Reheated Cabbage (25 page)

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand.

He used to scare William and Christine as children, with a dramatic recitation of this poem. It seemed so long ago, and now they were barely in his life. Like so many, they had become strangers. Why had Allister Main followed him everywhere, like a stupid dog, back at the university? Was it any wonder he had been driven to sin by the unremitting attentions of this sick fool? It had been the whisky; that very first time he'd been drunk. At first some joking around (frivolous laughter, the Trojan Horse of the devil) then indulging in foolish horseplay, then Allister's face on him, their clothes somehow loosened and strewn, then . . . fellating him with his girl's mouth! Albert Black, the young Christian student, even as he screamed in pain and rage, still kept a firm grip of the other boy's head, clasping it to his needy crotch as the seed exploded from him in the grateful cavern of his fellow divinity scholar's throat.

And I'd never asked Marion to do the same, to offer me that terrible
pleasure.

Since that horrible evening in the Marchmont student flat, Albert Black seldom drank. One glass of whisky on Burns Night sufficed, the same measure on Hogmanay, and, very occasionally, on his own birthday. But even the unsavoury and long-repressed thoughts couldn't root him, because he was prisoner to an ascending nausea, thick and uncompromising, creeping through him like a dark poison. He retched dry again, raising a faltering hand to his sweating, pounding brow. He could hear no music now, could not turn to get back to the others, surely only a few yards through the patch of eucalyptus bushes, as his legs seemed stuck fast.

What is happening to me?

Why should ye be stricken any more? Ye will revolt more and more:
the whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint.

Black didn't know where he was. The bushes, trees, creeping vines and tall grasses were bending into strange shapes, it was as if the swamp was coming to life around him. But there was something else, out here with him, in this terrible wilderness.

At first he could only see the glowing eyes, a burning sulphurous yellow, staring out of the blurry, oily darkness ahead, watching him. Then the low growl of the satanic beast erupted, inhumane, monstrous. The rumble of what might have thunder followed, or perhaps it came from the sound system.

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.

Then the beast let out a low hiss. Even as Black felt the skin being stripped from him, he looked into its heinous eyes and, thinking of Marion, began to recite in a calm, even voice as a lightning bolt jabbed in the sky, briefly illuminating the macabre, slouching figure ahead. — It was said that when the cool voice of truth falls into the burning vortex of falsehood there would always be hissing! Perfect love casts off all fear! Innocence rusheth into the sunlight, and asks to be tried, Black declared, almost in song as the tears ripped from his eyes. The retired schoolteacher and old soldier wrenched his heavy legs and stepped forward, fists bunched, and roared into the night, — IT DOES NOT SLINK AWAY AND HIDE!

The creature sank back as if on hunkers, growled, then twisted round and headed off. It looked back once, hissing again, and departed into the bush.

— BEGONE! Black thundered into the darkness as the sound system battered out a steady beat. Then he felt himself sink and fall forward as his knee gave way and he tumbled down into what felt like a dark, wet abyss. There was stillness for a while, before he opened his eyes. Thunder roared and lightning crackled in a mottled sky above him. Rain fell on his face. He struggled and tried to pull himself free from the swampy ground that seemed to be holding him to it by suction. It was claiming him for its own; it was as if he was bleeding into it. With great effort, his hands reached out and pulled on the branches of a bush and he struggled and hoisted himself upright.

He could see lights ahead, but not bring himself to move towards them. Locked onto the bush, he'd stay here. Now it was time to succumb to the dark. To unite with her. He shouted her name, or perhaps thought it loudly.

And Albert Black must have been screaming for a long time or no time at all, he would never know, as Terry, Carl, Brandi and Helena found him, demented, soaked, and holding onto a eucalyptus bush for grim life.

— Albert! Helena shouted.

— Fuck sake . . . wir soaked here. Terry Lawson tried to grab his old teacher, to pull him from the bush and the water he stood in up to his mid-shins. — C'moan tae fuck, ya radge, thaire's alligators n panthers n black bears n aw that oot here!

Black pushed his hand away, and screamed into the night as the rain hammered down on them. — Inspiring bold
John
Barleycorn
! What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!

There was no way he was going anywhere. He held on in mortal desperation, his crazed eyes bulging.

