Could Desmond be described as a scandalmonger? Probably no. The cynical little smile if somebody drew his attention to an article of gossip but he wouldni mind when all was said and done. He would maybe even appreciate it. Maybe he was a guy who wished folk well — even fellow males. Maybe he just had trouble showing his true nature. Poor bastard. It is even possible he wanted to be friends with Patrick. When had Patrick ever asked the bloke if he fancied a pint? Never. Not once. And yet Desmond had twice invited Patrick. So it was definitely his turn. So why didnt he? Because he couldnt fucking be bothered, it was too boring; there was an incompatibility between them. They could never be bosom buddies. And that was a fact. And part of growing up is the ability to admit facts. A fact is a fact. A fact is indeed a fact. A fact, this is what a fact is, a fact. Facts have to be admitted. So let us admit them.
But the truth is it was even doubtful if Desmond was truly interested in Alison. Maybe she would just add to his problems, another woman. Yet it was guys like him usually ended up with the women. Funny that. What could it be about cynical bastards? Was that it their fucking cynicism! Surely not. That would be bad. Maybe he could ask and find out. He could ask Gavin, maybe even Joe Cairns who was also married yet scarcely to be described as cynical, whereas Gavin might well be. Joe Cairns! the tall and silent type but when he lets drop that one word or phrase everybody is supposed to faint with fucking gratitude, just so the pearl of wisdom can be heard the more clearly. A good footballer; that cannot be denied. So what! Nothing except Pat is fond of football, both playing and watching; his preference are the Juniors and he might in fact go and see a game tomorrow afternoon if he fucking feels like it. Joe is probably just silent because he is resigned to his lot, he has settled for secondbest but without confessing it. But is a confession necessary? Maybe a confession leads to suicide. Maybe guys like Joe Cairns are only alive by virtue of their absolute refusal to give in and confess. Why the fuck should he confess. In the whole school he is one of the few persons with an actual belief in his/herself as teacher, and this a silent belief, an assumed thing, not to be spoken of, a faith. And maybe there was a total absence of smugness in this silence. It could simply be a form of good well-wishing. One who has seen the light, hoping that others may too, but not via their direct intervention, i.e. one who leads by example and not by fucking command, by dictum, e.g. the fucking teacher who is a bad influence, who is going about in this unhealthy manner, these unhealthy relationships being entered into between himself and all the pupils, the great magician and all his disciples. Time to play the pipes, time to play the pipes. And Patrick was up onto his feet then bending, crouching, down onto his hunkers, his hands vertically to the bars of the fire, staring in at them, the bars, their orangeness now bordering on whiteness, occasionally crackling at the ends as though about to explode. These dangers of electricity. An inherent danger. Danger inhering in the article, the magnet, being caught between the poles, being caught between the poles. It would be nice to be left that way forever.
Caught between the poles? Not exactly. But yet
Caught between the poles. Would that be death automatically? Or is there a halfway house? a state of total
nothingness for fuck sake. Old stuff. Not worth the bothering.
The healthy; the doing. A well-being; a good-to-be-alive-ness. All such terms for general states of spiritual nourishment. In other words get out the house and stop fucking worrying about oblivion. I mean how unhealthy can you get! How fucking un-of-this-worldness! Time to cut out all forms of sentimental drivel. And nostalgia. Nostalgia is
Desmond was quite correct. In his usual blunt fashion he hit the nail on the head. The trouble with Patrick Doyle: an inclination towards the sentimental. He would get up off these fucking hunkers immediately and march straight ben that fucking parlour and grab a hold of the pipes! He chuckled and rubbed his hands together, still crouching by the fire.
And the chap at the door!
Loudly as well. Now followed by a flap of the letter-box. Who the hell could it be could it really be actually Alison? no. No. Could it really be? Could it really be Alison. Flap of the letter-box again. And one of these
di di di di di
di di
Who the fuck? Gavin maybe? His father had had another stroke and been rushed to hospital. Poor maw, poor old fucking maw and that was him because his fucking smoking and drinking but mainly that stupid fucking smoking after all the fucking warnings.
