by Irvine Welsh
— Fine, said Radden sharply, — we’ll see you when you feel better.
But better seemed a long way off. Over the next few weeks, Brian Kibby endured a merry-go-round of visits to different medical specialists, and rounds and rounds of tests. These produced all sorts of speculative diagnoses, where it was mooted with increasing desperation that Kibby had conjectural viruses, Crohn’s disease, obscure cancers, adumbrate metabolic and viral dis-orders, schizophrenia, almost anything. In reality, the medical people were stumped.
Although Kibby’s health deteriorated, he refused to give in to his mysterious condition. Despite being completely drained, he went regularly to the local fitness centre, working hard on the gym circuit in an attempt to try and build strength and stamina. And his body was changing; as he pumped the iron, people noticed that his skinny frame was putting on weight. In a painfully thin man, this initially looked welcome, but it soon became clear that it wasn’t muscle, he was simply gaining paunch and bloating out.
He studied his father’s notebooks as compulsively as his mother, though never as openly, sometimes cautioning her that they shouldn’t be left around for Caroline’s viewing. His sister was drinking; she was as morose with it as he was in sobriety. His illness had made him selfish, he considered. He could see what was happening to Caroline.
The front door rattled, he lumbered up to answer it, only to see two young boys laughing at him and running up the street.
Stupid wee . . .
Brian Kibby went back to the furtive enjoyment of his father’s inspiring journals. While they confirmed Keith Kibby’s love for his family, they were also full of his writings on various novels he’d read, showing Brian a side of his father he hadn’t been aware off. Keith had seemed to be particularly moved by books like Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray and Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr Jeykll and Mr Hyde. Yet Brian, who had never been a great reader of fiction himself, could not remember his father reading more than a newspaper in the house. For some reason, literature was a passion that he strove to hide.
Brian Kibby attempted to escape into the novels, but his head pounded and he lacked the concentration. They seemed dry and drab to him, and he ended up going back to computer games. He stopped going to the gym; it took too much effort.
One evening he sat gasping in the armchair, watching Coronation Street with his mother. Every wheezy intake of breath from him pulled on Joyce’s nerves. She looked at her son with a tired compassion,— You would tell me if you were drinking, Brian, wouldn’t you?
— I’ve telt you, Kibby moaned in exasperation, — I dinnae drink! When could I drink? I’m at work all day, I was in the Royal for tests . . . when do I get the chance tae drink!
— I’m sorry, son, Joyce said, growing concerned, as she’d seen her daughter clearly intoxicated on a few occasions lately, — I just want you to know you can confide in me . . .
— I know that, Mum, Kibby said in gratitude, then added thoughtfully, — You know those American guys that come round here? The missionaries?
— Elder Clinton and Elder Allen, from the New Church of the Apostles of Christ in Texas . . . Joyce smiled. — I tell them they’ll never convert me, but they’re such lovely lads.
— They’re not allowed to drink or . . . eh . . . go with girls, are they?
— They can’t drink alcohol and the other stuff is out until they get married, Joyce said wistfully. She regarded the Book of the Modern Testament as rubbish and its authors as heretics and false prophets, but she was impressed by the moral code of its disciples.
— They’re young men . . . they ehm, must get urges.
— I’m sure they do, Joyce said, — but that’s what we have faith for, Brian. If you spent more time in church, it might help.
It was not what he wanted to hear.
Shortly after this, Kibby was sitting with a salad in the council canteen, contemplating a new dilemma. He was ravenous, particularly hungry for sugary, fatty foods, but tried to fight these cravings as he felt his gut straining uncomfortably over the top of his trousers. — I can’t believe I’m putting on so much weight, he ruminated sadly. Shannon McDowall attempted to console him, telling him that it was just the age he was at. Kibby gaped enviously at a pristine-looking Danny Skinner, tucking into his food. His old rival had been friendlier recently, at least to his face. — It’s no fair, you never seem to put on weight, yet you eat like a horse and drink like a fish.
— Fast metabolism, Skinner smiled cheerfully, looking over towards the counter. — I think I fancy another portion of that sticky toffee pudding. Never could resist it!
