James Kelman - The Burn

That obelisk thing I was talking about, it was lying stranded down the back of Argyle Street. Most of the folk passing stopped to look at it but they didnt wait long, they carried on walking. They just werent that interested. Even if they had thought about lifting it I mean it was just too big, they would have needed a block and tackle. A couple of guys from Molly’s Bar passed and that’s obviously what they were thinking too, there were four of them but they wouldnt have been able to handle it, one of them was fucking pished anyway but plus as well as that they would have got spotted, busies everywhere. Then the teenagers. They were laughing. Quite right as well at their age. Maybe they were laughing at the obelisk thing I’m no sure, a case of the king’s clothes or something who knows, I couldnt quite make it out. Teenagers, you’re never quite sure — there again you would expect to, because unless you die young everybody’s been one I mean it should be bloody predictable, but it’s no, you’re never quite sure. They also had one of them music machines on loud and a boy started dancing round it. Then there was this posh cunt with a bowler and a brolly came along, the striped shirt and waistcoat, the works, he was probably cutting through by the old library to the Buchanan Street Stock Market, the old yin. He was annoyed but, you could see it a mile away; cause of the lack of respect they were showing it, the teenagers, maybe because it was Christmas, if it was a religious symbol, a Catholic one maybe or something, I dont know. But he was annoyed anyway. But these bastards are always fucking annoyed, they’re never anything else. He probably had it figured they were taking the mickey out of life and history because it was a symbol from the past and here they were laughing like fuck. That’s our history he was thinking but being a coward — probably afraid of public opinion — he kept his eyes to the front, doing his fucking city gent march on past. Another one of the teenagers, a nice-looking wee lassie, she wanted to paint it! Let’s get a hold of some paint and we’ll give it a coat! But after a bit more laughter, about nudity and naked bodies and that off they went down the street to do a bit of shoplifting from the Argyle Street shops, them big department stores. Ya fucking dancer, that’s what I would do if I was their age.

Then the genteel little old lady. Classic. Straight out an English movie, one of these comedy-type ones. Along the pavement she came with a really determined walk, the word’s ‘dignified’, and smartly dressed as well but there was something about the way she went that made you think she was on the look-out for folk’s big feet in case she tripped over them, cause that’s a problem for senior citizens. Her clothes were right old-fashioned, just like you’d expect. She had a shopping bag into the bargain, you dont see many like that nowadays, real leather probably, plus the tweed coat and that all buttoned up to the neck, and a bit of flimsy stuff poking out — lace? — something anyway. Quite a crookit back, bent over a fair way. And poking out her shopping bag was a bunch of yellow-topped flowers, tulips maybe or else daffodils. She saw the teenagers, she put one hand up to her neck. Old women like this hardly see anybody at all when they’re out walking except weans or teenagers, because maybe they think there might be trouble with them, as if they might start playing some sort of rowdy game and wind up they knock them flying, you canni fucking blame them, the old folk. But then when she saw the teenagers were just going off down the road, the music machine blaring, that was when she spotted the obelisk thing. She just walked right up to it. She did, and she looked at it. It was like she was examining it, with no worries about passersby thinking she was daft. Totally unselfconscious. You notice that about a lot of old folk. Seen it and done it; that’s the picture; seen it and done it. She stood in close up to it with what you might call a dreamy look on her face as if it was reminding her about her childhood or something, her old grandpa with a tale about the Indian Mutiny or something, maybe her sweetheart who emigrated to New Zealand, something like that. A real throwback, she put me in mind of Mrs Lafferty, an old biddy used to live where I grew up. God love us she must have been about eighty one, eighty two. And in a funny way she seemed fucking older — no because of her health because she was probably fit as a fiddle, she was just bloody christ I dont know what it was. It was then that the woman with the red hat stopped and the two of them smiled at each other. She said something to the old lady but maybe she was a bit corn beef because she just smiled for a wee minute and then she started walking, leaving the woman with the red hat just standing there with what you would call a bemused look on her face. I was wondering what would happen next. But nothing did. So I just walks up to the thing myself and I stared at it, and it wasni even a real obelisk, it was more like a Celtic Cross. The woman with the hat was just standing there no knowing what to make of it. I felt like asking her if she fancied going for a coffee or a cup of tea or something but then I noticed something in her face when she sees me so I says to myself, Fuck that for a game, and I just crosses ower into Ingram Street and I carried along the way I was going. Some women are funny, I wisni taking any chances.

Last year a 36 year old guy dropped dead while playing a game of football. Derek knew him a wee bit. They drank in the same pub down near the docks. Quite a nice guy, a lorry driver. He liked Scottish people and once or twice let Derek know he was making a trip north on the off chance he wanted a hitch. Married with three kids. What can ye do? There’s nothing ye can do. Except to stop laying blame on yerself, it’s nonsense, self-indulgent shit; as if ye’re centre of the universe. Probably the guy’s wife had blamed herself; why had she no told him to stay home that Sunday afternoon, any excuse, make him mow the lawn, they coulda gone shopping or something, anything, it wouldni have mattered, it just wouldni have mattered, to stop him collecting the football boots, just to stop him from playing, from going to play.

Fuck.

The phone rang. It was his sister Linda. She was coming round later on to pick up a few things. Will I bring ye in something to eat? she said.

Naw, I’m fine.

Ye sure?

Yeh.

People cared about ye. They looked after ye. Even when they needed looking after themself. It was amazing. What had he ever done to deserve it? Fuck all really. He hadni really done anything.

He turned off the television. He never usually watched it, he had been out the habit for a long time. Watching it in the morning was especially awful; it was only the Scottish accents made it interesting. He felt like going out for a walk but apart from a couple of shops there was nothing to see except houses — houses houses and houses. What was he going to do with his life, that was the thing. Although after Linda went he could go for a pint. But he didni want to, no to that fucking local anyway. Either they stared at ye or they didni so much as look at ye. Twice he had been in. He hadni met one person. Not one. Thank fuck. He felt like phoning Audrey, the girlfriend. She would be at her work but that wouldni matter, he could still talk to her.

He wasnt going to, he just wasnt going to.

What was he doing what was he doing. .

Oh christ, oh fuck sake, oh fuck, fuck fuck, oh fuck. His eyelids had been clenched shut; he relaxed himself, fixed a cushion at the end of the sofa and lay down, then curled up on his side, staring at the gas fire. There were these three things in his life: his old man getting killed; doing the stupid thing at art school; now his mother dying, his mother dead. He was thirty one. He was thirty one and he didnt feel like he was making a good job of his life. He kept getting tearful, he kept getting tearful. But that was alright, that was alright. It was alright. It was just