If it is your life (19 page)

None ever was adjudged culpable. Not anyone. A freak of fucking nature. Council business. People had demanded the dyke’s demolition. Oh naughty dyke. What did they put it on Trial! Naughty naughty dyke. Then did the Council act.

I had a wee child. If such a thing ever happened, if it ever happened.

I had sketched this dyke on numerous occasions. What was there about that dyke? Nothing. Bricks and mortar a soul doth not own. Obviously not. Nevertheless, I sketched it.

Dead weans and old dykes, a traditional Glasgow story

The ragman approached the close entrance to the derelict tenement. Aha.

Just to see what was what.

The place was reeking! I could have told him. I had been inside it a fortnight ago. The concrete floor was rutted and wet, urine and shite, animal and human. The walls running damp, initials and dates knifed into the plaster, gang slogans on the ceiling. Empty buckie bottles and bricks and mortar, bricks and mortar, gen-yoo-oine bricks and mortar. I laid down the sketch pad and crayons, massaged the small of my back. The baby’s nappy needed changing. I should have done it an hour and a half ago. Then I could have gone for a walk, pushed the pram. I quite enjoyed that. I did enjoy it. I enjoyed it a lot!

Now Lindsey was due home.

In the background the drone of the radio. It came from through the wall. This was
the
radio programme, every lunchtime
the
broadcast. Who could believe people listened to such nonsense? But they did, in their hundreds of thousands. This person or persons through the wall from us; one’s neighbours, they listened to it on a daily basis. Probably I had seen them on the street. Ordinary people, no irregular habits, except this compulsion to listen to extraordinary crap. Was this not the most extraordinarily crap programme in the radio universe!

The door the door the door. The front door was being unlocked. I went quickly to the cot and lifted out the baby, sniffed the nappy and knelt to the floor, dragging across the waterproof changing mat, laying the baby aboard, still sleeping my God, amazing. The room door opened.

Hiya Lindsey! I said, surprised as fuck.

She peered at the wee one: Sleeping?

Yeh.

She smiled, taking care not to glance at what I had been doing. That was enough. To not glance. I attempted a smile but really, people doing that, very difficult, very very difficult. What is it about life, life can be so affected, and how it affects us.

Want a cup of tea? Lindsey said.

I nodded, because out the corner of my eye, what I was working on, it was just obvious, just getting closer, I just had to get closer. How could I get closer! Always the damn problem!

Black soot ingrained sandstone tenements formed a rectangle. For every two closes there was a midden containing three square metal containers which should have been emptied weekly.

Can soot be other than black? Yes, this had been answered. Soot is anything. I no longer had difficulty with that. Or did I! Of course not.

Yes sir I might have known the baby was awake. Lindsey was here and the nappy, just a new nappy, the baby was looking at me, big fucking eyes. I was aware that my stomach was something or other, that it was me, me to blame.

I was losing consciousness. I felt like I was, if I wasnt. On this chair, awaking, I was waking and there were words but the words made no sense.

She was beside me, thank God, thank God.

But the whirring! And a rapidity about everything.

That was my life. It pretended to progress but didnt. Unless all was progress. The stuff that took one back was another way forward. Progress or not progress? It was a problem for some. Movement, its possibility. All these wise and questing individuals who existed decades prior to Plato, to Socrates, to old Zeno himself.

But it was not my head it was hers. I could barely distinguish it in the dark. I sensed it more. But to sense something is to distinguish it by other senses.

What went on inside her head? Frequently I thought I knew but I didnt at all. Even to think I knew was arrogance of the intellectual order. The intellectual order of males. There was no other kind.

But I was arrogant. Nothing new there. To know what went on in another’s head one firstly had to know what went on in one’s own. That made sense but not for long. My own head appeared straightforward. I never had the need to think. My body moved and my brain followed. ’Twas ever thus.

I paid close attention to her fingertips, the lines there. Those lines on the human body, on the skin of a human being, these were unique and an identifying feature.

