The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

by Irvine Welsh

  Brian Kibby looked hopefully at Joyce who screwed her face up. He filled his glass with mineral water instead.

  Still a fucking sad mummy’s boy, Skinner thought savagely. He saw the television in the corner burn with footage from the Iraq occupation, and proposed a toast. — A buon vino non bisogna fasca.

  Not one of the Kibbys had an idea what he was talking about, but it sounded impressive enough, especially to Joyce’s ears. She was highly thrilled by the food; she’d never seen or tasted sea bass like the one presented to her. Caroline, at Skinner’s recommendation, Brian Kibby noted, joined him in the John Dory. Kibby himself opted for the lemon sole. The fish was excellent and the evening was a treat for Joyce, who seldom ventured out after dark. — The fish is very fresh, she said appreciatively. — Is yours nice and fresh, Danny?

  — Fresh? I was squeezing my lemon on it, when the last rites were still ringing in its ears, Skinner jested.

  Everybody laughed, except Brian Kibby, though Joyce was gratified that, although quite surly, he wasn’t being overtly hostile to Danny. — Are you much of a cook yourself, Danny? she asked.

  — I’m an unashamed glory hunter, Joyce. I’ll pick up any TV chef’s recipe book – Rhodes, Ramsay, Harriott, Smith, Nairn, Oliver, Floyd, Lawson, Worrall-Thompson – and faithfully strive to re-create their offerings, the exigencies of the local marketplace permitting . . .

  — What about our old pal De Fretais? Kibby said in a sudden challenge. Skinner felt his pulse rise. His body was suddenly immobilised in shock. — The one who’s kitchen was a midden! Mind that, Danny?

  What the fuck . . .

  — That was a terrible thing, Joyce said, — a man at the top of his career and a great chef.

  De Fretais . . .

  — I thought he seemed like a real creep, Caroline said.

  My old boy . . . I killed him . . .

  Joyce pursed her lips at her daughter. — Speaking ill of the dead like that!

  . . . he was a sex beast, an exploiter . . .

  — What did you think, Danny? Kibby urged.

  Kay. She’s such a lovely girl. All she wanted to do was to dance. To be good at it. What the fuck was so wrong with that in my eyes? I should have supported her. I should have . . .

  Skinner thought of his former fiancée lying in the hospital bed. — It was very sad, he said sorrowfully, then he felt the rage coming back as he recalled the image of De Fretais on top of her. — I was critical of his kitchen, we all know that, and so were you, Bri. Unfortunately, we never got the backup we needed from senior management. As you’re aware, I was a long-time advocate of changing the reporting procedure to make it harder for officers to have inappropriate relationships with the De Fretaises of this world . . . He watched Kibby redden and squirm.— . . . but I didn’t get the support. Personally, though, I have to admit that De Fretais was one hell of a chef. So yes, I unreservedly add him to the list of people whose dishes I’ve shamelessly striven to replicate in the kitchen.

  Kibby’s head was now bowed.

  Skinner turned back to Joyce. — Alas, with little aplomb. So I try, Joyce, but I’m not quite in your league.

  Joyce put her hand on her chest and batted her eyes like a schoolgirl. — Oh, you’re very kind, Danny, but I’m really not up too much –

  — Your soups are good, her son petulantly snapped.

  — You’re a wee bit too red meat inclined for me, Caroline interjected.

  Noting the fish on Caroline’s plate, Joyce retorted, — Some vegetarian, you, madam! Caroline shuffled in her chair.

  — I’m getting her off all that nonsense, Skinner teased, as Caroline nudged him playfully in protest. Both again wondered fretfully how it was that they were so able to display the intimacy of lovers while still trying to consummate that love.

  Her pubic hair will be as blonde as her head, so sweet and delicate, and I’d love to graze on it like a spring lamb on the virgin grass of the season, but I’ll never know it, not like I knew old Mary’s sweaty mass . . .

  — Aye, sure. That’ll be the day, Caroline chided back.

  Brian Kibby tried to meet his sister’s eyes with a burning look but she couldn’t even see him.

  He’s fucking controlling you!

  Joyce was having a good time, and was drinking quickly, unaccustomed to the wine that Skinner kept pouring into her glass.