Patrick waited a moment by the outside door, his right hand a fraction away from the handle. Then a bustling movement from without and he opened the door at once. A polis. A big guy about 6’ 6”, rain dripping off the great waterproof coat he was wearing. He stared at Patrick. He said: Is that your car at the foot of the close? After a moment he sniffed and wiped at his nostrils with the back of his hand.
Pardon?
I’m talking about the blue yin. Guy down the stair said it was yours. The polis squinted at Patrick. It’s just you’ve left your headlights on.
Aw aye, god!
The polis was already moving back now, his hand on the railing; he paused at the stairhead. Your battery’ll be knackered, he said.
Aye, thanks.
The polis nodded. A wee word about your tax …
My tax!
It’s alright, you’ve still got two or three days.
I forgot all about it christ I meant to get it.
The polis was gazing in his direction in such a way that their gazes could never meet; and he swung himself around by the banister to begin the descent.
Thanks, called Pat.
The sound of the footsteps clumping down the stairs and then the man’s whistling in a kind of loud breathless style so that the whistle itself could not be heard, just this loud harsh breathing, a song from the current pop charts.
Patrick closed the door, returned to the kitchen and sat down immediately but then jumping to his feet immediately afterwards and lifting his keys from the mantelpiece and going back out into the lobby. He frowned at the outside door, then lifted his anorak from its peg. Into the kitchen, he switched off the electric fire and checked the other electrical points, the gas cooker and oven. He rubbed his chin, to feel the stubble but it would do until the morning. He couldnt be bothered with shaving. He was getting sick of such things. What else? He glanced about the room; he needed his money of course and that kind of stuff.
There were no worries about the battery at this stage, it would be fine, it would start first time. Maybe if the lights had been left on all night but not just the hour’s worth. It was where to go he was thinking about. He didnt want to go to the arts centre he was not going to the arts centre; but where else? a pub up the town and look for a bit of company. Drive out to Cadder and visit Gavin. Or the maw and da. He hadni seen them for three weeks. He had forgotten the maw’s birthday. She didnt like presents anyway but still and all, a wee box of chocolates or something. That tune the polis was whistling, quite a catchy sort of thing; the weans were all playing it on their walkitalkies. A dancing song. Maybe an omen. Head for the disco young man! Find yourself a healthy young lass who is single and in search of a healthy young lad with a reasonably bright stance in this economic land.
There was pastry down his shirt. Where had it come from. The soon-to-be-elderly bachelor. Drops of decayed food down the shirt-front. Next thing he would be drooling at the desk, becoming senile under the steady gaze of the kids.
But where to go where to go. He was driving along Dumbarton Road in the direction away from the city centre. At this rate he would end up in Dumbarton and that wasnt a place to go. Maybe it was right enough. Dumbarton was the kind of town you passed through without paying any heed and no doubt it would prove to be the brightest spot in West Central Scotland. Plenty of whisky of course. That was one thing about it, the capital of whisky. He could go and get blootered in a strange hostelry and then try and wing his way home, just get into the motor and point the bonnet on a southerly course. And if steering clear of accidents he would arrive in England. Go and see Eric and have a sail in his fucking boat. Anything was possible. He had plenty of petrol and oil and so on — enough to last. Enough to last!! If it ran out all he had to fucking do was buy some more! He was rich. He was a fucking schoolteacher with bankers cards and limitless credit and a fair fucking tidy wee fucking sum in hard paper currency. He was nobody’s fool the fucking Doyle fellow. What do you think he went to fucking uni for! That was the thing about settling for twelfth-best, the capitalists paid you a fortune, they fucking showered you with gold. Shite. Luxuriating shite. Absolute fucking shite. Keech and tollie. Keech and absolute fucking tollie! Wooaa there. Wooaaa. The needle on the speedo hitting the forty-five to fifty m.p.h. mark and very heavy rain a-falling. Plus these polis. Thank christ the car was blue and no red.