James Kelman - A Disaffection

Caught between the poles? Not exactly. But yet

Caught between the poles. Would that be death automatically? Or is there a halfway house? a state of total

nothingness for fuck sake. Old stuff. Not worth the bothering.

The healthy; the doing. A well-being; a good-to-be-alive-ness. All such terms for general states of spiritual nourishment. In other words get out the house and stop fucking worrying about oblivion. I mean how unhealthy can you get! How fucking un-of-this-worldness! Time to cut out all forms of sentimental drivel. And nostalgia. Nostalgia is

Desmond was quite correct. In his usual blunt fashion he hit the nail on the head. The trouble with Patrick Doyle: an inclination towards the sentimental. He would get up off these fucking hunkers immediately and march straight ben that fucking parlour and grab a hold of the pipes! He chuckled and rubbed his hands together, still crouching by the fire.

And the chap at the door!

Loudly as well. Now followed by a flap of the letter-box. Who the hell could it be could it really be actually Alison? no. No. Could it really be? Could it really be Alison. Flap of the letter-box again. And one of these

di di di di di

di di

Who the fuck? Gavin maybe? His father had had another stroke and been rushed to hospital. Poor maw, poor old fucking maw and that was him because his fucking smoking and drinking but mainly that stupid fucking smoking after all the fucking warnings.

Patrick waited a moment by the outside door, his right hand a fraction away from the handle. Then a bustling movement from without and he opened the door at once. A polis. A big guy about 6’ 6”, rain dripping off the great waterproof coat he was wearing. He stared at Patrick. He said: Is that your car at the foot of the close? After a moment he sniffed and wiped at his nostrils with the back of his hand.

Pardon?

I’m talking about the blue yin. Guy down the stair said it was yours. The polis squinted at Patrick. It’s just you’ve left your headlights on.

Aw aye, god!

The polis was already moving back now, his hand on the railing; he paused at the stairhead. Your battery’ll be knackered, he said.

Aye, thanks.

The polis nodded. A wee word about your tax …

My tax!

It’s alright, you’ve still got two or three days.

I forgot all about it christ I meant to get it.

The polis was gazing in his direction in such a way that their gazes could never meet; and he swung himself around by the banister to begin the descent.

Thanks, called Pat.

The sound of the footsteps clumping down the stairs and then the man’s whistling in a kind of loud breathless style so that the whistle itself could not be heard, just this loud harsh breathing, a song from the current pop charts.

Patrick closed the door, returned to the kitchen and sat down immediately but then jumping to his feet immediately afterwards and lifting his keys from the mantelpiece and going back out into the lobby. He frowned at the outside door, then lifted his anorak from its peg. Into the kitchen, he switched off the electric fire and checked the other electrical points, the gas cooker and oven. He rubbed his chin, to feel the stubble but it would do until the morning. He couldnt be bothered with shaving. He was getting sick of such things. What else? He glanced about the room; he needed his money of course and that kind of stuff.

There were no worries about the battery at this stage, it would be fine, it would start first time. Maybe if the lights had been left on all night but not just the hour’s worth. It was where to go he was thinking about. He didnt want to go to the arts centre he was not going to the arts centre; but where else? a pub up the town and look for a bit of company. Drive out to Cadder and visit Gavin. Or the maw and da. He hadni seen them for three weeks. He had forgotten the maw’s birthday. She didnt like presents anyway but still and all, a wee box of chocolates or something. That tune the polis was whistling, quite a catchy sort of thing; the weans were all playing it on their walkitalkies. A dancing song. Maybe an omen. Head for the disco young man! Find yourself a healthy young lass who is single and in search of a healthy young lad with a reasonably bright stance in this economic land.

There was pastry down his shirt. Where had it come from. The soon-to-be-elderly bachelor. Drops of decayed food down the shirt-front. Next thing he would be drooling at the desk, becoming senile under the steady gaze of the kids.

But where to go where to go. He was driving along Dumbarton Road in the direction away from the city centre. At this rate he would end up in Dumbarton and that wasnt a place to go. Maybe it was right enough. Dumbarton was the kind of town you passed through without paying any heed and no doubt it would prove to be the brightest spot in West Central Scotland. Plenty of whisky of course. That was one thing about it, the capital of whisky. He could go and get blootered in a strange hostelry and then try and wing his way home, just get into the motor and point the bonnet on a southerly course. And if steering clear of accidents he would arrive in England. Go and see Eric and have a sail in his fucking boat. Anything was possible. He had plenty of petrol and oil and so on — enough to last. Enough to last!! If it ran out all he had to fucking do was buy some more! He was rich. He was a fucking schoolteacher with bankers cards and limitless credit and a fair fucking tidy wee fucking sum in hard paper currency. He was nobody’s fool the fucking Doyle fellow. What do you think he went to fucking uni for! That was the thing about settling for twelfth-best, the capitalists paid you a fortune, they fucking showered you with gold. Shite. Luxuriating shite. Absolute fucking shite. Keech and tollie. Keech and absolute fucking tollie! Wooaa there. Wooaaa. The needle on the speedo hitting the forty-five to fifty m.p.h. mark and very heavy rain a-falling. Plus these polis. Thank christ the car was blue and no red.

And Yoker he was now passing through and on, on to Clydebank wherein his first post had arisen upon leaving the teachers’ trainers. Happy memories right enough. But reasonable yins; no need for sarcasm. Clydebank is an okay place. Patrick could walk into a couple of pubs and find folk to talk to, expupils and their parents and maybe even a couple of excolleagues.

If this had been the summer it would have been grand indeed. To have been heading nowhere in this set of circumstances, a blue blue sky and a nice mellow sun, still a couple of hours till nightfall, and perhaps heading all the way north with a weekend to spare — that kind of freedom, and maybe a tee-shirt-clad female hitchhiker. No: these fantasies are not good. Cut them out. They border on a very, a very dubious perception of the world. P. Doyle has no need of them. And to see him in the mirror you would probably not take him for more than a young chap of some twenty-three or — four summers. He had nothing to worry about when it comes down to it. See these eyebrows, their devilish set once the corners rise. Imagine looking into the mirror and seeing Goya’s self-portrait, that one from the black period, and you had painted it of yourself. You were Goya in other words. You could see into your own soul with total honesty of vision and find the wherewithal to get it down, that steady hand. At fucking eighty damn bloody years of age! That is it! That is surely it. What more is there to be said. Just pull the ladder up behind yous and pause, let us just pause, and consider what such a thing amounts to.

And the swimming baths here at the foot of Kilbowie Road. This was where he used to go for a swim when he was in the middle of a strong get-healthy period. It was next door to the library. Leave that world of books! Grab your trunks and get out into the real mccoy, the genuine elements. Be a fucking amphibian. Away and swim ya bastard. That’s the way to do it! Night driving is at its worst when the rain falls like this; all the lights on the windscreen, the altered perception, those blobs blob blob blobbing blob and the swish swish, swish swish, lulling you into something or other, that constant yellow all the time having to stare — to gape; gaping while you drive, attempting to see in a normal manner but having to gape to achieve it. He was being forced into the side of the road!