The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

by Irvine Welsh

  Greg looks that orangey sunbed-tanned way and orders a San Pellegrino, and I follow suit. — My head’s in a mess, I tell him. — It’s so much to take in.

  — Tell me about it, he says in a way that makes him seem really gay, as in an ultra-howling buftie boy. It strikes me that I’ve never really known a homosexual before (though Kibby’s rectum might sing a different tune) and it’s now quite possible that my old boy is one. Or is that really true? Growing up there were probably a load of repressed bufties who realised that a place like Leith wasn’t the most fertile ground for their sexuality and who shot the craw to some other metropolis when the hee-haws got to critical mass. All those slightly funny-spoken guys who kept themselves to themselves then mysteriously vanished . . . — It’s strange, your being gay . . .

  — Not to me it isn’t. It’s stranger you being hetero.

  Cheeky auld shit-stabbin cunt. But I think about this for a second. — Naw, but in the books you play up your heterosexual side. You come across as a top shagger, but now you say that you were with that Paul guy for ten years.

  Greg looks uncomfortable, then stares quite forlornly at me, running a hand through his thinning hair as if to sweep it out of his eyes. I suppose there once was enough of it for those purposes and that old habits die hard. — In the beginning I wanted to please my family. My own father was, is, I suppose, a south Boston Irish hard ass who hated to see men cook. He thought just that in itself was enough to qualify you as a pansy. So back then I cultivated a very macho, hetero image, but it was a lie. I realised I was messing my life up by trying to please a bigot I didn’t even like or have anything in common with. I didn’t really know myself until I came to San Francisco.

  I’m starting to feel a bit uneasy here. —What about Scotland? You were really a friend of De Fretais?

  Tomlin grins evenly. — Only in so far as Alan has friends rather than favoured rivals.

  I nod in acknowledgement. De Fretais is the sort of person whom it’s really hard to imagine anybody genuinely liking. At least I know that cunt couldn’t be my old man, not with a gut like that. It’s Hobson’s Choice, but I’ve rather have a screaming queen than a fat fucker any day of the week. At least I know I won’t go gay in later life. But did he ride my ma?

  — You know, I came to Edinburgh meaning to stay for a weekend but I liked it and got a job at the Archangel. Strange, because it’s probably the most inhospitable place in the Western world for homosexuals, or it was at the time, but that was where I sort of came out. I drank in the Kenilworth and the Laughing Duck.

  — So you were at the Archangel in January 1980, but?

  — Oh yes, most certainly. I left to get a job in Lyon in France, then went on to California . . . he says evasively, then stops in his tracks. — Danny . . . there’s something I have to tell you. He looks steadily at me. I know this fucking look, from Foy when he was my boss, from teachers at my school, from polis but most of all from barmen after last orders. It’s not a good look. Not at all. — I never went with your mother. I never went with a woman while I was in Edinburgh.

  I feel that the laminated floor has been taken away from under my feet, as well as the joists it rests on, and the dirt below it. There’s a sensation of falling, subsiding. I look away and see the rubber face of a pansy waiter, laughing and lisping. I turn back to Tomlin’s stupid, gaudy puss. There’s a ringing in my ears that means I can’t make out what Tomlin says next, I just see those rubbery fag lips pursing. How could that cunt be my father? — You never, ever went with a woman in Scotland? I say, and my voice seems dead in my own ears.

  — No, but I knew a few, and there was one woman I was quite friendly with. Your mother, Bev.

  My ma. A punk fag hag. Surprise, surprise.

  — But she had a boyfriend at the time. She would meet him when they finished their shifts. I think he was in the catering industry, I –

  — Who was he? I ask in searing urgency, feeling my guts ulcerating.

  — He was a nice guy as I remember, but I can’t recall his name . . .

  Anger is now stiffening my posture as I take a deep breath. — What was he like?

  — It was a long time ago, Danny, Tomlin says, now looking concerned, — I just remember that he was a nice enough young guy . . . I don’t recall much else –

  — Try!

