Reheated Cabbage (23 page)

It wasn't a room; it was a suite. It had its own kitchen with all the mod cons, and a fridge and cupboard stocked full of luxury provisions. Eureka! A packet of Cuban coffee – that would help cut through some of the jet lag. She spooned it into the filter machine and the thick, tarry offering began to accumulate in the pot. The large four-poster bed showed evidence of having been recently occupied, and she pulled aside the covers and sniffed at the pillow. There was Carl's unmistakable male scent; it made her giddy and she felt her pulse rise and something soar within her. She wanted to wrap herself in it, but if she permitted her fatigued body and mind to succumb to it, she'd never move and she needed to see the real thing. Instead, she went back to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of the coffee. It tasted strong and bitter, and it felt like a line of speed.

Helena pulled an adaptor from her travel bag and charged up her cell phone. It took a while to click to AT&T, the US default service provider, but when it did, a series of texts from Carl buzzed into her device. The last one:

Had to go to club. Meet u there. Hope u got in ok. Luv u xxx

A kernel of relief and excitement buzzed in her chest. He was alive. No drug overdose, no plane crash, no stepping off the pavement stoned into the path of a truck. Sometimes she feared for him. Helena pulled off her clothes and stepped into the bathroom, looked at herself in the mirror and groaned. Then she brushed her teeth to remove the taste of aircraft and coffee, had a tepid shower, changed into fresh party clothes and applied some make-up. She went back to the full-length mirror, pleased at the results, till a wave of jet lag ripped through her. Something else was needed, but her state of mind was too fragile for drugs. Another Cuban coffee slammed head first into the jet lag.

It gave her focus as she left the hotel, walking up the street to the venue. Her jangly nerves (and here coffee and jet lag were in conspiracy) could have done without the whistles from a pumped-up group of young vacationing males, but she was granted easy and swift admission through the massing crowds via the guest list, and she prepared to go backstage. As she passed the VIP bar, the only other person present was an old guy in a straw hat, looking around like a rabbit surrounded by foxes as the punters started to file in. Already a DJ was in the booth, digging out the tunes for his warm-up set. Carl would be on soon, and she should go backstage to see him. But this old guy seemed so lonely and forlorn, miscast in this temple of youth; she was moved to speak to him. — Hi. You a DJ?

— No, I'm retired, said Black, somewhat surprised that this beautiful young woman with blazing brown eyes and short blonde hair had just started talking to him, and was now easing into a seat opposite. Black felt intimidated by the long legs she displayed; all that naked flesh suggested a wanton, reckless character, and she was showing cleavage in the way of the hussy. Yet this was offset by her easy manner; she had a soft voice and an accent that he took to be Australian. He thought of his own daughter; apart from the funeral, when they were briefly and awkwardly united, how many years had it been since he'd seen her? — I'm retired, Black repeated, stammered, as he sensed himself sliding into the fissure of his past as it cracked open beneath his feet. — Are you . . . are you involved in . . . he looked around at the growing crowd of youths who were pressing the bar staff for attention, — . . . all of this?

Helena was moved by the man's accent. It sounded Scottish! — No, my boyfriend, my fiancé, really, it's his thing, and she couldn't help displaying the engagement ring to him.

Black was taken aback. Surely this lovely, thoughtful and obviously intelligent girl, who had taken the time to speak to him, an old man washed up in this strange, fashion-conscious citadel of another age, surely she couldn't be Carl Ewart's girlfriend! No, surely not. There would be other DJs, club promoters, that sort of thing.

— Congratulations, Black said warily,— when is your happy day?

Yes, he was definitely a Scot. What were they like, those Scotsmen, as they grew old? Would Carl be like this man, a lost old codger in a nightclub full of young people? She'd often joked that he'd be the oldest DJ in the world. — I dunno, we're not too sure, she shrugged and made a pained face. Then with a gallows smile she conceded, — It hasn't been going too well recently.

— Sorry to hear it.

— Yeah. Helena Hulme looked at Albert Black. There was a kindness in the old man's sharp eyes that seemed to invite further disclosure. — Our careers are very different, and we come from different places. It's the long-distance thing, it really involves a lot of sacrifice from both parties to make it work. I dunno if we can hack it.

— Oh, Black said, thinking that the girl almost sounded South African now, the way she said 'hek eat'.

— Are you married?

— Yes, well, I was . . . Black struggled, unsure of how to respond. — I mean, my wife died recently.

