Reheated Cabbage (20 page)

And Ewart had been at the funeral of this Galloway character. Who had he been in attendance with? Birrell, the boxer, and that fool . . . what was his name? . . . Lawson: that idiot who had embarrassed the school by being arrested for football thuggery. Lawson. Dragged out of Easter Road stadium with that other simpleton, the so inappropriately named Martin Gentleman, then paraded around the perimeter track by the police for the benefit of TV stations across the country. The school's name had been sullied further through being mentioned in the newspapers. Albert Black had seen the incident. Fortunately, Lawson had already left the school by this time, but when Black had called Gentleman to account for himself at school assembly, the huge, simple youth had shouted some defiant curses from his sewer-like mouth before charging out of the school for good to join Lawson in a life of crime and debauchery. And good riddance.

Lawson and his blaspheming mouth. He had changed 'look ever to Jesus, he will follow you through' to 'look ever to Jesus, he will follow through' accompanied by loud noises simulating flatulence. It had spread like a moronic bush fire from that class to assembly, forcing Albert Black, although pretty much a psalm purist, to abandon one of his favourite hymns from the list.

The retired schoolmaster's knee clicked a habitual warning as he rose with youth's careless vigour, and returned to the News Cafe's shop, where he thumbed through some magazines until he found something called
Mixmag.
Inside a picture of Ewart, his milky-white hair now thinning a little. He was contemplative, and yes, intelligent-looking. Focused, thoughtful and reflecting on the forthcoming DJ conference in Miami.

Miami?

Surely not. But there were strange coincidences. Billy, his grandson, was a
fan
of Carl Ewart. This seemed so ridiculous to Black. His grandson, his
American
grandson – an acolyte of a disruptive clown from a west Edinburgh scheme! It was a strange world. Black checked the dates of this conference. Ewart was in Miami now!

Ewart. Here.

Black looked towards the heavens. The skies were still clear and he felt his old flesh tingle in a buzz of anticipation. The possibility of the guiding hand of divine forces could not be discounted. Indeed, there seemed no other reason for such an unlikely coincidence of circumstance. Almost at once Albert Black resolved to attend this conference and speak to Carl Ewart and ask, no,
demand
that he explain those offensive comments. Surely there must have been
something
that the school provided him with to equip him for this life of success, as degraded as it undoubtedly was. Black was suddenly desperate to find out where and when this conference was taking place. He supposed that Ewart would be delivering an address, as he himself had done several times on the subject of religious education (usually upon deaf ears and accompanied by sneering whispers) at the Educational Institute of Scotland's annual conference.

Returning to his seat, Albert Black finished his water and settled the bill, refusing to leave a tip. Who would bequeath a gratuity to be furnished with something that was provided by the bounty of the Lord? — Have a nice day, the server pouted in disgruntlement.

— Thank you for your wishes, Black said in cold piety, — though I would be more impressed if they were sincerely proffered.

The waiter shook indignantly and was about to retort when Black met his watering eyes, and said in kindly, almost pitying tones, — The forked tongue of American commerce doesn't impress me, my young friend.

The intense heat made Black recall his Scots Guards days, as he rose, turned away and marched stiffly down the street. He thought about the service he'd seen in the foot patrols in the strength-sapping jungles of Malaya, fighting the Communist terrorists. A soldier's world was founded on discipline and order. War had always been the spiritual salvation of the working classes. The compelling need for excitement that infects all young men with empty lives could be satisfied in this theatre, and the resulting
esprit de corps
could build nations. Black thought about his own service in Malaya's jungles, though sadly this took place after the war, and left him relatively untested in comparison to his own father, who had returned from World War II and that Japanese prison camp a failure as a soldier and a man; broken, morose, edgy, and prone to heavy drinking. How we so badly needed another
real
war, a ground war, where working men of different countries could see the whites of each other's eyes as they engaged in mortal combat. Even that was now nonsense, destroyed by the cold, satanic technology of the weapons industry. To be seared or incinerated by explosives or chemicals dropped on you from a height determined by computer programs, the death switch pulled by a coward miles away: it was no way for a man to die.

He headed across the street to the Miami Beach Tourist Information Centre, an art deco building on the beach side of Ocean Drive. Approaching the clerk, a middle-aged Latina woman, Black announced, — I wish to attend the Winter Music Conference.

The woman's large eyebrows went half an inch north as she regarded the old Scotsman. — It starts tomorrow, she confirmed.

— Where is it to be held?

