by Irvine Welsh
— 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.
In the car, Gareth, possibly sensitive to Dempsey’s humiliation and concerned about an aftermath, relented and drove everybody back to the city. As the bungalows of suburbia turned into the tenements of the inner city, Skinner thought that he should get back to Kay now, but McKenzie had suggested going for a pint. Maybe he would have just the one before heading home.
4
Skegness
JOYCE KIBBY’S GOOSEY eye had drifted from the pan of scrambling eggs, only for what seemed to her muddied consciousness to be a second or two, as she’d glanced in distraction at the picture. It sat innocuously on the ornamental shelf of the Tudor-style fitted kitchen her husband had built with his own hands.
It was a photo of herself, Keith and the kids at Skegness. It would have been 1989 and it had rained most of the fortnight. The picture had been taken by the Crazy Golf attendant. Barry, she recollected his name was. Most visitors to the Kibby home would have seen this as an unremarkable family snap, especially as the house was littered with them. For Joyce, however, it had a magical, transcendental quality.
To her it seemed to be the one picture that captured the essence of them all: Keith with his hard-won cheerfulness; Caroline with that provocative, hawkish glee she exhibited as a child and which had never left her. Then there was Brian’s happiness; it always had a precarious aspect to it, as if being exhibited too ostentatiously might precipitate the appearance of dark forces that would serve to destroy it. In short, she reasoned worryingly, he was just like her.
A burning smell twisted into her nostrils. — Drat, Joyce muttered, pulling the pan from the heated ring of the stove and scraping at the eggs with the wooden spoon to make sure that they didn’t cement to the bottom. Those pills Dr Craigmyre had given her, to help her cope with Keith’s condition; they were making her slow and befuddled.
Where was Caroline?
A thin woman in her late forties, with large, busy eyes and a prominent nose, Joyce Kibby skipped across the slate floor tiles. Poking her head from kitchen to hall, she shouted up the stairs, — Caroline! Come on!
Upstairs in her room, Caroline Kibby elbowed herself up slowly, pushing her blonde hair from her face. A giant image of Robbie Williams greeted her, smiling from the adjacent wall. She’d always found that particular photograph of him sweet and somehow touching. Today, though, it seemed to do Robbie no favours at all, perhaps even making him look a little simple. Swinging her legs out from the bed she had a second to note the goose bumps on them before Joyce’s shrill voice echoed up the stairs again. — Caroliiinne!
— Aye. Aye. Aye, she mouthed in hushed exasperation at the large poster.
Caroline stood up and felt the chill on her for the few steps it took to pull her blue dressing gown from the hook on the door, and wrap it round herself. She instinctively held it tight at her chest as she emerged into the hall and immediately saw that her brother was getting ready – he had the bathroom door open to let the steam from the shower out. There was a dripping Star of David on the mirror. Brian was already dressed in the dark blue suit their dad had insisted that he bought for his new job. It fitted well, its cut making her brother seem more elegantly slim than the painfully thin way he was normally perceived. It added to him, she considered, Brian was definitely meant to wear a suit. — Very smart, Caroline smiled.
Brian grinned at her, showing his big, white teeth. He had good teeth, her brother, she thought.
It was a big day for him. This was an officer’s job at a bigger inspectorate than Fife, and was several salary grades higher. Additionally, there weren’t the same travel costs to consider. However, it was a big step up in responsibility and in some
ways, across his tired eyes perhaps, it looked to Caroline like the pressure was telling on him a little. But they were all suffering from a great deal of stress right now. — Nervous? she enquired.
— Naw, Brian said, then conceded, — Well, maybe just a wee bit.
— Caroline! Joyce’s voice, high and nasal, rose again from downstairs. — Your breakfast is getting cold!
Caroline leaned over the rail above the staircase. — Aye! I can hear you! I’m coming, she ticked, Brian Kibby tensely noting the sinew straining in his sister’s neck.
Joyce immediately stopped her rustling sounds as a tentative silence rose like hot steam from the kitchen. It was as if a bush sniper had just blown the head off a comrade in her proximity.