18
Rick’s Bar
ANN WOULD UNDERSTAND . . . but Muffy, there was something about her, Kibby thought, breathing heavily as he dragged his icon into the feed store. The chickens needed grain. Though his eyes burned and stung at his laptop, if he immersed himself enough in Harvest Moon, he could almost forget about his pain. It was so acute that he feared interruptions. Dreaded them on a terrible visceral level as well as for practical reasons as he liked to be alone with Muffy . . .
I have to watch though, Mum has those Americans downstairs, it’s not like I’m in the attic . . .
Now that he had accumulated a good herd of animals and had some money in the bank, he had to devote himself to the issue of marriage. He spent a lot of time chatting to Muffy, and on the websites devoted to the game she had many enthusiastic admirers.
12-05-2004, 7.15pm
HM #1 Lover
Top Man
Muffy is the best. She’s so cute and gorgeous. In the first game I married Ann because she had a purple heart for me but don’t get me started on Muffy . . . whoa man, she is hot!
But there were critics too, people who saw another side to this girl:
12-05-2004, 7.52pm
Nijitsu Master
Registered User
I don’t like Muffy because she’s too flirty. I mean, she calls you sexy. That’s kinda gross.
The boy doesnae understand, she would be fantastic . . . so good . . . but it’s daft . . . it’s just a game. But she’s a doll, a beautiful young Japanese girl . . . it would be so great to kiss her and fuck her, show her how a white Anglo-Saxon boy fucks . . . fuck her right in her tight Jap pussy, her sweet furry little minge . . . cause once she’s had white cock she’ll never want anything else again . . . no . . . no . . . stop . . . sorry, God . . . sorry, God . . .
As Kibby went into extreme palpitations, the piercing sound of the doorbell rang out, almost flaying him alive. But through his fear there was also beautiful expectation.
Who could it be? Surely no Lu . . .
Joyce answered the door. It was Fat Gerald, who had phoned the Kibby home last week, ostensibly as a friend, checking up on Brian’s health. Joyce thought that it was nice that the Hyp Hykers rallied round when her son was so sick. She took him into the front room, introducing him to the suited, crew-cutted, toothy Texans, who moved their heads in unison, registering his entry. Then she took him upstairs, announcing enthusiastically, — It’s your friend from the hiking club here.
Kibby really hoped, then, given his condition, feared, it would be Lucy. Failing that, Ian would have done, but when Fat Gerald came through the door behind Joyce, Brian Kibby struggled to conceal his disappointment.
In the event, the overweight hillwalker flopped into the wicker-basket chair opposite him before he could react. — Hi, Bri, Gerald said in cold neutrality.
Kibby saw a focused cruelty in those bovine eyes and knew that he’d be in for a rough ride. — Hi, Ged . . . he blew meekly.
Joyce had retired to the kitchen and when she returned she’d brought them two glasses of orange juice, now always in supply in the Kibby household as Elders Allen and Clinton liked it. A plate piled high with McVitie’s chocolate digestives and Jaffa Cakes augmented this. She tiptoed across the bedroom as if it was a minefield, laying the tray at the bottom of Kibby’s bed. Gerald’s eyes never left it,
making a mental inventory of the plate’s contents.
— Hope you get better soon, Bri, Gerald said, grabbing a Jaffa Cake. — You’re missing a great time, he gloated undisguisedly, proceeding to tell Brian that there had been a disco at Glenshee. Gerald, with some glee, Kibby thought, told him that Angus Heatherhill had snogged Lucy on the bus all the way up and all the way back. — That pair seem to be an item, he said in a conniving viciousness that pummelled Kibby’s already battered psyche.
Ged . . . is . . . so . . . fat . . .
Yet he was too sick to fully react, as it seemed like more misery was heaped on to a plate as full as the one his mother had stacked with biscuits, although that was now being steadily reduced by his Hyp Hyking chum. Contemplating the sad inevitability of it all, he just sat in front of Gerald with an ill, wan expression.
Fat . . . fat . . . fat . . .
— Comin to camp at Nethy Bridge? Gerald asked.
— Mibbe, if ah’m awright, Kibby replied angrily.