  — I can’t . . . I genuinely don’t remember, it was over twenty-five years ago. I’ve led you up the garden path enough, I’m not making any more up. Danny . . . I’m sorry that I can’t be the person you want me to be . . . he almost begs, then puts his head in his hands. — You know what the weirdest thing is?

  I say nothing. He’s the weirdest thing, that fucking monster.

  — I had a picture, of your mum and her boyfriend, back at my house but Paul . . . he took my photos to Key West . . . picked them up by mistake when we split and he left . . . He looks up at me with tears welling in his eyes. — God, this all sounds so impossibly lame.

  — Fuckin right it does, I say standing up. Fuckin sad old poof, I think, stringing me along just cause he wants his fuckin arse, and for a few seconds I hate Tomlin as much as I’ve ever loathed anybody. But I know where hate gets you and all I do is nod thoughtfully and exit, leaving the simpering chef at a table waiting on two orders of food coming.

  I’m out and walking fast down the road, feeling it important for me not to let him come after me, because if he does I’ll have the cunt. I’m tearing down the hill, down Grant, through Chinatown, watching the vans unload their produce into the shops, seeing all those Chinese people going about their business. I’ll bet half of them have never even been to China but they all know where they come from. The sun is strong and I’m walking for ages and at some point I cross Market and make the mistake of going off the main streets and it’s broad daylight but deserted, with old abandoned warehouses all round, well, almost deserted as the boy jumps out of a doorway and stands in front of me. — You! Gimme your fuckin wallet! Now!

  Fuck me, the boy has a sort of a gun in his hand, well, no sort ofs about it, it is a fucking gun, and he’s my age, maybe younger, perhaps older. It’s hard to tell. He’s not badly dressed but his mouth is blistered and scabbed. He seems to have the bug-eyed crackpot stare, but it could just be the excitement. — Don’t have a wallet, mate, I tell him quite smugly, like it’s some kind of private joke. That cannae be a real gun surely, it seems too fuckin wee.

  The boy is thrown a bit by the accent but he spits out: — Just gimme your fuckin money, you asshole, or you’ll be sorry the day your mother ever had you!

  I’m thinking of my mother, Tomlin and all the shit I’ve had to put up with. — You’ve never seen my mother. I’m sorry already, I laugh, and then challenge, — Shoot. Gaun then, fire away. I extend my arms. — I’ll take a fuckin bullet. Gie’s it then, cunt!

  The ultimate test.

  — You fuckin . . . you . . . he gasps, his primal eyes way short of human. His life is as much on the line as mine. If he doesn’t use it he knows I’m going to take it off him and just blow the cunt away. I know he can see it in my eyes.

  He cocks the gun and I think of Kibby.

  The ultimate test.

  No way . . . too much despair, too much loss.

  No, no . . .

  — No, don’t . . . take my money, please, don’t shoot him. Don’t kill him . . . I fall to my knees. I’m dry-sobbing heavily, hyperventilating, and my breath is catching in my chest as I urgently tear the notes from my pocket and stretch my arm out towards the guy, my bowed head staring at the cracks in the pavement.

  I wait for the bullet, thinking of my Old Girl, Kay, Dorothy, just waiting to hear it smash into my brain, surely too much damage with the exploding bone fragments and splattering grey matter ever to be reassembled by the crazy nocturnal alchemy of the spell and transferred to poor Kibby . . . Joyce coming into the hospital and seeing his brains blasted out across the pillow . . .

  I’m waiting . . . I’m waiting . . . then I feel th
e notes being torn from my hand.

  — You are one sorry fucked-up asshole . . . the young guy shouts, as he pockets the money then nashes away down the road, only once looking back at me still on my knees. He doesn’t know that I’m praying, praying for that boy’s soul. Praying for Kibby’s, and even for my own. Yes, for my own. Beware the man who cries, he cries for himself alone. No, not just himself . . . it’s the love prayer.

  LOVE

  LOVE

  LOVE

  LOVE

  Insanity laughs under pressure we’re breaking why don’t we give love one more chance –

  Why don’t we –

  Nothing seems to be happening but the sun suddenly comes out from behind the top of the building, spreading a blinding light where before there was only cold shadow. Agitated and elated, I lurch to my feet, walking unsteadily on to the main drag of Market Street then on some more, until I find the Click Ass Internet café.

