Reheated Cabbage (9 page)

The chippy was doing great business. Not from the travellers who were barred by the growing number of police from crossing over the flyover, but from the reporters and camera crews who had come to observe the phenomenon. However, Vincent, the proprietor, was still a far from happy man. There had been a break-in the other night. The fags and cash had been secured in a strongroom and the lock was intact. The thieves, in their frustration at only being able to get some confectionery, had splashed the contents of industrial-sized chip-sauce containers all over his shop. He had an idea who the culprits were. It had to be that Ian Simpson and that Jimmy Mulgrew. He'd see Drysdale about this.

The energy was there. It was telling them to come to Scotland. In London, in Amsterdam, in Sydney, in San Francisco, the posses on their comedown heard the message. They would all head to Rosewell in Midlothian for the greatest ever gathering of human spirits. The energy crackled in the air. Posse leaders, seemingly driven, pointed the way to this small settlement on the fringes of Northern Europe. The authorities, sensing something was in the air, watched and waited.

At the chippy, Vincent was dumbfounded. The lock for the strongroom was intact and all the cash was present, but, miraculously, the cigarettes seemed to have vanished.

It's almost 4 a.m. and Andrew, Jimmy's dad, feels that his son should be asleep and his mates should be home, instead of upstairs in Jimmy's room playing those cheap tartan techno tapes which they buy in the Asian discount store up the South Bridge. Parental control had become a blurred concept since Jimmy had filled out and met his old man's warning gazes with challenging, hardened eyes.

Jimmy's dad is not too sensitive though, and as long as it's low enough for him to hear the telly, then it's not a problem. The doctor's Valium has taken the edge of Andrew's pain. His wife is long gone. She got fed up with Andrew's depression, impotence and lack of cash since his redundancy from Bilston Glen, and went to live with a day-centre worker in Penicuik.

Jimmy should be sleeping. Fuckin school, Andrew thinks, then remembers that his son left last year. Andrew feels that Jimmy's mother must be giving their son money. Money which goes on drugs, when Andrew finds himself lucky to manage a fuckin pint down the club on a giro day. That selfish wee cunt and his mates were always off their tits on something or other. Like the other night; they had come back in some state. Acid. He knew what it was. These wee cunts thought they had invented drugs.

It's ten years since he was made redundant from the pit. History had vindicated Scargill, sure, but that counted for fuck all. The era had been about selfishness and greed and Scargill was simply out of time and Thatcher was in. Andrew had put in his shift on the picket lines, went on demos, but had sensed from the off that it wasn't going to be a glorious time for the old industrial proletariat. The vibe was important. The vibe then was small and petty and fearful, with too many people eager to embrace the false certainties their masters and assorted lackeys bleated out.

In a way it is healthier now: nobody believes in anything these lying bastards ever spout. Even the politicians themselves seem to rap out the old bullshit with more desperation than the traditional smug conviction everyone's grown accustomed to. The vibe is changing alright, but what is it changing into?

Boom boom boom. The tartan techno beat thuds insistently. Boom boom boom. Andrew hits the volume button on the handset, but the fuckin tartan techno, it's moving up too, keeping pace. Then Mrs Mooney next door is thumping on the wall. Andrew lets his knuckles go white on the rests of the chair.

Upstairs, Jimmy and the boys are celebrating. The duty cop at the substation, PC Drysdale, had given them the coveted crime number they required to advance their criminal injuries claim. Drysdale had taken in the young team's fictitious rantings all too eagerly. He had little time for the local yobs, but far less for those fucking travellers who were making life on his patch a complete misery. It would only take one flashpoint incident for something horrendous to go off, then his promotion board chances would be well and truly jeopardised. This sensitive-policing bollocks had its limitations. Drysdale's instincts told him to wade in and bang up some likely-looking crusties. However, he knew the line that Cowan, the head guy on the promotion board, would be taking.

The Hibs boys were being less than cooperative with the aliens. — How the fuck should we help youse? Ally Masters asked Tazak.

The alien puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette.— Youse kin dae what yis fuckin well like –

He was interrupted by another voice: — Cause we're daein you a favour, ya fuckin radge! The Earthlings stood shocked at the presence of one of their own kind.

