Reheated Cabbage (4 page)

The auld guy smiles like a double-glazing salesman who's about tae tell me there's nowt they can dae aboot their crappy installation. — Well, Joe, the truth is that you're not a bad guy, but you have been a bit misogynistic and homophobic. So your punishment is to make you walk the Earth as a homosexual ghost buggering your old mates and acquaintances.

— No way! No way am ah gaunny dae that! You cannae fuckin well make me . . . I say, lamely tailing off as I realise that the sick old bastard has been doing exactly that.

— Aye, this is your punishment for being a queer basher, the angel gadge smiles again. — I'm going to watch and laugh at you being crippled with guilt. Not only am I going to make you do it, Joe, I'm going to make you
keep
doing it until you enjoy it.

— No way. You must be fuckin joking. I'll never enjoy that. I point at myself.— Never! You cunt . . . I spring at the bastard, ready to throttle him, but in another swish of sound and flash of light he's gone.

I sit at a vacant seat at the back of the chapel, my head in my hands. I look around at the congregation. Lucy has come up for it, she's sitting quite close to me. That's nice of her. Must've been a fuckin shock for her. One minute you've a stiffer inside ye, the next it's just a stiff. Charlie's there too, he's with Ian and Murdo at the back of the hall.

They are all standing up.

Then I see him. That dirty old cunt of a priest.

Father Brannigan. Him, putting me to rest! That filthy, evil auld cunt!

I'm looking over at my parents, screaming silently at them for this appalling betrayal. I mind of me saying to them, I dinnae want tae be an altar boy any mair, Ma, and my mother being so disappointed. My old man never gave a fuck. Let the laddie dae what eh wants, he said. But when I didnae come tae our Angela's communion and I couldnae tell them why . . .

Aw fuck . . . that dirty old cunt touching me, and worse, making me do things to him . . .

I never would, never
could
say. Never. Never even thought about it. I always vowed he'd fuckin well get it one day. Now he's here, he's sending me off, his pious lies ringing throughout this chapel.

— Joseph Hutchinson was a kind, sensitive, young Christian man, taken untimely from us. But, through our grief and loss, we should not fail to remember that God has a plan, no matter how obscure this may seem to we mortals. Joseph, who once served at the altar of this very house of the Lord, would have understood this divine truth more than most of us . . .

I want to roar the truth at them all, to tell them what that dirty old cunt did tae me . . .

WHOOSHHHH . . .

Then I'm on auld Brannigan and he's screaming under my weight; his old skinny, smelly bones, crushed under my bulk. I'm giving it to the dirty old cunt; pummelling him right up his arse and he's screaming. I'm snarling in demented rage:— You cannae tell anybody, or God will punish you for being a sinner, and I'm fucking him and fucking him harder and harder. He's screeching beyond agony and bang! . . . his heart stops, I feel it stop as his last breath escapes him. Brannigan's body judders underneath me and his eyes roll towards heaven. I feel his essence rise up through his body and through mine, planting a thought into my psyche that says YOU CUNT as he floats away, a soundless cry coming from his spirit like a balloon farts out air as it flies into space.

I'm sobbing and crying to myself, saying over and over again in my self-disgust, — When will it be over? When will this nightmare end?

WHOOSH . . .

And then I'm with my best mate Andy Sweeney; we grew up together, did almost everything together. He was always more popular than me – better looking, brighter, good job – but he was my best mate. As I said, we did everything together – well, almost everything. But now I'm on top of him and I'm shagging the arse off him . . . and it's horrible. — WHEN, I'm screaming, — WHEN WILL THIS FUCKIN NIGHTMARE END?

And he's in the room with us, the auld St Peter boy from the funeral. He's just sitting in the armchair watching us in a studied, detached manner. — When you start to enjoy it, when you cease to feel the guilt, that's when it'll end, he tells me coldly.

So there I am shagging my best mate up his arse. God, am I feeling disgusted and crippled with revulsion, loathing and guilt . . .

. . . feeling sick and ugly, in constant torture as I am compelled to pump away like a rancid fuck machine from hell, feeling like my soul is being ripped apart . . .