You are fat and one day I will kill you . . . I will push your gross body off a cliff and watch you fall like a stone and splatter over the jagged rocks below . . . oh God no, what am I thinking, sorry, God, sorry, Ged, I’m no well . . .
And Fat Gerald looked at the sickly creature in front of him, as he stuffed more Jaffa Cakes into his mouth, the sugar hit briefly lifting him out off the depression his diet induced in the long term, enjoying his wallow in malicious contempt. Payback time was being savoured as years of Kibby’s low-pressure but still distinctive antagonism burned in him. All Fat Gerald thought was that Bri wasn’t cool or smart or good, no, Bri was a loser who was getting it back.
Gerald finally left, at the same time, Kibby could hear, as the Americans, and he thought he might be able to get back to Harvest Moon, but Joyce came up to his room and handed him a pamphlet. — It’s from Elder Allen and Elder Clinton . . . they said it was a big help to them.
Kibby looked apoplectically at her as he held the tract in a trembling hand. The pamphlet was entitled ‘Overcoming Masturbation’ by Living Affairs Committee of the New Church of the Apostles of Christ. — You’ve been discussing me . . . me masturbating with strangers . . . with American strangers?
— No! Of course not! I didn’t tell them it was you! I just said that I had a young nephew who was touching himself a lot. Read it, son, his mother urged, her eyes burning, — it’s full of good, practical advice.
Kibby let the pamphlet fall on to the computer desk. He waited until she had exited the room, before picking it up and reading:
We know that our bodies are temples of God and are to be clean so that the Holy Ghost may dwell within us. Masturbation is a sinful habit. Although it is not physically harmful unless practiced in the extreme it robs one of the spirit and creates guilt and emotional stress. It is self-centered and secretive, and in no way expresses the proper use of procreative power given to man to fulfill eternal purposes. It separates a person from God and defeats the gospel plan.
Be assured that you can be cured of your difficulty. Many have been, both male and female, and you can be also if you determine it must be so. This determination is the first step. That is where we begin. You must decide that you will end this practice and when you make that decision the problem will be greatly reduced at once.
But it must be more than a hope or a wish, more than knowing that it is good for you. It must actually be a DECISION. If you truly make up your mind that you will be cured, then you will have the strength to resist any tendencies that you may have and any temptations, which may come to you. After you have made this decision, then observe the following specific guidelines.
A guide to self-control:
Never touch intimate parts of your body except during normal toileting processes.
Avoid being alone as much as possible. Find good company and stay in this company.
If you are associated with other persons having this same problem, YOU MUST BREAK OFF THE FRIENDSHIP. Don’t suppose the two of you will quit together, you never will. This problem must be taken out of your mind, where it exists, and this cannot happen when you associate with others who have the same weakness.
When bathing, do not admire yourself in the mirror and do not stay in the bath more than five or six minutes – just long enough to dry and dress AND THEN GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM into a room where you will have some family member present.
In bed dress yourself so securely that you cannot easily touch your vital parts.
If the temptation seems overpowering in bed, GET OUT OF BED AND GO TO THE KITCHEN AND FIX YOURSELF A SNACK, even if it is in the middle of the night, and you are not hungry. Do not worry about gaining weight, the purpose of this suggestion is that YOU GET YOUR MIND ON SOMETHING ELSE.
Never read pornographic or arousing material.
Put wholesome thoughts in your mind all the time. Read good books, Church books, Scriptures, Sermons of the Brethren. Make a daily habit of reading at least one chapter of the Scriptures.
Pray, but not about the problem as this will keep it more on your mind than ever. Pray for faith and understanding but NEVER MENTION THE PROBLEM IN CONVERSATION WITH OTHERS AS THIS WILL KEEP IT IN YOUR MIND.
Exercise vigorously.
When the temptation is strong yell STOP and recite a pre-chosen Scripture or sing an inspirational hymn.
Make a pocket calendar for a month on a small card. Carry it with you but show it to no one. If you have a lapse of self-control, color the day black. It becomes a strong visual reminder of self-control, which you can reference if you are tempted to add another black day.
