Oh but I saw ye were shivering, she said and laughed.
She saw I was shivering. Who then was the God?
But her laughter!
Gods cannot laugh. It was because I had answered. She liked it when I answered. When I did not she became depressed. She thought I was dying. I was not dying.
Recently I had been unable to answer. I wanted to answer but could not. I wanted to explain to her that I did not not answer intentionally. I did not care about the others. Only her, and even to her I found that I could not answer. I was ill-equipped, to speak. I could but would not. I was never speaking in a natural manner. I was not a useful person. I could not push myself. I listened in silence, prior and beyond, and preferred it so. I hoped the others would stop visiting. I cannot name them. This would be painful, for them.
I was an awkward patient. These were visitors who expected the visited to do the entertaining.
They had nothing to say and I had become incapable, of it.
What could I say to people, only speak when spoken to. Not reply.
My mouth opening, sounds issuing. They would listen and make sense of the sounds. People do listen.
It is true that she never did. She heard but refused to make sense of the utterances.
The faces of people reveal worry. I no longer opened my eyes.
She did not allow herself to be affected, and by not listening, by not listening
Are ye sleeping? she said.
I kept my eyes closed, eyelids closed. Yet tiredness had engulfed me, my God and engulfing, whatever engulfing
distrusting words too
Words used to be reaching, we were groping, human beings making use of words as a way forwards, it was progress towards, a progress
even could I be backwards, a groping towards a return, I was returning and seeking its continuation so that along the road my mind would numb
What eternity may be. I could drift, drifting. If I would lose consciousness, no.
Fingernails and zips.
I moved towards unconsciousness, the body being dragged, mind so being dragged. Yet when I revived, and was revived; fitly, I was fitly
How to stagger, which also is movement. I sought movement, I might stagger. A God could not stagger. My body. The stagger as an effect. How may there be effects of one’s body, affecting oneself, affects on one’s own body, effects of oneself
How would I speak of my death to her, speaking to somebody of that. Death is not, is not, isnay
What could I say to her, death is not, it is nought. Death is not really, it isnay
To her I could say it and not to others, it ended for them before that.
The Third Man, or else the Fourth
It was perishing. Ice on the ground, ice on the puddles. When ye moved yer shoes crunched. There was supposed to be horse racing this afternoon but anybody with half a brain knew it would be postponed. The ground was bone hard. Nay racing since last weekend. Not postponed: cancelled. Why not tell the truth. Ye cannay postpone an actual day, ye cannay put back a day, that would be like two days in a oner. It is not possible. What happens is the day gets cancelled, the day’s racing; they just cancel it, the powers-that-be. Unless a big race is on the card; the Grand National or something, then they do whatever it takes. Otherwise no.
Jesus christ but it was bitter, a right cauld snap. It must have come down from the Arctic. We were standing there chittering. The conversation petered out a while ago, we were just keeping warm. Then we drifted off to look for burnables. Drifted is the wrong word but naybody said nothing when we went, we just went away, away by ourselves. I noticed that. It was almost weird the way it happened, like telekinetics or whatever the fuck ye call it.
There were three of us there at the time and then another one came and that makes four, so four of us. Whatever we found we stowed to the side of the fire. Me, Tim and Nicky Parkes. Arthur was the fourth one along. That was us: the auld team. Nay point saying different. There is young teams and there is auld teams. Ours is an auld team. How do ye tell the difference? Because we dont tan the bus shelters, no like those little toerag bastards.
The Council put up a new bus shelter yesterday morning. At five o’clock yesterday afternoon it was caved in, glass all ower the pavement. So how are dogs and cats meant to walk? They never think of that. Piles of shattered glass cutting into animals’ paws, or else weans. And what about elderly people? Some auld dears come out without their shoes, they just wear their slippers, slipping down the stair for a couple of rolls and a pint of milk, they dont bother putting on their shoes, so these slippers with soft soles, fucking glass goes right through them and cuts their fucking feet.
That is these fucking hooligan bastards. I have nay time for them.
I never saw the new bus shelter myself, before or after, it was Arthur telled us. I was gony go along the street to have a look. Wound up I didnay bother. I had somewhere to go. What interests me but is their fathers. Who is their fathers? the wee toerag cunts. Naybody knows. Ye hear guys talking in the betting shop or the boozer and they all shake their heads, all annoyed. If they could get a grip of the wee bastards! They say stuff like that. If they were my boys!
Well who the fucking hell’s boys are they? Know what I mean. Nay cunt owns up! Ye never hear anybody going, Oh him, that wee fucking toerag, my youngest!
Naybody says that.
They must all be orphans. It would be a different kettle of fish if it was getting signed for a football team. Oh my boy my boy! Kilmarnock just signed him on a full-time contract. The Hibs have offered him terms.
Then they would be rushing to claim them. Ye ask me it is hypocrisy. I have nay time for it. I hate that vandalist anti-social stuff. Ye try to keep a place as best ye can. It is us that use it. If ye want to vandalize the place go to Kelvinside or Newton Mearns, Bearsden — someplace the rich cunts live.
My own boy was past the stage. But he never done it anyway; no even when he was that age. Me and the guys were talking about it. No question. I would have punched fuck out him, that one of mine.
What about yer wife? said Arthur. Would she have let ye?
What ye talking about?
Does she no mind if ye hit him?
Well I dont hit him now Arthur he’s fucking thirty-seven.
Arthur nodded like he had scored a point. I looked at Nicky Parkes and Tim. They were listening. Tim was rolling a smoke.
Of course she minded, I said, she’s a woman int she!
Arthur shrugged, blew into his cupped hands and rubbed them in front of the fire. That annoyed me. He annoyed me.
Forget it.
I looked at the fire instead. It was going good. The last pile of burnables included a wooden cupboard thing that Nicky Parkes dragged ower from behind the shops. Me and Tim broke it up. If we had just pitched it on it wouldnay have lasted as long because of the draught catching in under the spars. Yer fire just goes up in smoke. An old story but a true one. Some people know about fires, other ones dont. Arthur for instance. Mind you he liked a heat. He never done nothing for the fire but loved heating his hands. He just stood there rubbing them. It grated on me. Then he made comments about yer family! What a cheek! Families are taboo. Naybody should interfere with that. What the hell did it matter to him what my wife said about my son? Sons are boys and boys are boys. Ye know what women are like about boys, I said.
Arthur squinted at me like he didnt know what I was talking about.
Sons, I said, they’re their pride and joy.
The fucking sun shines out their arse ye mean. Arthur shook his head and spat into the fire. A different story when ye’re merried to them, when the boy grows to a man. Fucking nag nag nag.