Her body brought a smile to my face. It seemed as per a norm. What does that mean, as per a norm? It sounds insulting yet rang true. It connected to the human norm, she was as per the human norm. She was a normal human being, unlike myself. But I was a God. How else to describe myself? It was no egotistical feature, just the reality of my existence. It is said that each of us is God [a God]. This has become clear, it has been so since the birth of my children. I watched them grow and in their early months, these first couple of years, it was never more clear. And yet, and yet now, now at the present time in my life I see something amiss, is amiss, amiss with the argument.

I made a gulping sound; she was reaching her hands out to me, and picking up things, giving me other things.

Her throat also.

And my throat. I saw it when
I
shaved. The adam’s apple. What use had my own throat been lately. And why think of myself? I returned always to myself. It was at the nub of the failure. But what was the failure? I knew. If I could not answer such a question, and only such a question, if I could not answer it then I must somehow answer the questioner who will want to know the effect the problem has brought about, given that it is the questioner who sets the question, and the question is the problem. Or so I thought, but it has become apparent that the question only becomes a
problem in relation to me, that in one most acute manner I am the problem.

Her pinkie reached out from the safety of her fist which had been clenched, but not so tightly, otherwise how could this movement of her pinkie have occurred.

It must have been a summer’s morning. I was shivering. This should have been a source of amusement. For myself, irony had been so very important, a means to survival. My blood was so very thin. Yet I was frightened to swallow a late-night brandy. I chuckled.

Here, she said.

What for me?

Yes.

It was her after all. No wonder I smiled. I asked was it another sweater. No, she said, it is a cup of tea.

I heard her chuckle then her hand was to my forehead, smoothing; and to my temple.

She brought me presents. She laid them next to me. One had been a sweater. I remembered it clearly. I had not requested the sweater but had wanted one. Then she was laying it beside me.

I said to her that I had not known I wanted the sweater. But you knew. You knew. I didnt even know I wanted it.

Oh but I saw ye were shivering, she said and laughed.

She saw I was shivering. Who then was the God?

But her laughter!

Gods cannot laugh. It was because I had answered. She liked it when I answered. When I did not she became depressed. She thought I was dying. I was not dying.

Recently I had been unable to answer. I wanted to answer but could not. I wanted to explain to her that I did not not answer intentionally. I did not care about the others. Only her, and even to her I found that I could not answer. I was ill-equipped, to speak. I could but would not. I was never speaking in a natural manner. I was not a useful person. I could not push myself. I listened in silence, prior and beyond, and preferred it so. I hoped the others would stop visiting. I cannot name them. This would be painful, for them.

I was an awkward patient. These were visitors who expected the visited to do the entertaining.

They had nothing to say and I had become incapable, of it.

What could I say to people, only speak when spoken to. Not reply.

My mouth opening, sounds issuing. They would listen and make sense of the sounds. People do listen.

It is true that she never did. She heard but refused to make sense of the utterances.

The faces of people reveal worry. I no longer opened my eyes.

She did not allow herself to be affected, and by not listening, by not listening

Are ye sleeping? she said.

I kept my eyes closed, eyelids closed. Yet tiredness had engulfed me, my God and engulfing, whatever engulfing

distrusting words too

Words used to be reaching, we were groping, human beings making use of words as a way forwards, it was progress towards, a progress

even could I be backwards, a groping towards a return, I was returning and seeking its continuation so that along the road my mind would numb

What eternity may be. I could drift, drifting. If I would lose consciousness, no.

Fingernails and zips.

I moved towards unconsciousness, the body being dragged, mind so being dragged. Yet when I revived, and was revived; fitly, I was fitly

How to stagger, which also is movement. I sought movement, I might stagger. A God could not stagger. My body. The stagger as an effect. How may there be effects of one’s body, affecting oneself, affects on one’s own body, effects of oneself

How would I speak of my death to her, speaking to somebody of that. Death is not, is not, isnay

What could I say to her, death is not, it is nought. Death is not really, it isnay

To her I could say it and not to others, it ended for them before that.

