The Burn (21 page)

Well now, the unfinished thought, the pregnancy of it. We dont know. That is to say, we are unable to tell. But, the duty to the thought: my own soul is, not to beat about the
bush, lacking in effervescence. What do we mean by that. We mean that my soul is in a state. The state is one of trauma, though trauma is too harsh. My soul is the soul of a depressive, manic
perhaps, even maniacal. A hundred years ago the notion of manic depression was not in play. I banged my eye. I put up my hand to my face, to maybe rub my brow I cannot remember, but my finger went
into my eye! It damn well nips and water streams from it. There is a heatwave too. It is three a.m. I was not able to sleep because of the heat. My partner’s body was sweating. Each time we
closed we stuck, or I stuck. My partner seemed not to stick. It was me who stuck and had to dislodge myself and I could almost hear the sound of it, the slight smacking noise. A car starts up
below. A neighbour is mysterious. I hear the car start on other mornings also. The stickiness of my partner’s body. I went to the wardrobe and got some clothes on. Three a.m. and I needed to
get out. I felt like I was sweating severely. I filled the washbasin in the bathroom with cold water and then dunked in my noggin and let the cold water drip down my neck and down the hairs on my
chest so that it was slightly uncomfortable underneath the shirt I wore, but it was worth it to get a feeling of freshness. Besides, I like the night, the depth of it – except that at this
time of year it only lasts for something like two hours say, half-midnight to about 2.45, and after that you’ve got the navy-blue/charcoal-grey tinting the sky.

It was nice being out, I felt that for my soul. I am fond of my partner but it does my soul the world of good to escape, to escape into the air, the still of the dark part of
the night. Solitary motor cars. Where I live a couple of shops open right into the late night so it’s good, especially good having a place to walk to, you can just stroll as slowly as you
like, and if the police stop you you’ve got the readymade excuse. But if you have a vice, a compulsion – even just walking the street, if that’s your compulsion – then they
stare at you. They are not at all certain. You look so normal and natural an individual, so normal and natural, that they cannot gauge you, what it is, the police, they cannot think that about you.
Therefore what happens next is always tinged not by despair but the utmost nervewracking excitement. I know the district you see and in knowing the district it is a fantasy of mine that the police
are trying to capture me. I am standing giving answers to certain questions and they look one to the other, suspicious of me, I see it in their very faces, their gestures, the way they stand ready
to grab me if I so much as make a move. But that split second prior to them reaching out to get me I sprint suddenly sideways and through a close, down the steps and out by the dunny there or else
into the dunny except I hate the idea of being trapped there and them entering with their torches, flashing on my face. I sprint instead beyond the dunny and across the wall, leaping down into the
next backcourt and out through the gapsite down Brown Street and to the waterfront, down the steps and rushing headlong, but quiet, controlling my harsh breathing, the moonlight over the ripples of
the Clyde, the tremendous elation of that, and maybe hearing the harsh sounding breaths of the chasing policemen, the slap of their boots on the tarmac, the concrete paving. This is my area and
there is the old tunnel too and there is bound to be some old forgotten side entrance I can slip through, clattering down and down and down, my knees almost caving with the force of my movement.
God.

While she was telling the yarn she kept her eyes away from me, just pausing now and then, her head to one side, trying to work out if I was still listening. Of course I was
still listening. But she was beginning to annoy me. It was to do with her humility, not really humility, something else, a kind of Uriah Heep deceit maybe; I felt like she didnt rate me. I listened
because I had no real option. Duty called and I was having to be polite. It was the occasion of my first cousin’s wedding and our two sides of the family were supposed to be close. I
concentrated hard. She had lines all round her eyes and she was squinting. What the fuck was it? Something about Uncle Boabby and my da. I stood looking at her. I should have taken ice in the
cherry brandy. It was a habit I was trying to get into. The ice freshened you up. An old guy in the pub told me that once. He wasnt wrong.

But what the hell was she rabbiting on about? Da was sitting just across the room from us. It was crowded but I could see him, him and the brother, the two of them, having a quiet blether.

