The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (18 page)

Brian Kibby wanted to nod in agreement but couldn’t move, still feeling Skinner’s rapacious eyes on him. Sensing that the meeting had strayed into dangerous waters, Cooper took advantage of the impasse, tetchily calling matters to a close. Skinner hastily gathered up his papers. As he made for the door he heard Foy shout at him,—What aftershave is that you’re wearing, Danny?

Skinner spun round to face him. — What?

— No, I like it, Foy smiled reptilian-like. — It’s very distinctive. Very strong.

— I’m n . . . Skinner began, stopped and smiled. — Excuse me, I’ve an important phone call to make, he said, turning sharply and heading downstairs to the open-plan office, the soles of his shoes slapping the insolent pattern of the marble steps.

At his desk, Skinner could feel the coke rushes running down further and the alcohol leaving his bloodstream, and with them leaked away his own sense of omnipotence. Every presence appeared intrusive; every ring of the phone seemed to carry a threat. Foy’s laughter boomed and Kibby’s snivelling tones stripped the quivering flesh from his back. An adversary so puny, so weak and pathetic now seemed to have taken on inhuman, fiendish powers. Once, when Skinner met his eyes, he was startled to find that they weren’t timid and cowed, they were defiant, sly and smug.

So Danny Skinner, unaccustomed to being so unassertive, worked steadily, cleaning up the paperwork he’d let mount up over the weeks, trying to somehow redress the balance, right the wrongs, make himself unimpeachable. Yet he had no head for it; he’d commence one job, only to tire of it and switch to another before sinking in a swamp of choking exasperation as his desk mounted up with half-completed tasks.

As the office started to empty at five, Skinner relaxed a
little and became lost in his thoughts, eventually feeling almost too weary to go home. When the phone rang at six, he picked it up. It would be a social call, as everybody else had long gone.

— You’re working late, McKenzie accused, then asked the inevitable, — Fancy a quick pint? As if offering Skinner redemption.

— Aye . . . said Skinner, with hesitant guilt. But he did. He
did
fancy a pint. There were a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t, why he just ought to go home, but they paled into insignificance beside the three which dictated that he should have a drink: it was finishing time, he had thirty-seven pounds’ worth of coins in his pockets, and he was shaking and he
wanted
one.

In the pub, Rab McKenzie already had a pivotal place at the bar, reminding Skinner in his bearing of a ship’s captain on the bridge of his vessel. When he turned to a barman and asked for a pint of Lowenbrau for Skinner, it was like instructing him to proceed at a very high speed of knots.

The drink went down fast and, as he bought the next round, Skinner’s rationalisation processes moved into full throttle.

No matter how many of those self-justifying twats write in their lifestyle columns in the mags and papers that you should be this kind of man or that kind of man, that you should have responsibility to your wife, children, employer, country, government, god, delete to taste, not one of them can convince me that Kibby is not a fuckin wanker and I’m not a brilliant cunt. For however they spring-clean this Responsible Man as a New Action Man or Renaissance Man, or a Take-No-Shit Man, in real life he is invariably a fucking insipid bore like Kibby.

Yes, they’re all fucking control freaks and sycophants and every one of them is eager to tell you what your responsibility is in one form or another. And Kibby, he is very responsible.

A powerful speculative fantasy gnawed at Skinner: wouldn’t it be fantastic if Kibby could take his hangovers and
comedowns for him! If he, Danny Skinner, indulged in the pleasures of life in the most wanton, reckless way and fresh-faced, clean-cut, mummy’s boy wanker Kibby could pay the price!

How fantastic would that be? Kibby. God, how I loathe him. How I fucking well hate and detest that fucking puerile little fart. I hate him. HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE.

Sitting with his lager, Skinner found those idle, half-drunk ruminations evolve with an
ockenblink
into a violent prayer, the ferocity and intensity of which shook him to the marrow.

I FUCKIN HATE HATE HATE THAT CUNT KIBBY LET HIM GET FUCKED UP.

The low-ceilinged bar seemed to drain of light, which appeared to flush into his head, like water down a drain, as though his hungry psyche or his neurons were ravenously sucking it in. Then he saw Kibby’s face flash before him: the open, smiling ‘nice laddie’ they all liked at the work. For a split second, it became, in contrast, his own roguish countenance. And he watched it alter once more, back to the sly, manipulative sooky little bastard that he believed was the
real
Kibby.

