James Kelman - Mo said she was quirky

But if everybody was different their thoughts too would be different and all their points of view, everything. You couldnt have everyone different but their thoughts all the same. That was just stupid. Why did people want everybody to be the same? Or act like they did. Usually it was men. But not all the time. You heard women politicians and they were tough as old boots, you saw their faces; they were worse than men, they would tell somebody to push the button for the whole human race, they would give the order. They could be mothers. Of course they could. It was hatred, people hated; why did people hate? They did, they hated.

She eased La Divina out from beneath the girl’s head. It was just a little furry creature but she had had it since she was a baby. Mo teased her about it. Helen wished he would stop. But maybe it was for the best. It was a new life now and the sooner Sophie got rid of the old stuff the better. But it didnt apply to dolls. There was nothing wrong in dolls. If she could break with the old associations. That was what counted. Mo was good with Sophie, she could have been his own daughter. Helen was so lucky with Mo, but perhaps she wasnt.

That was an odd idea. What did it mean?

Nothing. Odd ideas were — odd! And she got them. But she was odd. She was; just hopeless, hopeless. She knew it about herself. If she wasnt hopeless she would never have got involved with him in the first place, her ex, never. And marriage would have been out the question. Marriage! My God imagine marrying him! But she did; it was never a strong point, sense. People thought she was sensible. She wasnt. They thought she was and she wasnt. She had to be thick to have married him. At the same time he was Sophie’s father. So if not for him.

She lifted the empty glass and rose from the chair, the floorboards squeaking, treading so very carefully when she passed the end of the bed, although Mo would have slept through thunder. She clicked open the door into the hallway, and closed it so very gently.

That draught under the front door, my God, you could actually feel the chill. Her feet were always cold.

The light was still on in the kitchen. She had forgotten to switch it off. Oh well, she switched it off now, stepped across between the fallen photographs and settled into the chair. She was tired, sitting with the coat shielding her. It was weary. Weary and tired, that was her. Tiredness. Where did it come from? From living. Exhaustion. She was too weary to smile, she had been working all night dealing cards, dealing cards and taking money, putting up with it all, everything. And now here she was, not sound asleep and she should have been, snug, warm, just warm, the heat from Mo he was so so, so warm, so warm, in beside him and away from everything, and his body, she loved his body; she did, why did she, men and women,

all these things and in her mind too all just going round and round. Her head lolled, her eyes open; only the tiredness, but not wanting to go to bed, she didnt want to.

Morning light but shadows lingered. Shadows of our lives. A shadow of our life. What our lives are. Those shadows, into those shadows. Brian at the traffic lights, that look in his eye, it was wild. Why was he staring at her? It was horrible. He didnt know her. If he had it would have been different, he wouldnt have seemed so murderous and dangerous. Because that is how he was to the others; that was how he appeared: murderous and dangerous. Not to her. Of course not, not at all. Because she knew who he was and if he had known it was her, if he had he would have looked at her differently.

He would have, because of who she was and who he was — her big brother. He was her big brother my God and it wouldnt matter about anything else; all what had happened, whatever had happened was away in the past. If anything had happened. She didnt even know if anything had happened. It was all past now, everything, she was his wee sister, she was only little, she had been; if anything had ever happened, she was only little. Nothing had happened anyway, what had happened? nothing.

Other shadows now, and a darkness. Oh but darkness, what is darkness, just darkness of mood, if her mood was dark.

These shadows. Shadows shadows, this is the past.

Memories are memories. Memories are not dark. It was Helen herself and her imagination, too many books as a girl, Mum always said it. Shadows and images, darkness. These were only memories, all crowding in, her and the family when she was very small; the ones from the beach where she was sitting up on Brian’s shoulders. He took her down to the water. Other brothers would have skipped away and left her but he took her, walking over and over the sand, a far stretch of sand, across twirly little sandworms. She would not step on them although they were not real sandworms and would never hurt her. Brian said that. And nothing ever would hurt her if he was there. Helen knew that. But you could imagine worms, how they twirled round and were hiding there in the little piles my God and you could not walk to the water without stepping on them they were everywhere you looked and made you shudder and she hated touching them how boys could touch them oh my God and she could just look down at them, from high up on Brian’s shoulders.

She couldnt have had a better brother. Did people not know? It was just so obvious. Dad knew that too. He must have. Why wouldnt he? Because he didnt like him. Poor Dad, his voice was a roar filling the whole house. Frightening and horrible. Helen hated it and wished she could stop it and just hide, she could just hide, if there were blankets, and just pulling them over her head, it was so so horrible.

If he didnt like his own son. My God. Surely not, but yes. It isnt strange to find in families a parent doesnt like a child. You had it in stories and films. It was an old subject; even in the bible. The parent tries but cannot bring himself to do it. It does happen. It is nobody’s fault and just such a horrible shame, for everybody — not only the child. Dad would have felt it the worst. Poor Dad, fifty-four years of age. That is young for people dying. Cholesterol and blood pressure, or blood through the veins; to do with blood, something. Scotland was horrible for dying. She hadnt known it was so bad. Porridge and whisky, kilts and haggises. People laughed. It was a warped sense of humour. It happened in the casino. Anything about Scotland and they made a fool of it. Even Mo, and that was racist too, if he wanted to talk. Okay it was a laugh but just as well Mum didnt hear him. She was for Scotland and against anybody who said different. Scotland is a Protestant country. So if people came here they just had to put up with it. Or stay in their own place; why didnt they? Nobody asked them to come.

Mo said he liked Mum but how could he? If people dont like you how can you like them? She couldnt look in his direction except with lowered eyes. Nobody would have succeeded with her. Even Dad failed. Of course Brian.

Helen glanced at the photograph in her hand, she had lifted it from the floor, one of Mum and Dad but half turned so she couldnt see the actual surface, the image. She didnt want to see them. Not at this moment. The ones of Brian, she didnt have many. Mum had more, she liked him. Of course she did, her son. Mum loved Brian and it was nice to know. She had never loved Helen and she loved Brian so that was nice, nice to know, she loved somebody.

But that could never have been him at the traffic lights. It was just too coincidental. The entire population of London my God millions and millions of people. Brian went to England but a long long time ago: Doncaster or someplace; he liked Doncaster, then it was Liverpool. Although of course he could have left and come to London, of course he could. But if he had seen her he would have known her. Surely he would have known her?