And Yoker he was now passing through and on, on to Clydebank wherein his first post had arisen upon leaving the teachers’ trainers. Happy memories right enough. But reasonable yins; no need for sarcasm. Clydebank is an okay place. Patrick could walk into a couple of pubs and find folk to talk to, expupils and their parents and maybe even a couple of excolleagues.
If this had been the summer it would have been grand indeed. To have been heading nowhere in this set of circumstances, a blue blue sky and a nice mellow sun, still a couple of hours till nightfall, and perhaps heading all the way north with a weekend to spare — that kind of freedom, and maybe a tee-shirt-clad female hitchhiker. No: these fantasies are not good. Cut them out. They border on a very, a very dubious perception of the world. P. Doyle has no need of them. And to see him in the mirror you would probably not take him for more than a young chap of some twenty-three or — four summers. He had nothing to worry about when it comes down to it. See these eyebrows, their devilish set once the corners rise. Imagine looking into the mirror and seeing Goya’s self-portrait, that one from the black period, and you had painted it of yourself. You were Goya in other words. You could see into your own soul with total honesty of vision and find the wherewithal to get it down, that steady hand. At fucking eighty damn bloody years of age! That is it! That is surely it. What more is there to be said. Just pull the ladder up behind yous and pause, let us just pause, and consider what such a thing amounts to.
And the swimming baths here at the foot of Kilbowie Road. This was where he used to go for a swim when he was in the middle of a strong get-healthy period. It was next door to the library. Leave that world of books! Grab your trunks and get out into the real mccoy, the genuine elements. Be a fucking amphibian. Away and swim ya bastard. That’s the way to do it! Night driving is at its worst when the rain falls like this; all the lights on the windscreen, the altered perception, those blobs blob blob blobbing blob and the swish swish, swish swish, lulling you into something or other, that constant yellow all the time having to stare — to gape; gaping while you drive, attempting to see in a normal manner but having to gape to achieve it. He was being forced into the side of the road!
A massive car on the outside cutting his nose off, forcing him to the side so that he had to slow right down to avoid hitting a parked fucking vehicle. Like a big yankee cadillac or something, here in the centre of Clydebank, the bastards are bloody everywhere. Pat thrust the gearstick into neutral, his foot on the brake pedal, and now turning the wheel — the big car now gone — and returning out and continuing as calmly as possible for this type of event is not something to get all het up about. Totally abysmal driving of course, whoever the fuck was responsible. A colonel from the U.S. Navy or something, away down to check out their neutron bombs at the Holy Loch. A high-powered sales executive travelling north to a selling jamboree. But definitely no need to worry over it; no need to let it prey on one’s imaginative faculties. If anything a little sympathy should be extended. That’s the kind of bloke who winds up with a coronary at forty. The car as penis etcetera. I’ve got a bigger one than you. Did such a relationship exist though? In the way people said it did. What sorts of inference were to be drawn on individual cars owned by individual male parties. The bigger the engine the smaller the dick? Perhaps. Perhaps that truly was the way of it. Especially in Glasgow and surrounding environs where maleness was a function of
of what? A function of what for fuck sake! Patrick was slowing again and moving back into the nearside lane, pausing to allow three cars to pass on the offside, then indicating to go right, and moving into a U-turn.
Back to the city. There was no point heading in a northwesterly direction, not at this time of night anyway. And the weather too christ it was just fucking too bad. So the arts centre. But how come? Why go there? Particularly now. There again but, it could appear quite natural, turning up at this moment. They would all stare at him of course and pretend to be interested in a puzzled manner but really they wouldni give a fuck one way or the other. They would just assume he had said cheerio earlier on because his body was demanding food and plus he wanted a quick wash and a shave and so quite naturally he had returned home for just that purpose. And because let’s face it yous fucking married bastirts, unlike yourselves he was only gonni be using this arts centre as a stepping stone. He was going on to someplace else afterwards. When yous were away home to watch the fucking telly he was gonni be going nightclubbing. Nightclubbing. Plus of course he did not want to drink too much and get too damn intoxicated, his being a driver and so on ad infinitum forever. Tomato juice was the new direction. This is where the road lay.
He was supposed to have been playing the pipes at 9.40. At 9.40 p.m.
The whole world was going crazy.
Patrick Doyle was not able to make a decision and stick by it.
Stick by it. He was not able to even remember what it was fucking about. As soon as it was done he forgot all about it. That was him and his decisions, as soon as he fucking made one he forgot all about it. Until some terrible inappropriate time such as this second, the thing turning up to remind you how in extremis pathetic you were, incapable of doing what you had decided to do — facta non verba. Actions speak louder than words. One of those sentimental wee sayings that contain a quotum of truth of huge enormity. Actions speak louder than words. It was the kind of ditty you wanted put on a poster and stuck onto your rear window. From now on no decisions, just go and do it. And aye, fucking stick it on a poster and fasten it to the rear fucking window, and let all these mad drivers get a look at it and maybe derive a wee bit of common sense, a wee bit of understanding, make them maybe stop careering about the streets knocking innocent bystanders for six. Calm down. Patrick’s chest is heaving. The chest is heaving Pat calm down. Letting things get to you. Red light ahead. Wooaa there. Nice and peacefully. Good. And also allowing the shoulders to not be so rigid. Good. That sort of doioioioinggggg up about the bottom of the neck, doioioinnggg. Shudder. A fucking shiver. Death my fine fellow, its recognition intuitive. Now then: if Patrick were to make a left turn at this corner it would lead him to a pub across the bridge of the Forth and Clyde canal into which he used to go with numerous frequency. Into what? The Forth and Clyde canal or the bloody damn fucking pub! Just shut up and drive. Just shut up and drive to there. Indicate and make to shift the wheel. Although right enough to be honest there isni that much point going to this especial boozer. He hasnt been in the place for years. He probably wont know anybody to talk to. And even if he does know that anybody to talk to, what the fuck does he talk about? He is not able to talk. If he could talk he wouldnt be here. Where would he be? He would be someplace else. That’s fucking straightforward. Plus as well it would make him late for the arts centre and he had to get there before they all went home. Being too late would be just too bad to be true. Tonight was a night for company, the company of those to whom Patrick could relate even when, to whom Patrick could relate even in, when