People wanted their arses licked but they didn’t understand . . .

His breathing was going and he could see the faces swirling in front of his eyes; Cooper, Foy . . .

Fuck, I’ve got the DTs now . . .

Then the whole bar suddenly darkened a few shades and seemed plunged into a bizarre slow-mo. He couldn’t make anyone out, they were all just pulsating, undulating shadows, until he saw the normally lumbering figure of Rab McKenzie come swaying through the crowd of silhouettes as deftly as a ballet dancer, balancing the drinks and chasers. And Skinner’s heart warped in a shuddering spasm so violent that he fancied for a second or so that he was having a convulsive attack.

FUCKIN SHI . . .

— There we go, Skinny boy, get that doon ye, McKenzie
boomed, consigning the drinks on to the table with a semi-pirouette.

Skinner was sweating and breathing in a laboured manner as the lights heightened and the room appeared normal once again. A heart attack. A stroke. Something was happening . . . his breath was leaving him . . .

I’M FUCKIN . . . I’M FUCKIN

—
You look like you’re strugglin, son, McKenzie scoffed. — What is it? Can ye no stand the pace?

Danny Skinner sucked the air into his lungs as McKenzie slapped his back. Skinner put his hand to his face in a gesture to signal his friend to back off. McKenzie looked at his sweating, red-faced buddy in concern, but then as his anxiety appeared to hit its apex, Skinner felt a barrier melt inside him and he quickly resumed his breathing. He looked up at the ceiling before lowering his gaze to face Big Rab. — Was it just me, or did the lights go dim for a bit there?

— Aye, some fuckin power surge or something. Are you awright?

— Aye . . .

Some power surge.

Skinner looked at McKenzie, Big Rab McKenzie, his best mate, who would have been the best man at his marriage, and his best drinking compadre. No matter how much he put away, he could never quite keep up with Big Rab. Never match his intake, his calm, stoical, sinking of pints, his snorting monstrous lines of cocaine, which made Skinner fear for the heart that thrashed in his chest like the pea in an overzealous referee’s whistle, every time they went to the toilet.

But
something
, deranged, anomalous, was happening because now it was Skinner who was having a power surge, a charge of the alcoholic’s sense of immortality perhaps, that belief transcending decaying mortal flesh, that nothing, truly nothing, could ever touch him. But while he’d known this feeling many times, he’d never experienced it at this intensity. He was going
to ride this wave. He flung back the short of Jack Daniel’s. — C’moan then, McKenzie, ya big poof, let’s see whae can stand the pace!

IT WAS THE
first time he’d left the chickens outside. It had rained and the fence posts had rotted and the wild dogs had got in. Now there were no chickens left.

He wasn’t concentrating. He felt dizzy: dizzy and sick. The huge, brightly coloured
Star Trek: The Final Frontier
poster on the wall, the one Ian had given him, which showed a Starship
Enterprise
bursting out of a black hole, it resonated and throbbed, orchestrating the dance of his raw nerve endings.

Rising shakily from his mobile computer desk, he staggered back to his bed, sweating and nauseous under the duvet as he heard his mother’s approaching footsteps on the stairs outside.

Joyce Kibby wearily ascended the steps carrying a silver-effect tea tray. It seemed almost too much for her thin arms, burgeoning with a large plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, tomato, a smaller one with a formidable stack of toast, as well as a pot of tea. She steered it into her son’s bedroom, startled at how rough he looked today.

— Brought you some breakfast, son. God, Brian, you don’t look well at all. Never mind, you know what they say, feed a cold, starve a fever. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, this’ll do you no harm, she declared, carefully setting the tray down at the bottom of his bed.

Brian Kibby achieved a pained, reluctant smile. — Thanks, Mum. I’ll be fine, he said, trying to reassure himself. He didn’t want food. He felt so terrible, his head was pounding and his guts seemed to be blistering and popping inside. He always tried to play a minimum of three
Harvest Moons
before breakfast. This
morning he’d barely managed two and now all the chickens had gone.

How could I have been so stupid?

—
It must be this virus that’s been doing the rounds, Joyce contended, as Brian sat up, plumped up his pillows and lay back on them. Even with that minor exertion he was perspiring. His mouth was dry and there were knots of cramp and fatigue in his arms and legs. — I feel terrible. I feel like my head’s gaunnae explode.