It was perishing. Ice on the ground, ice on the puddles. When ye moved yer shoes crunched. There was supposed to be horse racing this afternoon but anybody with half a brain knew it would be postponed. The ground was bone hard. Nay racing since last weekend. Not postponed: cancelled. Why not tell the truth. Ye cannay postpone an actual day, ye cannay put back a day, that would be like two days in a oner. It is not possible. What happens is the day gets cancelled, the day’s racing; they just cancel it, the powers-that-be. Unless a big race is on the card; the Grand National or something, then they do whatever it takes. Otherwise no.

Jesus christ but it was bitter, a right cauld snap. It must have come down from the Arctic. We were standing there chittering. The conversation petered out a while ago, we were just keeping warm. Then we drifted off to look for burnables. Drifted is the wrong word but naybody said nothing when we went, we just went away, away by ourselves. I noticed that. It was almost weird the way it happened, like telekinetics or whatever the fuck ye call it.

There were three of us there at the time and then another one came and that makes four, so four of us. Whatever we found we stowed to the side of the fire.
Me, Tim and Nicky Parkes. Arthur was the fourth one along. That was us: the auld team. Nay point saying different. There is young teams and there is auld teams. Ours is an auld team. How do ye tell the difference? Because we dont tan the bus shelters, no like those little toerag bastards.

The Council put up a new bus shelter yesterday morning. At five o’clock yesterday afternoon it was caved in, glass all ower the pavement. So how are dogs and cats meant to walk? They never think of that. Piles of shattered glass cutting into animals’ paws, or else weans. And what about elderly people? Some auld dears come out without their shoes, they just wear their slippers, slipping down the stair for a couple of rolls and a pint of milk, they dont bother putting on their shoes, so these slippers with soft soles, fucking glass goes right through them and cuts their fucking feet.

That is these fucking hooligan bastards. I have nay time for them.

I never saw the new bus shelter myself, before or after, it was Arthur telled us. I was gony go along the street to have a look. Wound up I didnay bother. I had somewhere to go. What interests me but is their fathers. Who is their fathers? the wee toerag cunts. Naybody knows. Ye hear guys talking in the betting shop or the boozer and they all shake their heads, all annoyed. If they could get a grip of the wee bastards! They say stuff like that. If they were my boys!

Well who the fucking hell’s boys are they? Know what I mean. Nay cunt owns up! Ye never hear anybody
going, Oh him, that wee fucking toerag, my youngest!

Naybody says that.

They must all be orphans. It would be a different kettle of fish if it was getting signed for a football team. Oh my boy my boy! Kilmarnock just signed him on a full-time contract. The Hibs have offered him terms.

Then they would be rushing to claim them. Ye ask me it is hypocrisy. I have nay time for it. I hate that vandalist anti-social stuff. Ye try to keep a place as best ye can. It is us that use it. If ye want to vandalize the place go to Kelvinside or Newton Mearns, Bearsden – someplace the rich cunts live.

My own boy was past the stage. But he never done it anyway; no even when he was that age. Me and the guys were talking about it. No question. I would have punched fuck out him, that one of mine.

What about yer wife? said Arthur. Would she have let ye?

What ye talking about?

Does she no mind if ye hit him?

Well I dont hit him now Arthur he’s fucking thirty-seven.

Arthur nodded like he had scored a point. I looked at Nicky Parkes and Tim. They were listening. Tim was rolling a smoke.

Of course she minded, I said, she’s a woman int she!

Arthur shrugged, blew into his cupped hands and rubbed them in front of the fire. That annoyed me. He annoyed me.

Forget it.

I looked at the fire instead. It was going good. The last pile of burnables included a wooden cupboard thing that Nicky Parkes dragged ower from behind the shops. Me and Tim broke it up. If we had just pitched it on it wouldnay have lasted as long because of the draught catching in under the spars. Yer fire just goes up in smoke. An old story but a true one. Some people know about fires, other ones dont. Arthur for instance. Mind you he liked a heat. He never done nothing for the fire but loved heating his hands. He just stood there rubbing them. It grated on me. Then he made comments about yer family! What a cheek! Families are taboo. Naybody should interfere with that. What the hell did it matter to him what my wife said about my son? Sons are boys and boys are boys. Ye know what women are like about boys, I said.