The Hibs boys stared in disbelief. It was Mikey Devlin, Alan Devlin's brother. The cunt that vanished. Now he was back. He was still clad in Nikes!

— Mikey Devlin! Ally Masters said, looking Mikey up and down. — Very . . . eh, eighties gear, ma man. The trainers like. Whaire ye been hidin?

— Hyperspace, eh, Mikey smiled, — n ah've goat a tale tae tell youse cunts thit's a loat mair important thin fuckin labels.

He told the boys the story.

— But how could ye just leave like that? Bri Garratt demanded.

— Turn yir back oan yir mates? Ally asked.

— Turnt ehs back oan Scotland, Denny McEwan sneered.

The parochialism of his old crew was getting on Mikey's tits. — Fuck Scotland, ya daft cunt! Ah've been aw ower the fuckin universe! Seen things youse cunts couldnae fuckin well see in yir wildest dreams!

Denny held his ground. — Fuck it, Mikey. Dinnae come back here n slag off Scotland, that's aw ah'm sayin.

Mikey looked tiredly at Tazak. These cunts were just not getting the message.— Scotland . . . he scoffed, — it's jist a fuckin spec ay dust tae me. Shut the fuck up aboot Scotland. Ah'm back here tae make us the top fuckin crew oan Planet Earth!

The weather had broken. It pished rain from the heavens. Trevor Drysdale tried to get a good night's sleep for his promotion board interview the next day. Only the thought of those crusty bastards, drenched in a cold field, gave him the warm satisfaction to lull him into soft dreams. As anxious as he was the next morning, Drysdale had prepared well. Interviews were all about cracking codes, finding the current vogue; one minute liberal rhetoric, the next the hard line. The best professional in any bureaucracy was always the one who could control his or her prejudices and learn the dominant spiel with conviction. How one acted, of course, was totally irrelevant, as long as the espousal was effective. With Cowan, it was the liberal bullshit he wanted, so Drysdale would give him it, in shovel-loads. For Cowan, toeing the line was almost as important as personal tidiness.

Clint Phillips has been body-swerving Jimmy and Semo since his hospital discharge and the registration of the crime with PC Drysdale. They meet up with Dunky by the quarry, who tells them that Clint has intimated to them that he does not intend to share out the proceeds from the Criminal Injuries Compensation Board. A very aggrieved Jimmy and Semo decide to put the frighteners on Clint. They will steal a car and drive it at speed at him, across the forecourt in the garage.— Show the cunt wir no fuckin aboot here, Semo said.

Trevor Drysdale looks at his reflection in the mirror. He has backcombed and blow-dried his hair. He looks a bit poofy with a quiff, Drysdale thinks, but Cowan would approve of the softer image, which is much less severe than his normal Brylcreemed look. Drysdale considers that he cuts quite a dash in his light grey Moss Bros suit. He was moving out of this ugly hellhole, taking on supervisory responsibilities. The South Side Area Station was calling.

Drysdale noted that the heavy rain has stopped. He takes the car into the city, allowing himself plenty of time. He parks about half a mile away from that huge, pristine, structure; a true temple of law enforcement, that is the South Side Area Station. Drysdale wanted to walk, so that he will come upon the building that would surely be his new home, orientating himself slowly and gradually to his new surroundings.

Jimmy and Semo's attempted scare on Clint didn't quite go as planned. As they parked in waiting across the road, Clint was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Jimmy's anger rose as he saw Shelley and Sarah go into the garage shop and disappear into the back shop with Alan Devlin.

— That Devlin cunt . . . Jimmy hissed.

— Hud on the now, Semo smiled,— we'll show that fucker.

Alan Devlin was fucking Sarah across the table, and Shelley was watching them, thinking how uncomfortable it looked compared to how it actually felt when she was in the same position.

Devlin was well into his stride when a loud, repetitive car horn blasted from the forecourt. — Fuck! Marshall! He snarled, aggrieved at having to pull out of a tense Sarah, who tugged her dress down and her knickers on in almost one movement. Devlin janked on his trousers and ran into the front shop. Jimmy and Semo were in the car, with the window wound down. They were waving bags of crisps and some other stock they had taken from the shop while Devlin had been on the job.

