And yet, he does precisely the same. This room has no function. It is an appendage. There are large numbers of homeless people and Master Patrick Doyle has this room wherein nothing takes place.
Sentimental drivel.
No it isni.
Sleet again, pelting the windows. He liked to stand here staring out but aye took care to have the curtains partly drawn so not to be witnessed from below. A lassie used to stand at one of the windows across the street. It’s not that he was a peeping tom, but if she happened to be standing there then Pat enjoyed seeing her, but kept back so not to be seen; it would be awful to be seen. Imagine the headlines. Singleman found peeping out window. Patrick Doyle, schoolteacher and bachelor was today found guilty of being a peeping tom. Such improper conduct cannot and will not be tolerated, said Mr Milne, headmaster of the school in question. No excuse for it either. But it was just one of these aspects of the single, the solitary — probably if he had been a married man he would have spent half his life jumping up and down in broad daylight, naked.
He replaced the pipe next to its mate. He went out into the lobby and picked up the telephone receiver and dialled seven digits and after a short delay his brother had lifted the other receiver and said: Hullo?
Gavin?
Aye.
Pat.
Aw hullo. How’s things?
Fine. How’s things yourself?
Okay. No bad … Want to speak to Nicola?
Okay.
Hang on and I’ll get her.
Alright. Patrick took the receiver away from his ear but was still listening carefully, gazing at the coat and jackets on the pegs facing the front door. Then movement and Nicola:
Hullo. Pat?
Aye hullo eh I was just …
Everything alright?
Fine, aye. Naw it was just, I was trying to phone the parents earlier on but I kept getting an engaged tone.
Did you?
Aye and I was just wondering if you’d heard anything yourself.
Is that recently?
Well it’s about an hour ago.
You should try again.
Aye, I was just thinking it was a wee bit late.
It’ll be alright Pat, it’s no even eleven yet.
True.
And they’re usually up till midnight.
True.
…
…
So how’s school?
Aw fine, fine. How’s the wee yins?
Elizabeth had the cold.
Christ.
It was just a cold.
Is she okay now?
It was just a cold Pat, aye, she’s fine.
Is she back at her playgroup?
She was only off for one day! You know what like she is.
Yeh …! Patrick smiled. And how’s wee John?
Aw! Need ye ask!
Okay?
Yeh.
Good.
…
…
So when you coming round for your tea!
When am I coming round for my tea, I’m coming round for my tea any time ye like!
You always say that and you never do, you make excuses.
I do not.
Yes you do.
Patrick laughed.
Listen, we’re having some friends up a week tomorrow. Nothing fancy. Bring your own bottle.
Sounds good.
So you’ll come?
Aye.
You can bring somebody as well of course I dont have to tell ye.
Great; good.
So you’re definitely coming?
Yeh.
I’ll hold you to it then.
Fine.
Tch, Pat, you’re a pest.
Pardon?
A pest.
What do you mean?
I mean you’ll no come, that’s what I mean.
I will.
No you wont.
…
It’s a week tomorrow. Any time after eight o’clock. But you could come at teatime and get something to eat.
Great.
You’ll let me down if ye dont come.
I will come.
Well you’ll let me down if ye dont.
But I will.
After a moment Nicola said, Gavin’s telling me to tell you when’s the next game of table tennis?
Aw! Aye — christ.
He says there’s no to be any excuses this time for getting beat.
Ha ha ha.
You’ve just to give him a phone and arrange it. Alright?
Aye.
Any time’s fine for him.
Great, I’ll remember.
…
Okay then cheerio Nicola … and he shoved the receiver down, away from his ear. And there had been no chance of her saying anything further. There was nothing she could say anyway. Yet another impasse. Getting beyond it might have meant a total breakdown! An emotional collapse! Patrick smiled. But he did find it very difficult being honest with Nicola at times. This is because he found it so easy. And stick Gavin and the weans in alongside her and he found it impossible, the whole thing, sitting there with them all as a family group.
And them feeling sorry for him! Terrible — absolutely pathetic in fact. Imagine being pathetic. Imagine being regarded with pathos by your family! For fuck sake, wee brothers should not be pathetic they should be solid bastards, rocksteady; the backbone of the community, filling all these minor posts in the church and armed forces.
The Teaching Profession.
Yes, fuck it, the teaching profession fits that fucking bill nicely, exactly and very ably, a tight fit. Heraclitus would be proud of him. High time he entered politics in fact, the New Member for Glasgow Central, setting society to rights; jus dicere on behalf of The Royal Majestics. Or else fuck Heraclitus he could take to the streets and become an urban terrorist, an urban fighter for freedom. Who was stopping him. No bastard.
He was in the kitchen filling a kettle for coffee although coffees too late at night often stopped him from getting to sleep and probably the very last thing required tonight was not to get to sleep. But for christ sake he was knackered. Tonight had been absolutely shattering, everything about it — shattering. It would be no surprise if he wound up sleeping straight through till fucking one o’clock in the afternoon! He did have a can of Ovaltine right enough. Maybe that would send him to sleep. His maw swore by it. Imagine swearing by Ovaltine! Fuck you Ovaltine.
When Patrick was dead.
Woooosh woooosh! Woaa wooaa. Ssshhh for fuck sake ssshhh ya devil, ya fucking devil, ya devilish besom. Is that you Goya ya dark auld bastard, with that twinkle to your eyebrow! Look at them all dancing! Nobody could call it a dance! It’s a form of ritualistic stepping which must end in human sacrifice. See the faces! O fuck. O jesus christ you’re dead ya bastard.
evil
evil
evil
Patrick likes to run the faucet, the Northamerican tap. He turns the tap and dashes out the water. EEEevilLLL. Evil is as evil does right enough. Look at the auld tollie swallowing his son with such lipsmacking enjoyment! And yet it’s a kind of ornery enjoyment. A bit like what you’d expect from a cheery old boy who enjoys getting up to mischief, merry pranks and so on. One of these ancient bleery bastards with big red noses, the type that beautiful young lassies seem to like so much. But if somebody such as Patrick was to act in the same manner they’d all pounce on him and fucking tear him limb from limb, limb from limb.
Get out! Get out!
Tonight is a night for suicide but. Anybody would have to admit that I mean just let a psychiatrist appear on the scene with a sharp analysis of the driving. Had the client set out to crash bang wallop the motor? Did he set out to attain death? Was the opposite of self perpetuation the object of the exercise? The opposite of self perp