The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (3 page)

She pulls away, glowering at me through those specs. — Dinnae start, son. And dinnae think you can be paupin oaffay me aw the time. You’ve a good job: ye can pey yir ain credit card bills.

Every time I come here I get reminded about fucking bills. My Old Girl still likes to think of herself as a punk, but she’s a small businesswoman to her marrow.

THE BRACKEN WAS
thinning out as the gradient of the hill rose steeply. Brian Kibby, his too large Aran sweater and waterproof anorak flapping in the wind, wiped some sweat from his brow under a baseball cap, which was fastened so tightly that it hurt. He took a deep breath, feeling the cool, mountain air clearing out his lungs. As the life fused through his wiry frame, he stopped at his vantage point, turning to look back across at the great range of Munros, and the sweep of the valley curling beneath him.

As he enjoyed his sense of oneness with the world, a righteous notion seized him: this was the best thing he’d ever done, going along to the hillwalking club with Ian Buchan, his only friend from his schooldays, who remained his special companion. They had met through a shared mutual love – video games – and had attempted to convert each other to their own great passions. Ian was one of the few people who had been allowed to set foot in Brian Kibby’s attic, with its much coveted model railway, though Kibby knew he had little real interest. And though he himself only tolerated Ian’s
Star Trek
obsession, his devotion to hillwalking was for real.

Brian loved his weekends with that wholesome, hearty bunch, rejoicing under their collective title, the Hyp Hykers. It had greatly pleased his ailing father that he was getting out more and had a pal, even if Keith Kibby was doubtful about the somewhat exclusive nature of his son’s friendship with Ian Buchan and even more so about this
Star Trek
obsession. Even up in the desolate hills, his father’s condition seldom strayed far
from Brian Kibby’s thoughts. His dad was very ill now, and had seemed so weak and frail when he’d visited him in the hospital the previous night.

Brian Kibby licked at the salt that was tainting his lips, and after the effort of the trek up the path by the side of the hill, raised the bottle of Evian to his mouth. Looking down the valley in some trepidation towards the biggest mushroom cloud of midges he had ever seen, he felt the mineral water massage the back of his dry throat.

Replete with the sense of himself, he gaped in wonder down across the deep gorge over to the stark, sweeping hills above him, the scene scored by Coldplay’s
Parachutes
album, which played on his iPod. Switching off the machine and pulling out his earphones, he let the natural silence, broken only by the faint squawking of some overhead birds, resonate for a bit. Then a sudden sound of thicket crushing underfoot signalled a presence by his side. Assuming it was Ian, he said without turning, — Look at that, it makes ye feel great tae be alive!

— It’s beautiful, a female voice agreed, as Kibby experienced panic and elation rising in his breast and vying for dominance. As he turned round he felt his cheeks burn and his eyes moisten. It was Lucy Moore, with her intense blue eyes and those blonde-brown curls, which were whipping recklessly in the wind, and she was talking to
him
. — Eh . . . aye . . . he managed to cough out as his eyes fell on her scarlet slash of a mouth.

Lucy seemed not to notice Kibby’s awkwardness. Her composed but piercing eyes scanned the mountains across the valley, the tops of which were dusted white with snow, before settling on the highest point. — I’d love to have a go at climbing it, she said, glancing conspiratorially at him.

— Naw . . . eh . . . hillwalking suits me just fine, Kibby responded lamely, immediately regretting it as he sensed her vague interest in him steadily draining away. Worse, it was replaced by the aura of mild contempt he habitually appeared to induce in many members of the opposite sex. — Mind you,
it
is
tempting tae give it a go . . . he added, striving to recover his standing.

— I’d love to, Lucy reiterated, advancing again but more tentatively. Kibby didn’t know what to say and lisped out, — Aye, it would be great, right enough.

There followed a silence of such excruciating embarrassment that Brian Kibby, who had reluctantly managed to get through his teens and the first year of his twenties without so much as kissing a girl, would unquestionably have traded a lifetime of virginity simply to be free from its torment. Blood bubbled in his face, tears welled in his uncontrollably blinking eyes, snot ran in a steady stream from his nose and his throat dried up to the extent that he knew if he attempted to speak his voice would crackle like the dry twigs under his feet.

The impasse was only broken when Lucy asked wearily, — What time is it?