. . . going to a place beyond fear, humiliation and torture, and hating it, loathing it, detesting it so fuckin much . . . a pain so great and pervasive that I'll never, ever grow to feel anything other than this sheer horror . . .

. . . or so I keep telling that daft cunt of an angel.

Thaire's some cunts thit ye hit it oaf wi, n some cunts thit ye dinnae. Take Elspeth's boyfriend fir example; a right fuckin case-in-point, that yin. Ah mean, ah'd nivir even met the cunt until Christmas Day, but aw wi'd goat fi the auld lady leadin up tae it wis 'Greg this' n 'Greg that' n 'eh's an awfay nice laddie'.

So that gits ye thinkin tae yirself, right away: aw aye?

Christmas, eh. Some cunts lap it but tae me it's a load ay shite. Too commercialised. It's usually just the faimlay for us. But ah've fuckin moved in wi ma burd Kate, oor first festive season thegither. We hud a big row aboot it n aw; mind you, ye eywis dae at Christmas. Wouldnae be a fuckin Christmas withoot every cunt gittin oan each other's nerves.

As ye kin fuckin guess, she's moanin thit wir gaun tae muh ma's instead ay hers. The thing is thit ma brar Joe n ehs wife Sandra n thair two wee bairns n ma sister Elspeth wid be thaire. Tradition n that. That's what ah telt Kate, ah eywis go tae ma auld girl's at Christmas. That cow ah used tae be wi, that June, she's takin the bairns tae
her
auld lady's. No thit it bothers me, but it means thit muh ma'll no see thum at Christmas. That's June but; fill ay fuckin spite.

Ye cannae fuckin win wi burds at Christmas. Aye, Kate wis aw humpty n aw. She goes, well, you go tae your ma's n ah'll go tae ma faimly's. Ah sais tae her, dinnae start gittin fuckin wide, wir gaun tae muh ma's n that's that. Dinnae try n snub ma auld girl.

So that wis that settled. Nearer the time ah gits oantae the auld lady, askin her when she wants us roond. She gies ays aw this, 'Oh lit me see, when did Elspeth say thit her n Greg wir gaunny come roond again . . . ?'

Well, ye git the fuckin picture. By the time it's Christmas Day, me n Joe've hud wir fuckin fill ay Elspeth's boyfriend, this fuckin Greg cunt or whatever they call um. Ah'd been oot oan the pish aw Christmas Eve wi some ay the boys, n Joe wis in the same boat, ye could see it fae the cunt's eyes, he wis fucked n aw. Aye, it goat fuckin well messy that night. Lines ay charlie racked up every five minutes; boatils n boatils ah champagne bein guzzled. That tae me's what Christmas is aw aboot, jist littin yirsel go. Specially the champagne; ah love that stuff, could quaff it till the cows come hame. Must be the aristocrat n ays. Blue fuckin blood.

Ye suffer the next day but, no half ye fuckin dinnae.

So that Christmas mornin, me n hur huv this big argumint again. Ma heid is fuckin nippin, n ma sinuses feel like some cunt's went n poured a load ay concrete intae them. Tryin tae git ready tae go roond tae muh ma's hoose, n feelin like that, she asks ays, — What dae ye think ah should wear the day, Frank?

Ah jist looks at her n goes: — Clathes.

That shuts ur fuckin mooth fir ah bit.

Then ah sais, — How the fuck should ah ken?

She looks at ays n goes, — Well, should ah git aw dressed up?

— Wear whit ye fuckin like, ah telt ur, — ah'm no gittin aw trussed up like a fuckin turkey jist tae sit peevin n watchin the telly roond at muh ma's. Levi's, Ben Sherman n Stone Island cardy, that'll dae fir me.

So that seems tae satisfy hur, n she pits oan this sports gear. Casual but quite smart, ken?

Aye, ah kin tell a mile away thit she's taken the fuckin strop, but. Ah jist think, well, if she wants tae be aw antisocial this Christmas, that's fuckin well up tae her.

Wi heads doon the road n gits tae the auld girl's. Joe n that wis awready thaire.