Helena thought of her own father. Selling cars in a showroom for years so that she and her sister Ruthie could go to college. Then, on that otherwise unremarkable day, without prior warning, just dropping dead on the lot with a massive heart attack. Her hand lightly touched Albert Black's arm. — I'm so sorry . . .

Albert Black's head bowed. He looked as if something had crumpled inside him. He didn't resist when Helena reached out and took a hold of his hand. — I'm Helena.

— I'm Albert, he whispered, looking briefly up at her. He felt like a child. Tried to fuse himself with the contemptuous notion that he was being weak and stupid, but nothing happened, he was immobilised. He would have stayed in this moment for the rest of his life if he could. It was the closest to comfort and grace he had been since Marion's death.

— Please . . . how long has it been, Albert?

Black told her the story of his and Marion's love, and how it would never die, but how she was gone now and his world was empty. Helena told him about the terrible shock and crushing sense of loss she'd experienced since her father's death. The conversation grew metaphysical as Black explained his terror that his lifelong faith was now in question. How he feared that he would never see his wife again, that there was no spirit world in which they could be reunited.

Helena listened patiently, then asked the question that was fizzing in her fatigued brain throughout the old man's tale.— Do you ever regret making that commitment? I mean, how horrible must you feel when it ends in that way?

— Of course it's horrible, Black confirmed, seeing Marion's face in his mind's eye. Why had she stayed with him?
I can be
a bit strident. Perhaps too domineering. Even tyrannical, some would
say.
It went beyond duty; she really did love him. And by doing so, she'd made him much more than he alone could ever have been. A deep serenity filled his heart. — But I don't regret a second of being with her, though sometimes I lament how I was, he confessed, now downcast once again. — I was obsessed with the Church, with my Christian faith, and I wish I had done more for her . . . with her . . .

It was now Helena Hulme's turn to have a sudden revelation, as she thought about her fiancé, Carl Ewart. It was not new knowledge, but a powerful resurfacing of something she'd worried might be getting buried by the landslide of crap life could dump on you. It was that she loved him. God, she loved him so much. And he really loved her. — But she knew what you were like. She knew you had that great passion for something, and that didn't mean that you loved her the less for that. I'm sure she had things going on her life, things that she couldn't really get you involved in on a day-to-day basis. It didn't mean she loved you any less, did it?

— Yes . . . you're right. Black choked with emotion and said to her, — So I have absolutely no regrets at all. Her love was my salvation. So if you love this man, and he is a good man, then you must marry him.

— I do. Helena shook as she spoke. — I do love him. He's the best person I've ever met. The kindest, most generous, tender, loving, thoughtful and funny guy ever. You are so right, Albert, I have to marry Carl. He's from Scotland like you, she confirmed, and she squeezed his withered old hand.

This revelation, even though he had sensed its encroachment, was almost too much for Albert Black. He found his eyes scanning the room. — Yes . . . ehm, if you'll excuse me – he pulled his hand away, — I need to find a restroom.

— Sure. I'm gonna get a glass of wine. She nodded at the bar. — Would you like a drink?

— Water would be nice. Thank you, Black found himself shouting over the din.

— Still or fizzy?

— Still please. Thank you, said Black, rising and heading for the toilets. There was a queue snaking outside, and he was almost ready to depart, but was driven to return to the kind girl who was getting him a drink, and he really
did
need to relieve himself. Joining the line, to his abject horror, Albert Black realised almost immediately that the person standing next to him, doing something unspeakable to that American waitress, was none other than Terence Lawson. And Lawson was looking right at him!

Ya cunt, ah've never broken oaf a snog wi a game, fit bird tae dae a double take in ma puff. But thaire's Blackie fae the school: fuckin
Blackie
! The cunt, aw auld, bit jist like eh eywis wis, standin thaire next tae us in the queue for the fuckin bogs! Ah'm comin up oan this fuckin pill this Brandi bird gied ays, n now ah'm pushin her tae the side and starin at him n eh's lookin at ays, so ah jist goes: — Mr Black! Ah dinnae believe it!

— Terence Lawson . . . Blackie gasps; the cunt's as shocked tae see me as ah ahm him. Fucker even minded ay ma name! Nae wonder but: the bastard belted ays every fuckin morning in reggie!