The woman tightened her eyes in focus. Then something seemed to soothe within her and her voice dropped. — The WMC takes place across many different venues. I think the best thing for you to do is check the flyers that people are handing out.

— Thank you for your time, Albert Black said, leaving the building singularly unenlightened, and crossing the street as the busy traffic rumbled by. But walking on for a stretch he did indeed see a young man and woman issuing flyers, but only to the obviously youthful among the passers-by. About to steel himself past his reticence and approach them, he noticed fortuitously that some had been wantonly discarded on the ground. Black picked one up. There it was: N-SIGN. Ewart was delivering his address at the Cameo on Washington Avenue. Tonight. Ten till late. Albert Black resolved that he would attend. Oddly cheered, he headed home through Miami Beach, walking down those few art deco blocks of landfill that separated the Atlantic Ocean from the Biscayne Bay.

— Heh-low . . . the insistent toddler said again. And again. This time louder. His hapless mother now so preoccupied with the baby, she'd given up even trying to attend to him.

Children that age scared Helena. They made her think about the abortion. How could they have been so stupid? Only once, when her prescription had run out, and not long after her period. She thought it would be okay. It was self-torturing, and it was nonsense, yet it was impossible to see a child and not think about the parcel of tissue and liquid she'd had expelled from within her. What that one stupid, careless moment would have become. And she'd have to tell him that it was all taken care of; that she'd sorted it out. He had a right to know. He wasn't religious, and they'd never discussed having kids. They'd never discussed having anything other than fun. And never had fun felt so limiting, self-defeating and shallow than when she'd gone into that clinic. But she should have told him first.

Children made us all sinners, she reflected; whether we aborted, raised or ignored them. You picked up a newspaper and saw evidence of the fucked-up place you couldn't fix, couldn't make better, the place you'd brought them into. She looked at the kid again and felt sorry for the poor little bastard.

In a sudden seedy compassion, she grinned at him and whispered, — One day you are going to be so pissed off at your silly mother for bringing you here, mate.
All because she was
too stupid and lazy to get a fucking job and take care of herself.

The kid smiled slyly, seeming to understand. She decided she kind of liked him. — Hi, she said, louder, — what's your name, as the mother, with her cow-in-the-abattoir eyes, turned round and looked at Helena in stone-cold gratitude.

He wasn't even that close to the house, when Albert Black picked up the thumping beat of that music again. It was everywhere. Coming up from the basement, where the youth that called him Grandad resided like some cave dweller.

Billy.

Albert Black recalled when the boy was younger and visiting Scotland, how he'd taken him to Easter Road and Tynecastle stadiums. Black had always gone to see Hibs play one week, Hearts the next. Edinburgh was his adopted city and he supported both its clubs, an approach he knew many found queer in those partisan and tribal times. His pupils laughed at him, supporters of the rival maroon and green, but united in their derision.

But how could you expect classroom discipline? They had destroyed
employment opportunities and flooded the scheme with drugs. That
was bad enough, but then they had banned the tawse!

Black recalled that sleek, forked, leather strap, and the fear it inspired in many of the louder vagabonds. How their insolent faces would fall silent and flush as they were called out, knowing that soon their hands would be redder still, under its stinging lash. The implement was as essential to good teaching as chalk.

But Billy could tell him about this Winter Music Conference and N-Sign Ewart. It was something they could share. He descended the steps, before hesitating outside his grandson's bedroom door. He knew that smell coming from the room. It was marijuana. It had begun to get a foothold in the school, just as he was retiring. They smoked it by the annexe at the sports fields. Well, it wasn't getting a foothold here! Black pushed the door open. — Hey . . . you can't come in here, Gramps . . . Billy was lying back on the bed. He had one of those funny cigarettes in his hand. That young girl, the Mexican sort, was crouching between his legs, her head bobbing! She immediately ceased what she was doing, and turned to him, her face flushed, her eyes primal, beastlike.— What the fuck –

— Get out of here! Black shouted at her, pointing his finger in scorn.

— Hey, hold on a minute, Billy protested, —
you
get out! This is my freakin space! This ain't the Isle of Skye or shit!

Black stood his ground. — Shut up! He glared at the girl. — You! Get out!

The young woman staggered to her feet, as Billy pulled up his green canvas shorts and zipped himself up. — Valda, you stay right there. You – he rounded on Black, — you sick old bastard! Get the fuck outta my room!

— Me . . .
me
? Me sick! . . .

