The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (43 page)

— Caroline, he wheezed in acknowledgement.

Caroline Kibby caught the whiff of drink from her brother. Scrutinised his cheeks: rougher, drier and ruddier than usual. — You okay?

— Aye . . . it’s good to see you, Kibby sniffled, at first contritely, before a tickle of the alcohol in his brain produced a speculative half-smirk. — How’s the course going? he said in sombre exaggeration, attempting to root himself.

The room is sort of spinning but it’s no really bad, it’s like . . . who cares?

—
It’s a bit of a drag, Caroline shrugged, instantly reassured that her brother’s old concerns were intact. Now vague and distracted, she sat down in the big armchair, curling into it, picking up the remote and clicking on the TV. The mute control was on and a newscaster mouthed in silent sincerity followed by footage of Middle Eastern women and children crying in a pile of rubble. The next picture showed an American soldier, armed to the teeth. Then it cut to a disengaged, constipated-looking George Bush and finally to a simpering Tony Blair, surrounded by suits, at some sort of function.

Kibby felt something rising inside him, through his watery, bloated flesh, across the yards of dulled space that seemed to exist between each cell, each neuron.

They get other people to do it for them. They have the money, the power and they exist to indulge themselves and their vanities. But it’s no them, it’s no their sons or daughters who have to go and fight and murder or be hurt or killed to indulge those conceits. It’s the people who have nothing, those who cannae fight back, who are made meek . . . and you can watch a thousand
Harry Potters
or Steven Spielbergs or Mary-Kate and Ashleys and Britneys and
Big Brothers
and
Bridget Joneses
and you can ignore it by wanting to be the next Principal Officer at the council . . . ignore that you’re not empowered,
you’re not enfranchised, you’re a slave, a slave to those egotistical, pious, sanctimonious murdering bastards and the world they’ve created, a world as selfish and cowardly and vain as they are . . . like Skinner . . . they get other people to deal with the shit they make through their own twisted vanity . . .

Then the distance suddenly closed and a force fused and crackled between the gaps as Kibby’s head rattled.

There’s Caroline, my sister, part of this lazy, complacent decadence, wasting opportunity while my dad sweated his working life away and deprived himself to ensure that she had those chances . . .

— You always liked your course . . . he whined.

Caroline shook her head rapidly, her mop of blonde hair tumbling and swishing and falling back into place like nylon static, only a couple of strands displaced from its original position. — I do like it, it just gets on my nerves at times. It’s just work, work, work, she shrugged, letting her face take on first a speculative, then a wicked aspect. — I just feel as if I need a bit of pampering sometimes, she smiled.

— And that’s where
he
comes in, is it?

Caroline gazed at her brother, in a way she never had before, curling her lip, and Brian Kibby instantly saw himself through her eyes. What he saw was a freak; a corpulent, mournful, possessive failure whose wreckage of a life trailed behind him like the slime of a snail.

They thought I was a dirty child molester, outside by the park.

On cue, Kibby felt his treacherous pores chuck more icy, toxic sweat over him.

Not Caroline, though. No Caz. Wee sis.

How close they had been in a quietly undemonstrative and understated way. Then, on occasion, sickening sentiment would crush them into making the odd gesture that mortified them both: how Scottishly close they had once been.

Caroline. Wee sis.

From Brian Kibby’s point of view, all he could do was stare at his sister as she turned away and assiduously focused on the
television. The American troops were preparing for a surge on Falluja in the run-up to the US elections as they had disclosed that over one hundred thousand Iraqi civilians had died as a result of coalition activities. He wanted to talk to her about this; he never usually talked politics with her because he always felt it was a distraction and that people should be happy with their lot instead of complaining or trying to change things all the time. He was wrong, though; he wanted to tell her that he was wrong and she was right.

But he was realising that he couldn’t build a bridge, couldn’t make a connection, because his hatred of Skinner had a life of its own, beyond intellect, beyond reason. It forged every grimace, framed each sentence, in fact, it determined all possible responses. It was an entity he was powerless to fight. And before he gained cognisance of it, this force was speaking for him, talking through him. — He’s evil . . . he’s . . . he whimpered breathlessly.

Caroline turned back to her scrutiny of Brian, then shook her head slowly.

