The Burn (25 page)

But how would he get by? Living away from Scotland for so long he was totally out the scene. Could he handle it? Who knows.

He had the pad by the bedroom window and was sketching, a hand-mirror propped in front of him; one continuous line, if it didni work in one continuous line . . . The sky had
got dark, big heavy clouds full of rain. He was leaving as soon as the business was done. They could do what they liked with the house. And everything that was in it. Including his three paintings.
Fuck it. There’s no escaping the facts of life.

He was wearing the hat he had found. Maybe dad had worn it. He couldni remember, but whose else could it be? It was a most unGlasgow hat.

The Hannah resemblance was definitely there. Weird. Fucking hell but he was a strange bastard; he was, how strange, how strange people are, people are so strange, doing these things to one
another, to themselves, they do things to themselves, a kind of masochistic quality. He sketched fast. But his face was straightforward – what’s a straightforward face? silly bastard,
but no, straightforward, nothing startling, a face, a man’s face, bits of mum and bits of dad; bits of the sisters – my god these photographs where mum’s self-consciousness,
having to put up with the camera, the tension, these signs of strain, just the way she looked. How come he hadni phoned more regularly? He could definitely have phoned more regularly. He nudged up
the hat so it lay to one side. He took it off and went to the bathroom, washed his face in cold water. Back in the bedroom he closed the window. He would definitely keep wearing the hat. It was
appropriate. Quite gallus as they used to say. Monsieur Gauguin s’il vous plait, the one with Anthony Quinn. He would have to pluck up courage to wear it outside on the street though. The
weans would laugh at him, little bastards, they’d fling stones at it. That’s what happens in Glasgow, it’s the opposite of an attitude problem. He lifted the hat off the bed and
looked at it. There’s no escaping the facts of life.

That seemed to be becoming a motto of his. What did it mean? Facts of life.

It was a pub down by Charing Cross him and Fin were meeting, which would take him a good hour to get to, by the time he waited for a bus. And he needed two of the bastards; one into the city
centre then another one out. Unless he walked it. He could walk it, depending on the weather; it would be nice to walk it, see the city. He was well used to walking anyway, the number of times he
landed skint and options there were none. The price of another pint or yer bus fare home, that was an auld yin. There’s always tomorrow. Fucking banalities, ye just say them.

The thing that was irking him was Sammy; no irking him a lot but it was still irking him. If Fin had phoned then he coulda phoned. Unless he had left Glasgow. It would be good to see him again,
see how he was doing – that gallery he was getting involved with. Maybe he was back painting again. Fin was a close mate but Sammy had been closer. But he was a bastard, these social
formalities, they just never occurred to him, things like phoning people. Untrue. They occurred to him, he just fucking ignored them. Unless he didni know. No everybody reads the death notices.
Maybe he should give him a bell later, just say hello, see how he was doing.

Mum used to like Sammy, she thought he was a well-brought-up boy. He came from Stonehaven and had a nice accent, that made him exotic. People like exotica, it makes a change. Plus his parents
had money; if yer parents have money folk think ye’re well-brought-up. Derek had never wanted money. What a lie. How come ye say these things, ye just seem to open yer fucking mouth. Sammy
used to call Derek his associate. Imagine calling yer mate an ‘associate’? So what, eighteen years of age, ye were just a boy. No big deal.

As it turns out he didni walk it from the scheme into the city after all; he was going to but eventually he couldni be bothered, he took a taxi. Fin had arrived first and set
him a pint up immediately. A big pint of heavy; beautiful. The pub was just round from the Mitchell Library, near enough the old stamping ground but without being one of the campus boozers as such.
It was okay. Quite busy. A young crowd but mixed, business-type people plus a few that looked arty, students maybe; torn jeans and a coupla shaven nappers; some of the women were beautiful. When
Derek went for the next round the woman behind the bar ignored him. Eventually a tall skinny boy took the order. At least he smiled. But maybe it was the hat. He had stuck it on at the last minute.
So he now stood revealed as one more arty farty bastard. Unless the barmaid remembered him being drunk in the place years ago and was bearing a grudge. Glasgow pubs. He shifted his stance. He could
see Fin sitting at the table, footering with the near empty pint glass. Fin was good. He hadni really got to know him until the end of the second term. Without him phoning there woulda been
nothing. And there wasni anything else. Fucking weird. Life is fucking weird.