— Aye aye, Franco, that Sandra goes tae me.

— Aye, ah goes. Nivir saw eye tae eye wi her. Too much ah a mooth oan it. Dinnae ken how oor Joe kin be daein wi that. His choice but. Widnae fuckin well be mine anywey. At least her n Kate git oan, n that's a good thing, cause it keeps the bairns oaf Joe's back n lits us git a peeve in peace. Ah gits a can ay Rid Stripe open. Ah'm gaunny git fuckin well hammered; it's what Christmas is aw aboot.

Wi firin intae the lagers awright. Wir jist sittin thaire, thinkin through oor hangovers, 'if this cunt Greg or whatever ye call the boy, if eh starts gittin wide, eh's gaunny git a fuckin bat in mooth, Christmas or nae fuckin Christmas.'

Eftir a bit the door goes, n it's Elspeth. This tall, dark-heided cunt wi a side partin comes in behind her. Eh's aw done up tae the nines in a smart coat n suit – ye kin tell that this cunt really fancies ehsel. What goat me wis the side partin. Ken how some things jist git oan yir fuckin nerves fir nae reason? Bit then what
really
wound ays up wis thit eh wis cairryin a bunch ay flooirs. Flooirs, oan fuckin Christmas Day! — For you, Val, eh goes tae the auld girl, giein her a wee peck oan the cheek. Then the cunt comes up tae me n goes, — You must be Frank, n eh pits ehs hand oot.

Ah'm thinkin, aye, who the fuck wants tae ken, likes, but ah lit it go, cause ah didnae want tae cause a scene. Jist didnae take tae this smarmy poof at aw but, ye ken how it is wi some people? Try as ye might, ye jist cannae fuckin well take tae thum.

But ah bites the bullet n shakes the cunt's hand, thinkin, Christmas n that, the season ay goodwill.

— Good tae meet ye finally, eh sais. — Elspeth talks about ye a lot. In very glowing terms, I should add, the cunt goes.

Ah feel like asking the cunt what the fuck eh's oan aboot, is eh tryin tae git wide or what, but eh's turned away n eh's ower tae Joe. — And you must be Joe, eh goes.

— Aye, sais Joe, shakin ehs hand, but no gittin up oot the chair. — So you're oor Elspeth's felly then, aye?

— I certainly am, eh smiles, at her, n ah catch um giein her hand a squeeze. She's lookin aw that daft wey at um, like she's nivir been oot wi a gadge before.

— Love's young dream, that Sandra goes, cooin away, like one ay they big fat fuckin pigeons thit the auld man used tae keep. Ah mind ay wringin a couple ay the cunts' necks eftir eh'd battered ays once. The best thing tae dae wi they cunts, though, is tae set thum oan fire. It's barry watchin thum tryin tae take oaf, whin thir blazin away n screamin in agony. Ah'll gie yis fuckin cooin, ya cunts.

Sometimes ah used tae jist go doon tae the loft oan ehs allotment and burn a couple ay the bastards thaire, or git yin n nail it tae the hut. Jist tae see the expression oan the auld fucker's face when eh came hame, aw pished n upset. Blamed every cunt n aw; vandals, gyppos, neighbours, publicans. Wanted tae kill half ay fuckin Leith. Ah'd be sittin thair in the chair opposite, lookin aw innocent, jist gaun, — Ohhh . . . which one wis it they goat this time, Dad? N he'd be fuckin well jist aboot in tears. The cunt wid smash up the hoose in a fit ay rage, before hittin the boozer again. Come tae think ay it, it wis probably me that drove the cunt tae drink! Him n ehs fuckin daft pigeons.

That fuckin Sandra. Nivir mind the fuckin turkey, stick that fat cunt in the oven n wi'll be feedin half ay fuckin Leith through until next Christmas. Ah dinnae ken aboot stuffin it but, ah'll no be volunteerin fir they fuckin duties anywey. Nae fuckin chance!

So this big, bloated rooster's right up tae Elspeth's boy. — Ah'm Sandra, Joe's wife, she sais tae this Greg, aw that flirty, slutty wey.

