The Burn (10 page)

But Deborah I just squashed the thing, the wee soul, I just actually killed it, in cold blood, just like you would I dont know I was going to say kill a beetle, that’s how bad it is for
the poor wee creatures. It’s become a byword for it all, death and destruction and just wanton brutality, even the way you sell your equipment to people, how the guys just gyp people into
buying rubbish they dont want. The whole thing, it’s just so awful, it’s terrible and wanton and just goes against everything God stands for. People dont want that sort of life. They
dont. They dont want it. It shouldnt be forced on us.

You’re no listening!

I am

You’re not.

I am! It’s just the way things are. You take the way I live my life just as an ordinary man; this is an average day and I’ve committed awful sins. Just like wanton brutality. And I
feel so awful . . . just so bad just so awful bad.

God Edward what’s wrong with you?

Nothing. He stared at her. She had leaned to gaze into his face and she had placed each hand on his shoulders.

You’ve not been eating and now your stomach’s in knots because of the work you’ve been doing for tomorrow morning’s test.

Yeh, he smiled and laid his right hand on top of her left hand while it still lay on his shoulder. Aw Deborah, he said, aw Deborah.

For three long days and three long nights we drank together, me being there simply because I had nowhere else to go, nobody else to be with, not a soul, not in the whole world;
and the other strictly because it was business, and the business lay in the undermining of the other, his crony, me. And not that he was going anywhere either as it happens, although this
information is irrelevant, him being a sort of a businessman first but a human being second, and the business in hand was in being here with me, his crony, so-called.

The rest of the company found the thing a spectacle, an incident worthy of the greatest attention. On the one hand it was amusing but on the other there was this sordid
undercurrent, them being in the know about the nature of the business. But me and him, as far as ordinary onlookers were concerned, we were the greatest of pals, even if it now seems likely we
neither of us understood one word the other was saying.

There was something about it all made the rest of the company wax lyrical, a bad sweet kind of thing. You would have thought the one was not being undermined by the other, that
this other was not in the business of undermining me. But the real reason for this false lyricism lay in the rest of the company wanting to consolidate their own fraternity. And meanwhile this
barely disguised actual assault on fraternity was continuing right in front of their very eyes, it was quite disgusting, it just deserved contempt, the strong one seeking out the intimacy of the
weaker, i.e. me. Plus over their bottles of beer and tumblers of whisky or vodka.

Then it became noticeable he was drawing in for the final assault, his friendliness was gradually being thrown off for the disguise it was, not so much in any outward display
of violence but in an absentmindedness that accompanied each one of his actions. It was almost as though he who was to be undermined, and I mean by that myself, that I had become a habit, one more
habit, of a tired businessman, if you could call him that; speaking personally I would say he was just an inveterate snob, and that was how he adopted such a nomenclature; the truth is he wasnt a
real businessman. He was playing a double game. In the first place he wanted not to be seen as a businessman since most of his associates and acquaintances were socialists or if not socialists as
such as least were all in hostile positions toward reactionaries or toryness or whatever, shade or hue. But then again in the second place he wanted everybody to secretly think of him as a
businessman, maybe subconsciously; and that because to be a businessman was to be in a position of power.

And above all this was his real goal, power, as witness his assault on myself, someone the world presumed to be an old and trusted crony.

The day the company finally shattered began from him entering the room and the victim, myself, already seated at the table, rising to not so much greet him as wave him into the
empty seat facing me. But he just stared at me and he grinned, and when he grinned it was a horror because it was so internalised. I read the signs and I was greatly taken aback, I gaped up at the
ceiling as if I was looking for a religious emblem but the rest of the company, they were staring really hostilely at me and I couldnt fathom it out. You have to remember that until the
businessman’s strong interest they had been more than willing to abuse me for a scapegoat, more than willing, and at this moment there was nothing quite so obvious. I wanted to shout to them
about how it had all happened only this short span of time, how three long days and nights were so short. It was a mortifying experience and it was me that was the martyr.