But Brian Kibby also felt guilty. Danny Skinner had obviously been feeling rough yesterday during his presentation, but everybody had put it down to drink, even when Skinner himself had said he felt he’d picked up some kind of cold or virus
.

I gave him a hard time when he was feeling rough, I didnae give him the benefit of the doubt. Now I’m being punished for that, Kibby ticked himself.

Skinner has given me his virus.

—
I’ll phone in sick for you, son, Joyce volunteered, drawing the curtains. Seized with a panic, Kibby sat bolt upright.— No! You can’t! It’s my presentation today. I have to be in!

Joyce shook her head stiffly. — You’re no in any state to go into work, son. Look at you, you’re lying there sweating and shivering. They’ll understand; you’re never off sick. When was the last time you were off sick? What’s the good of it, Brian, what’s the good of it?

Brian Kibby
was
never off sick. And he wasn’t going to be. He had what he could stomach of his breakfast, then took a moderately warm shower and jadedly got dressed. When he got downstairs Caroline was at the kitchen table, pushing her books in a clandestine manner into her bag as he came into the room.

— Mum said you were going to spend the day in bed, she commented.

— I can’t, I’ve got a pres . . . his eyes registered her actions. — Are you still doing that essay from last night?

She pushed her shoulder-length blonde hair from the side of her face. — Just changing a wee bit, she said.

— Caroline . . . Brian Kibby whinged, — ye should’ve finished that last night. Ye promised you would finish it properly before ye went round tae that Angela’s!

Caroline’s painted nails scraped the edges of the Streets sticker on her bag. She looked up at him and her thin, plucked eyebrows arched icily. — Promised, Brian? I didn’t promise anybody anything as I remember. She shook her head and repeated slowly, — I don’t recall promising you a thing.

— But it’s your course! Kibby whined at his sister, feeling rough, wondering why he was struggling into work when all she was doing was wasting her time and her talent. — That Angela’s no goat any ambition, Caroline. Watch she doesnae drag ye doon wi her. Ah’ve seen it happen!

Caroline and Brian Kibby were close, and seldom argued. He could go on a bit, but generally his sister put up with it. When she snapped, it was always at her mother, never her brother. But Caroline was feeling the drinks she’d had last night in Buster Brown’s nightclub, and was not impressed by her brother’s seemingly new-found determination to impose a draconian regime of study on her. — You’re no ma dad, Brian. Mind that, she said almost threateningly.

Brian Kibby looked at his sister, saw her eyes glass over, and felt the shared hurt of their loss. They were not prone to invading each other’s personal space and the onset of puberty had all but destroyed any tactile contact between them. Now, though, he was moved to put a viral, trembling arm around her.— I’m sorry . . . I didnae mean it . . .

—
I’m
sorry . . . Caroline sniffed awkwardly, — I know you only want what’s best for me . . .

— It’s only cause it’s what he wanted, Brian coughed, fighting back his own tears, as he let his arm fall from her shoulders to land limply by his side, — but you’re a woman now, it’s up tae you what ye dae, I’ve got nae right . . . he gulped. — Dad
would be really proud of you, ye ken that? Brian said, in some guilt as he considered the evidence of the diaries that he and Joyce had resolved to keep away from Caroline.

Caroline Kibby kissed her brother on his cheek. It still had those thin, duck-down layers of hair on it, like a peach, she always thought. — He’d be proud ay you, cause I am. You’re the best brother anybody could have.

— And you’re the best sister, Kibby almost shouted back, somewhat spoiling the moment in her eyes by his high, bewailing reciprocity, but she managed to convert a guilty impulse to grimace into a smile.

Both desperate to extricate themselves from the unfamiliar and uncomfortable vortex of emotion that had swirled around them since their father’s death, Brian and Caroline composed themselves and said goodbye to Joyce, who had come downstairs having made the beds. They headed off to work and Edinburgh University respectively.

Brian Kibby was hailed as a hero for coming in, Danny Skinner noted bitterly. — Brian looks terrible, like he’s got flu, Shannon McDowall observed. Skinner nodded, fighting through a suspicion that when he’d wandered in yesterday it would have been ‘Danny looks terrible, it’s like he’s got flu or something . . .’