James Kelman - A Disaffection

She nodded.

What about you?

What about me?

In terms of writing?

O … no, not really. Although before I went to uni … I used to try writing short stories.

She smiled briefly, then dropped her gaze to the fireside. I love Flannery O’Connor.

Christ aye, that one about the murderer where the cat jumps on top of the guy’s neck while he’s driving! That’s an amazing story.

She smiled, nodding, still gazing at the fire and smoking her cigarette. She looked — sad. Fuck! Doyle fucking depresses everybody. God.

Hey Alison, d’ye ever get sick of hearing your own name? I’m no kidding, see when the weans say Mister Doyle, I feel like kicking their arse for them!

She winced.

…

Her eyes had closed. Patrick leaned forwards as though to touch her hand and her eyes opened. He said, Are you okay?

Yes. She smiled.

I apologise.

No. Dont.

It was the word of course, arse, she didnt like it and hadni been able to cope when he had said it. It was an odd word right enough. Arse. There arent many odder words. Arse. I have an arse. I kicked you on the arse. This is a load of arse. Are-s. It was an odd word. But in this life there are many odd things, an infinite multitude of them. It is not as if this life. It is not as if this life.

He smiled at her; but the smile soon petered out and he was just looking at her while she was staring in a downcast way. Would you like another cup of coffee? he asked her.

No thanks.

Ye sure?

Yes.

Are you okay?

Yeh.

Fine then, if you are.

She smiled. I am Pat, really.

I believe you.

She raised her eyebrows, giving him a look that was mysterious.

He smiled, shaking his head. He said: Your trouble is you’re too acute — too eh … christ I’m no sure what it is. You’re to open to, to open to something. You’re too … Sorry, I’ve lost it, whatever it was. O, by the way, just as a matter of interest, that bloke Norman, the temporary English teacher

What was he babbling about? What was this he was babbling about it was not a topic it was fucking hopeless, nothing, nothing at all. What was it

he was trying to say. Trying; to; say. He looked at her: she of course was looking back at him.

She was so totally in control.

She was staring straight at him. What a look! It was straight. It was a straight look she was giving him; it was dislike. She seemed maybe as if really she maybe just disliked him. It wasnt a surprise; ordinary dislike, she just didnt like him, Mary Busby didnt like him either, so it was nothing startling, she just didnt like him. What was he to do now? It was a difficult one. What was he to do. He smiled at her. It was the same with that poor bloke Norman. He should never ever have done it to him.

It was a habit but. It was something he did a lot. He could even be said to do it to his maw and his da, and to Gavin, he did it all the time to Gavin, his brother, and that was how that slight estrangement had happened, because of what Patrick had done and said and made known, he had this habit, of wounding. He wounded people. He actually wounded them. He was the one. It was him. He could fucking destroy people. It wasni Alison that did that it was him, he was the one — not Desmond and not fucking Old Milne or any other bastard, just him.

That was funny that. It made ye feel hopeless.

If Alison hadnt come of course. What would’ve happened then? He had been needing someone to talk to. He was just getting awful lonely these days, sometimes thinking he was the only person in the world who thought about things and worried about them. What he felt was as if everything was going to blow up. Even Alison, when she said that about Northamerica, that’s how he felt. And then fucking the school, all the wee first yearers and the third as well. All of them. Even the fucking sixth years. It was probably best if he wasnt here any longer. Altogether — just away altogether, right out of it. Maybe China, that district somewhere in the north-eastern provinces where they’re supposed to be making incredible advances in the treatment of cancer-related diseases. Just go and fucking see for yourself, if it was all a communist plot or what the fuck, maybe it really was one up for socialism. And maybe get a job in the village itself, as an English-language tutor, or a lorry driver or something. There was a nice kind of life to be led in some of them, the villages, you could be happy in it, a self-containedness. Chiang Kai-Shek was the Greatbritish Hero. That, was the way of it, how things were in reality, the fact to be admitted. Greatbritain, the place to leave. Alison was looking inside a book. What was she looking into the book for. What was it she was to be doing by it, by that manoeuvre. Was

Was?

Was?

Was. It is not to be got beyond. It is not to be got beyond. Here is the moment and it is always out in the open, the palpability. Palpa palpae, a punch in the fucking mouth, feminine.

No. It is not anything; nothing.

The moment. It has lasted for seconds. Seconds. And her; her absorption in the book, not wholly a hundred percent; that fraction of awareness, a reflectiveness, and watching him out the corner of her eye. Yes. Fuck. Fucking terrible.

I know what we can do we can play the pipes.

!!

Alison was looking at her book. Patrick knew its cover. It was a fairy tale about a woman who comes to a sticky end through no fault of her own, but in effect is a victim of society i.e. a world of male manners. Fiona Grindlay, a mother in his sixth-year class. She told them all to fuck off, just like the woman in the story. Fiona Grindlay, a good wee lassie and real and strong and tough and ah christ strong and tough and ready to confront the dark forces, to stand there having said, okay, how far can a person retreat! I’m just going to stand here and brace myself, fair enough, let them do as they wish but they’ll have to drag me off, they’ll have to knock me down and drag me away.

Great.

Patrick was a teacher

Patrick was a fool

Patrick Patrick Patrick

da da da da school

Patrick sniffed: I think about their parents Alison. The way they just stand back and let their weans’ heids get totally swollen with all that rightwing keech we’ve got to stuff into them so’s we can sit back with the big wagepackets. It’s us that keep the things from falling apart. It’s us. Who else! We’re responsible for it, the present polity.

Alison stared at him.

It is; us.

Is that what ye believe? Her eyes screwed up: genuine puzzlement.

Eh, yes.

Well I think it’s nonsense. She shut the book and returned it up onto its shelf and leaned back on the chair.

Patrick said, Would ye take another coffee?

She nodded slightly. I really do think it’s nonsense Pat and if you honestly believe it to be true then I think you should leave altogether.

Exactly.

Alison muttered, It’s a ridiculous thing to say.

I dont think it is.

Well I do. Also I think it’s damn silly … She shook her head and reached for another fag.

Pat nodded. It was best he wasnt here any longer although having said that of course it was his fucking house and if anybody was not to be here it was her, it was Alison; it was probably best she went away. Unless she started to talk. If she really started to talk. So he could find out what she actually did think about things — her herself, and not just received opinion and conventional bloody fucking wisdom.

There were water biscuits and cheese to go with the coffee if she fancied it, or bread, he could make a couple of sandwiches although he wasnt hungry at all, it wasnt that long since he had had his breakfast.

He stood at the sink with his back to her, the tap turned on and the water gushing, and he would turn to confront her in a moment, eye to eye. Here’s your coffee Alison plus biscuits and cheese if you’ve a mind.