Outwith the Palace Grounds the sudden reversals were being met by widely differing though often violent retorts. But the worthy Fr Fitzmichael continued to perform his duties
in a no less perfunctory manner: at 3.24 a.m. he was awake and set for his first of the day; the second was followed by the third and the fourth. When that time for the sixth had arrived he was to
be seen sheltering beneath the large tree near to the Boundary. November is a dismal month. A month of the Spirit. A dismal month requires Spirit. In order that we may progress into the next, more
than usual attention is to be given over to entities whose design is Spiritual. Fr Fitzmichael then stretched his arms, he was reclining with his back against the gnarled trunk of the tree; a trio
of ants had appeared on the tips of his toes. With a smile he leaned to cuff at them with a flick of his over-garment. Such things are we brought to. The condition being a Triumvirate of
Hymenopterous Insects on the tips of one’s toes. Hello. His
call
to a passing Brother was greeted with an astonished raising of the eyebrows. He waved. November. A month of the Spirit.
Spirit and Dismality are equidistant. The Brother hurried off in the direction of the Palace. So, it would seem the Game is to be up. Fr Fitzmichael’s smile was benign. The attention of the
Superiors shall be brought to bear heavily. So it must be. The tree contains ants. One enters the Palace Library to peruse the books of one’s pleasure. One enters the Palace Grounds to be
confronted by unimaginable entities whence from pleasure is to be derived in the month of the Spirit. Take an acorn. Place it in the palm of one’s hand. Squeeze. Squeeze. Examine the acorn
before throwing it onto a heap of soggy leaves. See it bounce. Upon soggy leaves an acorn can bounce in November.

The sky was at the blueyblack pre-heavygrey stage of the morning and the gaffer was somewhere around. This is one bastard that was always around; he was always hiding. But he
was somewhere close right now and Peter could sense his presence and he paused. It wasnt a footstep but he turned to see over his shoulder anyway, walked a few more paces then quickly sidled into a
shop doorway, holding the brush vertical, making sure the top of his book wasnt showing out his pocket. This was no longer fun. At one time in his life it mightve been but no now, fuck, it was just
bloody silly. And it wisni funny. It just wisni fucking funny at all. These things were beginning to happen to him more and more and he was still having to cope. What else was there. In this life
you get presented with your choices and that’s that, if you canni choose the right ones you choose the wrong ones and you get fucked some of the time; most of the time some people would say.
He closed his eyes, rubbed at his brow, smoothing the hair of his eyebrows. What was he to do now, he couldni make it back to the place he was supposed to be at, no without being spotted. Aw god.
But it gave him a nice sense of liberty as well, it was an elation, quite fucking heady. Although he would have to move, he would – how long can you stay in a doorway! Hey, there was a big
cat watching him, it was crouched in beside a motor-car wheel. Ha, christ. Peter chuckled. He was seen by a cat your honour. There he was in a doorway, having skived off because he had heard about
a forced entry to a newsagent shop and thought there mightve been some goods lying available to pilfer.

Objection!

Overruled.

Ah but he was sick of getting watched. He was. He was fucking sick of it. The council have a store of detectives. They get sent out spying on the employees, the workers lad the workers, they get
sent out spying on them. Surely not. The witness has already shown this clearly to be the case your Honour. Has he indeed. Aye, fuck, he has, on fucking numerous occasions, that’s how come he
got the boys out on strike last March.

Ah.

Naw but he’s fucking sick of it, he really is. High time he was an adult. Here he is forty-seven years of age and he’s a boy, a wee lad – in fact, he is all set to start
wearing short trousers and ankle-socks and a pair of fast-running sandshoes (plimsolls for the non-Scottish reader). What was he to do but that is the problem, that is the thing you get faced with
all the bloody time, wasnt it just bloody enervating. But you’ve got your brush you’ve got your brush and he stepped out and was moving, dragging his feet on fast, dragging because his
left leg was a nuisance, due to a fucking disability that made him limp – well it didni
make
him limp, he decided to limp, it was his decision, he could have found some new manner of
leg-motoring which would have allowed him not to limp, by some sort of circumlocutory means he could have performed a three-way shuffle to offset or otherwise bypass the limp and thus be of normal
perambulatory gait. This was these fucking books he read. Peter was a fucking avid reader and he had got stuck in the early Victorian era, even earlier, bastards like Goldsmith for some reason,
that’s what he read. Charles fucking Lamb, that’s who he read; all these tory essayists of the pre-chartist days, that other bastard that didni like Keats. Why did he read such shite.
Who knows, they fucking wreaked havoc with the syntax, never mind the fucking so-called sinecure of a job, the street cleaning. Order Order. Sorry Mister Speaker. But for christ sake, for christ
sake.