He’s finally lost it.

We’ve been through so much together as a family and now it’s taken its toll. I’m so glad to be out of this madhouse, this crucible of fear and loss; to have finally cut loose and let go. God, what does Danny think of them, what does he think of me? It’s as well that he’s so understanding, so able to empathise with our losses.

—
You’re sick, Brian, Caroline concluded in deliberate detachment. — All Danny’s ever done is tried to help you, tried to be a friend to you. It was Danny that kept you in a job all that time, just because he knew you needed it.
We
needed it, she said, warming to her theme. — Because that’s the kind of person he is!

— You dinnae ken! You dinnae ken the kind ay person he is, Brian Kibby squealed in rage and terror.

Caroline’s face twisted into a demonic parody of itself. Kibby had seen her bad moods, from toddler pouts to teenage tantrums, but he could never have imagined that his pretty and serene
sister could possibly have ever looked so grotesque. — I can’t stand it, Brian, I can’t stand your puerile jealousy of Danny!

— But he’s no what you think! Kibby wailed, looking ceilingwards towards heaven as if for confirmation.

But none was forthcoming as Caroline picked at some of the dry skin around her fingernail. Corrected herself. She’d have to stop that. — I know Danny, Brian. Aye, he likes to go out and have a good time. And he’s popular. So people get jealous, start making up nonsense.

Brian Kibby’s heartbeat rose and his sweat ducts gushed again. He winced as he got a whiff of that horrible stale scent rising from him. Skinner was doing it again, attacking him, weakening him somehow. — He’s using you, Caz, he’s just using you . . .

Caroline glared fiercely at her brother. — I’ve had a couple of proper relationships, Brian. I know a bit about that side of life. Don’t presume to tell me about it, she snapped at him in undisguised distaste. She didn’t need to say anything about Kibby’s own distinct lack of familiarity with emotional or carnal issues; this was as implicit as could be. — And don’t make a scene today, she warned, lowering her voice and glowering at him. — If you can’t show any decency to Danny or to me, then at least think of Mum.

— It’s him that’s no goat any de–

— Shut up! Caroline hissed, nodding to the door as their mother’s key turned in the lock.

Joyce Kibby deposited two large shopping bags in the hallway and opened the front-room door to find her children sitting in there together, watching television. It was like old times.

Danny Skinner arrived shortly after this, clutching a bottle of full-bodied, quality Bordeaux purchased from Valvona & Crolla, and some flowers, which he presented to an almost orgasmically welcoming Joyce.

It was Skinner’s third appearance at the house, though the first two had been brief visits and this was the only time he’d
properly set foot in the front room. He drank in the surroundings. The furnishings were old, but spotless. It told him what he could have already guessed: the Kibbys weren’t into spending cash on luxuries, nor were they prone to throwing wild parties. A large, patterned three-piece suite dominated the room, though it was a bit big for it, and it gave the place a somewhat cluttered feel.

His biggest impression, though, was that this was a house of ghosts. The most prominent one, however, was not Kibby’s father; most of the pictures of him were sun-faded due to having been taken in an era of poor-quality prints. No, it was the ghost of Kibby past. To Skinner, portraits of the young, gangling,
keen
, much-hated Kibby seemed ubiquitous.

Did he ever really look like that?

Sneaking a sideways glance at his grim, bloated, adversary who had just panted into the room and stared at the guest as if Skinner’s sole purpose of visiting was the liberation of the family silver, he looked back at the picture. Infused by a sense of unease, Skinner just about managed to convert it into a thin smile.

Joyce had set the table up nicely in the front room, and a bottle of wine sat on it. She then placed the one Danny had brought alongside it, making Kibby, whose bearing alternated between aggressive and sullen, first give a disapproving start at such a lack of frugality, then quickly light up in anticipation of a pain-easing drink.

— I know we shouldn’t, she said, glancing furtively at her late husband’s picture, — but what’s it you sometimes say, Brian: a little of what you fancy does you no harm at all? I mean, with the meal . . .

— Yes. Kibby spat the validation of his endorsement out through clenched teeth.

— I’ll drink to that, Skinner seconded.

— Me too, Kibby said slowly, deliberately.

