Reheated Cabbage

• Title
  
• By the Same Author
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  
• A Fault on the Line
  
• Catholic Guilt (You Know You Love It)
  
• Elspeth's Boyfriend
  
• Kissing and Making Up
  
• The Rosewell Incident
  
  • Dedication
    
  • Chapter 1
    
  • Chapter 2
    
  • Chapter 3
    
  • Chapter 4
    
  • Chapter 5
    
  • Chapter 6
    
  • Chapter 7
    
  • Chapter 8
    
  • Chapter 9
    
  • Chapter 10
    
  • Chapter 11
    
  • Chapter 12
    
  • Chapter 13
    
  • Chapter 14
    
  • Chapter 15
    
  • Chapter 16
    
  • Chapter 17
    
  • Chapter 18
    
  • Chapter 19
    
  • Chapter 20
    
  • Chapter 21
    
  • Chapter 22
    
  • Chapter 23
    
  • Chapter 24
    
  • Chapter 25
    
  • Chapter 26
    
  • Chapter 27
    
  • Chapter 28
    
  • Chapter 29
    
  • Chapter 30
    
  • Chapter 31
    
  • Chapter 32
    
  • Chapter 33
    
  • Chapter 34
    
• The State of the Party
  
• Victor Spoils
  
• I Am Miami
  
  • Dedication
    
  • Chapter 1
    
  • Chapter 2
    
  • Chapter 3
    
  • Chapter 4
    
  • Chapter 5
    
  • Chapter 6
    
  • Chapter 7
    
  • Chapter 8
    
  • Chapter 9
    
  • Chapter 10
    
  • Chapter 11
    
  • Chapter 12
    
  • Chapter 13
    
  • Chapter 14
    
  • Chapter 15
    
  • Chapter 16
    
  • Chapter 17
    
  • Chapter 18
    
  • Chapter 19
    
  • Chapter 20
    

REHEATED CABBAGE

ALSO BY IRVINE WELSH

FICTION

Trainspotting
The Acid House
Marabou Stork Nightmares
Ecstasy
Filth
Glue
Porno
The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs
If You Liked School, You'll Love Work . . .
Crime

DRAMA

You'll Have Had Your Hole
Babylon Heights
(with Dean Cavanagh)

SCREENPLAY

The Acid House

Tales of Chemical Degeneration

IRVINE WELSH

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9781409078739

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Jonathan Cape 2009

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Copyright © Irvine Welsh 2009

Irvine Welsh has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This book is a work of fiction

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britain in 2009 by
Jonathan Cape
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London
SW1V 2SA

www.rbooks.co.uk

Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited
can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 9781409078739

Version 1.0

To Kris Needs

Only one of these stories, 'I Am Miami', is new, in the sense of it not having been published before. Versions of the other stories have appeared in various publications over the years, most of which are now out of print in their original format – usually one of those toe-curling Scotsploitation or drugsploitation anthologies that prevailed in the nineties, for which I have to assume at least some culpability. Sorry about that.

My thanks go to the following: Harry Ritchie for 'A Fault on the Line' in
New Scottish Writing
(1997); Nick Hornby for 'Catholic Guilt' in
Speaking with the Angel
(2000); Richard Thomas for 'Elspeth's Boyfriend' in
Vox 'n' Roll: Fiction for the
21st Century
(2000); Kevin Williamson for 'Kissing and Making Up' in
Rebel Inc.
(1994) and 'The Rosewell Incident' in
Children
of Albion Rovers
(1996); Richard Benson and Craig McLean, formerly of
The Face,
for running the serialised 'The State of the Party', and to Sarah Champion who subsequently published the entire story in
Disco Biscuits
(1997); Toni Davidson for 'Victor Spoils' in
Intoxication
(1998).

Thanks to Robin Robertson for encouraging me to review these stories and get this collection into print.

In late January, 2009, Janice Welsh and Kelly Docherty, two of the most loving and vivacious women I've known, died sudden, untimely deaths within a few days of each other. For me and many, many others, Edinburgh will never be quite the same again.

As far as it went wi me it wis aw her ain fuckin fault. The cunts at the hoaspital basically agreed wi ays n aw, no that they said sae much, bit ah could tell they did inside. Ye ken how it is wi they cunts, they cannae jist come oot and say what's oan thir fuckin mind like that. Professional fuckin etiquette or whatever the fuck they call it. Well, seein as ah'm no a fuckin doaktir then, eh! Ah'd last aboot five fuckin minutes wi they cunts, me. Ah'll gie yis fuckin bedside manner, ya cunts.