Kibby was so eager to be free of his torture that in his haste to respond he caught the elasticated cagoule cuff on his watch strap, ripping the garment slightly. — Nea-nearly two, he stammered.

— I suppose we’d better get back to the bothy for our meal, Lucy mused, regarding Kibby in a quizzical manner.

— Aye, Kibby trilled, perhaps a little too highly, — or these gannets’ll have the lot!

And something collapsed inside of him when he saw the slightly sad smile he elicited from her. For he knew that same look from his sister, her friends, and the girls from the office: he saw it in every young woman of his acquaintance. He took off the red baseball cap and stuck it in his pocket, feeling his temples breathe.

The stone walls of the quarry were steep and grave, as stark as a row of tombstones in a cemetery. From the banks of the man-made lake opposite, Danny Skinner looked at the wizened
trees twisting upwards, trying to find light in the foreboding shadow the big stones cast. It had been raining all day. Now it had stopped, leaving a dusky sky with the promise of a damp, shivering night ahead.

A cold was settling into his chest already, aggravated by the cocaine-fuelled stream of mucus that trickled steadily down the back of his throat. He looked around at the three ill-clad men beside him. In a predatory manner, they were regarding two other men who were fishing in the quarry and who were more appropriately dressed for the seasonal inclemencies. Big Rab McKenzie, six foot four and overweight, was his best mate from way back at school, and still his best drinking buddy. Gareth he didn’t know that well, they’d only been friends for a few weeks, but Skinner had liked him by his reputation before they had even met.

It was Dempsey who made him uneasy. Despite his relative youth, the diverse circles that he flitted around in meant that Skinner had met quite a few name hard men, even the odd psychopath. He noticed, though, that once they got to a certain stage of development, they generally only swam with other sharks. But there was something ubiquitous and consuming about Dempsey. Very useful in certain street confrontation situations certainly, but definitely miscast here. Or, Skinner reflected, perhaps it was he who was miscast.

They were all football mates and the waterlogged pitches had wiped out the fixture list across the country. But that was what they did; they mobbed up on a Saturday and had a bit of harmless sport; sometimes a punch-up, usually just posturing. But, Skinner asked himself again, what was he doing in a quarry in West Lothian on a pissing December Saturday evening?

The answer had been cocaine. Earlier, in a pub in the city, Dempsey had chopped out line after line as the company had whittled down to the four of them. Then he’d suggested a little adventure in the country. It had seemed fine at the time, a scheme formulated in a warm city pub full of drug bravado.
Now, out here, it had gone from exciting to dubious to plain boring. Skinner wanted so badly to be at home with Kay.

He had told her that, in the absence of the football, he was going fishing with some of the boys. It was unlikely but was actually almost true. But he knew that he should be with her now, so he grew anxious. He hopefully recalled that she’d mentioned something about dance rehearsals. They could go on. But he was still fretful, though perhaps not as much as the two anglers seemed to be.

— Well stocked wi pike, the quarry, Skinner, trying to lighten things, explained to the two fishing lads. — Used to be aw perch. So they introduced a couple of pike, like: ‘pike–lake, lake–pike’, he motored on, scarcely waiting for a reaction but noting Dempsey’s twisted smile, — and the cunts tore through the perch stocks. Decimation job. He turned to his friends. — Got so fuckin low oan perch that the locals were flinging in the wooden spars fae their budgerigar cages, jist tae make the numbers up! And Skinner’s coffin-plate dazzle of a smile was forming involuntarily as he smelt the fear rising in the angling boys. He sensed they caught the nakedness of his base response and it briefly belittled him.

And the insipid setting sun was covered by another wave of renegade black clouds, sending a filthy shadow racing across the lake causing one fishing lad, one with ginger hair, to visibly shiver. McKenzie, feeling moved to react to this, kicked over the box of fishing tackle and bait. Live maggots squirmed in the mud. — Clumsy ay me, eh?

Skinner gritted his teeth and exchanged a knowing look with Gareth that said: trust McKenzie to let the side down by embarrassing us with such a corny line, delivered so shockingly as well.

— Fae up the coonty, then, boys? Dempsey asked. — No attached tae any mob, ur yis? he enquired of the bemused lads before pointing and raising his voice to one boy: — Ginger cunt! Ah asked ye, what fuckin team dae ye support?