This cunt goes up and kisses her twice, once oan each cheek, like some fuckin weirdo. Ah dinnae hud wi that, kissin a woman ye dinnae ken, in somebody's hoose. At Christmas, at a fuckin faimlay gatherin. Aye, ah'm watchin Kate, thinkin thit if eh does that tae her, eh's fuckin well gittin the nut rammed oan um. Fuckin smarmy poof.

But she sees me lookin at her, n she kens how tae behave. Goat her well fuckin trained. Aye,
she
kens no tae show ays up. Must huv a word wi Joe aboot that Sandra, embarrassin um like that. Ah ken that big cow; a leopard nivir fuckin well changes its spoats, right enough. Used tae call her the 32 bus, back in the day. That wis cause every cunt rode her roond the schemes. Still, it's no fir me tae say. So Kate pits her hand oot for him tae shake, n keeps her eyes doon, away fae his. — Ah'm Kate, she mumbles.

Handled that yin well. Aye, mibbe the message aboot eggin boys oan is startin tae git through. Jist as fuckin well, fir her sake. The wey ah see it is thit whin a lassie's wi somebody, she's no meant tae be giein other boys the come-on aw the time. Ye cannae trust a fuckin cow like that, n yuv goat tae huv trust in a relationship.

This Greg looks aw surprised, n gies a wee smile. Somethin creepy aboot that bastard. Ken how some cunts jist set yir fuckin teeth oan edge? The fucker reminds ays ay that cunt ay an insurance man thit used tae come roond oor bit whin wi wir bairns. Eh'd eywis gie us these sweeties; really crap yins like dolly mixtures, aw that cheap shite. Aye, ye could tell he wis a fuckin right oily cunt underneath it aw. Ah eywis took the sweeties oaf the cunt, but. Too fuckin right ah did. Nivir liked that fucker though.

The auld girl's been in the kitchen aw mornin, workin oan the meal. Her face is aw rid. She likes tae make a big effort fir Christmis. Widnae be me anywey. Fuck slavin ower a hoat stove oan Christmas Day. Ye cannae work oot what's gaun oan in some cunts' heids but. Now she's tryin tae organise every cunt; makin a big fuss aboot us aw openin oor presents under the tree. Ah'm no bothered wi aw that shite. Whae cares aboot fuckin presents? As far as clathes n aw that goes, ah've goat the money tae git what the fuck ah want. Ye like tae git what you want tae wear, no what some other cunt wants tae gie ye. Ay gied the burd two hundred quid fir clathes, n muh ma the same. Then ah gied Joe a hundred tae git somethin fir the bairns, n fifty bar tae oor Elspeth for whatever she wanted. The only presents ah goat wis fir ma ain bairns. That wis only because ah kent thit if ah gied June the money tae git thum somethin, like a fuckin PlayStation or a bike, they'd end up wi some plastic shite fae Ali's Cave. Aye, the rest wid go oan fuckin snout fir her. So that wis aw. The rest ay thum, it wis jist: here's yir fuckin Christmis present offay me, jist git what the fuck ye want.

It's the best fuckin wey. Aw that fuss aboot wrappin fuckin presents up? Ah couldnae be daein wi that. Fuck wrappin presents.

Rap some cunt's fuckin jaw.

Ah'm lookin ower at that Kate. Two hundred fuckin bar fir clathes ah gied her, n she comes intae muh ma's dressed like a fuckin frump, showin ays up. Oor Elspeth's made an effort, she's goat a nice black perty dress oan, aw fir that smarmy Greg cunt n aw. Even that fuckin cow Sandra hus. Mingin auld fuckin hen done up as spring chicken, mind, but at least shi's fuckin well tried. Kate but; a fuckin jaikey on Christmis Day! In muh ma's hoose n aw!

