It’s disgusting.
Aye, and the rest of us just stand back and watch them do it.
Alison sighed but not passively. She was unsettled by the topic and no wonder either it was astonishing what was happening in the world these days and nobody seemed willing to even ponder on it in any even vaguely ethical manner such as usually fucking happened in the shitey west, amongst all these so-called powers who jumped to attention to offer a salute as soon as Washington so much as signalled an intention to fart. No point in talking. Sometimes you felt like making your own demonstration, like some of the monks in Asian countries, setting yourself on fire upon the steps of a public meeting house.
I’ll tell ye something Alison, sometimes I think I’ll just stop buying newspapers altogether, and just stop taking any interest in the news, in what’s going on.
O!
Ye dont agree?
Of course I dont agree.
Pat grinned. He shook his head. So, you dont agree eh! He was still grinning; it became a chuckle.
Soon he was swinging the wheel for the turn into his own street. Tricky corner this, he said, I nearly crashed into the lamppost last night.
Alison glanced across and nodded. She was obviously miles away and thinking of something else. And she could also have been slightly irritated. About different things. Imperialistic interventionism, the usual hegemonic practices, and his not wanting to read about them or even properly discuss them. But he was wanting to. He had only been kidding on. Surely she knew that. In fact, it was highly probable she was thinking: Here I am outside his close and what’s going to happen now. But really, it was out of order to think that about her because of the way it seemed to undercut the possibility of her total commitment to a political cause or stance, her own genuine perception of the world — a good perception of the world and very similar to his own i.e. she was opposed to hypocrisy and cant and fucking humbug. Patrick nodded. Actually Alison I dont really hide from things at all. I just said that there, about stopping buying papers and that. My fault is I take too much bloody damn interest and it gets me up to high doh worrying about it all, every last wee stupit bloody detail!
Alison smiled.
Good expression that! said Pat; up to high doh! DDooohh! My grannie used to say it.
Alison laughed.
Hey by the way, mind that pair of pipes I found at the back of the arts centre …? He had switched off the ignition and applied the handbrake while talking. And now he was reaching to open the door for her. He continued talking as he opened the door at his own side: I suppose ye know, he said, I suppose it’s really I suppose because I need some kind of escape, to give my brains a rest, that’s what I’m meaning! And he uttered the last bit simultaneously to his crashing of the door shut. And he strolled round to lock the passenger side. She was standing there gazing up at the roof of the building, perhaps allowing him to forget about the pipes for the sake of their common decency, their mutal face-saving, their unembarrassment, as if the pipes were an excruciatingly embarrassing subject and like a pair of bad-smelling underpants it was probably best to pap them straight out into the fucking midgy, instead of trying to get them clean.
Look at the weeds growing out of the gutter, said Alison, pointing upwards. The tall weeds could be seen way up there, their stems overshooting the edge of the roof.
Christ aye …
She had waited for him, and they entered the close together.
Is your close better than this yin? he asked.
Not much.
He gestured at the peeling paintwork as they ascended. He began whistling a tune, not pausing on any of the landings although he was aware she might be interested to see out into the backcourt — if only so she could gain time before having to enter his flat. In case he fucking grabbed her like one of these stupid Romeo and Juliet affairs of the silent screen. My darling, how I’ve longed for this moment! Smack smack smack. The sound of the kissing. And then too her somewhat sly wee insinuation of a comment to do with the state of the roof guttering which he was best to ignore — as if he was dutybound to start agitating over the probable build-up of rainwater or something.
There was a side to Alison, a sort of subdued sarcasm. It could be an attractive thing about her; there again though, othertimes — othertimes he could imagine being her husband and not liking it at all, not one wee bit. You would never be quite sure
On the top storey he had his back to her while unlocking the door and he stood aside to allow her entry. Inside he said, Monday tomorrow! as he closed the front door.
The weekends seem to get shorter dont they?
Yeh, aye. Patrick grinned. He breathed in deeply, smelling her great perfume so strongly. It was a good thing to have said, about the weekends. He hung his jacket on a hook, showing her into the kitchen. He walked past her to get to the electric fire switch. He shivered. It was bloody freezing of course and he should’ve kept the fucking jacket on till the place heated up. He frowned at Alison: You finding it cold?
A bit.
Yeh … he switched both bars on. Then he put on the gas oven, pulling wide its door to let the heat blast out. He rubbed his hands together, slapped them and blew into them quite fiercely. He chuckled at Alison. Her shoulders were hunched and she was making nervous kind of shivering noises. They didni have to be nervous of course they could simply have been natural responses to the cold. But no; of course they were nervous. Him as well, his actions, they were every bit as nervous. He turned and stepped to the sink, now with his hands in his trouser pockets, whistling once more. The kettle of course. He filled it with water, set it to boil. Alison had gone immediately to the books, her attention quickly taken by one; she lifted it from its shelf, and moved that wee bit nearer to the fire in a beautiful, absent manner. She was beautiful. It was funny. There was just no getting away from it, as a fact, even if he had wanted to. And the breakfast stuff still lay on the tiles in front of the fire, plus the empty mugs on the mantelpiece and the Observer fucking sections on the rug christ. It just meant he hadnt envisaged her presence. It meant he had never for one real and genuine minute imagined she could ever arrive here in this place, his house. Who could have imagined that? No fucker. And too, quietly studying the book in hand, taking the weight of her body onto her left foot, the right leg bent at the knee. It was one of these poses, good kind of poses, classic; he could imagine being a sculptor and motioning her to the side a little, and back a little, and so on, capturing the shadows of the folds in her coat, these long spiral shapes — curved cuboidals. Curved cuboidals? He strolled to clear the crockery and stuff from where it was lying, stacked it on the side of the sink; he put away the newspapers. He had no milk. The powdered stuff would be okay but he should have had milk because it would be better. I forgot to buy milk, he said. He smiled and shook his head. Daft — I forgot all about it.
It’s okay.
Are you sure? I’ve got powdered stuff; ye just mix it in; it’s fine.
I dont take milk in coffee anyway, she said and she grinned.