again in a fortnight's time, Ormiston smiled. — Unfortunately, because it's an emergency call-out, we don't have a duty receptionist. But if you give me a note of your address and phone number, I'll arrange for an appointment to be made for you.

— Thanks, Sarah said. Even the loss of the money couldn't take away the sense of relief. — Sorry to get you out on a Sunday, I hope I didn't spoil your day.

— Not at all, my dear, not at all, Ormiston smiled. He watched her depart, and his face sank into a frown as he contemplated the mind-numbing tedium of a family Sunday afternoon at Ravelston Dykes. — Bugger it, he hissed softly, then went to the toilet to clean himself up.

Sarah heard her name being called. She looked across the road, where Victor and Gavin were standing, outside the pub. She moved towards them. They were both regarding her brightly, but they seemed oddly at peace with each other.

— How did it go? Gavin asked. — Are ye okay?

— Much better, jist a bit numb. He took ma wisdom teeth oot.

— Come in and sit doon, Victor implored.

As Sarah entered the bar and sat down Gavin gave her a full embrace. It felt a bit strange to her. For Gavin it was great to hold her and smell her hair and perfume and feel her warmth. Then he saw Victor out the corner of his eye and he felt bad that he was excluded. He pulled Victor towards them and they had a group hug with Sarah feeling awkward and self-conscious in the middle. — Sarah . . . Victor . . . Sarah . . . Victor . . . Gavin moaned, kissing their faces alternately.

She looked out across the pub at the old guy with the pint and smiled in benign embarrassment. He tetchily looked away. Two younger guys came in and looked, then shrugged and smiled.

— Sarah . . . Sarah . . . Sarah . . . Victor started in a sad mantra, — aw, doll, ah'm really sorry. Ah'm a prick, a total fuckin prick.

Sarah considered that it was a contention hard to dispute.

— Ah love ye, Sarah. Ah'm in love wi ye, Gavin was mumbling in her other ear.

For a few brief moments it seemed to her that it was like sticking a load of After Eight mints into your mouth: you were lulled by the sudden sweetness of it, until the sickness and self-loathing overwhelmed you.— Fuckin let go ay me! she snapped, pulling away and looking at Victor's raised hands and Gavin's forlorn, sad eyes. — What are yis fuckin like! Yis are E'd up!

— Ah love ye, Sarah, ah mean it, Gavin said.

— Ah love ye, but ah think it isnae workin oot. Ah want ye tae be happy and if this cunt's makin ye mair happy thin ah kin, well, that's the wey it is. Ah want tae ken though, what's the story, doll?

The story was that these things were invading her space, like huge, creepy, twisting plants wrapping around her as the comedown kicked in and her nerve ends, twisted and raw, rebelled against their insinuation. They didn't get it; it was as if she didn't exist in her own right, like she was a thing to be fought over. Territory. Land. Possession. That was Victor. That was him. When they made up, after she had went with that guy from Yip Yap, the way he had fucked her, hard, rampantly, in every orifice, as if to reclaim territory lost, devoid of any tenderness or sensuality. She'd lain there on the floor, trying to hide the tears she knew he'd seen but hadn't acknowledged. She felt like she had been beaten, punished, used; like he'd tried to fuck out of her anything the other guy may have left in. And that was just the sex. No way was Sarah going to be on the receiving end of Victor's sexual and psychological scorched-earth policy again. Him and Gavin together. Colluding now. At first, conflict over territory, but now the fraternal brothers realise that it cannot be resolved by military means. Let's get round the table and thrash this out. The only thing missing was her perspective.

It was not (a) leaves Victor and falls in love with Gavin and lives happily ever after, or (b) fucks Gavin but realises error of ways and goes back to Victor and lives happily ever after. It was (c) left Victor, fucked Gavin. Past tense in both cases. It's over, you silly wee laddies, well fuckin over, you sad, self-mythologising egotistical ratbags.