Black felt the anger of the righteous soldier rising inside him, but then he suddenly saw Marion's face in their only grandchild, and he'd been tricked, Satan was trying to control him! The fight left him. Then, as his eyes stayed locked on Billy, a darker, more shameful memory inserted itself like a bolt of electricity through him, and he turned and marched out of the room, squawking, — Your parents will hear of this!

— Fuck you! Fuckin pervert!

His heart pounding, Black ran up the stairs and out of the house, feeling the pain and the shame of this young man, this stranger, laughing at him, like a snickering moron of a first year. And how ridiculous he must have seemed to them, an old man in glasses, Bible ever-present, talking in a strange, almost incomprehensible tongue. He was a man out of place, out of time. He always had been; but once it had seemed a virtue. Now he was even subject to ridicule in the nest of sinners that was his own family!

I was wrong . . . forgive me, Lord!

O turn unto me, and have mercy upon me; give Thy strength unto
Thy servant, and save the son of Thine handmaid.

Shew me a token for good; that they which hate me may see it, and
be ashamed: because Thou, LORD, hast holpen me, and comforted me.

His knee locking in protest at the swiftness of his departure, he hobbled down the driveway, out into the street. The temperature had risen and he found himself again the only pedestrian for miles as he made his way down the lush avenues, heading back through Miami Beach, thankful to mingle with the crowds on Lincoln. Thoughts of his family overwhelmed him. Who were they? William, here in Florida. His daughter, Christine, over in Australia. She had never married. Had always lived in apartments with other women. What sort of a woman was she? Who were they? What kind of a father had he been?

What am I? A tyrant. A bully. Marion was the one that had given
them all the good things; the grace, the humility. All I ever contributed
was, at best, my sullen piety. No wonder they couldn't get far enough
away!

Neither could Albert Black. He was scarcely aware that he had retraced his steps back down to Ocean Drive. Composing himself, he found a cafe, sat down and ordered more water. As he sipped at the soothing cool liquid, he heard an accent, a voice from home. It froze him to his marrow.

— Lookit the fuckin tits oan that! ah goes, nudgin the Milky Bar Kid, cause this big fuckin pump's jist walked past. — Ah'd gie that fuckin biler a guid stoking, too right, ya cunt!

Ken whin ye git that hingower horn: aw they sleazy thoughts fae last night's peeve still in the system? Well, that's me, big time. Mind you, no that ah need a hingower fir that! But wi wir pished oan that plane yesterday, then straight oot oan the batter; cocktails, the fuckin lot, in they posh hotel bars. Ye cannae beat it.

— Where were you when political correctness was sweeping the world, Terry?

— Humpin dirty hoors, n avoidin fuckin Jambo cunts, ah tells um.

The Kid rolls ehs eyes. — Ye goat tae move wi the times, Terry. Stoap fightin these auld battles ay the past, eh smiles.

— Aye, right.

The fanny here's fuckin hotchin; it's like thaire's a top bird ootside every one ay they swanky joints oan that Ocean Drive, aw giein ye the eye n beckonin ye intae thir web ay sin. No thit the Milky Bar Kid's giein a fuck. Eh's goat Helena, ehs burd, or should ah say, ehs
fiancée
, comin in fae Australia the morn. Tae me that's aw the mair reason tae try n git baw-deep in some wee tart the night, git it oot the system before the nuptials git tied, cause eftir that it's the last time eh'll clap eyes oan another minge for a long time. Widnae be me, but, eh! Ah'm mair yir George Clooney type, the debonair, smoulderineyed playboy wi the suave air ay urbane sophistication, whae likes tae pit it aboot a bit. Well, yuv goat tae but, eh? Spice ay life.— Stall here a second, Carl, ah tells the Kid, — she's gantin oan it, ah say, eyein up this wee honey flashin a big smile n a laminate menu at ays.

— Terry, the Kid goes, — she's working. Emotional labour. Doesnae mean she fancies ye. Ye shouldnae personalise those things.

— Ah ken that, Ewart, but thaire's something in yon wee yin's look that
is
personal, ah explains tae the cunt. Naebody lectures me oan fanny; ah ken the score. So ah steams ower tae her. — Ah've hud plenty nosh the day, ah says tae her, — gittin the beef oan likes, n gies the belly a pat . . . Aye, this gut's coming back a bit, but she's no wantin tae hear aboot that, she wants tae hear what aw fit burds want tae hear aboot: her. — Youse Yanks can pit it away but, ah tells her. — No you though, you've got a great figure.

Ah goes n braces masel fir signs ay offence taken, but her hand flies tae the hair. — Why thank you . . . where are you from?