Bit it wis her ain fault because she kent that ah wanted tae stey in fir the fitba this Sunday; they hud the Hibs–Herts game live oan Setanta. She goes, — Lit's take the bairns doon tae that pub it Kingsknowe, the one ye kin sit ootside ay.

— Cannae, eh, ah sais tae ur, — fitba's oan it two. Hibs fuckin Herts.

— Wi dinnae huv tae stey long, Malky, she sais, — it's a rerr day. It wid be nice fir the bairns.

So ah thinks tae masel, mibbe no too bad an idea but. Ah mean, ah hud ma bevvy in the fridge fir the game, bit a few scoops beforehand would set ays up nicely fir the kick-oaf. So ah sais, — Aye, awright then, but wir no steyin oot long, mind, the fitba's oan at two so wuv goat tae be back by then. So ah'm thinkin, lit hur git hur ain wey n it'll keep her fuckin trap shut for a bit.

So wi gits oot, n it wis a rare day n aw. Wi heads along tae the fuckin pub n wi starts gittin a few bevvies sunk back: her oan the Smirnoff Ices n me oan the pints ay Stella. The bairns ur happy enough wi thair juice n crisps, even though ah hud tae batter him for pillin her hair whin the cheeky wee cunt thought ah wisnae lookin. Eh goat a shock awright whin ah gave um a fuckin wrap acroass the jaw. Ah sais, — Aye, n dinnae fuckin well burst oot greetin like a wee lassie, Jason, or yill fuckin well git another yin!

Anywey, ah've goat an eye oan the fuckin cloak, fir the fitba likes, but she's flingin thum back like fuck n whin ah tells ur it's time tae drink up n move, she starts giein ays fuckin grief. — Kin we no jist stey fir one mair? she's gaun, n ah'm gaun, — Awright, bit jist a fuckin quick yin, mind, then wi fuckin well Johnny Cash.

So ah fling back ma pint but she's fuckin well strugglin. That's her aw ower: thinks she kin fuckin well take a peeve, but she cannae handle it when it comes tae the fuckin big time. Ah jist tells her, — C'moan, we need tae fuckin nash.

So ah nod tae the bairns n thir comin doon the road wi me, n she's laggin behind, the fuckin fat cow thit she is. That wis the main reason that it wis her fault; too fuckin well fat, the doaktir said it; he fuckin well telt the cunt, fuck knows how many times, eh. Ah'm shoutin, — C'moan!

Course, aw she kin dae is tae gie ays that fuckin look which gits ma fuckin goat.

— Git movin, n dinnae well pit that fuckin face oan, ah tells the cunt.

So wi gits intae Kingsknowe Station n ah goes, — Wi kin cut through here. She turns roond n starts walkin doon the platform tae thon overheid bridge. Ah goes, — C'moan tae fuck, ya radge, n jumps straight doon oantae the tracks, ken? She starts makin a fuckin exhibition ay hersel: gaun oan aboot the train comin, n ah should be able tae see that cause ay the people at the platform. — Aye, bit you're forgettin something, ah goes, — ah used tae work for the railways. This wis before me n wee Tam Devlin goat the boot. The bevvy, ken? The cunts git as stroppy as fuck aboot that. Even a couple ay pints, that's you fuckin well snookered. N ah wisnae the fuckin worse, bit it wis scapegoatin, as the cunt fae the union pit it. No thit that did much fuckin good but, eh no.

— Bit it's comin! she sais. — Thir aw waitin oan it! Ah deeks at the fuckin cloak at the station n goes, — It's no due fir another five minutes yit! Moan tae fuck! Ah take wee Claire n lifts her doon oantae the track, n we go over n ah lift her up ontae the platform at the other side. The wee man, that wee cunt Jason, he's ower like a shot n she finally waddles oaf the fuckin platform doon oantae the track. Fuckin embarrassment that fat cunt.

So ah've goat wee Claire lifted oantae the platform, then ah hears this tinny noise and the track under ma feet starts tae vibrate. It sounds like one ay they InterCity non-stoapin joabs. Ah jist fuckin tipples: these cunts've been diverted tae here cause ay that flood damage oan the other line. Ah minded readin aboot that shite in the
News.
So ah'm up sharpish and ah'm sayin tae this fat cunt: — Gie's yir fuckin hand!