Ya cunt, ah'd spent half ma life fantasisin about the fuckin kicking ah'd gie the 'Black Bastard' if oor paths ever crossed in civvy street. But now, wi this fuckin Ecstasy pill tinglin ays fae the back ay ma skull tae the bottom ay ma scrotum, aw ah kin think ay daein is stepping forward n giein the auld cunt a big hug. Ah wraps muh airms roond the frail auld fucker; the cunt's a fuckin bag ay bones! Wis eh eywis like that? Surely no! Ah'm wishin ah'd been oan the fuckin ching, then ah would've rammed the nut oan the auld cunt. But then ah'm thinking that ah did see um once in civvy street . . . at perr wee Gally's funeral.

Albert Black inhaled with force, parade-soldier stiff, in the arms of Terence Lawson.
Lawson!
Then the fool, now a hulking brute of a man, swung him round, while locking his other arm around the pretty young waitress. — This is an auld teacher ay mine fae Edinburgh, Juice Terry announced, — Mr Albert Black. This is Brandi. Merican, likes.

— Hi, Albert, Brandi said, and stepped forward kissing Black on the lips.

No woman other than Marion had ever touched him in this way. At first Albert Black felt a surge of rage at this betrayal, but it quickly morphed into a deep longing for his departed wife.

Marion . . . why did
You
take her!

Terry seemed to catch his old teacher's distress. Rubbed his bony back. He could feel every one of the vertebrae. — What are ye daein here, Mr Black . . .

— I'm . . . I'm lost . . . was all Black could stammer, eviscerated by events and, to his great surprise and discomfort, horribly aware that he was glad to be with Lawson.

— See this gadge, Terry smiled at Brandi, then at Albert Black, — me and him fought like cat n dug back at the school. We never got on. But see, when ma mate died, mind Gally, Mr Black?

— Yes, said Black, thinking first of the Galloway boy's funeral, then Marion's. — Andrew Galloway.

— This gadge . . . eh, chap, Terry explained to Brandi, — he was the only one fae the school, oot ay aw the teachers n that, that went along tae Gally's funeral. This man here. Juice Terry turned back to Albert Black. — Ah dinnae ken what yir daein here but ah'm glad that ye are, cause ah never hud the chance tae tell ye how much that meant tae us aw, you showin up at the funeral like that. Me, his mates, and his ma and famely n that. Terry felt his eyes well up in recollection. — Especially as we never goat oan wi ye at the school.

Albert Black was gobsmacked. As a Christian, he'd done his duty by attending the funeral. However difficult, the Good Book was adamant that it was essential to love the sinner. Nobody had given him any indication that this unsavoury penance had meant anything to them. But he thought of everyone who had come to Marion's funeral, and how much he had valued that simple display of human solidarity.

— It's funny, it goat me thinking aboot how even wi us eywis fightin aw the time, how ye wir still ma favourite teacher.

Black couldn't believe his ears. He had belted Lawson as a boy every other day. And now the man actually seemed sincere in this bizarre contention. And there was something about Lawson, something spiritual, almost angelic, with his gentle bonhomie, and his large, expressive eyes. It seemed as if they were full of the love of . . . the love of Jesus himself! — Wha-why . . . ehm, why do you say that?

— Cause you
wanted
us tae learn. The rest ay them wrote the likes ay me off. Just let us run riot. But
you
never. You kept us in line and forced us tae work. Ye never gave up tryin tae teach us. Tell ye what, ah wish ah hud listened tae ye. He turned to Brandi, whose eyes blazed like saucers. — See, if ah'd listened tae this boy –

— Wow . . . it must be great when you meet somebody you really looked up to as a kid, Brandi said to Terry Lawson, and then turned to Albert Black, — and it must be fantastic to learn what a great influence you've been on somebody's life.

Fuckin good pills,
Terry was thinking.
Ah'm as likely tae be
shaggin fuckin Blackie by the end ay the night as this Brandi bird . . .
need tae git some ching intae the mix . . .

— But I wasn't – Black protested.

— Listen, mate, if ah fucked up, n ah did, then it wis aw doon tae me. Terry's index finger drummed his chest. — If ah hudnae met the likes ay yourself n Ewart – he's playin here the night by the way – ah'd huv been ten times worse. Ah wis jist scum, right . . .

Black stared blankly at Terry Lawson.
Does he really expect
me to refute this contention?

— . . . but see, when ye meet guys whae've goat a sense ay right fae wrong, like you, guys whae've got the goods, that steys wi ye, surein it does.

As the restroom line divided by gender, they drifted off from Brandi and moved steadily down the men's queue into the urinals, before breaking off the conversation to pee. Black's head spun as he watched his pish splash into the trough. It seemed almost symbolic that it was merging with Lawson's, who stood further up, a power jet hammering the metal at force from what Black couldn't help noticing looked like a fireman's hose.