  To: skinnyboy@hotmail.com

  From: shannon4@btclick.com

  Danny,

  First, I’m really sorry to hear about your friend Rab. I never really knew him. I only met him that once in the Café Royal but he seemed a nice, big friendly guy.

  I’ve been in touch with Brian’s mum and he seems to have come through the operation very well. He’s still in intensive care but it seems to have been a success, and touch wood, it’s like the new liver is taking.

  I need to tell you that I’m seeing somebody, I have been for a while. I kept it from you because it’s someone you know and I worried that it might piss you off. It’s Des, Dessie Kinghorn. You were inadvertantly Cupid, it was the night of the karaoke at the Grapes where you behaved badly and chased us both away! We were distressed and on our own in the street. We got talking and went for a drink and it just happened slowly from there.

  I don’t really want to get involved in any dispute between you and Des, as it’s your business. But it’s now got right out of hand and you should both put it behind you. Funnily enough, Des agrees. He showed me some old pictures of you both as wee boys and he’s still got a lot of time for you.

  He was also, obviously, very upset at what happened with Rab McKenzie.

  I know from your emails how concerned about Brian you’ve been. You really are a lovely person, Danny, underneath the hard, jokey act. I know that it all comes from your background regarding your dad and I hope you’ll be able to resolve that to your satisfaction.

  You know that you always have a friend in me.

  Love

  Shannon XXX

  Jesus fuck almighty . . .

  All you can do is type. Type and gape, spending our whole lives addressing the screen: inspection reports, telly, video conferencing, downloading tunes, email . . .

  To: shannon4@btclick.com

  From: skinnyboy@hotmail.com

  Shannon,

  Glad to hear that Brian’s rallying. We never hit it off and I was probably a bit too hard on him due to my own fucked-up-ness. I really do pray for him.

  Thanks so much for your kind comments about Big Rab. The Big Man will be sorely missed by us all.

  Your comments about me were very insightful and generous. I value your friendship greatly. I must admit that I was a bit worried when we became more intimate and was concerned that it would affect us as friends. I feel that I was a bit cavalier at that time when we were both emotionally quite raw. I just want you to know that I meant no disrespect to you. It was just that we were reacting to the same thing but in opposite ways, yours being the appropriate one.

  I was surprised, but not unpleasantly, to hear about you and Des. I now have to hold up my hand and admit that I was selfish about the division of the compensation money. I still maintain that Des, for his part, was highly unrealistic, but that doesn’t negate my own selfishness: you can only take responsibility for your own behaviour. Anyway, I don’t want to go into all that again here. Please convey my sincere apologies to Des for my behaviour that night. He’s an excellent guy who once was a very good friend, and I hope he can be again in the future.

  I wish the two of you all the best.

  Love

  Dan X

  Dessie stole my fuckin bird! Cunt! Wonder how much that rates in his insurance man’s mind? A grand? Two grand? Does it even make us square? He’d probably say something like, ‘Naw, youse were really just only fuck buddies so it’s only assessed at five hundred quid, plus incidental celibacy damage, but I understand that you rifled the fat tart behind the bar shortly after this, which negates that particular clause.’

  Ah well, at least he’ll be better for her than I was. I was a bit of cunt to Shannon, but she wasn’t exactly Ms Sweetness and Light either. But I’ll be better to Dorothy, cause here I’m free from Kibby’s curse, his curse on me, which pre-dates mine on him. Here there’s none of that irrational, all-embracing hatred, distorting my life, fucking everyone I come into contact with. Here I can do good things and we can both be at peace.

  But first I have things to sort out. I have to know about Kibby and this shit that’s going on with us. And I have to find my old man, and he sure as fuck isn’t out here. Tomlin is off the list, gone the way of old Sandy. I have to bite the real bullet and confront De Fretais, and beat it out of that slimy fat fucker if necessary.

  I have to go home before I can do anything else.

  4

  The Dinner

  33

  Autumn

  EDINBURGH IN AUTUMN seemed to him a city stripped of its pretensions, cut back and pared down to its essence. The festival tourists had long gone, and it had little appeal for anybody passing through. As it grew cold, wet and dark, its citizens shuffled around its streets like frightened novices in a boxing ring, anticipating punches from every quarter but unable to do much about it.

