The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (20 page)

— Yes . . . said Kibby warily, then asked, — . . . Do you play?

— Too energetic for me. I’m off out the night to get hammered, he smirked.

As if I care, Kibby thought, picking up Shannon’s magazine.

Kibby noted the American twins, the Olsens, on the front cover of the journal. They were talking about their forthcoming movie. It was considered to be ‘the next step’, a sentiment the girls, the management team and the magazine’s writer all seemed to be in accord with. He thought that the girls looked so sweet and pretty.

Those girls are beautiful. I can’t work out which one is the best. They
do
look identical.

Skinner noted Kibby’s attention.— Every perv’s been waiting for them to hit puberty for yonks, he said conversationally, making Kibby self-consciously turn the page. — It’s the twin thing. You want to shag them both just to see if one would be, well, different, right, Bri?

— Get lost, Kibby snapped, though he was a little disquieted.

— C’mon, Skinner said, noting that Shannon was now taking an interest, — you must be curious. Identical twins, raised in the same household, done all the same things, played the same part on telly . . . would they have different sexual predilections?

— I’m not taking part in this conversation, Kibby said snootily.

— Shannon?

— Who knows? Would one of the guys in Bros have a bigger cock than the other one? she said, picking up her phone, dialling one of her girlfriends, oblivious to the fact that her throwaway comment, which Skinner seemed to be pondering, had made Brian Kibby’s blood freeze in his veins.

He’s got her as bad as him. Turned her. I’ll never let him anywhere near the likes of Lucy, never. He’s a sick, evil bastard!

BRIAN KIBBY LAY
awake all night, cooking to his bones in sweat. A fever raged through his battered body and delirious visions flooded his tortured mind, making him fearful of his grasp on sanity. All he could see was the cruel, mocking face of that psychotic bully, Danny Skinner.

Why does Danny Skinner hate me so much?

At the school he attended, Kibby had been sensitive, shy and insecure enough to attract aggressive kids like Andrew McGrillen, who were tuned instinctively to the scent of playground prey. Yet even at school he had never encountered anyone like Skinner. So relentless, so set in a path of controlled, manipulative hatred against him. But at the same time his nemesis possessed an intelligence and personality that suggested he should be beyond that kind of behaviour. This aspect disturbed him the most.

Why does he bother about me?

Come Saturday morning Brian Kibby was in a shabbier condition than when he’d risen the previous day. He groaned, dragging himself out of bed with reluctance, and headed into town, where he met Ian at Waverley Station. Ian was excited and the friends exchanged their traditional high-five, and he teasingly pulled out his iPod.

— Is iPod on stun? Kibby asked, as was their habit, with Ian replying, — No, man, iPod’s on kill! Maroon 5, Coldplay, U2 . . . he said enthusiastically.

— Add Keane and Travis to that list and we got ourselves a party, Kibby wearily retorted, holding up and shaking his own
machine. Even this usually zestful ritual was now tiresome, and Kibby apologised for his virus, pulling his somnolent, sweating body on to the train. Normally train journeys occasioned him much delight, but this time he just sat cramped miserably in the seat, perspiring as he tried to read the newspaper.

Ian, in the meantime, talked enthusiastically about the importance of
Star Trek
as an inspiring, idealistic vision of the future, a world without countries fighting each other, without money, without racism, where all life forms were respected. He loved the conventions and the people they met there, their fellow Trekkies.

Kibby listened in silence through a thin, pained smile, punctuated with the odd tired nod. His resentment mounted as his friend seemed oblivious to his suffering. Two Nurofen had helped slightly, but he was still feeling atrocious. The train rattled through a tunnel, producing a repetitive whooshing of sound like special effects for a volley of space missiles. Kibby trembled, and was happy to disembark at Newcastle.

At the hotel, the PlayStation console Ian had brought with him was swiftly connected up to the room’s television. His friend loaded up
Brothers In Arms: Road to Hill 30.

—
You’ll love this yin, Bri,
Game Informer
gave it an 8.5 . . .

Kibby nodded, coming from the bathroom with a glass of water and washing down two more paracetamols. — 8.5. Not bad, he croaked, sitting down on the bed.