Brian Kibby looked at his sister in dismay, but Caroline merely returned his pout and shrugged at him.
— C’mon, Caz . . . he pleaded.
— She gets on my nerves sometimes.
— I think it’s because of Dad, Brian said, adding, — It’s a big strain.
Now she was finding something patronising and exclusive in her brother’s tone and it rankled. — It is for all of us, she briskly retorted.
Brian was slightly taken aback at the edge in Caroline’s voice. She had shown few overt signs of their father’s illness affecting her. But of course it must, after all she was his favourite, he ruefully considered. In his habitual manner of making allowances, Kibby excused his sister’s youth, determining that it was just her way. — And I think she’s nervous for me cause of it being my first day of work and stuff . . . he carried on, again imploring, — Try no tae wind her up, Caz . . .
Caroline shrugged non-committally as the Kibby siblings headed downstairs to the kitchen. Brian raised his eyebrows as he saw the large plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, grilled tomato and mushrooms on the table. His mother worried about him being thin, but he could eat anything and never put on weight, considering it a metabolic fate he shared with her. — You’ll be glad of it later, Joyce pre-emptively told him as he sat down, — you don’t know what the food’ll be like in that council canteen. You always said the one in Kirkcaldy wasn’t up to much, she mused, turning to Caroline, who loaded some egg on to a slice of toast and pushed aside a rasher of bacon.
Joyce screwed up her face, which Caroline immediately registered.
— I’ve told you that I don’t eat meat, Caroline said. — Why did you put it down for me when you know that I don’t eat it?
— It’s just one rasher, Joyce replied in a supplicating manner.
— Excuse me, but do you actually hear what I say? Caroline asked, looking squarely at her mother. — What do you think the statement ‘I don’t eat meat’ means?
— You need meat. One rasher. Joyce rolled her eyes, looking to Brian who was busying himself with buttering some toast.
— I. Don’t. Eat. Meat, Caroline stated for the third time, now adopting a new tone, almost laughing at her mother.
— It’s hardly anything, Joyce bristled. — You’re a growing lassie still.
— In all the wrong ways if it was up to you.
— You’re anorexic, that’s your problem, Joyce stated. — I’ve read all about this daft obsession you ones all have with your weight nowadays and I –
— You can’t call me that! Caroline flushed in anger. — That’s labelling somebody mentally ill!
Joyce looked ruefully at her daughter. What did she know about illness, the cocky young besom? — There’s your dad fighting for his life in that hospital, on drips, and he’d give his eye teeth to be able to get down some solid food . . .
Caroline speared the rasher with her fork and held it up to her mother. — Take it in for him then! She sprang to her feet, storming up the stairs to her room.
Joyce started to bubble, in small, broken sobs, — The little . . . oh . . . and stopped suddenly, as if just remembering that Brian was present, — I’m sorry son, on your first day at your new job as well. I just don’t know that lassie any more, she said, looking at the ceiling. — She’d never talk like that if your dad was . . .
— It’s okay, I’ll go up and speak to her. She’s upset as well, Mum. About Dad. It’s just her way, Brian reasoned.
Joyce took a deep breath. — No, son, finish your breakfast, you’ll be late, it’s your first day of work. Your new job. It’s no fair, it’s just no fair, she said, shaking her head, leaving him wondering precisely what injustice she was referring to.
Brian Kibby was anxious to do just that and get out of the house. Though he had time to spare he bolted his food down and stuck his red baseball cap on his head. The momentum and excitement took him swiftly up Featherhall Road to St John’s Road, where he saw a number 12 bus approaching. Sprinting to the stop to catch it, he was fortunate to find a seat and stared out through steamed glass at the cold, sodden city. They crawled in traffic past the zoo, then on to Western Corner, Roseburn, Haymarket and along Princes Street, before he alighted at Waverley Station and walked up Cockburn Street to the Royal Mile. He removed the red baseball cap with the football logo stitched into it, as it didn’t look right with a suit, and stuck it in his bag.