  Yet he felt that the city was more at ease with itself at this time than at any other. Freed from external definitions dubbing it the ‘arts capital of the world’ (festival) or the ‘party capital of Europe’ (Hogmanay), its populace were simply allowed to get on with the prosaic but remarkable business of everyday life in a North European city.

  And Danny Skinner had flown back into town feeling more disorientated than ever. For the entire flight he was thinking about Dorothy, the traumatic tearfulness of their departure at San Francisco airport shocking them both in its intensity. His mind danced with the wonderful possibilities and cruel improbabilities of a long-term, long-distance romance. But his quest was incomplete. Greg Tomlin had been removed from the list, but he knew that his mother had been in some kind of serious relationship. While it warmed his heart to think that he might have been the product of a real, if fleeting, love, rather than a cider-and-speed fuck, he couldn’t bring himself to confront her again, at least for the time being. De Fretais was the one he wanted.

  When he got back to his cold flat in Leith, he switched on the central heating, then took some sleeping pills and knocked himself out. The next day he called Bob Foy, finding out that De Fretais was currently filming in Germany. The next person he phoned was Joyce Kibby and he was still jet-lagged when he met her for a coffee in the St John’s café in Corstorphine.

  Skinner learned that Brian Kibby was healing nicely, with the new liver doing its job. And while he listened to Joyce prattling on, he wanted to tell her, It’s all because of me that he’s fucked, but I’ve sorted him, I’ve not been drinking, but of course he couldn’t do that. All he could do was think: Why can’t I like Joyce Kibby more? But as she sang, — We’re getting him home, Mr Skinner, Brian’s coming home next week! he felt himself sharing her joy.

  Giving her hand a spirited squeeze, Skinner trumpeted, — This is great news! And please, for last time, it’s Danny.

  And Joyce Kibby blushed like a schoolgirl because in ways she couldn’t quite understand she really liked young Mr Sk-, Danny.

  I head on the number 12 bus from Corstophine back to Leith finding myself glowing in elation at the improvement in Brian Kibby’s health. It get
s so intense that I opt to alight at the West End, to pick up a copy of the Gillian McKeith book, You Are What You Eat. I intend to use it as the basis to make up a sensible proxy diet plan for him. I also pick up more milk thistle from Boots. Later, at the Internet café at the foot of the Walk, I send Dorothy an email detailing some fairly advanced sexual propositions. Hopefully they’ll float her boat and at least I’ll have it in writing if she backs off later.

  I idly trawl the Net for news of some of the local punk bands I know my mother was into, reasoning that ageing punks might even have better recall than ancient chefs. I find a piece on the Old Boys, which interests me:

  THE OLD BOYS’ REUNION GIG

  The Old Boys were an Edinburgh punk quartet who gigged on the local circuit from 1977 to 1982. Most punk bands belted out rabble-rousing anthems of teen rebellion, urging hedonistic escape from a corrupt state and nihilistic acts of depravity and self-abuse in order to combat the boredom of modern life. The Old Boys, though, led by charismatic singer Wes Pilton (Kenneth Grant), took a very different tack.

  They sang highly reactionary songs about social decline; lamenting permissiveness, drug-taking, single parenthood and the irresponsibility of youth. They extolled the virtues of wartime Britain: heroic boldness in face of the enemy, esprit de corps and an empire on which the sun never set. All this was cause for concern, particularly as the band played every number with deadpan conviction, making them outcasts on the punk scene, an anathema to its self-professed radicalism. However, some mavericks saw them as the true spirit of punk: bold enough to take the piss out of themselves and antagonistic enough to wind up their own audience. They played at being every old bore you had ever met in the pub, criticising your fashion sense. They would dress as their grandads, the sort of proud old man who would wear his best suit to go down the local on a Saturday. Wes Pilton sported a dodgy tash and wore a flat cap and a mackintosh, with a Remembrance Day poppy in its lapel all year round. In between songs he would talk incessantly about his pigeons.