— I dinnae follow football . . . the boy started.

Dempsey seemed to consider this statement for a second or two, nodding his head in appreciation, like a toff savouring a fine wine on his palate.

— Pike are bad bastards, Skinner laughed. — Freshwater sharks. It’s in the nature of the beast.

— Ken Dixie fae Bathgate? Dempsey snapped at the ginger lad, seeming not to hear Skinner, who was feeling the stakes slowly rise.

The ginger boy shook his head, the other nodded in the affirmative, both punctiliously avoiding eye contact. — Just by name.

— If you see him aboot tell him Dempsey was looking fir the cunt, Dempsey said, emphasising his own name and seeming somewhat put out that the boys offered no reaction to this disclosure.

In exasperation, Skinner chipped a stone with the outside of his boot and watched it skite a satisfying second bounce across the surface of the loch before vanishing with a thunking sound. They’d had a couple of beers and some charlie and been roped into going out to West Lothian for an obscure vendetta that Dempsey had had with an old acquaintance for years, probably over something neither could remember. They couldn’t find a trace of the boy and had gone for a wander. This petty bullying was a result of the frustration that nothing had come off. But it was more than that, it was also about the old guard versus the newer breed, Skinner had decided; a dance of power between McKenzie and Dempsey, and the poor fish-boys were caught in the middle. — Sorry to disturb you chaps, hope the fish bite, Skinner sang cheerfully as he nodded to Gareth and they headed down the road. Ominously, McKenzie and Dempsey stalled.

Gareth grimaced. — Those two should just go on holiday to a little B&B and indulge in the Greek love until the need leaves their systems.

Skinner liked Gareth but elected to smile tightly and keep his counsel. — A man should be able to plunge his rod in peace. Basic human right, he remarked inanely.

They heard some cries and shouting but walked resolutely on, heading quickly back to the car. Some moments later they saw McKenzie and Dempsey hurrying towards them in the rear-view mirror. — Did the cunts, a flustered Dempsey gasped, as they climbed into the back of the car. He had a swollen and bruised eye. McKenzie wore a sharkish grin.

— Did they have a mobby? Gareth asked irritably. — Cause the fucking bizzies will be all over us.

— Might no git a signal here, Dempsey said sheepishly, — the waws ay the quarry.

Gareth started the car, stepping on it as they tore away up the track on to the main road, heading for the Kincardine Bridge. — We take the scenic route. You cunts train it from Stirling, he nodded in the back at Dempsey and McKenzie. Skinner wondered whether he had angered Dempsey by sitting in the front passenger seat. Inevitable, especially given the fact that he was crushed in the back beside Big Rab McKenzie.

— Paranoid cunt! Dempsey moaned.

— You can fuck off, Demps, I didn’t come out to this grothole to watch you having handbags with civilians, Gareth snapped back.

— Aye, but – Dempsey began.

— But nothing. I thought you were after Andy Dickson. I stupidly agreed to help you in this silly little quest as I was chinged beyond reason, and at any rate have no love for that slack-jawed fool. But were any of the boys there Andy Dickson? No? Thought not.

— They wir gittin fucking wide, Dempsey hissed.

— They were
fishing
, Gareth bit back.

In the mirror Skinner noted that Dempsey’s eyes burned into the back of Gareth’s skull, but the driver didn’t seem to register. Meanwhile, McKenzie recounted the tale of doing the
angling lads with enthusiasm. Realising the way it was going, one of them went for it and got in first, cracking Dempsey in the eye with a good right-hander. — The ginger cunt, he expanded with some glee. Then McKenzie went on to explain how he decked the boy’s mate with one punch and watched in amusement as a furious Dempsey, almost paralysed with rage and frustration, eventually overpowered and booted the fuck out of his assailant.

Dempsey sat as tense as a coiled spring in the back seat, forced to listen to McKenzie’s account. Short of killing the fisherman, he knew that he could do little to erase the memory in McKenzie’s head of that first blow, struck in surprise by the ginger guy, even if the boy had eventually paid for his bottle and self-respect. But the story would go forth of how this doss ginger cunt twatted Demps at the quarry. His blow would grow more spectacular and Dempsey’s retaliation more puny and inconsequential. It would be a fisherman’s tale alright, McKenzie’s beaming smile testified to that.