Yet you had to laugh at his spirit I mean god almighty he was a spirited chappie, he was, he really and truly was. But he had to go fast. There was danger ahead. No time for quiet grins. Alright
he was good, he was still doing the business at forty-seven, but no self-congratulatory posturing if you please, even though he might still be doing it, even though he was still going strong at the
extraordinarily advanced age of thrice fifteen-and-two-thirds your honour, in the face of extraordinarily calamitous potentialities to wit said so-called sinecure. Mister Speaker Mister Speaker,
this side of the House would request that you advise us as to the appertaining set of circumstances of the aforementioned place and primary purpose of said chappie’s sinecure so-called.
Uproar. A Springburn street. Put on the Member for Glasgow North. The Member for Glasgow North has fuckt off for a glass of claret. Well return him post-haste.

But the goodwife. Has the goodwife a word to say. Yes, indeed. The goodwife would bat him one on the gub. She thought all this was dead and buried. She thought the sinecure was not deserving of
the ‘so-called’ prefixed reference one iota, i.e. sinecure
qua
sinecure in the good lady’s opinion.

She wouldni think it was possible but, it’s true, she thought it was all over as far as the problematics were concerned. Pussycats pussycats, I tought I saw. But there you are, getting to
the doddering stage, being spotted by a crouching cat, so much for his ability to cope, to withstand the helter skelter, the pell mell, the guys in the darkblue and the bulky shoulders. Bejasus he
was getting fucking drunk on the possibility of freedom, a genuine liberty, one that would be his prior to deceasement. What he fancied was a wee periscope from the coffin, so he could just lie
there watching the occasional passersby, the occasional birdie or fieldmouse:

he was into another doorway and standing with his back pressed into the wall, eyes shut tight, but lips parted, getting breath, listening with the utmost concentration. Nothing. Nothing o christ
why was he an atheist this of all times he felt like screaming a howsyrfather yr paternoster a quick hail mary yr king billy for christ sake what was it was it a fucking footfall he felt like
bellowing, bellowing the fucking place down, it would show them it would show them it would display it, it would display how he was and how he could bellow his laughter in the face of the fucking
hidebound universe of them, fucking moribund bastirts – was it the gaffer? He pulled the brush in, held it like an upright musket of the old imperialist guard, India or Africa yr
Lordship.

Carol thought it was all dead and buried. She did, she truly truly did. His eyes were shut and his lips now closed, the nostrils serving the air channels or pipes, listening with the utmost
concatenation of the earular orifices. Not to scream. Not to make a sound. Another minute and he would go, he would move, move off, into the greying dawn.

He was safe now for another few minutes. It was over, a respite o lord how brief is this tiny candle flicker. Peasie Peasie Peasie. For this was his nickname, the handle awarded him by the
mates, the companeros, the compatriots, the comrades: Peasie.

It didni even matter the profit but this was the fucking thing! Maybe he got there and the newsagent turned out to be a grocer for god sake how many cartons of biscuits can you plank out in some
backcourt! Fucking radio rental yr Lordship. Mind you the profit was of nay account, nane at all. Neither the benefits thereon. If there were benefits he didni ken what they were. He shook his
head. Aright, aright me boy, me lad. There was a poor fucker lying on the grun ahead. There was. Peter approached cautiously. It was a bad sign. It was. If the security forces martialled, and they
would, then they would be onto him in a matter of hours, a couple of hours, maybe even one; he would need a tale to tell. Diarrhoea. Diarrhoea, that saviour of the working classes. He had to go to
the loo and spend some several minutes, maybe thirty, unable to leave in case the belly ructured yet again. But the body was a bad sign. Poor bastard.