  — Do you ever go to church, Danny? she asked him earnestly.

  — Religiously, said Skinner, drawing a laugh from Caroline and a guilty grin from Joyce. Kibby remained stone-faced. — No, I have to admit that I don’t, Joyce, he continued, dispensing with the levity, — but I hear that you’re a regular attender.

  — Oh yes. It was a great comfort to me when my Keith . . . She stifled an emotional tear and looked over at her son. — . . . and of course, when His Nibs there was really sick.

  Kibby, in response to his mother’s condescension, felt his inner thirteen-year-old kick in. He downed the mineral water and poured a glass of the white burgundy. — Just one won’t hurt, he said to Joyce as she pouted, then he turned sardonically to Skinner and added, — A little of what you fancy, right, Danny?

  Skinner looked from him to the disapproving Joyce and raised his hands in the air in the gesture of mock surrender. — I’m staying out of this one!

  But there was a lot more than just one, as another bottle found its way to the table.

  Kibby was becoming emboldened by the drink. He looked across at Skinner. — People criticise the police, until it’s them that get burgled or beaten up, eh, Danny?

  Skinner shrugged, wondering where Kibby was heading with this.

  — No, I was just thinking of the time that you got beaten up at the football. You would have been glad of their intervention then.

  — It would have been a relief . . . for somebody anyhow, Skinner smirked.

  — Police? Joyce asked in concerned anxiety. — What about the police?

  — ‘Walking on the Moon’? Skinner winked, and Joyce grinned without knowing what he was talking about.

  After a few more bottles of wine had been downed, it became apparent that Joyce Kibby was having a very good time. — I have tae confess . . . I feel a wee bit dizzy, she giggled, relaxed as she noted that Brian and Danny seemed to be getting on a bit better. Then the room started spinning and Joyce began to gag and redden. — Oh dear . . .

  — Mum, are you okay? Caroline enquired, this bizarre but welcome circumstance of her mother’s intoxication and her boyfriend and brother’s civility, albeit forced, not being lost on her. Although her spirits were raised, a sense of duty called. — I’m going to take Mum home, she said, rising.

  — Aye, let’s call it a day, Skinner agreed, signalling for the bill.

  Kibby threw back his double brandy digestif, and ordered another. — The night is but young, he smiled, vaguely sinister, his hooded eyes in shadow from Skinner’s vantage, but gleaming under the candlelight nonetheless. — What’s wrong, Danny pal, kin ye no stand the pace?

  Only Danny Skinner saw something dark and ethereal in that aside, something which went beyond the semi-drunk banter of two old workmates.

  The day it is passing in laughter and song . . .

  — You two stay for a drink if youse want, Caroline said, trying to get her shaking and bemused mother to her feet.

  As Skinner gently chided Joyce for being drunk, Brian Kibby turned to Caroline and yanked on her arm. She braced herself for another of his attacks on her beau, but he just looked sadly at her and whined lowly, — I broke it, sis. The railway. Smashed it all up. Dad’s railway. I was depressed, I just went crazy, and I feel so bad . . .

  Caroline saw the terrible pain in his eyes. — Oh Brian, you might be able to repair it . . .

  — Some things cannae be fixed. They just stay broken, Kibby groaned miserably, turning to take in the other diners in the room and focusing on Skinner, who had caught the comment and returned his stare.

  As the waitress came with thei
r coats Caroline felt the tension rise like a rocket, and said a reluctant goodbye. But Skinner only saw her lips move, because that gesture and supposedly inoffensive remark confirmed his realisation that Kibby somehow knew about the curse.

  He knows. And now he’s going to kill us both with his drinking.

  Panic seized him for a second or two, but Danny Skinner accepted the offer to drink on, feeling that he now had little option. He was tossed around in a maelstrom of sensations, but one thought dominated: they were destroying each other, and Brian Kibby had to be made to see that.

  So the two strangest drinking partners bade the women farewell and retired to the adjoining pub. Skinner looked at Kibby. It seemed he was preparing for more than just a drinking bout; he sat up on a bar stool with the intensity of a gladiator.

