James Kelman - A Disaffection

Poor old bastards. What have they done to deserve all this, this opprobrium. Children whose parents never got married for whatever reason. And right beside the mournful-faced bloke was this younger guy who looked about ages with Pat, or even slightly younger. How come he hadni noticed him earlier. He actually resembled a polis who had come to the school recently to give a talk on public initiatives with third-year tearaways, for the benefit of the teaching staff. Pat attended. It was really interesting. And if he hadnt gone it would have been noted. But if people were being sent to keep watch on him then they would not have sent somebody he’d seen previously; they would have sent somebody anonymous. That was obvious. And yet was it? Christ but it was easy to become paranoiac. And rationally: rationally one had to admit of certain facts, that certain tenets one held to be true, certain activities that one hoped would take place, that would not endear him

But surely not in a public place. If they were going to do something to him they would surely choose somewhere private — not an actual football ground. What could be more conspicuous than that! And yet, when you thought about it, this was precisely the type of place an assassin would choose to perform the dirty deed; while the crowd roared on the two teams the poisoned umbrella comes out and is quietly inserted between one’s shoulderblades. Maybe a crowd was the last place to be if safety was sought. Perthshire was about to take a shy. Patrick stepped to the side, and back a pace, and was on par with the mournful chap in the hat. He smiled at him and nodded. The man looked at him and nodded in reply. And Patrick said, I missed the goal. What d’you make of it? one goal and I missed it!

We’ll get another yin, said he. He touched the brim of his hat, glanced at his watch: There’s still time yet.

The younger man was not paying any attention to the interchange. He was straining to follow the play now, the Perthshire forwards moving upfield toward Yoker’s goal area. They had a small boy out on the wing who was really good with the ball at his feet but was tending to slow things down, if he had been that bit more direct Yoker might have been in trouble. And then Yoker attacking out of defence. Exciting stuff and not at all square. Not bad at all. Patrick nodded. It was good. Football could be a direct game. He closed his eyes and stepped backwards.

Before the end he was making his way to the exit. He paused at the gate and continued out and along the road to where the car was parked. The same road he had driven last night, the route to Dumbarton. Nothing peculiar in that. Unless! The Fates were trying to tell him something! Could his destiny lie in such a direction! West to the Highlands and to the Islands. A Scotsman of the old school. Maybe he was put here on earth to decide the fate of a nation! And that nation was the one of his birth! Patrick Doyle, son of the great Feinn, descendant of that band of mighty warriors who bestrode the northern wastelands in defiance of central authority.

That fucking bastard Milne, when you thought about it. Here was an arse, a total arse, a total shite, an absolute fucking piece of tollie. Here was a fellow who disbelieved in the great teachers. Here was a congregationalist who was not to be trusted, who would sell out his staff and his pupils and his fucking grannie, who

And yet these fuckers were being set in front of you. They were placed there on the mantelpiece to be looked upon and admired ye mighty. There they were, stopping you from doing it; using everything in their power. Hardly worth talking about except that it was, because for christ sake ye know there was something approaching evil lurking somewhere within.

Even poor old Desmond was better than that. He might be a bit sarcastic but none could describe him as evil. But the headmaster. And the second headmaster. These two males — one hesitates to call them men, if we accept the term as one of merited achievement but is it fuck, it’s just a fucking fact. Two men. Things with bollocks and a prick. A pair of rascally fuckers, paid by a sick society, accountable to themselves on behalf of a corrupt government. Well then, what is to be done. Move the motor for a kick-off. Find the gear and fucking etcetera, get it going. Some wee boys and girls are watching. If you give them a wave they’ll throw stones. Quite right. Just fucking turn the ignition key properly. Fine. With the in-car entertainment this form of shenanigan would not entail. One would simply drive along carelessly, the hand tapping the wheel in accompaniment to the tune being heard on the airwaves.

Uch indeed, life life life.

Fuck off.

He was returning home he was returning home, but decided against it and drove to his parents, rejecting the notion of a pint along the way although Partick and Finnieston were chokablok with good pubs, or at least not bad yins. He stopped at a newsagent to buy a big box of mixed plain and milk chocolates, for the maw’s birthday. He liked her. He did. There was something good about her. His da as well. He could be grumpy and he could be huffy but at the base of it all he was okay and Patrick liked him. He liked them both. They were a pair. They were happy together. They had their ups and downs of course but who didni for christ sake we’ve all got to go.

Ssshh.

Patrick’s relationship with his parents can be described in this way: no irony as the basis of it. And if you cannot be ironic with your parents life is no dawdle.

What did Hölderlin say about parents?

Fuck all. He never said nothing about parents, he fucking knew better with that maw he had. What did he say about brothers? did he say anything about brothers? Sisters-in-law, what did he say about them? Because sisters-in-law are a different breed altogether. Patrick would have married his if his brother hadni got there before him. She was special. She had to be with him for a husband. He definitely had faults. A huffy bastard so he was. Mind you she was no paragon and once told Pat she had slept with other men before getting married to Gavin. But of course so had Gavin slept with other people for christ sake they never got married until their fucking mid-twenties, what do you expect!

So; that was the two of them.

The maw answered the door. She gave him a beamer of a smile and he stepped in the doorway and kissed her on the cheek. Hiya maw!

Pat … she smiled and shook her head.

Bloody chocolates for your birthday! He gave her the packet. Then from the kitchen his da shouted: Who is it Kate?

Pat!

Pat? Aw! And then the da’s baldy head poking round the door, a frown of a grin at him from the opposite end of the lobby: Where’ve ye been hiding yourself young man!

Ah!

Seriously but?

Patrick shrugged. His maw shut the outside door. So that was that and this was him. His da came forwards and placed his hand on Pat’s right forearm, holding him there, and he said to Mrs Doyle: I dont have to tell you what he’s in time for! His bloody tea!

Mrs Doyle smiled. Leave the boy alone.

I’m actually no that hungry, said Pat.

Aw well that’ll be the first time! Mr Doyle relaxed his grip on Pat’s forearm, stepped aside, gesturing Pat on ahead.

There is extra fish, said his maw.

Are ye sure?

Mr Doyle laughed briefly: Dont give us it! Are ye sure! You’d eat my head if I laid it on the table!

John! That’s bloody disgusting! Mrs Doyle frowned at him.

Ach I’m just kidding Kate for god sake … He smiled, tapped Pat on the back: On ye go, we’re in the living room.

But Patrick hesitated and he said to his maw, Alright if I ran a bath?

Of course.

Great.

Did you no bring your dirty washing as well! said Mr Doyle, smiling.

I’m no that bad!