James Kelman - A Disaffection

Patrick nodded. Mind you, a brief summary would be better: for example, Mister Doyle, you are a shite. Pat smiled at the girl but she did not return him a smile, she looked away.

I just want a rest, he said.

Do you think ye deserve one? Neil Rankine speaking. A big quiet boy who doesnt like Pat Doyle very much.

Your question is a good yin Mister Rankine.

Are ye gonni answer it Mister Doyle?

Pat smiled at him.

There was some movement going on. People were fidgeting. Maybe Neil Rankine speaking had signalled something. If his question was a signal. If maybe he was a ringleader

Debby Munro had risen from her seat. She had shoved her stuff into her bag. She was about to leave the room. She was going to go, to go from it. The others would follow. What was wrong with that. Nothing. It was fine. If they all went. If they were all to go. Yous may all go, he said, and go quick, quick. Come on, away ye go, the lot of yous, hurry up.

He sat sideways on the stool. He was facing away from the door, leaning his left elbow on the edge of the desk, his chin now onto the palm of the left hand. More shuffling noises. Another class! He turned his head slightly. It was only ghosts. A whole crowd of them. A whole crowd of ghosts had entered his classroom. And yet this period was supposed to have been spare.

What was their identity. Do ghosts need an identity. Need an identity always be a prerequisite. What does that mean. Is such a question the sort of thing one should be faced by, one should face up to. Here is a list of questions whose answers are not easily to be taken. There are moments to have gone, to have passed. Before arrival at one’s destination one requires to have travelled halfway, and halfway of that, and halfway of that, and halfway of that.

The smiling faces.

I am cracking up.

The smiling faces.

P Λ — P.

…

…

Patrick Doyle’s stomach erupted and what came out was a mixture of heavy beer and blended whisky, the stuff sold to ordinary folk. No doubt if it had been the single malt stuff they sold to rich folk he would still have spewed it. Okay. On the floor the mixture. Fucking grooooiy grooooiy grooo ercchhh ercchhh ercchhh o dear, fucking awful, but there you have it. All of it there. Nothing more. It was all out. O dear. He closed his eyes. He wasnt actually sure if there was more to come, there wasnt, it was all out. His head was cold and damp but it was fine.

It had splashed over his shoes and all around the bottoms of his trousers, slabbery stuff there as well. What he could do was just leave it so it would dry and then he could brush it off but people wouldnt be coping with that, the sight and the niff, so best to just actually

Wiping it was not easy. He had torn off several sheets of paper from jotters and was using these but they werent fucking proper for the job, not being built with wee holes, the paper, to take in waterish substances the way tissues and sponges did, it just being the ordinary type of paper which

was not fucking porous!!!!!!

Patrick yelled a laugh. But christ it was everywhere and you had to be careful how you stepped otherwise you would slide, ending arse over elbow on the bastarn fucking floor!!!! And there were snotters down from his nostrils for fuck sake with the laughter and snifflings that were going on. In the name of god right enough what a fucking state to get into, looking really christ whatstheword disfuckinggusting.

Zoom Zoom

The patter of tiny feet. The corridor. The weans. The drama. What a situation for our hero!

Eh yous canni come in here the now.

Why not sir?

Because I fucking say so that’s why not.

He turned out the lights and shut fast the door wishing he could lock it but teachers never being given actual keys to doors in case they fucking — done something or other that was who knows what the fuck, unwholesome maybe. He walked along and down the stairs, moving fast though appearing casual. A lot of pupils were about but they were paying no heed to the bottom sections of his trousers.

And farther down, into the basement area, along by the boilers for the trusty brush and shovel and the bunker of sawdust. He grabbed the sawdust in handfuls and rubbed it into his trousers. The sickness rolling off in wee lumps. He rubbed in more of the sawdust, making the things as presentable as possible. Then he was back up the stairs and into his room in moments, with brush, shovel and fire-bucket, clearing the mess as best he could in the time, the door now being pushed ajar and the nosy wee faces would be poking in, and making their decisions

and in walked the first batch — girls, talking to each other and looking at him quite the thing, just to see what he was up to. He said nothing. He kept on doing what he was doing with shovels of sawdust and brushings and shovels, the sawdust, into the fire-bucket, and that dampness left on the shovel and the fucking smell all too recognisable. It wasnt the best of jobs okay but it was reasonable and it was okay, okay. The youthful parties were all watching him work but without a great deal of interest. He finished. He was to return the implements immediately.

None of the maintenance folk was about in the basement. That was good. No reports. He didnt especially want people to know. I’ll blame it on the cloves anyway, he said, reassuringly to himself in a loud whisper.

A game of five-a-side football had started in the assembly hall. He watched a couple of minutes. It was funny how come he had missed the only goal of the game at Yoker on Saturday. Then he shivered, a sudden spasm; and the volts went right up the backbone to the base of his skull. The idea of laying oneself down for a sleep. What was he doing here, in this den of iniquity, when he could be elsewhere. While in a room not too far away dwelt the woman Houston. He was shivering; he yawned. That was the good thing about flinging yourself over the banister to go crashing to your doom, how you might waken up in a cosily warm hospital bed. It could have been worse of course, he could have eaten a big curry. That wasni even funny. And the time? Not long. Not long. While in a room not too far. What did she think. What did she think about things, in general; the generality, of things. Did she think of him with kindness. These are the sorts of questionings the Doyle fellow must encounter if ever he is to survive as a person. MI6.

Patrick continued to lean his elbows on the railing. Then he smiled at him. MI6 smiled back at him.

And seemed about to say something to Patrick but Patrick had stepped roundabout him and walked on, without the slightest hesitation. My life is just an ordinary life. I am just a person from the depths of the universality, who is leading his/her life as best s/he can, never asking for much except just an avoidance of the nooks and the crannies the twists and the turns. There is nought that is unusual about it either. One drinks and one spews in an almost public manner. But this is aye the way of it for the ordinary fellow or fellowess. It is not something that doesni happen. It happened to me as a schoolboy during the earlier periods of experimentation and now when I am an adult and attuned to the highways and byways lo, it is happening still, when I am a schoolboy no longer, it can still be happening. I walk into the room and confront the class, the pupils. I continue

heads or no fucking heads windows or no fucking windows

I continue

heads. There are heads at the window. Is that two heads or is it one head?

Pupils! Here you have a chap. This is a chap here. Look at that fucking head there, that is the head of the second head, the master of headsis assistant. Let us open our jotters and discuss the following: time. Time. Matters that be temporal. Time is the healer. Time is a thing, that