Try aversion therapy, think of distasteful thoughts that will cancel out what is pleasurable. Think, for example, of having to bathe in a tub full of worms, perhaps eating several of them.
It is sometimes helpful to have a physical object, like a Bible, held firmly in hand in bed at night.
In very severe cases it may be necessary to tie a hand to the bed frame in order that the habit of masturbating in a semi-sleep can be broken.
Keep a positive mental attitude. Satan never gives up, and neither should you. You can win this fight!
The two young girls, sunbed-tanned limbs protruding from tight, short summer dresses, exited from the taxi as the lights of Lothian Road glowed thinly. Disembarking from his own cab outside the Shakespeare pub, squaring the driver, Skinner caught a brief glimpse of one girl’s white knickers as she slid out the cab. He met her eye with a rakish grin and was rewarded with a half-smile back.
Fucking fanny city here. Should follow these wee rides . . . naw . . . head down to the Slutland, then maybe over to Rose Street. End up in George Street. It’s fuckin hotchin doon thaire these days.
But tonight he had an important engagement to keep.
Rick’s Bar was a basement watering hole that had gained national fame from a Condé Nast feature where it was dubbed one of the coolest and most fashionable places in the UK. It never really recovered from that setback, but still enjoyed popularity with some local footballers and the girls who pursued them, as well as a few Scottish media types who believed in hype that wasn’t their own.
This evening, Alan De Fretais had booked it for a special drink he had arranged to celebrate his birthday. Danny Skinner, delighted to be invited, was the sole council representative as Bob Foy had flown out to the Algarve for a week’s golfing.
For a while Skinner had been thinking about De Fretais, anticipating his return from Spain.
We shared one crucial thing: an instinctive dislike of Kibby. Could this chef be my old boy, right enough?
Skinner felt his blood thicken in his veins and his heartbeat race as De Fretais saw him enter and immediately beckoned him over. It’s got to be that fat cunt, he thought in a kind of gleeful disgust as he headed towards the bar where the birthday boy chef and his hangers-on had set up camp.
— Mr Daniel Skinner, Edinburgh Council, the Master Chef announced theatrically, to his appreciative company. Skinner let his
head wobble and eyes flicker in some sort of half-acknowledgement to the suits and dresses present.
— Hi, Alan, thanks for the invite. I’ve been reading your book.
— Enjoying it? De Fretais searchingly asked.
— Very much . . . very much . . . funny, cause I ran into that old boy you wrote about, old Sandy. Still drinks in the Archangel.
— Does he really, De Fretais said frostily, then demurred slightly: — A brilliant chef, and a real character. The man had a remarkable flair for cooking. Could have gone on to do great things, but, well, I expect you saw the condition of him, De Fretais looked worryingly across the room. — He’s not here tonight, is he?
— No, I don’t think so.
— Good. I do owe him a lot, of which he’s always quick to remind me. But sadly, there does come a time with alcoholics when you have to cut them out of your life. It’s always the way.
Skinner felt suddenly uncomfortable under the Master Chef’s searching gaze. Wondered what De Fretais knew about his drinking habits. Cut them out of your life. It seemed too easy to him.
Sensing Skinner’s discomfort, he explained, — Unfortunately, it’s the scourge of the catering industry and chefs are very prone to it.
Skinner nodded to the glass of wine in his hand. — Hasn’t stopped you drinking though.
— It did for a while, De Fretais contended, forcing a parsimonious smile. His skin was tanned. Skinner wondered if it was Spain, or a sunbed. — I had a problem with it, and I abstained for years. Then I realised that I could drink safely. It wasn’t the alcohol that was the problem, he said with a smile, sipping the wine, — it was the self-obsession. Alcohol is just the self-obsessive’s medicine.
— But surely we’re all self-obsessed, Skinner said in a sudden rising panic. — I mean, you’re still . . . well, you’re no the sort of person who lacks self-esteem!
— Oh, but it’s nothing to do with self-regard. That’s not what being self-obsessed is about. De Fretais shook his head.
— The biggest egotist need not see every single thing only in regard to themselves, while the most self-effacing, timid or even downright nice person can see everything completely in that way, he continued, his eyes scanning the occupants of the room.