He got his change and carried the drink to the table. Heh Fin, he said, some great-looking women in this place.

I know.

Is that how ye chose it?

Who me?

Bastard.

I’m a married man.

Does that make a difference?

Unfortunately yes.

Heh, mind that time we did the walk at Glencoe?

I do aye.

That was a real highlight for me ye know.

It was a nice weekend. That wee pub down Kinlochleven.

The climbing itself I mean.

Well wait till ye get the rope on. Pity ye wereni staying a few days longer, ye coulda had a crack at it. I could aye get ye a pair of boots . . .

I could get a pair myself.

Sure. But if ye couldni.

Derek nodded. Sounds good.

It is good, keeps ye sane. Cheers . . . Fin sipped at the new pint.

So ye dont see anybody these days?

Nah. Apart from Matt, but he never talks.

I had this idea ye’d all meet regularly for reunions.

Aye!

Ye forget the world doesni stand still.

Fin licked the tips of both forefingers and smoothed the lines of hair round the top of his head: It’s alright for you, he said, I’m gone baldy.

Naw ye’re no.

Aye I am.

Naw ye’re no.

I am.

It doesni fucking look like it to me.

Dont be nice, I’ve known ye too long.

Derek took off the hat and laid it on the table, scratched at the crown of his head: I’m losing it as well.

Are ye fuck. Fin lifted the hat, he examined it. Nice hat. They’re in style ye know. Glasgow chic. I’ve got one myself; I didni shove it on in case ye laughed. It’s sharp as
fuck but, unlike this yin!

Derek smiled. He took it back and put it on. He sipped the top of the new pint while glancing round the pub.

So: how did ye land in Plymouth?

Uch fuck long story; long boring story; it’s a short story in fact it’s no a long story at all. What about you though, how come ye chucked the Parks Department?

A fit of pique. I had a row with a gaffer.

Derek grinned.

He was a cheeky bastard.

All gaffers are cheeky bastards.

My da’s a gaffer. Course he’s a cheeky bastard too.

Ye just signing on then?

Aye. I’m looking after the wee yin though. A full-time job in itself that. I quite like it actually, changing nappies and all that, it’s aesthetically pleasing. I’ve found my
métier.

Ye doing anything else?

Like what?

Derek shrugged.

Ye talking about
art
!

I’m talking about anything.

Nah. Fin lifted the pint tumbler. I’m just a Monroe freak. Ye know what a ‘Monroe’ is?

What?

A ‘Monroe’, it’s a hill over three thousand feet; any hill over three thousand feet; that’s what they call it, a ‘Monroe’.

Where?

Where? Scotland, where d’ye think?

Well how the fuck do I know? I was thinking ye were talking about one actual place – Glencoe or something, Aviemore . . . I dont fucking know.

Nah, it covers the whole country.

Christ.

It takes fucking ages to do the lot, sometimes years. I used to get away every weekend, me and a coupla mates; no so much these days. But we’ll come again, we’ll come again.

Good.

Aye. Fin shrugged. So what about you?

Nothing really.

Ye were in Spain?

Aye but that’s a while ago, a coupla years.

Aw.

Plymouth the now but before that it was Bristol. Spain was before that again – in fact I think I’d left there the last time we met. Ye know the name of the last place I was working?
the Jolly Roger, a bar in Fuengerola; the Jolly Roger! The name sums it up.

Fish and chips and pints of lager?

Just about.

I had these visions too, you with a band of rebels, shifting munitions over the mountains in southern Andalusia, on a mule. George Orwell. Or Hemingway.

Yeh.

So it wasni like that?

Naw.

Ach well, I never did trust that cunt, him and his big-game fishing. Mind you, being honest, I canni say I ever really fancied the country that much, a bit touristy for me.

No it all. Derek shrugged. Parts of it are good. If ye like climbing too I mean . . . They’re fitba daft as well, the people. Some good teams.

No as good as here.

Nonsense.

Fin grinned. Ye were saying ye were up last Christmas?

I was, yeh.

Ye shoulda phoned.

I was only here a coupla days.

Still . . .

Ah ye know what like it is; by the time ye see the family . . . And ye canni miss one out, ye hurt their feelings. I didni stay for New Year.

Ye didni stay for New Year!

Naw.

New Year? The famous Hogmanay!

I had just started in the job.

Some Scotsman you are!