His flight from home had warmed him, but disembarking from the bus, the morning’s damp chill began to insinuate itself. As he felt the drizzle and haar slowly saturating his clothing, he reflected that sometimes going outdoors in Scotland could be like stepping into a cold sauna. To kill some time he walked down the Royal Mile a little. In the newsagent’s he bought this month’s copy of Game Informer, putting it into his bag. Then he cut down a side street, excitement fluttering in his stomach as he saw one of his favourite shops, with its quaint, painted sign:
A. T. Wilson Hobbies and Pastimes
Brian remembered how his dad enjoyed teasing him about his frequent purchases from this particular shop. ‘Still going tae the toyshop then, son? Ye no a wee bit auld for all that?’ Keith Kibby would laugh, but there was often a mocking, derisive edge to this humour and it shamed the son, making him more covert about his purchases.
The showpiece model railway in the Kibby attic was impressive, though as Brian had few acquaintances, not many people had enjoyed the privilege of seeing it. As a train driver, Keith Kibby originally thought that his son was sharing in his locomotive fascination, and was disappointed to learn that this passion only ran to model trains. But in a misplaced attempt to encourage him in the activity, his father, an enthusiastic DIY man, had floored the attic and put in the aluminium stepladder and the lighting.
Brian Kibby had inherited his father’s woodworking skills. Keith’s joinery workshop had been on the other side of the attic until he had become too ill to manage up the ladder so frequently and had used the garden shed instead. Therefore the whole floor became devoted to Brian’s railway and town complex, apart from a few old cupboards where some childhood toys and books were stored, and a lot of shelving containing his archived games review magazines.
It was very rare for anyone else to go up there, and the attic became Brian’s refuge, a place of retreat when he was bullied at school or when he had things, or girls, to think about. Evenings of lonely, guilty masturbation sessions rolled by as his fevered mind conjured up naked or scantily clad images of the girls in his neighbourhood or at his school whom he was almost too shy to look at, let alone talk to.
But his overwhelming passion was his model railway. This, too, he was ashamed of; it was so out of kilter with what the other kids enjoyed, or at least professed to enjoy, the pleasure it afforded was as culpably delicious as his bouts of masturbation. As a result, he became more circumspect and withdrawn among his peers, only really feeling free when he was in his attic, the master of the environment he was creating.
Keith’s family jokes about being ‘pushed out’ the attic concealed much greater anxieties, and not just relating to his own declining health. He worried that he had psychologically bricked his son into the roof space; through encouraging this hobby he’d presented this shy boy with a means of entombing
himself.
When Brian got to the age when Keith considered him too old to accompany them on family holidays, the father asked the son where he was planning to go.
— Hamburg, Brian told him eagerly.
Keith thought with concern about the touristy sex-sleaze of the Reeperbahn, but then realised, with some relief, that it was just a rite of passage his son was long overdue, as he cast his mind back to his own teenage adventures in Amsterdam’s red-light district. Something then jarred inside him when the boy added, — They’ve got the biggest model railway in the world there!
But Keith knew that it had been him who had initiated the obsession. He had helped his son build the big papier mâché hills, which the trains ran around and tunnelled under, and had assisted him in making the detailed constructions. Brian’s pride was the station building and hotel, modelled on St Pancras in London. It had been part of a woodwork project at school, where it had survived several sabotage attempts by Andy McGrillen, a local bully who had taken a particular interest in persecuting him. Once he’d managed to get it home safely though, there was no stopping Brian Kibby, as everything expanded out from those structures he’d lovingly crafted.
Now Kibbytown, as he often referred to it, also contained a football stadium, which was constructed around a Subbuteo pitch. The rail track ran past it, reminding the onlooker of Brockville or Starks Park. His latest project was the construction of an ambitious modern stand, which would form a bridge over the track, with Lansdowne Road Stadium in Dublin as the model. Brian even shed his antipathy to sport, attending several games at Tynecastle and Murrayfield to look at stadium design.
Keith always seemed anxious when a new phase of construction would begin. He worried that his son might level his papier mâché hills, which he seemed inordinately concerned with, but Brian always built around them. And build the boy did: tenements, tower blocks, bungalows, everything he could think of as his town sprawled across the attic, mirroring the development of the west of Edinburgh where he grew up.