That wis game oan in ma fuckin book. — Edinburgh, Scotland. Ower here for the WMC but, eh, ah goes. She's gittin rode: baw-deep n rid raw. Ah turns tae the Milky Bar Kid.— Lit's pop in here fir yin then, ya cunt.

Eh shakes ehs heid wi thon serious look oan ehs coupon. — I need tae get back tae the hotel.

Wanker. Ye cannae tell thon cunt nowt whin ehs in that mood, n fair play, ehs peyed fir the trip, so ah turns back tae the bird, pittin oan a wee sad face. — Listen, doll, ah've got tae look eftir ma client here. That's management in the entertainment industry fir ye. We work when the rest ay youse play. But, ah adds, lookin deep intae the black bits ay hur eyes, — wi make up fir it n aw. What time dae ye finish the night? Ah'd like tae take ye oot fir a wee drink.

Ah'm gittin thon doubtful, measured look back. — I dunno, I kinda gotta a boyfriend –

— Hi! Never mind this boyfriend stuff, ah goes. — You speaka da foreign lingo. Ah'm jist in toon a few days fir the DJ conference.

— You really in the dance-music business?

— Too right. Some ay the biggest names in this game are oan ma books. N you're oan the VIP list for the Cameo the night, ah tells her, n goes, — Bet you're in the actin game. Yuv goat the looks fir it.

— Why thank you! I'm trying to break into modelling, but I wanna take acting lessons too.

— Knew it! Call it the sixth sense thit ye git in this business, but ye gied off that vibe. Well, loads ay film-industry punters'll be thaire, ah should ken, ah've goat the contacts. Stick wi me n the doors will open. Guaranteed. Kathryn Joyner, personal friend, ah sais, n she's lookin at me aw thon calculatin wey when ah turns tae Ewart n goes, — This is N-Sign, ken the DJ?

— Wow, are you really N-Sign?

Wir both pleasantly surprised by the bird's recognition. — Yeah. Ewart, aw embarrassed, squirms like a big poof.

Ah never thoat the day would come whin Juice Terry used the Milky Bar Kid's rep tae git a ride.— Aye! Ah'm ehs manager! Terry's the name:
Juice
Terry. N-Sign Ewart, ah points at the Milky Bar Kid. — We'll git her oan the list but, eh, Carl?

Ewart nods and smiles.

— Cool. I'm Brandi . . .

— Barry name, ah goes, thinking thit if this yin's ma wisnae a stripper, ah'll wear a Jambo's toap wi suzzies and stockins tae the East Stand at ER,
and
kiss the fuckin badge n aw, ya cunt!

Then ahm jist seein this huge fuckin shadow cast and ah looks up at this big poof, aw sculpted by steroids n years ay tedious denial in the gym. Strides forward like eh's fuckin Clint Eastwood. — Is there a problem, Brandi?

— No, it's okay, Gustave . . . she calls the boy, n ah'm nearly pishin masel, and Randy Brandi turns back tae me. — Yeah, tonight would be great. I'll meet you outside here at ten?

— Ten bells it is, ah sais, looking at this Gustave blatt-baws here wi a wicked wee smirk. — You can come along n aw . . . darlin.

Gustave pouts at ays like a big lassie, but he's no comin forward cause ah think eh kens that if eh does ehs baws'll be gittin tanned tae fuck by a size 11. Mind you, wi aw the steroids that cunt does, thaire willnae be much tae aim at so ah might huv tae go in wi the nut. So ah huds the stare till ehs eyes go watery n eh fucks off, before ah confirm ma appointment wi Brandi n head doon the road wi Carl. — She's gittin rode, that Brandi bird. Mark ma words.

The Milky Bar Kid looks at ays n goes, — Ah've got tae hand it tae you, Terry, you've no got any sense ay embarrassment at aw. You just steam in, and you sometimes come away with the baw.

— Goat tae, man, ah tells um, — it's the spice ay life.

— Brandi but, Lawson! Fuck sake: that is certainly Hibs class. Entertainment-industry management my erse. Cannae wait tae see her face when she finds oot you're a Hobo peg seller who makes muck movies with munters.

— Shut it, ya fuckin fud-faced Yam wankstain. Ah'd be drawin ma fuckin pension before you steamed in.

— I'm no interested in other lassies, eh goes, aw snooty.

— Aye, well, dinnae expect me tae be pinnin any fuckin medals tae yir chist, ah tells the cunt. Some high-n-mighty fuckers forget that one golden rule: a standing prick hath no conscience.