Reheated Cabbage (7 page)

The young team were sitting drinking cheap wine by the reservoir. Jimmy remembered that, only a few years ago, they had fished for perch and pike in its waters. Glue had taken over. It wasn't really that it was less boring, more that being glued up was like the excitement of a catch spread over the whole day. There was an aroused sense of wasted purpose and at the same time a comfort in the oblivion it produced. Of course, they all knew that it was going nowhere. While intoxication provided a multitude of misadventures, tales of which could, under certain conditions, get you through periods of mind-crushing straightness, it too often only led to greater frustration and anxiety.

But fuck it though. Jimmy yawned and stretched, feeling the pleasurable unravelling of his limbs, you always tended to follow the line of least resistance. What else was there? Jimmy thought of his parents, now split up, their quaint notions of 'respect', hued from an era of full employment and half-decent wages, floundering on the remorseless, depressive nothingness around them. He couldn't respect them, nor could he respect society. He couldn't even respect himself, only band together with his pals to enforce others to respect him, in a way which became more limited and proscribed every day. You just had to stick together with your mates, and make sure there was a clear tunnel ahead and hope for a better world if and when you emerged into the light.

Maybe the travellers had the right idea, Jimmy thought. Perhaps movement was the key. Why the fuck had the sad cunts come here though? The stretches of wasteland, between the Barratt schemes, industrial estates and flyovers, had become home to people from all over Britain and even further afield. All those fucked-up cunts, talking about a 'force' that had brought them here. Here! For fuck sakes. Anyway, to fuck with all those cunts, Clint was out tomorrow. They'd register the crime with Drysdale and then take the criminal injuries compensation wankers to the cleaners. Easy.

Jimmy swigged back half a bottle of Hooch lemonade. They had graduated to beer and spirits, their current favourite tipple being a few Hooches, super lager and fortified wine with capsules of temazepam if available. Their mate Carl had almost drowned the other week, falling asleep by the side of the reservoir, only for it rise in the evening. When the others, who had staggered back into town, had realised he was absent and gone back to find him, it was nearly over his mouth and nostrils.

Looking up at the ugly, hollow sky, Jimmy wondered if there was anything out there. This was one of the top places in Britain for UFO sightings, and every six months or so, scientists and journalists and UFO spotters would be hanging about the town. It was always in shitey redneck places like this where there was fuck all to do that people saw those things, he reflected bitterly, lobbing an empty bottle into the reservoir. Why the fuck would aliens come here? He'd been talking to that dippit wee Shelley too much, her that was getting fucked by that Alan Devlin cunt, the city boy from the garage. He resented the city boy, not just for fucking a girl he had sexual designs on (after all, he had sexual designs on almost any girl), but because Devlin had threatened to baseball-bat him after he'd caught Jimmy stealing some crisps.

It had to be said, though, that Shelley was pure class. Jimmy knew that from the time at the chippy when he had offered to buy her chips; she had asked for curry sauce on them. It was these wee touches that marked out the top manto from the park-and-ride brigade. But this aliens baws, though, it got on his nerves. That was how that Alan Devlin was riding her, getting her head messed up with all that shite.

Glue had always been Jimmy's drug of choice. He loved the stunning rush of the vapour, the way it stuck to his lungs, catching his breath. He knew that it meant he possibly wouldn't live long, but every auld cunt in the town seemed as miserable as fuck so there seemed to him to be no real virtue in longevity. It was quality of life that counted and he considered that you were better being cunted than on a fuckin training scheme for a pittance with some red-faced tossbag shouting at you and then paying you off after two years to make way for the next dippit cunt. If any cunt couldn't see that, then, as far as Jimmy was concerned, they didn't have a fuckin brain. — The logic is inescapable, he sniggered to himself.

— What you sayin, ya daft cunt? Semo laughed.

— Nowt, Jimmy smiled, dropping some Airfix model glue on his tongue, enjoying the nip and sensation of asphyxiation. n, when air filled his lungs, he savoured the spinning in his head. As the throbbing in his temples receded, he squirted the rest into an empty crisp packet and went for it.

— Pass it ower, Jimmy ya cunt, Semo moaned, guzzling a can of super lager and wincing. It tasted foul. You were better starting on the hooch until you got cunted enough no tae taste the lager, he decided. It wisnae too bad cauld, but warm . . . fuck it.

