James Kelman - A Disaffection

Pat said, Did Jackie have an alsatian dog at any time?

Nah.

Mm.

Gavin struck a match, dragged in the smoke. He chuckled. Jackie was forever falling into the bloody nolly! That was his game. We used to wander for miles along the bank, as far as bloody Kirkintilloch we went. And if there was any locks we could get onto then we would get onto them and see if we could see any fish. There was a lot of perch and roach in the canal — and some big pike as far as I know. D’you mind Jackie Pat?

Eh …

Uch I’m sure ye do. He came up the house a lot. A boy with ginger hair, a wee bit bigger than myself. His maw worked in the eh City Bakeries shop down Clarendon Street, the second-day shop. Remember how Jackie used to hand us in a couple of loaves now and again?

To be honest Gavin I dont really.

Ye sure?

Eh … my memories of the Vernon Street house just areni as clear as yours. I’m four years younger than you!

Aye.

Three-and-a-half, said Nicola.

Three years and seven months, said Pat.

Still but I thought you’d have minded Jackie, said Gavin while handing cups of tea to the other two. He sipped his own standing with his back leaning against the sink. Me and him and Dunky hung about the gether most of the time. He winked at Pat, indicating Nicola: We used to go on big knocking expeditions up the town every Saturday morning, plus any time we dogged school — in fact we used to dog school just for that bloody reason!

Gavin! said Nicola.

We used to specialise, pens and pencils and rubbers and bloody whatdyoucallthem pencil sharpeners, and stamps as well, these yins ye stick into books when you’re a wean.

Pat laughed.

It’s a wonder ye never get caught! said Nicola.

Too much savvy!

Pure luck! said Pat.

Savvy!

Luck!

Gavin chuckled.

Nicola said, Never ever tell John about that.

Of course no.

No even as a bit of fun Gavin.

Okay.

Nicola glanced at Pat: You as well Pat.

Aye.

Please.

Never, of course.

Because it would be terrible if he started thinking it was something good.

I’ll no say a word.

Boys glamourise that sort of stuff.

I wont say a word, nothing.

She nodded.

Is it just boys that glamourise it? asked Patrick after a brief pause. I would’ve thought it was both.

Possibly, said Nicola.

Patrick nodded, after another brief pause.

It was close to a downpour. He peered out at it before darting from the close, upturning his jacket collar and hunching his shoulders and although he had fastened up the buttons he gripped the edges of the jacket as if he hadnt. Then he had walked past the motor. He continued. He was definitely not going to drive it. He continued, doing his best not to look back but eventually came the lapse: he gazed at the old thing, how it was looking quite sturdy, with that air of bravura about it, even allowing for the heavy rain drops pattering off its roof and bonnet. But fuck sake, a person had to do what he or she set out to do in this world else where would we be and where would it all end. And it was strange to leave it behind, especially in this weather. He felt totally sober. He was totally sober. But if the polis breathalysed him he wouldnt be. So he was not totally sober at all. But he was close to it. If he hadnt been close to it then this sort of rational decision would have been out the window. Maybe it was bloody daft to leave it.

Why was he leaving it!

Fuck sake!

The trouble was walking concerns elemental factors. Patrick was dressed for driving motor cars or journeying by taxis, he was not dressed for this, for getting fucking soaked to the skin. He did have an overcoat but he never wore the fucking thing because he didnt usually fucking need to. Now here he was a pedestrian and getting bla bla bla drenched. He had passed a bus stop before the end of the street but no point waiting there according to Gavin. People died of exposure waiting there. It was one of these bus stops you find in outer-city housing schemes all over Glasgow, only there for the benefit of the fucking canine population and a few desperate drunks because no buses ever went there. What a shame; the poor old flagellants, having to suffer such iniquities; ach well they’ve got fucking feet havent they so hell mend them, let them fucking use them and them that havent, well, let them climb on some dickie’s shoulders. Patrick for example. If anybody wishes to climb onto his shoulders why, he will let them. Where’s the fucking bus stop but, that’s what I want to know. It was on the main road. It was beyond the pub and across the way from a wee post office and there was a shelter, at which nobody was inside. Bad news. Bad news indeed. Probably a bus had passed very recently and there was going to be a big long wait till the next. Who knew when that would be for christ sake it could be tomorrow fucking morning because you never know with public fucking transport this is the problem that it is so fucking inconsistent unlike your own, your own transport, because you always know when it’s coming I mean cause you’re fucking driving it yourfuckingself for christ sake poor auld Pat’s gonni have to wait till 1999. Shut up and relax for fuck sake.

Okay.

Right.

But the whole notion of standing at bus stops! Awful. The whole notion of a bus even! Because he required the exact sum of money for the fare. If he didni have this exact sum the driver would refuse to give him change, he would just take the entire £1 or £5 or whatever it was and keep it on behalf of the transport company that employed him.

A situation fraught with awkwardidity.

But he was definitely not about to take a taxi. No sirree. None of that sort of nonsense. But not one single fucking taxi had passed anyway.

There was a solid smell of urine in the shelter. A multitude of pishes down through the years — the main problem of erecting a shelter across the road from a pub. Patrick unbuttoned his jacket and gave himself a good shaking, flapping the trousers. His bloody leg was still sore from yesterday. He should have borrowed a raincoat from Gavin. If a taxi came he was fucking grabbing it. Okay! If ye want a fight you’re fucking on. Nor did he have sufficient coins in his pocket to purchase a bus ticket. But that was no excuse because there was a chip shop fifty yards up the road. He could get change from there.

It was brightly lit inside. In comparison to the Rossi’s place it appeared friendly. The Rossi’s place was not so much unfriendly as dull, the actual walls were yellowing and always the semblance of a bluish fug because of the inferior animals whose fats they used for frying. Plus they continued to use the fat long after it should have been tossed overboard. It is bad how folk continue to use old fat to fry people’s food. But this place, this place appeared to be fine. There was a healthy array of goldenly battered fish and haggis, hamburgers, black pudding and sausage both smoked and unsmoked, lying in neat rows in the warming compartment above the ovens.

He bought a poke of chips. He wasnt hungry but it was either that or chocolate bars or something.

Still nobody at the bus stop. The rain didnt seem so heavy. He had started eating the chips but instead of returning to the bus shelter he walked on towards the next stop. Better to walk than stand still. Nor was the idea of eating chips in the middle of that urine stench very appealing: it was so bloody overpowering and thick it would probably solidify and cling onto the chips. And who wants to eat urine-flavoured chips I mean in the name of fuck right enough. He should have bought shoes. He should have bought shoes. The ones he had on were useless. His feet felt as if they were slipping around. Maybe it was blood. What was that story about the guy who is marching for months and thinks his feet are wet and then discovers they’re saturated with blood. Was it a story at all. Maybe it was to do with Scott and the Foreigner Amundsen? Maybe it wasnt anything at all and he had just fucking invented it. There was this chap who was marching for months, and his feet were wet, and then when he took off his boots he discovers his feet are fucking bleeding. He should have bought shoes. It was to do with a defect in the wee eyes where the laces go, plus right enough it was because they were cheap, they were cheap cheap cheap — cheap fucking efforts, and that was how come he never bought at the sale either because they were all fucking cheap efforts as well. And the poor auld flagellants the silly bastards there they all were waiting to buy them. Ach well, it was their own fault, they only had themselves to blame I mean why didnt they crash in the fucking window and just lift what they wanted. That’s what P for Patrick would have done. Well why didnt he. Because he didni fucking want to, so ha ha ha.