James Kelman - A Disaffection

Patrick shook his head. He stepped back to the stool, sat up on it, the elbows on the edge of his desk. Anybody want to say anything?

James said: There was this guy on the TV last night and he said he was really pessimistic about the human race because they were all losing their faith in God.

Mm, what a load of shite. Patrick nodded. Of course he’s telling lies. What like were his arguments?

They wereni actually arguments he was just blabbing away.

Did anybody else see this programme?

Bobby Dodds said: The interviewer let him off. He just let him talk and talk. It was like an advert.

Was it a programme for Christians or could anybody look in?

It was a programme for Christians but anybody could look in that it was a programme for Christians.

Aye. Pat grinned. That’s a difficult yin but and my head isni up to it this morning.

A hangover? called a couple of others, and laughter.

Not at all if yous must know I’ve given up the bevy. It’s just there to screw your brains down into pulp. It makes ye do things that are totally ludricous and stupit, stupit! I mean look at your parents, eh! Some of ye must’ve had horrendous experiences there. I just get sick of it myself sometimes; all that waste of time and effort; you can understand some of the auld socialists, the way they aye went on about temperance and the need to be at least a wee bit abstinent. Everything in moderation I suppose. From now on let that be the motto of 2E! Okay, anybody else?

Hazel Jones said: Is shaving sore?

Is shaving sore … Pat frowned.

Hazel pointed to a boy behind her: He always says men get it to make up for periods.

Fair enough aye but eh, naw, shaving isni really sore; it’s actually just fucking boring to be honest. I’d grow a beard except that’s even more boring and it makes ye want to scratch all the time. And I dont like having to scratch all the time. Patrick shook his head, he stared at the top of the desk. There was this uncomfortable feeling in bed as well when you’re lying in bed sometimes, you’re on your side and your legs are one on top of the other, except your fucking kneebones keep jarring each other and it’s fucking awful, an awful feeling and you put your legs out and away from each other but it never seems to be satisfying and you end up the only escape is to fall asleep or lie on your back. So these things arent fair either. But there’s so many things that areni fair you’ve got to start inventing different words altogether. Patrick shut his eyes. His head was gone. The old nut, it was fucking away with it. He was just feeling awful. Guilt right enough. And the class. He opened his eyes and he said: Listen, what yous have to remember above all is that I dont care. I dont. Honest. It is a load of dross. D R O S S. I mean ye shouldni even be here. If yous were my weans! Christ. Every last thing that goes on here in this classroom is utter and absolute dross. And I’m one of the ones that does it worst of all because yous all think I’m on your side and I’m no — even MI6’s more on your side than I am! I’m no kidding ye weans I’m really fucking, not to be trusted. I’m actually gonni chuck it in and start doing something else altogether. And yous should do the same I mean there’s no point hanging about here cause it’s all a load of rightwing shite. Facta non verba, from now on. Why dont yous go and blow up the DHSS office?

That’s no fair: called Lesley.

Wrong. Anybody else?

Nobody spoke. They were staring at him in different ways, none of which was good. Pat sniffed. But he really fucking hated the idea of letting them down. It was terrible, a terrible thing. What age were they again? Wee second-yearers. Fourteen, some were thirteen. In some countries they would be married with children; in other countries they would be tortured maybe to the point of death. So what. His eyes would water soon, but the bell had rung a few moments ago and the moment was past. Except nobody was making any effort to leave. Even Audrey at the rear of the room, her head could be seen above the desk there, propping herself up to see what was happening and she probably was having terrible cramp or something. It was enough to make ye burst right out greeting. The unspeakable sentimentality. Doyle’s problem. A fact. At the root of everything, every last thing.

But it was because he was leaving. Surely people are entitled to get sentimental when they’re leaving!

No.

A boy had his hand raised, Tony McKelvie.

Alright Tony, said Patrick.

It’s just the registration Mister Doyle.

Patrick gazed at his watch, a twenty-first birthday present, the desk at where his wrist was resting, wrist was resting, not wanting to something, to eh, it being the kind of thing he couldnt cope with, this sort of perception, the way these weans saw straight through you, straight into your insides. He opened his eyes and he said to the girl who had told him off for not being fair: You’ve got to remember what I’m aye telling ye about questions, when people in positions of power ask ye questions.

She looked away from him.

Okay then yous better get away to your next class. Just say your names as you go. And if you say them in a certain manner the force of your identity will create an indentation in the fucking registration folder. He opened the folder and placed it on the desk and he took out a pen and flourished it and then stuck it into his top jacket pocket, clasped his hands on the desk.

The next class had been waiting outside the door. While they were trooping in he sidled out into the corridor, he stood beside a pillar overlooking the assembly hall where the netball game was about to take place. His life was finished. When the two teams entered from the changing rooms and the gym teacher blew her whistle he started walking, along to the stairs, and then leapfrogging the railing he fell twenty feet, his brains being dashed onto the floor. He went into the staff lavatory for a piss. He was actually needing a shit but he wasni sure how long it would take so he would have to leave it till the mid-morning interval. In the staffroom a couple of teachers were reading newspapers. He did not communicate with them. He washed his hands at the sink and drank a glass of water from the tap, rinsed the glass and upturned it on the draining board, returned to the classroom.

At dinnertime he remained at his desk until the place was deserted and he left the building by the rear basement exit to avoid passing the door of the staffroom. He couldnt face anybody at present. And of course Alison. And news would have spread. They would all know about the transfer he had applied for and been given. It didnt matter anyway. People could think what the fuck they wanted to think. Today was going to be his last for a long while. Yes, maybe forever.

But it was most odd how stupid he had been. This is what was niggling him. Although silly to let it get out of proportion, and he wouldnt let it get out of proportion. But it was definitely interesting. So many wee things he had done recently were just bloody of note. He wasni always like this for christ sake he could be a lot better. It was as if something was after him, a poltergeist for fuck sake or a Scottish leprechaun, a dybbuk for gentile atheists. He needed to get away out of things fast, but he wasnt able to. He could not escape. He was having to stay. It is this the sort of bloke he was. This sort of bloke.

The polis were looking the other way when he exited, crossing the street at once and walking quickly along the side of the long row of parked motor cars, on by the Commodore Cafe, not looking to the crowd of small smokers hanging about by the adjacent close and shop doorway. There was a pub he used to go to at the end of autumn last. That is where he was going now. It was a good pub because he didnt know any bastard that drank in it and what he could be was an absolute nonentity who was taking a drink of alcohol in an effort to just enjoy himself for a minute or two.