Jimmy reluctantly passed the bag to Semo. For a brief second he felt that the ground was going to rise up and smack him in the chin, but he weathered that storm and rubbed his eyes in an attempt to restore some vision.

Dunky was chewing on something or other.— Mind when we used tae fish here? Good times, he mused.

— Borin as fuck but, eh? Semo said, then, with a sudden abruptness which caused Jimmy to start inside, asked him: — Hi, you rode that Shelley yit, Jimmy? Yuv been sniffin roond it enough.

— Mibbe ah huv, mibbe ah huvnae, Jimmy smiled. In his fantasy they were going out together. He liked the way people were starting to associate them. He played his desire like a poker hand, flirting with his friends about his feelings for her, in a strangely deeper way than he ever did with her.

— Some cunt wis sayin she's up the kite, Dunky said.

— Fuck off, Jimmy snapped.

— Jist gaun by what ah fuckin heard, Dunky replied, unconcerned. He rolled over, feeling the blazing sun bite into his face.

— Dinnae fuckin spread aroond stories, right, Jimmy dug in. He knew it was that cunt Clint, with his big mouth. He could see Clint's huge, loose, slavering gob, just before Semo had shut it so deliciously with that hammer. He could see Alan Devlin, shouting at him to put they fuckin crisps back. He could see, in his mind's eye, the smiles Devlin got from the girls, including Shelley, and how powerless they seemed to be to do anything but giggle with a sexy nervousness under his patter. Jimmy had tried Devlin's style, but it never hit the mark, not in the same way. He felt like a little girl secretly putting on her mother's dress.

— Aye, right, Dunky scoffed.

Dunky wasn't really making an issue of it, but Jimmy was. He stood up and jumped on top of his friend, pinning him to the ground. He grabbed a handful of Dunky's red hair and twisted. — Ah sais dinnae fuckin spread roond stories! Right?

In the background Jimmy could hear the encouraging wheeze of Semo's low, mirthless laugh. Jimmy and Semo, always Jimmy and Semo. Just like it was always Dunky and Clint. Semo's hammer had been symbolic, it had changed the balance of power between the four of them. This was in case Dunks forgot exactly what that blow had meant. — Ah sais right?! Jimmy growled.

— Right! Right! Dunky squealed as Jimmy relaxed his grip and rolled off him. — Fuckin radge, he moaned, dusting himself down.

Semo sniggered uncontrollably. — Ah'd ride her, he said. — Ah'd ride her mate n aw. That Sarah. That would be awright, eh, Jimmy? You wi that Shelley n me wi that Sarah.

Jimmy allowed himself a smile. Semo was his best mate. The concept was not without appeal.

Shelley was reading
Smash Hits
while her mother was making the tea. Liam out of Oasis was a shag, she considered. Abby Ford and her pals at the school were always going on about Oasis. Abby Ford always seemed to have the money for clothes and records. That was why all the laddies at the school were hanging around her. Shelley had to concede that she liked the way Abby wore her hair. She would let hers grow. She'd been daft to get that crop, but it had annoyed her mother. Abby was okay, although Sarah didn't like her. Shelley and Abby had chatted a bit. Maybe her and Sarah would become pals with Abby Ford, Louise Moncur, Shona Robertson and that crowd. They were alright. Shelley wished that she could get the money for good clothes.

But Liam out of Oasis. Mmm-hmm. Better even than Damon or Robbie or Jarvis. Looking deeply into Liam's eyes, in that picture, Shelley fancied that she could see a bit of his soul in them. It was as if he was staring only at her. Shelley Thomson convulsed appreciatively that only she could crack this secret code in these eyes, and feel this bond between them. It would be great if Liam could meet her, possibly when Oasis played Loch Lomond. He would see what a great pair they would make, and that they were really meant to be together! Love at first sight! She didn't know whether she would keep the baby or get rid of it. That would of course be up to Liam as well; he would have to be consulted. It was only fair. Would he want to bring up someone else's child as his own, an alien as well? If he loved her, and she could tell, by the way he looked at her, that he truly did, then it would present no problem. It would be brilliant if Sarah married Noel. That would make them sisters-in-law. How good would that be?