  Skinner’s mind flipped and tossed as he looked across at his opponent. — Bri . . . this is daft. This kind ay drinking isnae good for either ay us. Trust me, I know.

  — You do what the fuck you like, Skinner, I’m on the piss and I don’t give a toss, Kibby said, gesturing to the barmaid.

  — Look, Bri . . . Skinner began, but Kibby already had a pint and a double whisky by his side, so self-preservation compelled him to follow suit.

  Kibby can’t have that much left; another mega-session will make him so ill he’ll be bedridden and unable to get near any pubs or offies, and therefore unable to damage me. Then I’ll be able to convince him it’s a mug’s game.

  — You won’t be able to keep up with me, Brian, Skinner said, raising his glass, then added chillingly, — There’s no way you can win.

  — I’ll have a fuckin good try though, Skinner, Brian Kibby spat in retaliation. — And you don’t need to be all smarmy now that my mum and sister are away!

  And he raised a glass of absinthe, which Skinner hadn’t even noticed him ordering, to his cracked lips.

  C’mon then, Skinner. Let’s do this. Let’s just fucking well do it. Absinthe, whisky, beer, voddy, gin, fucking meths, anything you want. Bring it on. Bring it on, you evil, smarmy, mutant bastard spawn of Satan!

  Help me God.

  Help me.

  Skinner looked Kibby up and down. It didn’t even sound like him any more. But fuck him anyway, he thought, seeing a phantom sweep of the old Kibby, the professional victim he’d extended the hand of friendship to, but who, frightened of life, had scuttled back into his wimpy shell. — Suits me fine, he said. — Oh, and incidentally, whatever you think I’ve done to you, it’s no been anywhere near enough, he sneered as he slugged at the drink.

  The thing was, even as he hissed out this abuse, he realised in paradox that he no longer actually disliked Kibby.

  Now Kibby isnae the keen, sooky, irritating little arselick of old. He’s caustic and bitter and vindictive and obsessed and just li– . . . no . . . no . . .

  No . . .

  Fuck you, Kibby, I’ve got a plane tae catch.

  42

  The Diary

  WHEN WE GET out the taxi and back to the house, I leave Mum sitting drunk and giddy in front of the television. I’ve never seen her like that before. She’s rabbiting on about my father, telling me what a good man he was, and going on about Danny, saying that he’s a good boy and that it’s great that he and Brian are now friends.

  I’m very doubtful about that, and I was reluctant to leave them together because there was something going on there, but they insisted and I really needed to get her home.

  She’s on about my dad again: going on about how much she loved him. Then she turns to me and looks almost angry as her voice drops and she says, — Of course, you were always his favourite. They always say fathers and daughters, mothers and sons. She coughs, and her eyes go wide in a fanatical zeal. — But I love you, Caroline, I love you so much. You know that, don’t you!

  — Mum, of course I do . . .

  She rises and stumbles over and hugs me. Her grip is surprisingly strong, and she’s clinging to me desperately, not letting go. — My wee lassie, my bonnie wee lassie, she says through her choking tears. Her convulsions are rocking me. I’m stroking the dyed curls of her hair, watching the grey coming out at the temples of her scalp in a morose fascination.

  But I’m getting uncomfortable and I whisper in her ear, — Mum, I’m just going upstairs for a bit. There’s something I said I would check. She looks at me agog for a second, so I add, — For Brian, which seems to placate her and she loosens her grip.

  — Brian . . . she repeats softly, then starts murmuring something, a prayer or the recital of a passage of Scripture, as I leave the room.

  I get upstairs and yank down on the hooked stick, opening the trapdoor and freeing the aluminium steps. I pull them down and start to climb. The bolt that attaches them has become worn and they rattle dangerously under my weight. I’m relieved when I scale to the top and step on to the attic floor.

  I click on the lights and I can see that Brian has really wrecked the place. It’s like the model town has been bombed. I don’t know if it can be restored; I would think that anything that can be built can be restored, but it’s going to be a big job. I doubt Brian’s up to it now. Part of me thinks I should offer to help him, then I consider just how ridiculous that is. I wouldn’t know where to start.

