James Kelman - The Burn

christ. He got up. He went over to the mirror and looked into it. There was the pad and the pen, he started sketching. He had a bit of a sore head. He wasnt sleeping, he just wasnt sleeping. It was being here, he just wasni comfortable. Too many fucking ghosts. That was the problem, too many ghosts.

Nor were his sockets red rimmed, they were not; the tears just ran like from a tap and he wasni wiping them. There was nothing to convince himself about. Grief. He was not at the con. It was just grief.

He needed a shave. He was not going to shave.

He sketched quickly. There was nothing wrong with his eyes he just was tired, tired. Mum was dead. Never mind she was too young she was dead. She hadni even reached 70 and that was bad and it was unfair. But so what, it had happened. If he had phoned more often. He could have phoned. He coulda kept more in touch. He shoulda kept more in touch. Ye just get out the habit, that’s all, there was nothing really to reproach himself about. It wasni his fault. It wasni anybody’s fault. She had just died. That was that. Everybody was prepared for it. So it wasni a shock. That side of things was fine, there wereni any grumbles, not as such –

— what the fuck does that mean? as such, what does it mean? Ye say these things.

The first real adult experience of death.

Shut the fuck up.

He laid down the pad, continued staring into the mirror. The sockets were not red rimmed. They were not.

He returned to the sofa; switching on the television as he went.

Up until the funeral he had been staying in Plymouth. He had a job there he quite enjoyed. He wrapped it before leaving. Not unusual for him. But he was also needing a break. Necessary in fact. He liked Audrey, he really did, but still and all, he needed to get away. He couldni have brought her anyway. She would have had to go back to work. It woulda been hard for her getting the time. But he coulda asked her. He didnt. He didnt ask her. He didni want her here. He wanted to be on his own. He needed to get here and be on his own. That was how he would handle it. He needed to handle it. He needed to know.

What did he need to know? He needed to know he could make it. He needed to know he was fine. That was it, he just fucking needed to know he was fine.

Because he didni know what he was going to do next. That was the crux. He might even sign on the dole. Or head off somewhere else altogether once the business was sorted out. He was getting sick of Plymouth; he was, he was getting sick of the bloody place. There was a lot of his stuff left in the flat but so what, she would keep it for him. Or else just dump it. What did it fucking matter. It didni fucking matter at all; it was just junk; all the stuff he had, it was just junk, fucking junk.

Ah mum. Mum mum. A weeish sort of woman with a surprised look on her face. No wonder, no bloody wonder. He wiped at the wetness round his eyes with the knuckles of his right hand.

Of course there were all these memories everywhere. A whole stack of things she had kept. When he saw them it was her he was seeing, because it was her had kept them. Although the actual things came from other folk they were hers. Ach but they wereni, no really. They were just there. They were just there waiting for somebody, somebody like him, family, just to come along and see them — he was the ideal person. One or two to do with the old man himself. Not just photos but mementoes, his Royal Marine bunnet and belt; some other stuff from Burma and places, medals. He had even forgotten dad was in the Royal Marines. The stuff lay in a cardboard suitcase. There wasni much but christ it was good, poor old bastard — well he wasni even old at all christ almighty he was young, fifty-four, getting killed outright, a tragedy, but there you are, life’s full of them.

Funny that was what he remembered, the surprised look on her face. It was definitely from way back. The world did things to ye. The world just did things to ye. It killed yer husband. Yer son went away. But there were still the sisters. They had all stayed.

Fuck.

He made a cup of tea. All this wallowing. He needed to eat as well. He shoulda let Linda fix it for him.

Still a reasonable-sized lump of cheese in the fridge. He had been eating his way through the stuff in the pantry, all the tins. That would have pleased mum anyway, the lack of waste. O christ she wouldni have fucking cared, known, known or cared, just nothing, nothing, just surprise, surprise surprise surfuckingprise, my god.

He had been rooting about the house. Looking in cupboards and drawers. He hadni done it for years so it was all a bit weird. A lot of his own stuff was there as well. Christ! He kept finding these ‘things’. An armband with all his badges from the Boys’ Brigade, the B.B. — or the B.B.’s as Mrs Cassidy used to call it, the auld next door neighbour, a Catholic. The B.B.’s. And some lassies at school. The B.B.’s! They just did it to annoy you.

And the bible.

Bible. What does ‘bible’ mean? He got it for regular attendance. That was him as a boy, sure and steadfast, safe and sorry, a slight lack in imagination. Rubbish, he wasni like that at all. Then the photos from primary school. All the faces. Poor wee bastards. From another world. Probably half of them would still be staying roundabout here. Never having went anywhere. Never having really done fuck all, no even to look back on and tell their kids. But what had he done? That’s the problem with memories, nostalgia, sentimentality, ye end up on a downer because of yer own life.

Three of his pictures lay propped against the back wall of the walk-in press. Glazed efforts. He knew they would be here. They were amazing. He used to be the Great White Hope of the family. Being the only male was the major part of that of course. He painted them early on at secondary school, two portraits and a landscape, part of his portfolio. Where was the fucking rest of it? At the bottom of some dusty cupboard probably, or else shredded.

They were bloody good as well. Christ. Mum and dad were really chuffed when he showed them. The landscape especially was good. A view from the bedroom window. He did it a few times at different ages; it was a nice thing with a garden fence, all these pointed stakes, all different sizes, all individuated. The guy it belonged to had painted the top bits red and the bottom bits white and they always looked really good against the sharp cut hedges. Mr Fleming was his name. Christ, Mr Fleming. Him and dad were in the church bowling club or something. Poor old bastard, he hated a ball landing in his garden. Boys playing ‘rowdy’ games outside in the street, that kind of stuff, it really pissed him off. What was he doing now? The fence had gone. But probably he was still alive and kicking. Crabbit auld bastards like that, they usually lived to a hundred.

But it was nice seeing them again; rediscovering what he was doing at 13, 14, it gave him hope for the future. Maybe he wasni a fucking waster after all. Maybe his life would change! Maybe this was a turning point! He would now become a real artist. His destiny was about to be fulfilled!

The doorbell. Linda.

Elizabeth and Marilyn were his other two sisters. Marilyn lived in Ayr, the other two still in Glasgow. Linda was the eldest and Marilyn the second, Elizabeth being next up from himself. In other words, apart from everything else, he was the fucking baby of the family, the wee pet; he got spoiled rotten, that’s how come he was the half-wit ye saw today.

She came in with two cups of tea while he was kneeling on the floor; he was rummaging through a shoebox collection of old photographs. He had finished a cup before she arrived but it woulda ruined the image to tell her. She knelt down beside him. It was cheery and sad, really sad. He never quite felt there in the family, no as far as these kind of memories were concerned. The same with all the talking after the funeral; too many of the stories were early, they didni concern him except as a spectator. So much had happened either before he was born or when he was too wee to have any say in the matter.