The Burn (23 page)

D’ye no think you’ve had enough to drink?

Naw.

She turned her head and went off with the wee nephew. I knew her game. Fucking obvious. Taking the wee yin to the lawy man it let her kid on she was tried and trusted. Ye could see through it a
mile away. All the yarns she’d been handing me. Maybe I just hidni made myself clear. I couldni give a fuck what she did, or thought for that matter – I didni give a fuck what any of
them thought. All except the wife. And big fucking mafioso was still all over her. Definitely out of order. I should just have walked across and let him have it, just banjoed the bastard. Charles
fucking Atlas. Steve fucking Zchwasenbacker or whatever his fucking name is, Arnold or something. Either that or I should’ve got a return bout with the bride, but she had disappeared as well
now, probably through with the rest of the women, the aulder generation – fuck them all. For some reason but I wanted to gub my Uncle Dan.

– as for example were a Small Bird to thud into your face. Consider the following: a Young Person is chancing to stroll upon an island somewhere in the Firth of Clyde.
THUD. A Small Bird crashes onto the bridge of the nose of the Young Person. The day has been fine, a mid-afternoon with an Autumnal sun warm enough to enable the coat to be discarded should the
breeze die. Now, the idea of ducking to avoid the collision will never have occurred to the Young Person for quite often you will come to find that birds do fly on courses indicative of just such a
collision. At the last possible moment, however, they will dip a wing sufficiently to swerve off. Not this time! While the Young Person is staggering the Small Bird will drop to the ground and lie
still, its feathers stiffly spread. Having covered face with hands the Young Person will, in time, withdraw the hands for an examination of the person. But effects to the body will almost certainly
be minimal; a little blood, the slight cut, a possible temporary swelling. And nothing else, apart from the stunned Bird. While the view hereabouts will be extensive the Young Person can see nobody
in sight. After a moment the spread feathers begin fluttering; soon the Small Bird starts rising in helicoptereal fashion. Staring at it with furrowed brow the Young Person will turn suddenly and
yell, before dashing headlong in the direction of the shingle shoreline.

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

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.