— But I think it should be at least 9, maybe even 9.5. It’s based on the real, uncensored story of the Normandy invasion, and I’m up to sniper level. Want to give it a go?

— The graphics look a bit washed out, Kibby said, flopping back on to the bed.

— Okay. Ian rose. — I can tell you want to cut to the chase. Let’s hit the gig!

Kibby reluctantly pulled himself up and hauled on his jacket.

At the National Gene Centre, there was much excitement in the air. The lights were dimmed and a formidable sound
system rattled with electronic music. Suddenly laser lighting flashed and strobes resonated at a low pulse as the voice of the actor William Shatner filled the air:

— That’s a wee bit sexist, Ian said as they made their way into the hall. — They ought to have done the Patrick Stewart intro, which says, ‘To boldly go where no
one
has gone before.’

The actor DeForest Kelley, who played Dr ‘Bones’ McCoy in the original series was rumoured to be in the country, and if this was true the chances were that he’d be making an appearance here. As they milled through the crowds, checking out the numerous stalls with their exhibitions, merchandise and sci-fi societies, Ian remarked to Kibby, — It would be great to talk to Bones. I wonder what he really thinks of Leonard Nimoy
as a person
.

They crowded in towards the platform at the front of the hall, to hear the host, dressed as one of the alien species known as the Borg, welcoming them from the podium. — So enjoy yourselves, he urged, — and remember, resistance is futile!

Kibby was jumpy in the busy crowd, but he felt even more so as something brushed against his buttocks.

It’s somebody’s hand!

He turned round sharply to face a lecherous grin. It belonged to a middle-aged man with fairish hair that was greying at the temples, and who sported a large Zapata moustache. His skin was orangey sunbed-tanned and he wore a T-shirt, which under the lights was as electrically cobalt white as his teeth. It had the words
BEAM ME UP
stamped on it.

Turning his back again, Brian Kibby caught Ian saying, — It’s no DeForest Kelley after all, it’s Chuck Fanon who played
a Klingon crew member in one of the episodes of
Deep Space Nine
!

Again!

But that touch had now become an undisguised grope. Something in his essence twanged like an elastic band. He should turn round now and punch the guy, or tell him to eff off. But Brian Kibby didn’t hit out, didn’t swear and didn’t make scenes in crowded places. For reasons not known to himself, he was a person who always bore abuse and humiliation in silence. Instead he gave a feeble, — Tsk, and headed out, making for his hotel.

Ian Buchan spun round in time to see Brian Kibby pushing through the crowd, making his defeated egress. He was about to set off in pursuit when he saw that his friend was being followed by that sleazy guy, the one who always hung around the conventions and who was known as a pervert. He hesitated, trying to work out what was going on.

Head down, crossing the bridge with a group of his mates, his collar turned up against the cold, biting wind as he lit a cigarette, Danny Skinner looked ahead, eagerly anticipating the tenements, which would buffet him against the gale’s assault. The posturing clouds, heaving and swirling above, closed in like a rival mob intent on inflicting some damage. Then a swirling pocket of air whipped grit into his eyes. He spat out, — Fuck, as he collided with an oncoming lassie: overweight, sour and tutting. A crisp packet danced in front of him, its camp fluttering motion and gaudy colouring mocking his plight.

The word on a billposter above, stark black against a white background, came into focus as his watering eyes expelled the dirt:
CONTACT
.

— I’ll be fuckin glad tae get inside the ground, he moaned to McKenzie, as they approached the turnstiles.

— Aye, me n aw, McKenzie nodded, slapping his huge, cold hands together.

Skinner shared a quick look with Gareth, which seemed to conspiratorially ask how a man of Big Rab’s girth could even be expected to get through the turnstiles. He had read somewhere that the British turnstile had gained over a foot in width since the 1950s. The article also said that it still wasn’t enough, as more able-bodied people than ever now had to enter through the disabled gates.

He still wanted a pie.

— Thought you’d packed in the tabs, Skinny? Gary Traynor nodded to his cigarette.

— Doesnae seem much point, he smiled. — I’ve a theory that they’re actually good for ye. I reckon it’s passive smoking that’s the real killer.