— He's off his fuckin tits, Carl Ewart said. — Bla – Mis – Albert, did you take that tea? Carl scrambled down beside him. Felt the water rise up his legs. Black saw Ewart's face distort, into that mocking sneer he knew of old. He needed a weapon, something to smite this monster. But there was nothing to hand, and Ewart was no longer a boy. No longer a bad boy. There was a kindness and concern in those eyes of this white-haired man, a glow around him, like the golden halo of sainthood, and a soft voice was urging him. — C'mon, Albert, give me your hand. Let's go and get you dried off, mate.

Then Black saw a frightened young boy, cowering away from him in his office as he produced his tawse. His own son, as a boy, running tearfully out the door. Marion rising, standing in front of him, in order to stop him from pursuing the child. His eyes burned. He miserably reached out and Carl Ewart gripped him under the arm.

— I never meant to hurt you . . . I never meant to hurt anyone . . . Black moaned.

— Never mind that, did you drink that tea? Ewart asked, as Terry assisted them out of the ditch.

— The tea . . . Black puffed, feeling his slimy soaked feet setting down onto firmer ground.

— It's not proper tea, Albert. It'll make you sick. You drank too much of it, Carl said, and put his arm around the old man's frail shoulders, and led him through the bushes, back to the motorcade and into the SUV as torrential rain thrashed on them. Consoled in the back of the car by Helena, Black drifted into some kind of fevered sleep. He woke briefly as they hit the outskirts of Miami, as the slow surge of dawn danced in the eastern sky. Then sleep took him again.

One narcotic, the other narcoleptic, the two lovers had talked, tried to sleep, then argued through their exhaustion. Helena Hulme sipped at the cup of Cuban coffee as she reclined on the chaise longue, looking from her feet to Carl Ewart, who sat on the bed, rocked by her disclosure, his head in his hands. — I feel terrible, he moaned.

— I should have told you, Helena conceded. — I just didn't know how you'd feel about it. I didn't want to be pregnant, Carl. I thought you might try and talk me into having it.

— No way . . . you don't get it, Carl gasped, then fell onto his knees and collapsed in front of her, placing his head on her lap, looking up at her with a sad smile,— I don't feel bad about
that
; you did the right thing. I just feel awful that you had to go to that place alone, go through it all alone.

— I should have told you.

— How could you? I was never there. By email or text? he said sadly, then, suddenly animated, sat up alongside her. — I've been thinking about us. I cannae face another summer in Ibiza, another round of playing records to kids who'll listen to anything if they're fucked up enough. Ah'm no vibing on that shit any more, Helena.

Helena stroked his hair. It was so fine and soft. She idly traced patterns on his scalp.

— Jake's asked me to score his film. I said I would. The money isn't great up front, but if it does well I'll get royalties on the back end. So I'm going to move the studio over to Sydney. If it works out, I'd like to do more of that sort of thing. It means that you'll be close enough to your mum to see her regularly and have her come over.

— But what about your mum? She's older, and our Ruthie lives close by mine . . .

— We have to accept that, for whatever reason, your mum needs you right now, more than mine needs me. Let's try it for a couple of years. If your mother settles down and adjusts we can think about London after, or even LA if I make it big, he smiled.

Helena wrapped her arms around his thin torso. — I love you, Carl.

— I love you . . . and I want to be with you. I don't want to be away all the time and just get fucked up cause you're not around. I'm too old for that; it's boring me. I'm forty now; dance music is a young punter's game. It's time for me to phase it out.

— Okay, she said in gratitude, as they felt the tension between them lanced like a boil, — let's talk about it later. We should go to bed.

— I'll never sleep.

Helena felt the hit of the coffee. The jet lag had tricked her. Exhausted a few minutes previously, she was now buzzing again. — Me neither. Let's go out and lie in the sun, maybe force down some breakfast.

— Okay. I'll take the factor twenty, in case we fall asleep doon there.

Albert Black woke up in a strange hotel room. He was fully dressed and lying on top of the bed. The bottom of his trousers felt damp. The room still reverberated in the light, but the pulsing was milder now. He sensed it was over. Satan had gone from his body, though it was still in shock from his infiltration. The tea.
Why had the garden of God always been littered with
Satan's bitter fruits?

He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. Replaced them. Standing up shakily, deferential to his apostate knee, he headed downstairs. Passing by the back of the hotel, he looked out and could see Carl and Helena lying by the pool: him in shorts, her in a two-piece blue bikini. He was about to slip away but they saw him and beckoned him over.

— Are you okay? Carl asked, sitting up on his lilo, as Helena smiled and waved as if nothing untoward had happened.

— I was intoxicated . . . that tea . . . I fear I made a fool of myself.

