James Kelman - A Disaffection

Francis Connolly said, When Tolstoy was eleven years of age he met this boy who told him God didni exist. Him and his brothers thought it was a very interesting piece of news but Tolstoy kept on believing for another five years.

I think he was telling lies, said Patrick.

Honest?

Yeh, but I might be wrong.

Ye dont think of Tolstoy telling lies, said Francis Connolly.

That’s because you’re a man, said Ingrid Jones.

Patrick grinned, he glanced at his wristwatch. He looked at the class; most of them were still smiling. Look, he said, I wouldni mind just calling it quits the now. Does anybody mind?

He stared at them all.

He lifted his good fountain pen before leaving.

Down in the assembly hall a crowd of weans was running team races, tossing beanbags at each other and making a hell of a racket, shrieks and yells and the PE teacher shouting at them to be quiet. There was still a few minutes to the bell. After a moment Patrick returned along the corridor, to Alison’s room; at the window he tried to peer in but he could see very little, except that she was engaged with a large class, third year possibly. To just open the door and call her out for one second, to see how she was. But what did it matter.

O christ but he felt very happy. He started swaggering. He had his hands in his trouser pockets and he began moving his shoulders from side to side, Al Capone’s Guns Dont Argue. A last word to Old Milne. He could go in and tell him something or other — what. Just a last word. Cheerio. Fuck off ya tollie. Amen. Death. Arse. Aeroplanes. Buttons. Fish-fingers. Toast. Fish-fingers on toast. Fish-fingers and chips. A fucking while since your man ate any fucking grub. What he could do right now is go for a fucking meal; a nice threecourse businesslunch in an Indian restaurant for christ sake a beautiful chicken tikka with all the trimmings. And what could he do he could linger, he could linger; he could buy a nice big pint of draught heavy beer and just fucking sip it quietly and peacefully, sitting there on his tod and no worries about anything and that includes o tempor tempore; a huge plateful of fucking pakora and samosa and fucking onion salad and just peacefully nibbling, quiet music and the poor auld exotic fish swimming about in their tank.

He would not draw attention to himself. He would stand and wait in by the door until the bell. Only then would he cross the playground to the carpark. The weans would camouflage his exit. They were always out to the street before the dring had died. The dring had died. It sounded so final.

At the door he stood in by the shadows in case the polis were looking from the outside gates. He closed his eyes. There was a continuous buzzing in his left ear. It was not the blood roaring through his veins. It was not being caused by mental activity. He kept his eyes shut and concentrated. It was quite a high-pitched sound. A drone. No — drone signifies something fairly low and this was definitely high. Buzz probably described it best. Empedocles was Hölderlin’s favourite philosopher. The story goes he was kicked out by the Pythagoreans. There is a continuous buzzing.

The polis appeared at the gates, chatting to each other. Ten, nine, eight, seven. Old Milne could be at his study window! Patrick smiled and stepped out the door and walked smartly across towards the carpark, and the bell rang.

He was gone beyond the point. There was a point to be gone beyond and he had managed it. There was no further movement. But which way to travel! It was okay saying the point had been reached, that it was past. But which way! Okay, fuck. But which way?

He could bear left.

But this would take him in the direction of Maryhill Road thence Cadder: up where the dreaded big brother dwelt. And he would be at home, thus unavoidable. He would be watching television or reading a book or maybe listening to radio or the music centre or keeping an eye on the weans or doing a husbandly chore round the house.

But he had to see somebody. He really had to see somebody. And if ye couldni fucking see your family who the fuck could ye see, that’s what I regard as the type of questioning

Christ sake.

Okay. This is a fellow needing human intercourse. Let him visit his big brother. And his sister-in-law because she’s good as well.

But what about the motor, the motor willni go, the poor auld fucking motor car!

Of course it will go. It will go if you fucking drive it. But I cannot. I am unable to. I must just sit here and let it have its head. Nonsense. You’ve to take it where you require, where you desire. If you desire to take it to see your family then take it to there, to see your family. You can do it; come on. No. Yes. No. Aye ya fucking bastard ye come on; and get the boot down on this fucking accelerator pedal.

Okay.

Patrick simply shifted his hands while the steering wheel was being held by them and the entire motor car executed a perfect turn at the next junction, and on into Maryhill Road, driving up and swinging right, along by Lochburn Park, home of Maryhill Juniors, not a bad wee footballing side but no chance against the Yoker. And on under the canal bridge, up the hill and down by the cemetery.

He parked the car. He shut fast the door and locked it, glancing up to see if anybody was out on the veranda. The flats all had these verandas which were ideal for parties to dive from. Excellent for the district’s twelve-year-olds. He patted the car bonnet en route to the pavement where he proceeded to traverse the flagstones up the stairs and into the closemouth. Traversed the flagstones up the stairs and into the bloody closemouth. Is this fucking Mars! Traversed the fucking bastarn flagstones onto the planet fucking Vulcan for christ sake

except that it no longer exists. That poor old nonentity Vulcan, being once thought to exist, and then being discovered not to. Imagine being discovered not to exist! That’s even worse than being declared fucking redundant, irrelevant, which was the fate of ether upon the advent of Einstein. Whether it existed or not it had become irrelevant to the issue. Fuck sake. Ether. After all these centuries. Who was responsible for it originally? One of the Anaxes — imenes or imander. What would Hölderlin have to say about that! Fuck Hölderlin he’s deid and buried. You’re no. And neither’s your big brother. So chap the door and ring the bell:

Gavin answered. He was holding a pint-glass of beer. He didnt smile but squinted, puzzled. What’s to do! he said, by way of a greeting.

Patrick shrugged, smiling. Just passing. Just saying hullo.

Aw. Gavin gestured with the glass, returning inside; leaving Patrick to enter and shut the door. Fiddle music was playing. The smell of this house. Weans. Nappies and milk and stuff. And a wave of heat and cigarette smoke. Gavin was holding the living-room door ajar for him. Inside were two of his neighbours, sitting on the settee while on top of the dining table were about a dozen assorted bottles of homebrew beer. Davie Jordan, and big Arthur who lived in the flat up through the ceiling from Gavin. Gavin called to them: The young brother … And he waved at the table: Bottle of beer for ye brother.

Like the fiddle Paddy? asked Davie.

Aye, I do.

Davie pursed his lips and jerked his thumb at the record playing: This guy’s spot on — Shetland-style but I forgive him!

Arthur winked at Pat; Davie’s a Highlands & Islands man, whereas your brother, he likes the Shetlanders. Me … he tapped himself on the chest: I prefer Rock & Roll! He winked again and proceeded to make a cigarette. It’s all ye get in this house with these two cunts, he said, the fiddle and fucking whatever — the bagpipes!

Davie glared at him. Dont denigrate the national instrument! Then he laughed and slapped his hands together and called to Gavin: What about that bowl of soup Mister Doyle!