  I sift through the mess, looking at the broken hills that Dad made with all that papier mâché. I remember helping him make it up in this big orange basin we used to keep under the sink. So I did contribute to all this, more than I realised. When I think about it now, we all did it together. I was just a wee girl but I remember that I was excited to help. Where did I edit out all that good stuff in our lives? When did all those lovely memories of togetherness and fun start to become uncool and embarrassing for me?

  I try to pull two parts of one split hill back together. Something inside falls out and hits the ground with a thud. I think it’s a wooden support from part of the frame or something, but I see what looks like a thick desk diary on the ground. It’s not a diary though, it’s a lined John Menzies notebook and the handwriting inside it is all Dad’s. Inside the front cover there’s a note attached.

  One day this notebook will be found. My wife and children will know the truth that I’ve lived with for so many years. Joyce, Caroline, Brian, please believe two things. Firstly, that the person I was then before you all came into my life was very different to the person that I am now. Secondly, wherever I am now, I love you all more than ever.

  God bless you all.

  I start to read from the book. It’s trembling in my hand so much that I have to put it on the floor. My blood runs cold at one passage.

  I can’t believe that he said nothing. An accident at work, they called it. We both knew better, and I suppose that she did as well.

  I couldn’t help it; I was demented with anger and the drink. It’s important for me to write this down.

  My name is Keith Kibby and I’m an alcoholic. I don’t know when this started. I always drank. My friends always drank. My family always drank. My dad was a merchant seaman and he was away from home a lot. Now I can see what a great life being at sea was for an alcoholic. You can dry out at sea, the only place you don’t have encouragement to buy drink. No pubs, no adverts, no booze. But nobody drinks like a sailor and when he came home he drank and drank. I find memories of him sober very few and fleeting.

  I was mainly brought up by my mother. I had a younger brother but he died as a baby. One day I came home from school to find my mother crying with my Aunt Gillian, and the crib empty. Cot death, they said. People also said that my mother and father were never the same after that. They said that Dad drank more than ever.

  Growing up, I started to hang around with some local boys. We got rowdy as we got into our teens, as boys do when they’re in a gang. Some of us were tough, others just pretended to be. We called ourselves the Tolcross Rebels. We were proud of who we were. We fought other gangs and we drank a lot. I drank more than most.

  I left Darroch School at sixteen. When
I went to my careers officer he sat me down and gave me a card, which I took along to the railways. I trained as a chef on the railways, with British Rail. They sent me to Telford College on day release where I did the City and Guilds of London Institute’s chef course.

  I never, ever liked being a chef. I had no flair for it and resented being cooped up, sweating in a hot kitchen. I worked on the Edinburgh to London trains, in the restaurant cars. I wanted to be up front driving the train, not penned into a narrow kitchen, heating up pre-cooked food for businessmen. Like so many kids at my school, I got poor career advice.

  The Tories had come to power under Thatcher and they were shutting everything down. I got involved in the union, and became politically aware, or ‘politically conscious’ as we liked to refer to it back then. I went to meetings, took part in marches and demonstrations, stood on picket lines. I read a lot of history; a lot about socialism and how it offered working people the chance of a better life.

  But I could see that so much of it was pie in the sky. The system would always win, would always be able to throw enough scraps from the rich man’s table to keep ordinary people stampeding over each other to get to them. I grew disenchanted that the world would never be like I wanted it to, a fair and just place for all. So I drank more. At least that was the way I saw it at the time. It was probably just an excuse.

  I needed excuses, as I didn’t want to be like my father. He was abusive in drink. I stood up to him as a young man when he hit my mother. We fought, physically fought, in drink. My father was a brutal man, and I suppose that I learned to be too, in order to stand up to him. Once we both ended up in casualty after a battle. My mum would sometimes leave him but she would always go back.

  There wasn’t much love in my life back then, but I had music. Outside of politics, that was my big passion, specifically punk rock; when it came along I was in my element, as it sort of combined the both. It was stuff that was being made by ordinary young guys from the same sort of places as us, rather than remote, rich pampered superstars in Surrey mansions. There were some great local bands in Edinburgh at the time: the Valves, Rezillos, Scars, Skids, the Old Boys and Matt Vinyl and the Decorators.