The whole of Western Europe.
There was a mighty ring about that. Odd to imagine Glasgow being an everyday part of something so grand and majestic. Right at this precise moment in the history of the world Patrick was one of its numerous legions, a fellow of such as the heroic Basque, a spiritual descendant of those great Free French who had declared the new Republic a nice healthy region of unashamed cardcarrying atheism. Two centuries ago! And still you were getting bastards like Old Milne managing to make weans guilty because they open their eyelids during assembly prayers. It was fucking unbelievable, the hypocrisy. And then when you spoke about it in the staffroom. When you actually spoke out about it. Christ. How in the name of fuck could they stand back and look at themself in the mirror!
Maybe this is why he was being carpeted. A blatant failure to conceal his nonbelief in the deities. But it went against the grain. How on earth could the kids ever trust any teacher who persisted in regarding himself as a dead man?
A dead man? Where did that come from?
He should have shaved either last night or early this morning so that his cuts would have had the chance to heal prior to leaving the house. Plus his skin often turned a blotchy and purple hue, as if the blade was dull; he would need to buy a new one soon. Or perhaps it was an effect of a too-cheap soap, inferior perfumes and oils maybe. Horses. What have horses got to do with it? Pat shivered. He was standing in the bathroom staring at his face, having just tapped himself on the chin for some unfathomable reason — the moment when a person sees his or herself in a mirror, seeing a stranger, and peering at this stranger with furrowed brow. Who is this fucker and where is she or he off to? Is he or she off to enjoy her or himself or is it an errand of filial dimensions e.g. away to pay the rent and rates for an Aged P. or guardian?
More! More!
Or is this he or she a being whose outer surface of skin, flesh and hair is simply a shell for the most nefarious of inner essences?
A hideous sight in there. Behind the skin and flesh and hair. This rotten inner core of a soul, hideous to behold in its stuckfast permanence, the kind of sight no ordinary mortal seeks to look upon. Quite fucking right if ye ask me. Who wants to look upon hideous souls? Nobody but a fool, an innocent fool. Fools are naïve. Patrick is no fool ergo he is not naïve. He is an innocent. He quests.
A number of cuts round the adam’s apple and beneath the lower jawbone, tender parts of the neck, the portions where the suicide
probably suicides are fascinated by these portions of the neck, leaving aside females. Because they’ve not got any fucking adam’s apples.
The Commodore Cafe had a jukebox. It contained all of the current pop singles and not a few of the golden oldies. They would be blasting them forth. And Alison would sit, smiling quietly, ignoring the winks and stares of the weans. Would Patrick cope but? It is worth considering. Of course he would cope. Yet it is a fact, that many children can see into your mind; it is a faculty they have evolved. They know exactly when you are undergoing hellish torments. They know exactly that very instant the horrible self-consciousness is set to surface, has surfaced, in the act of perception. They would see him sitting there and be trying to restrain the general smirk, but this general smirk would alter, gradually, becoming an expression of great suffering, for nobody can experience empathy like a wean, and nobody can suffer like a wean either, and Patrick would have become a crucified soul in their very midst. His anguish all too apparent. And maybe only Alison would have failed to notice its manifestation. It was best not to go to the Commodore but it had to be gone to now.
The clothes. He was going to don a shirt and tie and generally affect the conventional appearance of an establishment sort of bloke, an ordinary upholder of the Greatbritish way of eking out this existence. He would polish the shoes. Naw he fucking wouldni. He was stopping at that point. No further. Polish the shoes! The very fucking idea! All for the sake of a beautiful woman!! What a fucking hoax! Hoax? What has hoax got to do with it? Hoax. Hoaxish. Hoaxum. And the root? Intocsickation of course. Patrick is fucking drunk. Drunk as a lord. A lord? Drunk as a monkey then. Fine. And he was sticking on the good sports jacket and trousers and a good thick vest under the shirt, and too a quite thick V-neck jersey so the tie could be seen and everything would be correct and presentable more or less, for any occasion, any eventuality, just in case of anything vaguely out of the ordinary occurring, such as going somewhere that a too-casual outfit was frowned upon. In the name of fuck what could that possibly be? especially on a Sunday. Well, church of course. Such things canni be predicted. Poor old Joseph K ended up in a cathedral and what was he wearing was it a suit of black — a black frockcoat and tails? And also, wearing the thick underclothes means he wouldni have to don the overcoat or heavy anorak which is perhaps the central reason as to why he is dressing as he is, so that Alison might esteem him the type of guy who doesnt care what like the weather is, he just wears the same outfit come hell or high water. It was probably quite a machismo carry on. Maybe he would impress better by sporting the overcoat. And a fucking woolly scarf if it comes down to it! And shove a jar of Vick Vapour Rub in the pocket in case of emergencies, a couple of hot water bottles strapped to the upper trunk. Yet the truth of the matter
And take enough cash as well. That was important. For the full range of possibilities. He had a motor car and little or no obligations to any man, woman, wean or pet. Nothing. He could go wherever he wished. His desire was his command, whatever he wanted, he could set to and simply get it accomplished.
It was good. It was good and it was cheery. There wasnt really very much he wanted out of life, not really. But it, or maybe just the knowledge, the knowledge just, of being able to go and do whatever he thought it best to do, at that particular time, without having to worry too much about what other folk thought, not really. Although there again, it has to be said
But fuck off. What in this life was there to be proud of? I mean some fucking good thinkers would affirm truly that just managing to be alive by thirty was worthwhile. Look at Wittgenstein’s brothers.
He pulled all the plugs out the electrical points before leaving. He didnt know when he would be back. But he usually pulled them out anyway because of the possibility of electrical fire. Which would be one of the drawbacks to the acquisition of this fridge his maw was threatening to dump on him. Refrigerator plugs had to be kept on at all times otherwise you got flooded by defrosted ice. He would, however, be able to buy fresh food and keep it fresh, including milk, cheese and poultry meats and pig, cow and sheep meats. But the idea was silly. Plus also that deeply held away far away sense of solidarity, wanting to show some sort of solidarity, with those who had fuck all to eat and were probably dying of starvation right at this very moment. Even the thought of doing it, storing vast quantities of food for the sole consumption of one single man. There was something not good about it, something not good about it at all.
At the foot of the staircase he continued on into the rear instead of going out the front. He walked a few paces, gazing at the peeling paintwork on the walls and ceiling. He found it special hereabouts. It had to do with the dullness of light, the position of the rear exit in relation to the front, how the shadows were eternally fixed, even at night. When the only kind of lighting was electrical the exact same shadows — or rather, the lines of those exact same shadows — remained, but had these other shadow-lines superimposed so that different layers of shadows were in existence. It was a good and a clear area of space, even allowing for the peeled paint. Then the constant wet of course; even during the summer months the condensation was horrendous and just out from the rear close was the greatest of stinks it has ever been Patrick’s something or other to witness. It emanated from a drain which was the top hatch of a dark dungeon of a sewer, and this sewer, its exploration.