From the ramshackle East Stand, or the ‘Scabby’ or ‘Cowshed’ as it was more accurately called by its residents, the visiting South Stand was a kaleidoscope of dimly discernible visages. Traynor wished he’d put in his contact lenses. Spotting Aberdeen faces from this range was impossible. As so often happened a fat cunt stood out, beating a nearby baldy and ginger. A chorus of ‘you fat bastard, you fat bastard’ was greeted with a resplendent curtsy from the obese Aberdeen casual which had the simpletons baying, the psychopaths staring with studied malevolence and the clued-up boys smiling in quiet appreciation.

The wind suddenly changed direction, whipping a spray of rain into the faces of the crowd. A tinny riff of a ringtone intro’d ‘The Boys are Back in Town’ as McKenzie clicked on his mobile and Skinner, though appearing nonchalant, knew it was his cocaine contact and allowed himself that internal ‘yes!’ that followed a psychic stoppage-time winner of this type.

Skinner looked around at his friends, who had been subsumed into a larger mob. A good few faces were out today. He felt ready for some serious action, more so than in a long time. A meet had been arranged after the game, down East London Street, and the firms were to make their way there in small groups.

As the Hibs boys started to leave around ten minutes before the final whistle, the Aberdeen lads mounted a surprise attack. Instead of going over the Bothwell Street bridge, they somehow managed to get round the back of the South Stand where they confronted the remaining Hibs supporters.

The majority of the Hibs mob had all but left the Scabby and were heading for the meet but there were a few stragglers, of which Skinner was one, and they were surprised to see the Aberdeen crew charging through packs of terrified scarfers and replica strips on their way towards them.

Here we go . . .

Skinner felt his pulse rising as the adrenalin shot through him. The police were simply
in absentia
as the mob of Aberdeen surged forward. It was going off, Skinner thought excitedly, and in almost seventies- and eighties-style numbers. All around him. A proper old-school row, one which they had spent years preparing themselves for, but due to the ritualisation of the violence with the policing and stewarding, seldom actually happened on any scale outside the pages of newspapers. Not only did Skinner stand his ground, he ran straight into the Aberdeen boys, throwing punches.

C’mon then, ya sheepshagging cunts . . .

Sidestepping a bull-like country boy in a black Stone Island jacket, Skinner found himself exchanging fast and enthusiastic blows with a toothy, skull-faced guy with hard weaselly eyes who was clad in a red Paul & Shark. He’d resolved to keep focused and in the proper scrappers stance, but his opponent connected first with a heavy right-hander on his nose which dazed him and stung his eyes with tears, and Skinner was soon flaying around, windmilling like an amateur.

Bastard . . .

Taking a fair cracker in the eye and another on the chin, Skinner staggered back, briefly noting the insipid sodium street lamp burning wanly against the murky twilight sky. It was only then he was aware that he’d actually hit the ground. Realising
that his legs had gone, he sensed that it was unlikely he’d be able to get straight up and so curled into the foetal position. But it wouldn’t herald his own demise as someone else was going to get it. Yes, Kibby was going to suffer, because he, Danny Skinner, was now invincible. It was inconceivable madness, but he had the power!

Geez it then, Aberdeen, just fuckin well geez it!

After a few stout boots were sunk in one killjoy shouted, — Fuckin leave it, min, he’s had enough!

Fuck off . . . stupid cunt . . .

The rain of blows began to let up and then ceased, as the police sirens filled the air.

Kibby’s owe some decent sheepshagger a drink, or more likely the Lothian’s finest. Still a fuckin healthy one but . . .

For a while he thought that he’d been stabbed. Some of the blows seemed too sharp and breaching to have been made by fist or boot alone, but he could see no blood as the paramedics lifted him off the pavement. Before they could load his stunned form into the back of the ambulance, two policemen tore him from their protesting grasp, handcuffing him and throwing him into the back of a van, where they removed one cuff, clipping it on to a rail that ran the length of the vehicle. The folly of the Lacoste top, he thought, through a daze of double vision as he sat silently in the meat wagon, the anaesthetic of adrenalin dissipating as he became aware that his head was throbbing and his sides aching. Next to him was his Aberdeen adversary. — Fit, like? the boy asked, looking slightly guiltily at the battered Skinner and offering him a cigarette.