James Kelman - The Burn

My God!

Yeh.

That sounds like an awful nightmare. Edward’s left hand went to his face and he covered then rubbed at his left eye.

It’s like they think you’re a pillar or a post.

Surely no!

Aye! The invalid waved his hand, then signalled the need for silence and he whispered, Come here till I tell you. You’re no a religious young chap, are you?

I believe in God if that’s what you mean.

Do you? The invalid sat back on his chair and he studied Edward.

Well I hope I do I mean I hope I do. . And I’m no ashamed of it. I used to be an agnostic. But no now, I’m back to believing. Edward gazed at the invalid and suddenly felt very sad. His parents were getting old and no doubt they would be dead eventually, just like everybody else, his good old grandpa as well. And it wasnt long since Deborah’s grannie had died, he remembered the funeral quite vividly, the two sisters taking charge of doing the food, and they did it really terrific, rolls and different scones and things, bowls of nuts and crisps — better than if they had gone for a meal in a hotel.

My parents are churchgoers, he told the invalid. But I’m no. When I was a boy I was, but I’ve no been for years apart from when my fiancée’s grannie died last March. I felt a hypocrite. . Edward stopped and frowned: Did I though? Maybe I didnt. Maybe I just thought I should have felt a hypocrite, because that’s. . He glanced at the invalid: I’ve been involved in some things recently that I think really are sins, to be honest, I dont mind telling you Mister Parker and I can only hope I’ll be forgiven, I hope nothing’s going to get held against me although if it does I’ll no complain, if I’ve to suffer a chastisement. If I can only make up for it, maybe by doing my test properly tomorrow, if I can only manage that.

He punched his right fist into his left palm and cried: That’s all, that’s all I want!

You will pass it, the invalid said.

What!

You will. You’ll pass your test and you’ll get your promotion.

Edward stared at him and was immediately suspicious. Somewhere there was a line between making a slight fool of somebody and genuine fellowship and good company like the way at the fortnightly sales-team talks when the guys made jokes about one another and you didnt quite were sure, you never quite

You just couldnt laugh. But the jokes always seemed to be so damn unfunny. How was it possible to laugh? Edward could hardly even smile let alone throw the head back. It was terrible. He hated it.

The invalid was speaking:

Somebody that’s as diligent a studier as you, he’s the kind that deserves to succeed. And you will succeed. I’m convinced of that.

Edward coughed to clear his throat. Ah but I’m no that diligent, he said, my concentration’s nil. . He wet his lips and swallowed, his mouth seemed to have gone dry; then he glanced sideways for some reason but everything was fine, fine.

The invalid was frowning at him: Although with me mind you there’s aye the wish that a young fellow like yourself could one day take up the cudgels where me and the muckers left off. But these battles have finished, just like the days they happened in are finished, and the kind of future that sorts itself out on the past isnt the kind of future we fought for — and I’m no a supporter of such things — none of us were, no in the slightest. You understand me?

Edward hesitated.

Ah you will young fellow you will. And now if you’ll no come to me then I’ll come to you.

And so saying the old invalid got himself up onto his feet with the aid of the contraption and he made his way over to sit down on the chair next to Edward and Edward hoped so strongly that he wouldnt put his hand on his knee because he hated that being done he just couldnt stand it, couldnt cope with it and knew his face would just get so crimson, so awful crimson

And the invalid whispered: Now young fellow, my confession, afore Catherine comes back; when I worked in whatever you call it, Gross National — which is twelve years ago now — the country was in a state of economic decline, everything was to pot. You’re a bit young to remember that eh?

Edward felt nauseous, he felt sick sick sick, he needed to vomit, he needed to spew, to spew. He clamped shut his nose by squeezing it with his right thumb and forefinger. He breathed out loudly, clearly, to prepare for the refreshment of his lungs, breathed deeply in; he opened his eyes and stared at the frayed carpet on the floor. His room was better than this, it was bad, but not this bad. But maybe the old couple had something special that made it better and evened things out, although the light was terrible, and the walls and ceiling were just as crappy looking and it was so heavy an atmosphere — that dull yellow everywhere and it all so damn unhealthy and just damn bloody ungood.

But Lord Lord Lord was it a smell of shite right enough? Ohhh. But it might just have been sweat, the old invalid male having been using such tremendous exertions in merely getting to B from A about the room, even toing and froing re the cludgie. So he was bound to get sweaty.

Always he had to think the worst about folk, that was his problem; even with Deborah for heaven’s sake how come he was always blaming her for everything? And he was. No matter what it was he blamed her. It was just so uncharitable and wrong. Pride. That’s all it was. Conceited buggar. Pride.

but the pong from this old bloke sitting next to him he felt like he was going to keel over off the chair, he would topple over onto his doom and he would just die here in this room with an ancient stranger as a companion, somebody who could have devised an unheard-of method for removing fresh limbs from a young person’s body in order to weld them onto an elderly sick person, an invalid — spare-part surgery, and here he was about to become a human trunk with no limbs like that horrible story he had once read about a man getting mutilated by evil slavers for some purpose he couldnt remember, set in the Sahara region, and these armless and legless beggars in third-world countries who have to get wheeled about in bogies in an effort to pay off loans to the IMF and the World Bank. God he was so cold now, cold, he was so cold. No bloody fire, why was there no bloody fire, rabbiting on like this about all these factory incidents from a forgotten past and all his gesticulations it was so difficult to even listen because of it.

You did your best.

. .

. .

Still silence. Had he finished? What did he mean ‘you did your best’. Edward was almost scared to look up from the carpet. But he managed it, and found the invalid staring straight at him. It was such a strong stare. You would like to have looked at this stare but it would have been a stare-out contest if you had and he would have lost. He was no good at that kind of thing. It reminded him of these facetious mock-ups they had to play out at the monthly inter-district meetings. Awful, so awful. You felt so self-conscious and not just for yourself but for them as well, all the other sales-persons. He was the only one seemed to have that kind of response. Then there was that funny sadistic aspect about it. He just wasnt into it, and not the humiliation side either. It wasnt something he enjoyed at all. These games were just a kind of psychology. That’s all they were. And he didnt have the mentality needed if you were ever to excel at them. It was a certain kind you required. And he didnt have it. The other blokes did have, they had the right sort of make-up, they were the right mettle, it was him that wasnt, that was how he had to get out from it.

Plus he couldnt reach a closure anymore. That was the real truth, he couldnt close a sale, he just couldnt close a sale. And that meant he was a goner because if there was one thing you needed in the selling game it was the closure knack, how to close a sale, how to stop talking and point the customer’s pen at the dotted line. He had been great for the first few weeks. He seemed able to sell anything to anybody. No now. He was rubbish now. A dumpling. That’s the truth, he was a dumpling.