Well, ah grabs her mitt, bit the fuckin speed oan this InterCity joab, ah mean these cunts seem like thir gaunny rip the whole fuckin station apart the speed they go through it at, an wi her bein that fuckin hefty, well, ah managed tae sort ay half git her up oan the platform and she's screamin aboot the bairns and ah'm sayin the fuckin bairns ur awright, fuckin move, but the fuckin train comes along and it fuckin well hits her, n ah jist feels this force, pillin her, wrenchin her right ootay ma fuckin grip.

Well, ah fuckin well jist aboot shat masel, ah'm fuckin well tellin yis. Ah wis expectin her tae be in fuckin Aberdeen or somewhere like that, ken, bit she's only a few feet away fae ays further doon the platform n she's lookin up at ays n shoutin, — You, ya fuckin stupit cunt, at me, in front ay every cunt in the station, eh. So ah'm tellin her tae shut her fuckin mooth or she'll git ma fuckin boot right in it and tae git up oaf her fat erse n git a fuckin bend oan n wee Claire's laughin n ah looks at Jason and he's jist standin thaire frozen tae the fuckin spot, eh, so ah'm aboot tae lamp the wee cunt whin ah look doon at her n ah realise that she's goat nae fuckin legs; it's like the fuckin train hud jist clean whipped thum oaf, n she's tryin tae come taewards ays crawlin along the fuckin platform, pillin hersel wi her flabby airms and thaire's this trail ay blood comin fae her.

The radgest thing aboot it aw is that ah looks doon the platform n ah sees the fuckin legs, jist sort ay severed fae her boady. At the thigh, likes, eh, the baith ay thum. So ah shouts at the wee cunt: — Jason! Dinnae jist fuckin stand thaire, pick up yir ma's legs! Git a hud ay thum! Ah wis thinkin thit ye could git thum tae the hoaspital n git thum stitched back oan. The wee bastard jist starts greetin, right oot ay fuckin control. Some cunt's shoutin tae git an ambulance, n she's lyin on the groond cursin n ahm thinkin aboot the fuckin fitba, kick-oaf in ten minutes' time. Bit then ah gits tae thinking thit the ambulance'll maist likely huv tae go past oor bit oan its wey up tae the hoaspital n ah could bail oot n catch up wi her back up thaire, eftir the game, likes. So ah starts gaun, — Too right, mate. A fuckin ambulance then, eh.

Wee Claire's went ower tae her ma's legs n she's picked thum up, gathered thum in her airms and she's running taewards ays, n ah lits that sneaky wee cunt Jason huv it, right acroas the fuckin jaw, n eh fuckin well felt that yin cause that stoaps ehs greetin right away.— You fuckin well should've goat they legs, ya daft wee cunt, fuckin leavin it up tae yir wee sister! She's only a bairn! How auld ur ye? Nine! Fuckin well act it!

This auld cunt's doon at her side hudin her hand and sayin, — Yir awright, it'll be fine, the ambulance is on its wey, try tae be still, n aw that shite. Another guy says tae me, — My God, this is terrible. Ah jist goes, — Fuckin well surein it is, probably missed the first two goals, eh. This nondy cunt comes up tae ays n sais, — I know you must be under terrible stress but it'll be okay. She's hanging in there. Try to comfort the children. Ah jist goes, — Aye, right ye are.

So ah sais tae the bairns, jist as the ambulance comes, — Yir ma's gaun tae the hoaspital fir a bit, bit thir's nowt wrong wi her.

— She's loast her legs, wee Claire goes.

— Aye, ah ken that, bit thaire's nowt wrong wi her, no really. Ah mean, aye, fir anybody else, anybody normal, likesay you or me, it wid be bad tae huv nae legs. Bit no fir yir ma cause she's that fat she widnae be able tae git roond oan her legs that much longer anywey, ken?

— Will Ma die? Jason asks.

— Ah dinnae ken. Ah'm no a fuckin doaktir, um ah? Dinnae ask such daft questions, Jason. What a laddie for fuckin questions! See, if she does, n ah'm no sayin thit she will, but see if she does, jist sayin, right? Jist supposin thit she wis tae die, n this is jist sayin, mind . . .

— Like pretend, wee Claire goes. Mair brains thin her fuckin ma, that yin.