Lawson seemed repentant. Genuinely repentant!

When they were done, Terry only washing his hands after noting Albert Black fastidiously cleaning his, they waited outside for Brandi and went back into the dance hall together, where Helena greeted them. — Kiwi burd! Terry shouted, hugging her. — So yuv met Blackie . . . eh, Mr Black . . .

— Yes, but I didn't know you were friends of Albert's . . .

— Too right, we go way back, Carl n aw.

— You know Carl, Albert?

— Yes, Black said sheepishly, — but I didn't really connect you with him until I saw Law – eh Terry, in the restroom queue. I taught them both . . .

— Great! Jesus Christ, it's a small world!

— Let's get in and see the Milky Bar Kid, Terry said, introducing Brandi, while informing her and Helena of Black's status as one of their most memorable teachers.

— Carl will be so excited, Helena said, as Albert Black allowed himself to be led, in a shock of trance, over to the back stage door.

— Aye, the Milky Bar Kid's gaunny git a wee surprise, that's fir sure, Terry laughed. When they got inside there was no sign of Carl – he had gone sidestage to prepare his set – but Terry introduced Black to a tall Negro man, who looked down at him. — This is Lucas. Lucas, this is the old school boy ah wis telling ye aboot.

Lucas pulled Black aside, and said with some reverence in his voice, — So I hear you're old school.

— Yes, Black replied, looking nervously across to Terry, who was kissing Brandi, with an arm around Helena.

— I heard that you guys pulled a whole heap of shit, back in the day.

Unable to understand what the man was driving at, Black was moved to simply agree. — Yes.

— Tell you some shit, man, Lucas said, — and you folks wanna be takin note: we owe the old school big time.

Albert Black regarded this tall, dark-skinned man. There were no Negro children at the school. He would have remembered. — You . . . you weren't old school . . .

— No, man, no way, but I heard all about the good shit you guys did. The kinda influence you was, back in the UK, jus like we had over here. Without guys like you we wouldn't be here today. In the South Side of Chicago, there are brothers who wouldn't have done jack, without the likes of you guys inspiring them and kicking their asses. We had them too, man. Guys who steered us right, otherwise it would have been all guns and powder. Believe it, brother.

It meant that there were teachers like him, here in America; true Christians, driven by the gospel of Jesus to save, to educate, the deserving poor. They had been the salvation of this tall Negro, in his lawless Chicago ghetto. Yes, there were virtuous men and women who had rescued this wayward soul: just as surely as he had the likes of Ewart, and even Lawson, back in that ugly Edinburgh council scheme.— Ewart . . . Carl Ewart and, er, Terence said this?

— Sure as shit, bro. What they call you, man?

— Mr Black . . . He considered the reality of the situation. —. . . Blackie, I suppose.

— Black E. Right . . . Lucas scratched his chin. — I'm sure I heard about you, he said charitably. — You were one fierce motherfucker! Right?

— Yes . . . Black looked guilty and sheepish as the image of the tawse snapped into his mind. But how else was he meant to enforce discipline? To get them to shut up, stop messing around and do their work? But suddenly Terry Lawson was back over and was steering him into a boxed-off zone with a huge mixing desk presided over by a technician. It looked out from the VIP area onto the dangerously crowded dance floor. Helena and Brandi were hanging out there, in conversation. Black looked across to the small booth as Carl Ewart came on to a rapturous cheer, high-fiving the outgoing DJ. He was dressed in leisurewear, stick-thin, with that white hair shaved to a stubble. Black still recognised those clever, slightly sly and knowing eyes, and his old nemesis exacted an amazing reaction from the crowd, simply by putting on a record which sounded
exactly
like the last one to Black's ears. Albert turned to Juice Terry who caught his puzzlement.

— He's only put a record on. Why are they so excited?

— Aye, it isnae fuckin rocket science, Terry scoffed. — This ravey housey shite's garbage, ah jist hing aboot fir the fanny but, eh. It's ey hotchin at things like this. Spice ay life, eh. He winked at his old teacher, while Black sensed that he had now descended into Sodom. Lewd and obscene behaviour abounded. Some girls were barely dressed. Yet, there seemed no sense of threat, as he'd sometimes experienced in the football crowds back home. Black stood in the area by the mixing desk as Ewart played record after record. He noticed that something was happening. The beat was building up with the crowd becoming increasingly frenzied and hysterical. They were raising their hands in the air, some of them saluting Ewart like he was the messiah! Perhaps that was what it was really about; seize control of their minds and thus render them vulnerable to the messages of satanism! At the same time, he realised that there would be no speeches from Ewart or anyone else. This supposed 'conference' was actually about people gyrating to this noise in a zombie-like trance.