Give us a break.

Fin chuckled, raising the pint tumbler to his lips. So ye like England I take it?

Plymouth, yeh, I suppose I do, yeh . . .

Fin drank a mouthful of beer.

Yeh, it’s alright. I like being near the sea. Sometimes it reminds me a bit of this place. I quite like the people.

How come ye dont go to a place like London?

There isni a place like London, it’s a one-off. Anyway I spent a bit of time there. It’s alright. I might go back. I dont think so but. A wee bit enclosed for me – no
horizons.

Fin sat back on his chair and folded his arms: Yes my man, ye’ve been leading a bit of a life.

No really.

Aye ye have.

I’ve no; it might seem that way: it’s just called ‘being rootless’. Derek got up suddenly: I need a piss. He paused and muttered, See what I mean . . .

Three females were sitting at a table he had to pass to reach the gents’. One especially looked beautiful, wearing stretch black tights and a short skirt. No the best place for women to be
sitting. At some point in the night there could be a smell of urine. Maybe no. Two of them glanced up as he pushed open the door. A stupid thought: were they wondering about him in the act of
pissing? what his prick would look like? Did women think these things? He wasni that much older than them. The door creaked loudly on its hinges. Or was he? Maybe he was. They were nice.

There was a mirror immediately inside; he paused a moment, stared at himself, the hat and the unshaven chin. What did he look like? A fucking idiot. Plymouth was alright and so was Bristol, so
was London and so was Spain. Maybe he should try and phone Audrey. He wasni feeling that good. He wasni. He was feeling fairly awful in fact. No physically, mentally. Mentally just fucking fuckt.
For a start he shouldni have left the job; that was just silly. But he was silly. He was stupid, he had always been stupid. He had always been stupid.

The urinals were clean, cakes of the blue deodorant stuff. His first piss of the night and the suds were a healthy yellowish brown; later on it would be a greenish white. Unless he pissed blood.
Maybe he would piss blood. Maybe he was going to die tonight. Maybe this was it. Poor Audrey, waiting down there. Who would contact her? Nay cunt. Naybody would tell her. He would just have
vanished. She would have to make her own inquiries. There wasni anybody up here. No unless Linda, unless Linda did it. Maybe she would. She was alright, good sister. They were all good sisters.
Good family. It was a good family. Oh fuck sake. He zipped the fly then washed his hands. Why the fucking hell had he wrapped the job? He was just fucking foolish, that’s what he was,
foolish. There are facts of life and ye’ve got to face them. A stupid bastard.

He washed his face, wiped it dry with his shirt, set the blow-dry going for his hands. The blood into his cheeks. He was growing a beard, he was growing a beard. A stone-cold face; greeny white
with a dark beard; yellow and red tulips.

It just wasni fair. It wasni a life. No wonder ye fucking looked surprised, no fucking wonder.

He waited in behind the outside door for a few moments, not looking at the mirror, he had his eyes closed. He heard somebody approach. He didni look at the women while exiting. Some guys
laughing too loud at the bar. A stupid joke probably. Ye could understand these guys that took a mad-turn and grabbed somebody and let them have it. As he sat back at the table he gave a smile to
Fin and he drank some beer straightaway but the swallowing was difficult and he gulped to get it down; a bad moment and he just needed to get through it, he just should never have put the hat on,
he should never have fucking wore it, it wasni his it was his fucking da’s it was his da’s and his mother had fucking nursed it man he should never have fucking wore it it was just
fucking wrong; he took another drink. These bloody weird things that happen, bloody weird things, if ye had took another path in life, if ye had went another way, if he hadni went abroad, stayed in
Glasgow, if he hadni done the stupid thing at Art School, if he had stayed and finished his fucking course, these things ye do, who knows what effects ye have, these things are a mystery.

Fin was looking at him.

I never fucking asked her ye know.

What?

I just I mean . . . my mother and that. I shoulda come home more regular. Christ ye know I never even invited her for a holiday anywhere. The places I’ve stayed as well, some places Fin I
mean abroad, beautiful, she never seen the likes of it man, no just Spain: Southern Italy, Portugal – I spent a wee bit of time in Portugal; good there, up north, I liked it. Fucking hell man
I never invited her to any place. Probably she wouldni have went. But she mighta. I never asked her. I bet ye she woulda. I mean she was never outside Britain in her life. Never!