— Shelley, tea, her mother said briskly. Shelley put down the copy of
Smash Hits
and went up to the table. The image of Liam's soulful, brooding eyes still burned and she imagined him touching her breast and felt a fluttering current of electricity in her stomach. She sat down to oven chips, sausages and beans, eating in brisk, economical movements. Shelley ate like a horse, and even though she was pregnant (she didn't know for how long, having had very little morning sickness), she was as thin as a rake. She was crazy for chips, she loved the ones at the chippy, especially with the curry sauce. Her ma's chips – small, crinkly and ungenerous – they never really cut it.

She was different from her mum, she smugly reflected. Her mother, who just needed to look at a McCain's oven chip for another few not-quite imperceptible fat cells to cluster around her stomach and under her chin. Shelley saw this as a defect in her mother's character. Her mother looked haggard. And bloated. Was it possible to look both at the same time? Too right, Shelley thought, looking up at Lillian staring out of the window from behind the net curtains, a fearful expression on her face. She always seemed to be thinking about something ominous. Shelley had to keep in with her, though. Her mum liked Oasis as well. There was the possibility, slight, but nonetheless real, that they would go to Loch Lomond together. Her mum once joked that she fancied Noel. A joke, but it had been tasteless and it had cut Shelley to the quick. Imagine if her mum got off with Noel! Married him! Ugh! It would spoil things between her and Liam if that were to come to pass. No way. Noel would have more taste than that.

There wasn't enough food; she'd be hungry again soon. Tonight she'd go down to the chippy. Jimmy Mulgrew would be there. He was okay, but she didn't fancy him. He was too real, too here. Too Rosewell. He was awkward. Jimmy never knew the right things to say, like Alan Devlin at the garage did, or like Liam would. Okay, so Liam was from somewhere just like Rosewell really, but he had moved on, had shown that he had what it took to become a star. But she'd go to the chippy anyway, and then get home for
The X-Files
.

Jimmy and Semo were hanging around on the corner outside the chippy. The pubs were ready to close in half an hour. Jimmy wanted some chips but he and Semo had been barred by Vincent, the proprietor, for previous acts of minor theft and vandalism. Jimmy's heart rose when he saw Shelley and Sarah walking towards them. Shelley gave him a coy smile and Jimmy felt something move inside of him. He wanted to tell her how he felt, but what could he say? Here, in front of Semo and Sarah? What could he say to this tall, slender beauty who kept him awake at nights and who had been responsible for his sheets becoming as stiff as a board since she had flowered in the last few months and had got a number one like that Sinead O'Connor lassie? This called for genuine courtship, not darkened gropes down the quarry with the likes of Abby Ford and Louise Moncur whom he and Semo had christened 'The Reservoir Dogs'. But how could he ask her out? Where could they go? The pictures? The botanics? Where did you take lassies on proper dates?

Inspired by the shining moon overhead, which illuminated the obelisk of the office block above the garage, Jimmy moved towards her. — Eh, Shelley, goan git ays some chips, ah'll gie ye the money likes. Vincent's only went n barred us, eh.

— Awright then, Shelley said, taking the money from him.

— Mind n git curry sauce oan thum, Shel, he smiled, chuffed at her not registering negatively to his referring to her in that more intimate and informal way.

They watched the girls move into the chip shop. — Two fuckin wee rides but, eh? Semo observed, parting his dry lips with a darting tongue and rubbing at the swelling on his jaw. — Ah'd shag thum baith, he hissed, then he grabbed Jimmy and gave him a theatrical pelvic hump.

Inside the chip shop Sarah turned to Shelley. — They're fuckin daft! Supposed tae be sixteen! They wouldnae ken what tae dae wi a real woman! The girls sniggered at the image of the boys through the shop window as they jostled and rucked with each other in nervous excitement.

The craft was many millions of light years from the Earth, and many millions more from its native solar system. Its occupants could witness, through the technology the Cyrastorian youth so professed to enjoy, images of the planet in great clarity. They knew that it was almost as effective as the pictures they could see through the Will, but this was easier and lazier. It gave the Cyrastorian Youngers and their solitary Earth friend time to enjoy a fag.

— Been a few fuckin changes wi the boys since ah wis last oan Earth, the ex-Hibs casual Mikey Devlin said to Tazak, the Cyrastorian youth's leader, as the monitor on the ship panned the East Stand at Easter Road.

