James Kelman - A Disaffection

A massive car on the outside cutting his nose off, forcing him to the side so that he had to slow right down to avoid hitting a parked fucking vehicle. Like a big yankee cadillac or something, here in the centre of Clydebank, the bastards are bloody everywhere. Pat thrust the gearstick into neutral, his foot on the brake pedal, and now turning the wheel — the big car now gone — and returning out and continuing as calmly as possible for this type of event is not something to get all het up about. Totally abysmal driving of course, whoever the fuck was responsible. A colonel from the U.S. Navy or something, away down to check out their neutron bombs at the Holy Loch. A high-powered sales executive travelling north to a selling jamboree. But definitely no need to worry over it; no need to let it prey on one’s imaginative faculties. If anything a little sympathy should be extended. That’s the kind of bloke who winds up with a coronary at forty. The car as penis etcetera. I’ve got a bigger one than you. Did such a relationship exist though? In the way people said it did. What sorts of inference were to be drawn on individual cars owned by individual male parties. The bigger the engine the smaller the dick? Perhaps. Perhaps that truly was the way of it. Especially in Glasgow and surrounding environs where maleness was a function of

of what? A function of what for fuck sake! Patrick was slowing again and moving back into the nearside lane, pausing to allow three cars to pass on the offside, then indicating to go right, and moving into a U-turn.

Back to the city. There was no point heading in a northwesterly direction, not at this time of night anyway. And the weather too christ it was just fucking too bad. So the arts centre. But how come? Why go there? Particularly now. There again but, it could appear quite natural, turning up at this moment. They would all stare at him of course and pretend to be interested in a puzzled manner but really they wouldni give a fuck one way or the other. They would just assume he had said cheerio earlier on because his body was demanding food and plus he wanted a quick wash and a shave and so quite naturally he had returned home for just that purpose. And because let’s face it yous fucking married bastirts, unlike yourselves he was only gonni be using this arts centre as a stepping stone. He was going on to someplace else afterwards. When yous were away home to watch the fucking telly he was gonni be going nightclubbing. Nightclubbing. Plus of course he did not want to drink too much and get too damn intoxicated, his being a driver and so on ad infinitum forever. Tomato juice was the new direction. This is where the road lay.

He was supposed to have been playing the pipes at 9.40. At 9.40 p.m.

The whole world was going crazy.

Patrick Doyle was not able to make a decision and stick by it.

Stick by it. He was not able to even remember what it was fucking about. As soon as it was done he forgot all about it. That was him and his decisions, as soon as he fucking made one he forgot all about it. Until some terrible inappropriate time such as this second, the thing turning up to remind you how in extremis pathetic you were, incapable of doing what you had decided to do — facta non verba. Actions speak louder than words. One of those sentimental wee sayings that contain a quotum of truth of huge enormity. Actions speak louder than words. It was the kind of ditty you wanted put on a poster and stuck onto your rear window. From now on no decisions, just go and do it. And aye, fucking stick it on a poster and fasten it to the rear fucking window, and let all these mad drivers get a look at it and maybe derive a wee bit of common sense, a wee bit of understanding, make them maybe stop careering about the streets knocking innocent bystanders for six. Calm down. Patrick’s chest is heaving. The chest is heaving Pat calm down. Letting things get to you. Red light ahead. Wooaa there. Nice and peacefully. Good. And also allowing the shoulders to not be so rigid. Good. That sort of doioioioinggggg up about the bottom of the neck, doioioinnggg. Shudder. A fucking shiver. Death my fine fellow, its recognition intuitive. Now then: if Patrick were to make a left turn at this corner it would lead him to a pub across the bridge of the Forth and Clyde canal into which he used to go with numerous frequency. Into what? The Forth and Clyde canal or the bloody damn fucking pub! Just shut up and drive. Just shut up and drive to there. Indicate and make to shift the wheel. Although right enough to be honest there isni that much point going to this especial boozer. He hasnt been in the place for years. He probably wont know anybody to talk to. And even if he does know that anybody to talk to, what the fuck does he talk about? He is not able to talk. If he could talk he wouldnt be here. Where would he be? He would be someplace else. That’s fucking straightforward. Plus as well it would make him late for the arts centre and he had to get there before they all went home. Being too late would be just too bad to be true. Tonight was a night for company, the company of those to whom Patrick could relate even when, to whom Patrick could relate even in, when

O god. Pause. Stop the car. No; drive, just drive, carry on, carry on, and carry on, carry on and carry on — does Alison have a lap? Does Alison have a lap!! Does Mrs Bryson? What? Have a lap? does Mrs Bryson have a lap? Who the fuck cares if she has a lap for christ sake who wants to nestle in there! Not him anyway. Not fucking Pat Doyle and that’s for fucking definite. And from now on it’s definate. It is definately the case that Patrick Doyle MA (HONS) has definately no plans for nestling in the lap of the married person Mirs Bryson who occasionally seems to be giving him the eye which is absolutely not true the woman just likes him in a maternal sort of big sisterish aunti routine that is hopeless nowadays, hopeless. That rain lashing down. But also a nip in the air this evening; if the rain stops you could imagine it frosting up. It would be very fine to talk Alison into going away with him to somewhere like England, tonight; to walk into the arts centre and get her into a corner and ask if she fancies a drive down to East Anglia, they could spend the night at Eric’s place until come morning with the blue skies they could travel south to Dover. And thence Calais; and on to the Mediterranean for some sun and warm seawater and maybe across to Spain, pausing among the Basques, maybe to Aragon to see where auld Goya was born. But no, it was time to return home, time to return home. The rain is falling and the windscreen wipers swish swish, swish swish, and occasionally, quite occasionally, the sensation that evil entities are abroad, that this very evening is an evening when malevolent creatures stalk the highways. It is a night for the warm fireside and the music playing in a friendly fashion, a nice well-known symphony or a nice homely play on radio. Maybe Alison is in trouble. Maybe she is walking home right at this moment, the bus left her off at the wrong street accidentally and she is having to hasten along, not wanting to go too quickly lest she draws attention to herself but hold; and she isni sure — is that the sound of soft, soft footfalls, the soft foot falling, the lurking evildoer, a sinister shape at the closemouth, in the yellowing glare of the old gaslamp, waiting there, waiting there, and then the echoing clip clip clip of her highheels as she turns the corner. Alison! For fuck sake watch yourself! There’s danger up there for christ sake danger ahead, Alison! And the screeching tyres of the highspeed motor car swerving corners and hitting pavements at ninety-nine miles per hour in his lastditch attempt to get there and fucking rescue the heroine, the hero, Master Patrick Doyle. And yet a lassie like Alison who regards herself as more than a match for anybody, male or female, this can be the kind of lassie who ends up in trouble — challenging herself to walk down the darkest alleys at as slow a pace as possible in order to prove the point, just to show she’s got her head screwed on the right way and is well up to taking care of herself which is how come