Once we travelled to strange lands to spread the gospel, and now
Western youth had adopted those primitive, tribal dances and beats
from people who were little more than savages!

A sinful nation, a people laden with iniquity, a seed of evildoers,
children that are corrupters: they have forsaken the LORD, they
have provoked the Holy One of Israel into anger, they are gone away
backward!

Black wanted to leave again, but Helena had returned with more water. No, he had come this far; he had to confront Ewart. At one stage he saw Billy and Valda, conducting a lewd and exhibitionist dance.
In public, like dogs on heat!
He stepped back into the shadows, out of their range of vision. How could their ugly promiscuity be a shock when they were trapped in the brainwashing frenzy of that devil music? Black's torment continued until Ewart stepped off the stage, soaked in sweat, as he fell into the arms of Helena. Black watched them devour each other's faces before Ewart broke off to ask his fiancée, — Good flight?

— A nightmare, honey, but I'm here now. And we got a surprise for ya! Your friend from Edinburgh, Mr Black, from the old school, is here!

Carl laughed. One of Terry's daft fuckin games, he thought, before he turned to face Albert Black, MA (Hons), who was looking at him from under a panama hat with those small rodent-like eyes, dark and intense as ever.

— What the fuck . . . He looked at a grinning Juice Terry in disbelief. — What's fuckin Blackie daein here!

— Eh wis in toon, so eh swung by the gig, eh, Mr Black? Terry said, surprising himself with his protective feelings towards his old oppressor.

— Who the fuck brought him back here? Carl glared at Terry.

— Nice tae be nice, eh, Terry said.

— I did, Helena snapped at Carl. — You behave!

— Behave! That fucking sociopath belted me for not saying 'sir' when I addressed him! Carl hissed under his breath.

Helena stood her ground. — He's had a bad time, Carl. Leave it!

Carl looked at his New Zealander fiancée. It was so good to see her again. Helena Hulme. His favourite phrase:
Don't be
so sceptical, Ms Hulme
. He'd entertained a romantic notion of her as a lost daughter of Caledonia, exiled to the other side of the world, only for them to be reunited under a mirrorball with a throbbing 4–4 beat in the background. He smiled at her and then Albert Black, forcing himself to extend a hand. His old teacher looked at him for a couple of beats, then at Helena, and shook it.

The claw-like grip of the old man was strong, and belied his thin frame.— Eh, what brings you to Miami Beach? Carl asked.

Albert Black faltered on answering the question. He didn't know. Helena intervened. — His family live over here. We just met up, and we've been having a good chat.

— Aw aye? Aboot me? Carl pouted, before he could stop himself.

— It's not always about
you
, Carl, Helena hissed. — There
are
other topics of conversation, believe it or not.

You and your fucking acid-house music, it's dying out all around
you. It was just another fad, not a great revolution. Grow up, for
fuck's sakes.

— I didnae mean that, it's just that me and him –

Terry cut in, unhappy, in his harmonious Ecstasy trip, at the discord between Helena and Carl. He rubbed Brandi's back for reassurance. — He wis talking tae me n aw, eh, Mr Black?

Black shifted uncomfortably.— Yes . . . look, I really should go.

— No, Albert, please stay for a while, Helena pleaded, then urgently turned to Carl. — Tell him!

Carl Ewart managed to keep some grace in his tones. — I'm playing another gig, out in the Everglades. Please come along.

— But I can't . . . Black protested meekly. — It's very late and I –

— Yes you can. Helena smiled sweetly at him, and took him by the arm. Brandi flanked him, and Black allowed them to lead him outside. He felt as if his very self had melted away, that nothing was holding him up, there were no faculties left that would enable him to make even the most mundane of decisions.

Watching them depart, Carl grabbed Terry by the sleeve of his shirt. — Since when did that sadistic cunt Blackie become 'Mr Black'? He looked at Terry's saucer-like pupils. — Awright, I get it. Well, it'll take mair than a strong ecky tae make that fucker anything other than an evil bastard in ma book!

Terry's grin expanded gleefully. — Ye goat tae lit go ay the past, Carl, stoap fightin the auld battles. Is that no what ye eywis say tae me?