— Brian . . . Joyce pleaded.

— One willnae hurt. I’ve a new liver, he said, suddenly rolling
up his jumper to expose a large scar which snaked in and out of his rolls of fat, fascinating Skinner, — a clean sheet, he added threateningly.

— Brian! Joyce’s eyes briefly bulged in horror but she was relieved as her son quickly pulled down his jersey. In spite of her nervous, spastic jerks she managed to fill the glasses up as Caroline looked on, obviously in extreme discomfort which was only eased slightly by Skinner’s indulgent squeeze of her hand.

They sat down to dinner. Though the meal – Joyce’s carbonara sauce and pasta – was bland to his indulged palate, Skinner forced himself to make appropriately positive remarks. — Nice food, Joyce. Bri, Caroline, your mum’s some cook.

— I expect your mother is too, Danny, Joyce obligingly cooed.

Skinner had to think about his response here. He knew that he himself was a better cook than his mother had ever been. It was simply a matter of availability of different ingredients and a more comprehensive knowledge of food, a generational thing. — She has her moments, he said, thinking with some guilt about Beverly.

The sense of trepidation that hung around the table was broken with the drink, into a nervous then hostile irritation on Kibby’s part. — So, it didnae work out for you in America then, Danny?

Skinner refused to rise to the bait. — Oh, I loved it, Bri. Planning to go back. But . . . he turned towards Caroline and smiled, — . . . you know how it is.

Kibby sat seething in silent fury at this response. It took a good couple of minutes before he decided to have another pop. Changing tack, he asked pointedly, — So, Danny, how’s Shannon getting on, encouraged to see that Caroline was now looking quizzically at Skinner.

— Fine . . . but I haven’t seen much of her; he thought about Dessie Kinghorn. — Obviously, I’ve been in America.

— Shannon works, or should I say, worked, with us, Kibby snidely hissed.

— Yes, Joyce said tensely. — I spoke to her on the phone a few times when you were in the hospital. She seems such a nice girl.

— Her and Danny were very close, eh, Danny?

Skinner looked evenly at Kibby. — Correct me if I’m wrong, Brian, but didn’t
you
and Shannon spend a lot of time together? Didn’t you go to lunch together regularly?

— Jist in the canteen . . . she was a colleague . . .

— You always were a dark horse, Bri, Danny Skinner winked, almost with affection, even feeling confident enough to spread his grin around the table.

Kibby was so frustrated and drunk, he had to fight to avoid dissolving into a hyperventilating spasm.

This behaviour hardly registered with Joyce, so happy was she to have that vacant seat at the table, long empty, once again occupied. She thought that Danny Skinner was charming, he had such a friendly and dignified bearing and that he and Caroline looked so good together.

Caroline Kibby contemplated the wheezing, sweating mass her brother had become. She thought about the constant embarrassment he’d been to her over the years, whenever she’d brought school or college friends round. At least then he’d tried to be friendly in his inept way, but the vexation then was nothing compared to the discomfiture his behaviour now induced. In those acid comments and bitter asides she saw how much her brother had changed.

Skinner found it hard to stop scanning the room, feeling like an anthropologist attempting to ascertain the social fabric of some strange tribe. Yet the proximity to Brian Kibby made him uncomfortable. It was disconcerting being so close to that reeking, wobbling flesh and it was he who was loath to make eye contact with his old enemy.

This was not at all easy due to Kibby’s omnipresence,
particularly on that fifties tiled art deco mantelpiece, which was lined with so many of his portraits. While the heavy drapes on the windows shut out much of the light, as if in acknowledgement that Kibby was best appreciated in shadow, one picture dominated and it seemed to keep catching Skinner’s glance. Once again it was a large portrait of the Kibby of old; the thin, cadaverousness of his complexion contrasting with the large, liquid eyes of almost incomparable luminosity – in fact, just like Caroline’s were now – and the thin, fine features of the mouth and the nose. The current vintage caught him engaged with the image of bygone days and issued a derisive look so knowing that Skinner at first felt worried and then disgraced by it. Real guilt pricked at him as he considered what he had once put Kibby through with his bullying, recognising that he had inflicted considerable pain even before you contemplated the peculiar and devastating hex.