— YOUSE UR FUCKIN DEID, YA WEE CUNTS! Alan yelled, charging towards the car, but the boys sped off down the road.

At this point Clint came across the forecourt, licking an icecream cone.

— Whair the fuck've you been? Devlin hissed.

— Ah jist goat a cone . . . fae the van . . . Clint gasped weakly, as Shelley and Sarah giggled in the shop doorway.

— Ah fuckin well telt ye tae keep shoatie! Devlin snapped, and in a swiping movement knocked Clint's cone from his hand onto the oily forecourt.

The younger man's face flushed red and his eyes watered as he registered the chuckles emanating from the girls.

Jimmy and Semo had decided to keep the car and go into town to score more drugs. They had managed to successfully punt the acid to a posse of travellers. The stolen car, a white Nissan Micra, was, by coincidence, exactly the same colour and year as that driven by Allister Farmer, a member of the local police promotion board for the South Side of Edinburgh. The coincidence became a cruel one as Farmer, heading up to the South Side Area Station to conduct some promotion interviews, was overtaken by Jimmy and Semo's car as they sped up into town to head down to Alec Murphy's at Leith.

They ripped past Farmer along St Leonard's Street, Jimmy giving the outraged plain-clothed cop a languid V-sign. As Trevor Drysdale was walking along the pavement, thinking of his responses to the questions that would be asked at the interview, he was unaware that he was passing a huge, murky, oily puddle, which spilled onto the road from a blocked drain. Drysdale had little time to react as a white Nissan Micra sent a sheet of filthy liquid flying over him. In an instant Drysdale's quiff was plastered to his cranium, and one side of light grey suit had turned a wet black.

Drysdale could only look himself up and down. He let out an anguished, primal scream from the depths of his sickened soul: — YA BASTARD! YA FUCKEN BASTARD! as he looked up to see the back of the white Nissan Micra recede up the street.

The police promotional applicant was unaware, however, that there were two white Nissan Micras, and that the offending one had got through the lights at the top of the road. But the second one, containing the innocent Allister Farmer, had stopped at red. For his part, Farmer had been so full of anger at the careless driving from the car ahead, he'd failed to notice what had happened to the unfortunate pedestrian on St Leonard's Street.

On noticing that the lights had changed to red and that the Nissan Micra had halted, Drysdale embarked on a lung-bursting run towards the stationary car. On catching up to it, he tapped the side window. Allister Farmer rolled it down, only to be met with a choking throaty roar of: — YOU FUCKIN BASTARD! and a clenched fist, which crashed into him, bursting his nose.

Drysdale was off. He had extracted his revenge, now he had to save the situation. He still had ten minutes left. He ran into a pub and attempted to clean himself up as best he could. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was a mess, an absolute fucking mess. All he could do was to try and explain to Cowan, and hope that the chairman of the promotion board would accept his story and turn a blind eye to his appearance.

Allister Farmer stemmed the blood with a hanky. The police inspector was shaken. He had investigated many such arbitrary assaults, but had never, ever conceived of himself as the victim of one, particularly in broad daylight, on a busy road, near a main police station. Farmer had been too stunned to see where the culprit had escaped to. He shakily started up his car, passed through the lights and parked outside the area station.

— Allister! What happened? Are you okay? a concerned Tom Cowan asked, as a first-aider treated Farmer's nosebleed. A couple of investigating officers were straight onto the street, looking for the culprit.

— God, Tom, I was assaulted, in my own car, just outside the bloody station, by some fucking community-care jakey who tapped on my window . . . Anyway . . . we've got our interviews. The show must go on.

— What did the guy look like?

— Later, Tom, later. Let's not keep the interviewees waiting.

Cowan gestured affirmatively, ushering Farmer and Des Thorpe from personnel into the interview room. They had another quick look at the forms they had already studied in detail. In terms of experience, background and lodge membership, they agreed that Trevor Drysdale was an excellent candidate for one of the posts. — I know Drysdale, Cowan said, brushing a distasteful white thread off his jacket sleeve. — A Craft stalwart and a damn fine polisman.

They sent for Drysdale who trooped timidly in. Cowan's jaw fell, but not as far as Farmer's.

Drysdale just covered his eyes and burst into tears. Another decade at the substation loomed.