Thir aw makin a big fuckin fuss aboot presents. It's 'ooh, this is lovely' n 'oooh, it's jist what ah eywis wanted'. Then thir aw at me tae open mine, so ah jist thinks, might as well, keep the cunts happy. If it fuckin well means that much tae thum. Ah gits a blue pastel-coloured Ben Sherman oaffay Kate, n a yellaw Ben Sherman offay Joe n Sandra. In ma auld girl's parcel thaire's another Ben Sherman, a black, broon n light blue striped yin. Ah think ah must've asked fir Ben Shermans offay every cunt; mind you, ye cannae go wrong wi shirts. Thaire's one left, marked oan the gift tag:
To Francis, from Elspeth and Greg.
Merry Christmas
.

It feels like another fuckin Ben Sherman, but whin ah rips it open it's a sweater wi the new club crest oan it.

— That's nice, muh mother sais. Elspeth goes, — Aye, it's the new yin. It's goat the original Harp crest, wi the ship for Leith, n the castle fir Edinburgh. Thir smilin at ays, n it gits right oan ma fuckin tits. Tryin tae take the fuckin pish here. Tae me, whin ye buy some cunt official club merchandise, it's like you sayin tae thum thit ye think thir a fuckin wanker. Ah widnae be seen deid wearin that shite. That's fir fuckin wee bairn n fuckin dippit cunts, that. — Ta, ah goes, but through gritted teeth, ken?

Ah'm thinkin, that's gaun right in the bucket whin ah git hame, tell ye that fir nowt.

Ye kin understand it if it wis Elspeth thit made the mistake. Ah mean, that's birds fir ye. But if that Greg cunt wis in oan buyin it, it means thit eh wis tryin tae take the pish. Ah'm fuckin well fumin at that disrespect, so tae stoap masel fae sayin somethin ah shouldnae, ah go ben the scullery tae git another can fae the fridge. Then ah'm thinkin thit that Greg's such a big fuckin lassie ehsel, he probably disnae huv a fuckin clue either.

Ma heid's still nippin n ah swallay a couple ay extra-strength Anadin wi a moothfae ay beer. Whin ah gits back ah sees this fuckin Greg cunt's playin away wi Joe's bairns, oan the fuckin flair wi aw thair toys. Meant tae be the fuckin bairns' new toys, no fir some big pansy tae ponce aroond wi. Ah pills Joe aside n back intae the kitchen, n goes — Ye want tae watch that cunt aroond the bairns. Touch ay the fuckin Gary Glitters thaire, ah'll tell ye that fir nowt.

— Ye reckon? Joe sais, pittin ehs heid roond the door tae check it oot.

— Defo. Ye ken how fuckin plausible they cunts kin be. That's the thing. Ah'd lay ye even money thit that cunt's oan the stoats' register. Ye kin spot the type a mile away.

Muh ma sees us n comes ben. — What are you two oan aboot, standin here in the kitchen drinkin like fishes?! Git oot thaire n try n be social, it's meant tae be Christmas!

— Right, Ma, ah goes, lookin at Joe. That Greg cunt might huv brainwashed her, that's wimmin fir ye, no goat much brains tae fuckin wash in the first place, bit Joe n me huv been aroond long enough tae see right through a cunt like that.

Best keepin the auld lady fuckin sweet but, or shi'll huv a coupon oan her aw day. So wi gits back through wi the rest ay thum n ah sits doon n picks up the
Radio Times.
Ah starts tae circle aw the programmes wir gaunny watch. The wey ah see it is thit some cunt's goat tae decide, tae stoap every fucker fae squabblin, so it might as well be me. That's what ah like best aboot Christmas, jist sittin back wi a few cans n watchin a good film.

Ya beauty! James Bond's oan.
Doctor No
, n it's jist aboot tae fuckin well start.

Sean Connery, the best fuckin Bond. Ye dinnae want some fuckin poncey English cunt, no fir James Bond.

Mind you, no thit ah really agree wi huvin some cunt fae Tolcross as Bond. Thaire's cunts fae Leith thit could've done that joab jist as well as Connery. Auld Davie Robb, drinks in the Marksman, he must be aboot ages wi Connery. A fuckin hard cunt in ehs day, everybody'll tell ye that. Intae everythin, he wis. Cunts like that could've been good Bonds, if they'd goat the fuckin trainin, likes.