— That's right, hen, jist pretend. So if she wis tae die, n mind, wir only jist sayin, it's up tae youse tae be good n no tae gie ays a hard time, cause ye ken what ah'm like when ah start gittin a hard time. Ah'm no sayin thit ah'm wrong n ah'm no sayin thit ah'm right; aw ah'm sayin is dinnae youse be giein ays a hard time at a time like this. Or yis git this, right? ah goes, clenchin ma mitt n shakin it at the wee cunts. So by the time the ambulance boys manage tae lug her intae the fuckin van, wi her fuckin weight, it'll be fuckin half-time. Ah takes the legs oaf the bairn n goes tae lob them in the back wi her, but this ambulance boy takes them n wraps them in polythene n sticks thum stump doon intae a bucket ay ice. We gets in the back wi her n the boy thit's drivin's waistin nae time. Wir near oor bit n ah sais, — Ah'll jist bail oot it the roundabout ahead, mate.

— Eh? the boy goes.

— Jist lit ays oaf here, ah sais.

— Wir no stoapin here, mate, we're no stoapin until we git tae the hoaspital. Nae time tae lose. You'll need tae register your wife and look after the kids here.

— Aye, right, ah goes, but ah wis still thinkin ahead. — Is thaire a telly oan the wards, mate? Bound tae be bit, eh?

This cunt jist looks at ays aw funny like n then goes, — Aye, thaire's a telly.

A fuckin wide cunt. Anywey, she's goat that oxygen mask ower her face n the guy's gaun oan tae her aboot tryin no tae talk n ah'm thinkin: some fuckin chance, ah've been tryin tae git her no tae talk fir fuckin years, eh. Hearin her n aw: gaun oan tae me like it's ma fuckin fault. It wis her wantin mair fuckin drink as usual, pished-up cow. Ah telt her, if ye spent as much time lookin eftir the fuckin bairns as ye did oan the fuckin pish, then they might no be so far behind at the school, especially that wee cunt Jason. Ah turns tae him n goes, — Aye, n dinnae think thit you're jist gaunny doss oaf the school, jist because yir fuckin ma might be in dock fir a few weeks. You'd better fuckin well shape up, son, ah'm tellin ye.

Sometimes ah think tae masel that ah'm giein the wee cunt too much ay a hard time. Bit then ah go: naw, cause ah goat it aw, the very fuckin same treatment fae ma auld man n it did me nae fuckin herm at aw. Cruel tae be kind, like they say. N ah'm livin proof thit it's the best wey. Ah mean, ye nivir see me in any fuckin bother wi the polis, no since way back. Learned ma fuckin lesson: ah keep ma nose clean n ah gie they cunts a wide berth. Aw ah ask ootay life is a few bevvies, the fitba n the occasional ride.

That makes ays think bit: what's it gaunny be like ridin her if she's no goat any fuckin legs . . . ? So we gits up the casualty n this doaktir cunt's gaun oan aboot me bein in shock n ah'm thinkin aboot the fitba n if these cunts've scored awready ah'll be in fuckin shock awright. Ah turns tae the boy n goes, — Hi, mate, ken me n her, ken like whin wir thegither?

Cunt wisnae gittin ma drift.

— Ken in bed, likes? The cunt nods. — See, if she's no goat any fuckin legs, will ah still be able tae cowp it, likes?

— Sorry? this cunt goes.

Thick as fuck. A fuckin doaktir this is n aw. Thought ye hud tae huv fuckin brains tae dae that joab. — Ah'm talkin aboot oor sex life, ah tell um.

— Well, assuming your wife survives, your sex life should be normal, the cunt says, lookin at ays like ah wis some kind ay radge.

— Well, ah goes, — that's a bit ay fuckin good news, cause it wisnae fuckin well normal before! No unless ye call a ride every three fuckin months or something like that normal, n that's no what ah'd fuckin well call normal.

So thaire ah wis, tryin tae watch the fuckin game oan the waitin-room telly. Nae bevvy or nowt, n aw they radges hasslin ays wi forms n questions n the fuckin bairns playin up, gaun oan aboot is she awright, n when ur wi gaun hame n aw that shite. Ah fuckin well warned the wee cunts, see whin ah git youse hame, ah telt them.

Tell yis one thing fir nowt though: whin she's oot ay that hoaspital, see, if she cannae dae things aroond the hoose, ah'm fuckin offski. Too fuckin right, ya cunt. Lookin eftir ah fat cunt wi nae fuckin legs! That will be fuckin shinin bright! It wis her ain fault as well, the fuckin fat cunt. Fuckin things up fir me like that. No thit the game wis anything tae write hame aboot, mind you, another fuckin nil–nil draw bit, eh.