James Kelman - A Disaffection

In the word itself, ‘sleep’, there was something implying succour: the term required redefining. ‘Sleep’ simply as a word to denote a concrete state of non-reflective consciousness and just fucking leave out all suggestions of mental or physical relaxation, recuperation, and so forth.

There are times when it is best to play music. And also perform any wee bits of business needing done about the house, the more mechanical the better. One project he did wish to begin at some point was erecting a bedshelf, with a small ladder for climbing up to; a square platform 8′ in length would do it.

And the motor car as well of course there were a million and one things needing attention to there. But fortunately you couldni drive the car up the bloody damn stairs and park it in your lobby. So that was that. But the grating noise was definitely worsening. If maybe the hinges were slackened off and the door panel hoisted aloft, and the hinges fixed on firmly while the door is being held. A job for two people. The sound was awful, that grating — close to the anguished cry of a human being, and continual, like a wail. A flattened worker, a carassemblyman, one from Linwood, has been squashed inside the door for the past decade, right since the final asset-stripping occurred. The guy was working cheerily away inside the panel and then came the bell for teabreak and the rest of the gang went off while he was in applying grease and paint to the interior surfaces, him being slightly deafened at the time because of the echoes. And then it was a case of:

Where the fuck’s Bertie?

Bertie … maybe he went for a shite.

Okay, will we just pour his tea the now or what?

Better no, in case it goes cold, you know how fussy he is about that.

But poor old Bertie never reappeared and gradually everybody forgot about him. He and his missis had been having a series of difficult arguments around this period and when he didni return from work at the usual time she assumed he had gone and left her, and now she and the kids would have to fend for themselves. But poor old Bertie had got stuck, he was wedged tight inside that door, his lower jaw twisted so that he couldnt scream out for help, and when the motor moved on down the line the ends of the panel were sealed fast together by the heavyduty punchguns, totally flattening him. Fucking way to go! Poor auld Bertie. Nice guy as well apart from having that wee bit of a bad temper.

Frost still showed in patches on the street and rooftops, though the sun was shining between clouds. He collected the Observer and Mail from the newsagent. Often he would have had his dirty washing with him and he would go there and then to the launderette and enjoy the read while the stuff spun round in the machine. But he had other things to think of. Back up the stairs he ate a boiled egg and toast and it was most enjoyable. There was this feeling he had, as though some sort of unstated vow about fried food had been made by him. Was he going to give it up! It was quite exciting to contemplate. What the fuck would he eat in future? No, he had probably just decided to stop eating so much of it. Fried grub was one of the main factors in why Glasgow suffered the highest incidence of heart disease in the whole of Western Europe.

The whole of Western Europe.

There was a mighty ring about that. Odd to imagine Glasgow being an everyday part of something so grand and majestic. Right at this precise moment in the history of the world Patrick was one of its numerous legions, a fellow of such as the heroic Basque, a spiritual descendant of those great Free French who had declared the new Republic a nice healthy region of unashamed cardcarrying atheism. Two centuries ago! And still you were getting bastards like Old Milne managing to make weans guilty because they open their eyelids during assembly prayers. It was fucking unbelievable, the hypocrisy. And then when you spoke about it in the staffroom. When you actually spoke out about it. Christ. How in the name of fuck could they stand back and look at themself in the mirror!

Maybe this is why he was being carpeted. A blatant failure to conceal his nonbelief in the deities. But it went against the grain. How on earth could the kids ever trust any teacher who persisted in regarding himself as a dead man?

A dead man? Where did that come from?

He should have shaved either last night or early this morning so that his cuts would have had the chance to heal prior to leaving the house. Plus his skin often turned a blotchy and purple hue, as if the blade was dull; he would need to buy a new one soon. Or perhaps it was an effect of a too-cheap soap, inferior perfumes and oils maybe. Horses. What have horses got to do with it? Pat shivered. He was standing in the bathroom staring at his face, having just tapped himself on the chin for some unfathomable reason — the moment when a person sees his or herself in a mirror, seeing a stranger, and peering at this stranger with furrowed brow. Who is this fucker and where is she or he off to? Is he or she off to enjoy her or himself or is it an errand of filial dimensions e.g. away to pay the rent and rates for an Aged P. or guardian?

More! More!

Or is this he or she a being whose outer surface of skin, flesh and hair is simply a shell for the most nefarious of inner essences?

A hideous sight in there. Behind the skin and flesh and hair. This rotten inner core of a soul, hideous to behold in its stuckfast permanence, the kind of sight no ordinary mortal seeks to look upon. Quite fucking right if ye ask me. Who wants to look upon hideous souls? Nobody but a fool, an innocent fool. Fools are naïve. Patrick is no fool ergo he is not naïve. He is an innocent. He quests.

A number of cuts round the adam’s apple and beneath the lower jawbone, tender parts of the neck, the portions where the suicide

probably suicides are fascinated by these portions of the neck, leaving aside females. Because they’ve not got any fucking adam’s apples.

The Commodore Cafe had a jukebox. It contained all of the current pop singles and not a few of the golden oldies. They would be blasting them forth. And Alison would sit, smiling quietly, ignoring the winks and stares of the weans. Would Patrick cope but? It is worth considering. Of course he would cope. Yet it is a fact, that many children can see into your mind; it is a faculty they have evolved. They know exactly when you are undergoing hellish torments. They know exactly that very instant the horrible self-consciousness is set to surface, has surfaced, in the act of perception. They would see him sitting there and be trying to restrain the general smirk, but this general smirk would alter, gradually, becoming an expression of great suffering, for nobody can experience empathy like a wean, and nobody can suffer like a wean either, and Patrick would have become a crucified soul in their very midst. His anguish all too apparent. And maybe only Alison would have failed to notice its manifestation. It was best not to go to the Commodore but it had to be gone to now.

The clothes. He was going to don a shirt and tie and generally affect the conventional appearance of an establishment sort of bloke, an ordinary upholder of the Greatbritish way of eking out this existence. He would polish the shoes. Naw he fucking wouldni. He was stopping at that point. No further. Polish the shoes! The very fucking idea! All for the sake of a beautiful woman!! What a fucking hoax! Hoax? What has hoax got to do with it? Hoax. Hoaxish. Hoaxum. And the root? Intocsickation of course. Patrick is fucking drunk. Drunk as a lord. A lord? Drunk as a monkey then. Fine. And he was sticking on the good sports jacket and trousers and a good thick vest under the shirt, and too a quite thick V-neck jersey so the tie could be seen and everything would be correct and presentable more or less, for any occasion, any eventuality, just in case of anything vaguely out of the ordinary occurring, such as going somewhere that a too-casual outfit was frowned upon. In the name of fuck what could that possibly be? especially on a Sunday. Well, church of course. Such things canni be predicted. Poor old Joseph K ended up in a cathedral and what was he wearing was it a suit of black — a black frockcoat and tails? And also, wearing the thick underclothes means he wouldni have to don the overcoat or heavy anorak which is perhaps the central reason as to why he is dressing as he is, so that Alison might esteem him the type of guy who doesnt care what like the weather is, he just wears the same outfit come hell or high water. It was probably quite a machismo carry on. Maybe he would impress better by sporting the overcoat. And a fucking woolly scarf if it comes down to it! And shove a jar of Vick Vapour Rub in the pocket in case of emergencies, a couple of hot water bottles strapped to the upper trunk. Yet the truth of the matter