Carl rose, and sat at a table, inviting Black to do the same. — We all did, but who cares? There are more important things to worry about than somebody getting off their faces, Albert.

Black slumped miserably into the seat, and shook his head in a rueful manner. — I don't know what to do . . .

Carl nodded to an approaching waiter carrying a silver tray. — Stay here and have some breakfast with us.

— I can't take any more of other people's hospitality . . . someone gave up their room for me last night.

— That was Terry.

— Law – Terry. How charitable of him. I feel terrible depriving him. Where did he . . . ? Black faltered as he saw Ewart's smile widen.

— I think he was alright. In fact, you probably helped him out.

— I don't know . . . Black said, shaking his head, but Carl Ewart had poured him some orange juice and was putting in a request for the waiter to bring food. Above, the pale cloudless sky seemed to invite serenity, and he allowed himself to succumb to the growing lassitude in his bones.

— You have to go and see your family in a bit, Helena said, joining them at the table, a sarong wrapped around her shoulders, — they'll be worried about you.

— Yes. It's just been so difficult. We don't really get on, my son and I.

— You should try and sort that one out, Carl Ewart said sadly, suddenly thinking of his own deceased father. — Or you'll miss the things you never said to each other. So will he.

— Yes, Black conceded. There wasn't much time.

— So say them. You've lived a life together. Whether you believe in an afterlife or you don't, the life you shared has got to mean something, he said, feeling Helena's eyes on him.

— I'll drink to that, she said, raising her glass of orange juice.

Black regarded his former pupil. — You are all being so kind to me, Carl. I mean, back at the school . . . I'm sorry if I –

Carl Ewart raised his hand to silence his old teacher. — Albert, I could have gone to Eton or Rugby and I'd probably have been just the same. Some of us will never be happy unless we've got something straight to kick against. Thank you for being that force, that influence, and I mean it. But you might want to try being a wee bit kinder to yourself, and the people around you.

Black smiled in terse recognition. It was true. Marion would want him to have a relationship with William. And Christine. He knew she lived with another woman, and that unnatural act of sin wasn't something he could ever endorse, but you had to love the sinner. As for the sin itself, it was up to the Lord to pass judgement. He would go to Sydney and see her. What else would he possibly do with his savings? There
was
a purpose to life. Those fences had to be mended.

They ate tentatively. The strips of bacon with eggs over easy, the fruit and croissants with jam and butter, all seemed too vast for constricted stomachs. The orange juice and the water was much more welcome. Black regarded the happy couple, a now middle-aged man with his more youthful girlfriend. — Did you get the name N-Sign from the pub up by the castle?

— No. Carl Ewart looked at Albert Black as if he was crazy. —
You
told me, at the school. First day at reggie, I told you my name and you told me the story of Charles Ewart.

— Yes . . . you remembered that?

— Of course. How he took the standard of the Eagle from the French at Waterloo. It was a great story and you told it really well. I walked out of that class feeling ten feet tall, because I had the same name as this big, heroic Scottish warrior. Later on I looked him up in the library. He became my hero. He was born in Kilmarnock, that's where my dad's family came from.

— So you might be a direct descendant, Black said, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.

— It would be nice to think so, but it's a very common name down there. But whether it's the case or not, it was an inspiring tale and it made me feel very special. It gave me a good stage name with a story behind it. So thanks for that.

Black nodded thoughtfully, gave a slight but appreciative smile, and nibbled on a croissant.

They sat chatting in the morning sun, struggling with the food, though all managing to get something into their stomachs. When they had finished, Albert Black rose and said, — I shall return to my family now. But I would really like to invite you both to dinner, or lunch, at their home. My grandson is a fan of your music and he'd love to meet you.

Carl looked at Helena. — We'd be delighted.

— For sure.

— Tomorrow night at seven? Black suggested.

— Sound by us, Helena said. — Carl?

— Aye, great. I've nothing on then.

— Good. And thank you again for looking after me.

— No worries. We're old school, Carl Ewart smiled, and he watched his former schoolteacher smile in wan appreciation before turning and walking, a little shakily for the first few steps, then, like the old soldier he was, striding through the tropical garden, round the pool. As he got to the hotel back door, Black turned round and called out, gravely, pointing the finger, — Remember, Ewart, seven o'clock means precisely that! You know what I'm like for punctuality! And for the first time in a long while, something approaching a grin came over the old man's face.

— Receiving you loud and clear, Carl Ewart smiled and stiffly saluted his former teacher. He couldn't quite bring himself to say 'sir' but this time the old boy didn't seem to mind.