And Uncle Boabby; it was strange to think she knew Uncle Boabby at all let alone what she seemed to be implying – carnal improprieties. The last I heard he was somewhere on the west coast
of Ireland, and that was years ago. He had been quite an exciting figure for me as a boy and this wee woman wasnt. She looked wizened as well. But Uncle Boabby and his wife used to be continually
fighting and splitting up and then getting back together again and then starting to fight again and all that sort of predictable stuff so maybe at a time where they had fallen out and were away
from each other this wee woman had appeared on the scene or else it was a time they had got back together again and here it was I was meeting an illicit affair of a former hero. Big deal. Then the
da. But who knows with him, he’s aye been a dark horse.

I stepped to the window and looked down at the row of cars on the street below. I was needing to get away from here, fucking claustrophobic, family everywhere, it was doing my nut in, I just
needed a couple of minutes peace, a breathing space. I felt like going for a big pint of lager – all that cherry brandy man it gives you a drouth, but there was fuck all else to drink, it was
as if they were trying to stop the men getting pished, the women, as if they had set it up, in case of trouble, they had planked the fucking whisky and vodka. And they were carrying the bacardi
about with them in their fucking handbags. Predictable shit.

The wee woman was watching me.

Maybe I had misunderstood the gist of what she was telling me, maybe I was reading the signals all wrong. I’m famous for that. All these interconnected relationships of the older
generation. You never know what they were up to. You listen to them talk and you can never make any sense of it. Useless wondering further. I saw her lifting a cigarette from a packet on the
mantelpiece and I hoped the packet belonged to somebody else. In this company that was death although if she was just a gatecrasher then all would be explained. But imagine gatecrashing a wedding
like this. Different if it was the type of event you get in other countries and people enjoy themselves, a carnival atmosphere and so on, Brazil or someplace, the Samba, women doing their dances in
all-revealing blouses, Ah Chicita, but no this kind of one, pouring rain outside, everybody getting wet from the run up the steps into the fucking close: one of the wee nieces doing her bridesmaid
had crashed into a fucking puddle on the way.

The wee woman was looking at me. She came over and started talking. I told her to keep her voice down in case some of the family heard. What she was saying was definitely suspect. No two ways
about it. Maybe she was involved with the DSS, just here checking up on the precise whereabouts of certain parties for some sort of future reference, a new legislation maybe. There was a black
stone in a brooch round her neck. Probably if you stared at it too long you got mesmerised. Or else it had a microcosmic tape recorder charged inside. Naw, I said, I dont stay with my parents,
we’ve got our own place, me and the wife. We’re married as well, know what I mean, it isni a cohabitation deal.

She nodded.

Just in case you’re interested.

I’m not.

Good.

She tugged on the cuff of my suit sleeve. I brushed her hand off. I just want to tell you, she said, your mother’s never liked me.

Ach that’s nonsense.

It’s true.

I looked at her.

It is.

Naw it’s no.

She never passed on Bobby’s messages.

How do you know she got messages?

Oh I know.

How could ye if ye didni get them?

Hh. She smiled.

Maybe my Uncle Boabby didni send ye any. I know for a fact he’s a bad letter writer. Ask anybody.

Tch, dont be so stupid.

I dont like being called stupid.

Well ye’re saying things you know nothing about.

So what?

She tugged on my sleeve again: Sssh . . .

So what? I whispered.

It interferes with people’s lives.

You’re the one that’s interfering hen. This is a family occasion.

Ye’ve got no right to speak to me like that.

Look I dont even know ye and ye’re telling me all this gossip.

It’s no gossip.

Aye it is; that’s exactly what it is.

It’s factual information.

I sighed.

You dont know anything.

What ye talking about?

She smiled and turned away, staring across at where my Uncle Dan was sitting with one of his auld cronies; the new bridegroom was there as well. The wee woman had started her whispering again: I
tried to have a word with your father but he looked right through me.

Are ye sure ye’ve got the right family?

What’s that supposed to mean?

Just what I say.

What do ye say . . . ?