— Ah kin bet, mate, the tall, gangling Tazak replied, puffing on his Regal King Size. The substance called snout that his stumpy Earthling friend, whom he towered over, had introduced them to; it was a truly wondrous experience. He remembered that first time, when he had coughed up his virgin lungs. Now he was on forty a day.

Mikey scrutinised the faces, zeroing in on a few recognisable ones. — That wee cunt Ally Masters, used tae run wi the Baby Crew. Looks like ehs a top boy now. Nae fuckin sign ay the wee brar bit, eh.

Tazak smiled at his friend. — Well, we pey these cunts a visit the night. See what thir up tae, eh?

Mikey knew what that familiar glow in his friend's large brown eyes meant. He was up for some serious mischief. But there was a bigger issue. The time was at hand. His time, their time, and Tazak's adventurism could not be allowed to fuck things up. Whether you were in space with internal or external technology at your disposal which could obliterate solar systems, or on the streets looking for a row, it was timing that was important. Mikey Devlin was a top boy. He knew the same rules applied anywhere in warfare. — Ah'm playin it cool first, mind. Ah'll stey up here until ye git the cunts tae see things oor wey, then ah'll come doon. Once they fuckin tubes see who organised the whole deal, they'll accept me as the main man. N wir no jist talkin aboot the cashies here. Wir talkin the whole fuckin Planet Earth, ya cunt.

— As long as this fuckin scam ay yours works oot, ya cunt. A smile played across Tazak's small mouth, as he held his Regal King Size in his long, thin fingers.

— Course it will. Wir no jist joyridin here, gaun doon thaire n takin some cunts in thair sleep n stickin fuckin tubes up thair erses fir the crack. This is when we formally announce oor presence. This is whaire we brek aw yir Cyrastorian rules. Youse goat the boatil?

— Too right wi fuckin huv, Tazak said, somewhat defensively.

— You ken the auld cunts back it your place. They dinnae study Earth in great detail any mair. They ken it'll soon be fucked, eh. Aw they want is for you cunts no tae interfere, jist leave thum alain. But if youse go in and install ma crew as top boys oan the planet, then yis kin rule fae a distance and these auld cunts'll pick up fuck-all sign ay any ay youse extraterrestrial radges oan the planet. That's goat tae be the game plan, man.

— Sounds awright n theory . . . Tazak puffed on his tab.

Mikey smiled, flashing his large teeth at the young Cyrastorian. This was a gesture his friend, accustomed as he was to the Earthman's startling appearance, never found less than disturbing. — It's mair thin awright! Listen tae me, ya cunt! Ah wis the cunt thit organised Anderlecht in the UEFA Cup.

— That's fuckin nowt tae this but, Tazak replied.

— It's the same fuckin thing: a city, Brussels, or a planet, Earth. Jist fuckin specks in the solar system.

— Suppose, Tazak conceded. He had to defer to the maturity of the Earth casual. This had been a worrying development recently.

It had been some time since they had struck up their unlikely friendship. Tazak had been a novice Younger on a ship of Elders who had been sent on an errand to randomly pick one Earthling whom they would study and learn Earth language and culture from. The Earthling, Mikey Devlin, was seized in an Edinburgh club when they had stopped Earth time, and he had, after the shock, proved to be only too willing to assist them. Mikey actually requested to extend his stay, wanted as he was by local police on Earth for a wounding offence at Waverley Station after a full-scale pagger. Mikey Devlin had struck up a deal with the aliens. All they had to do was to go back with him to Earth with him on occasion, and find him some lassies to shag. The Elders were happy to oblige. Mikey, though, had befriended some of the alien youth, particularly Tazak, who would take him to Earth on their old cruising ship, enjoying his company. Mikey was a shrewd cunt and his stock had risen with the aliens and soon he became accepted as one of them. He encouraged the Youngers in the consumption of tobacco, a drug they seemed strongly predisposed towards. Their snout addiction kept them tied in a strange way to Planet Earth, and meant that Mikey would always be able to visit home. For his part, the only thing Tazak couldn't get used to was the rank, sweet smell of the Earth alien's skin.

Mikey thought that the aliens' naive interest in physical technology was a load of shite, and he had studied the power of the Will intensely, learning how to resource some of its wonders. He kept his disdain of the youths' interests to himself as he liked them, and he had to concede that the Cyrastorian Elders were boring cunts.