The block
The body landed at my feet. A short man with stumpy legs. He was staring up at me but though so wide open those eyes were seeing things from which I was excluded, not only excluded from but irrelevant to; things to which I was nonexistent. He had no knowledge of me, had never had occasion to be aware of me. He did not see me although I was staring at him through his eyeballs. I was possibly seeking some sort of reflection. What the hell was he seeing with his eyelids so widely parted. He was seeing nothing. Blood issued from his mouth. He was dead. A dead man on the pavement beneath me — with stumpy legs; a short man with a longish body. I felt his pulse: there was no pulse. I wasnt feeling his pulse at all. I was grasping the wrist of a short man. No longer a wrist. I was grasping an extension, the extension to the left of a block of matter. This block of matter was a man’s body several moments earlier. Unless he had been dead on leaving the window upstairs, in which case a block of matter landed at my feet and I could scarcely even be referred to in connection with ‘it’, with a block of matter describable as ‘it’ — never mind being nonexistent of, or to. And two policemen had arrived. O Jesus, said one, is he dead?
I was looking at them. The other policeman had knelt to examine the block and was saying: No pulse. Dead. No doubt about it poor bastard. What happened? he addressed me.
A block of matter landed at my feet.
What was that?
The block of matter, it was a man’s body previous to impact unless of course he was out the game prior to that, in which case, in which case a block of matter landed at my feet.
What happened?
This, I said and gestured at the block. This; it was suddenly by my feet. I stared into the objects that had formerly been eyes before doing as you did, I grasped the left extension there to. . see.
What?
The pulse. You were saying there was no pulse, but in a sense — well, right enough I suppose you were quite correct to say there was no pulse. I had grasped what I took to be a wrist to find I was grasping the left extension of a block of matter. Just before you arrived. I found that what was a man’s body was in fact a block and
. . do you live around here?
What, aye, yes. Along the road a bit.
Did you see him falling?
An impossibility.
He was here when you got here?
No. He may have been. He might well have been alive, it I mean. No — he. . unless of course the. . I had taken it for granted that it landed when I arrived but it might possibly. . no, definitely not. I heard the thump. The impact. Of the impact.
Jesus Christ.
The other policeman glanced at him and then at me: What’s your id?
McLeish, Michael. I live along the road a bit.
Where exactly?
Number 3.
And where might you be going at this time of the morning?
Work, I’m going to work. I’m a milkman.
The other policeman began rifling through the garments covering the block. And he brought out a wallet and peered into its contents. Robert McKillop, he said, I think his id’s Robert McKillop. I better go up to his house Geordie, you stay here with. . He indicated me in a vaguely surreptitious manner.
I’m going to my work, I said.
Whereabouts?
Partick.
The milk depot?
Aye, yes.
I know it well. But you better just wait here a minute.
The policeman idd Geordie leaned against the tenement wall while his mate walked into the close. When he had reappeared he said, Mrs McKillop’s upset — I’ll stay with her meantime Geordie, you better report right away.
What about this yin here? I mean we know where he works and that.
Aye. . the other one nodded at me: On your way. You’ll be hearing from us shortly.
At the milk depot I was involved in the stacking of crates of milk onto my lorry. One of the crates fell. Broken glass and milk sloshing about on the floor. The gaffer swore at me. You ya useless bastard: he shouted. Get your lorry loaded and get out of my sight.
I wiped my hands and handed in my notice. Right now, I said, I’m leaving right now.
What d’you mean you’re leaving! Get that fucking wagon loaded and get on your way.
No, I’m not here now. I’m no longer. . I cannot be said to be here as a driver of milk lorries any more. I’ve handed in my notice and wiped my hands of the whole carry on. Morning.
I walked to the exit. The gaffer coming after me. McArra the checkerman had stopped singing and was gazing at us from behind a row of crates but I could see the cavity between his lips. The gaffer’s hand had grasped my elbow. Listen McLeish, he was saying. You’ve got a job to do. A week’s notice you have to give. Dont think you can just say you’re leaving and then walk out the fucking door.
I am not here now. I am presently walking out the fucking door.
Stop when I’m talking to you!
No. A block of matter landed at my feet an hour ago. I have to be elsewhere. I have to be going now to be elsewhere. Morning.
Fuck you then. Aye, and dont ever show your face back in this depot again. McArra you’re a witness to this! he’s walking off the job.
Cheerio McArra. I called: I am, to be going.
Cheerio McLeish, said the checkerman.
Outside in the street I had to stop. This was not an ordinary kind of carry on. I had to lean against the wall. I closed my eyelids but it was worse. Spinning into a hundred miles of a distance, this speck. Speck. This big cavity I was inside of and also enclosing and when the eyelids had opened something had been presupposed by something. Thank Christ for that, I said, for that, the something.
Are you alright son?
Me. . I. . I was. . I glanced to the side and there was this middle-aged woman standing in a dark coloured raincoat, in a pair of white shoes; a striped headscarf wrapped about her head. And a big pair of glasses, spectacles. She was squinting at me. Dizzy, I said to her, a bit dizzy Mrs — I’m no a drunk man or anything.
O I didnt think you were son I didnt think you were, else I wouldnt’ve stopped. I’m out for my messages.
I looked at her. I said: Too early for messages, no shops open for another couple of hours.
Aye son. But I cant do without a drop of milk in my tea and there was none left when I looked in the cupboard, so here I am. I sometimes get a pint of milk straight from the depot if I’m up early. And I couldnt sleep last night.
First thing this morning you could’ve called me a milk man, I said while easing myself up from the wall.
O aye.
I nodded.
Will you manage alright now?
Aye, thanks, cheerio Mrs.
Cheerio son.
I was home in my room. A tremendous thumping. I was lying face down on the bed. The thumping was happening to the door. McLeish. McLeish. Michael McLeish! A voice calling the id of me from outside of my room. And this tremendous thumping for the door and calling me by id McLeish! Jesus God.
Right you are, I shouted. And I pulled the pillow out from under my chin and pulled it down on the top of the back of my head. The thumping had stopped. I closed my eyelids. I got up after a second of that and opened the door.
We went to the depot, said one, but you’d left by then.
The second policeman was looking at my eyes. I shut the lids on him. I opened my mouth and said something to which neither answered. I repeated it but still no reply.