I gave her a look. The way she spoke was really beginning to annoy me. And she wasni even looking at me. She was actually staring at my brother now, I mean just staring at him, as if she was
seeing him for the first time – dont tell me he was bloody involved! The woman was out of order. She carried on talking some sort of rubbish to do with wartime situations. What fucking war
was she talking about? Then she finished up saying: You’re too young anyway so ye are: you wont understand.

I’m a bloody married man missis.

Hh. She glanced sideways, shaking her head.

Look, I said, the maw’s ben the kitchen, go and have a word with her. She’ll fill ye in.

We dont communicate.

Is that right. Aye well there’s no point dumping it all on me, I’m no her first lieutenant. This sort of crap, personal gossip and aw that, I dont understand the ins and outs –
thank Christ. If ye have got a grievance she’s the lady, her herself, go and see her.

The wee woman turned to squint about the room.

She’s no in here I’m telling ye she’s ben the kitchen, holding court with the female team. Away through.

Maybe I will.

Good.

Maybe I’ll just do that.

Aye well on ye go.

Maybe that’s just what I’ll do.

Good.

And then we’ll see.

I sipped at the cherry brandy, looking across at the brother and my da, kidding on I hadnt heard the last bit. Behind them I could see my grannie in a corner, sitting on the usual stool; she
refused comfortable chairs at all costs, scared she could never climb out them again. A wee niece stood next to her, whispering into her ear. One of the brother’s lassies. I wish to Christ I
could just have went for a pint. No wonder Uncle Boabby had fucked off to Ireland.

The wee woman started again: Yer mother just wouldnt want to hear what I’ve been saying to ye.

What are ye saying to me? I mean I dont bloody know what ye’re saying to me.

Yes ye do.

Naw I dont.

Ye do so.

Look I dont. It’s all nudges and winks.

People should see what’s under their nose.

Exactly. I swallowed the last of the brandy and wanted another. This kind of rubbish drove ye to drink. Where was the wife? Fucking hell, she was being chatted up yet again. I glimpsed her
through the throng. A guy with Grecian 2000 hair, dwarfing her. I knew the bastard. Big Tojo. Kidding on he was having to really stoop as well, so’s he could see down the cleavage. Fucking
dress she was wearing, I told her no to wear it. When she stood sideways ye could see everything, it was bloody disgraceful.

The wee woman said something else which I didni hear. I said yes to keep her happy but the nod she gave me was like I’d confirmed her suspicions. Maybe I had put my foot in something. I
stepped to where the drink was lying and replenished the tumbler; I took another quick look at her while I was pouring: about five foot nothing in height. When ye come to think about it but, the
clothes she was wearing, they looked reasonably smart. They did. Probably I had been misjudging her. What do ye call these things, a stole or something, fur; smelling of mothballs but it was fine
on, probably hell of an old but she would have taken good care of it over the years; you could picture it. Expensive and fashionable for somebody that knew the score, somebody the same age as
herself – the maw for instance, she would have clocked it immediately, that sort of deal. What the fuck age was she? At a guess, late forties – maybe even younger.

She had stopped looking at the brother now, she was back looking at Uncle Dan. That was all we needed, him to be involved – fucking scumbag, tightarsed bastard.

Aye she must have been attractive in her heyday but no doubt about that. She was probably much sought after. Uncle Boabby might have had to chase and chase to get her. I caught sight of da
saying something quiet to the brother. Who knows what he was up to. I was never his confidant. The idea of putting a word in maw’s ear about the wee woman and her marching in to confront him.
But would she fuck. She wouldni care one way or the other. Her and da had been bored with each other for years. Their whole relationship was sarcasm centred. It ran in the family. Everybody.
I’m a sarcastic bastard myself. Just ask the wife. And where was she now in the name of fuck she had disappeared. Naw, she had just moved to a more private corner, I could see her with Big
fucking Tojo mafioso, he was right up close to her, stooping over her. Dont worry son just stand sideways and all will be revealed.

The cousin walked by, still in the bridegroom suit. He was one of us as well; we were all sarcastic bastards. But with malleable personalities. Even the hero, Uncle Boabby, he was a malleable
personality. Plus his wife ran him ragged. Women dominated us completely. None of us were cut out for relationships at all. Fuck knows how the species survived. It was families like ours made
sperm-banks a necessity.