The Burn
Authors: James Kelman
THE BURN
This eBook edition published in 2012 by
Birlinn Limited
West Newington House
Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
www.birlinn.co.uk
First published in 1991 by Secker & Warburg
This edition published in 2009 by Polygon,
an imprint of Birlinn Ltd
Copyright © James Kelman, 1991
The moral right of James Kelman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-84697-053-5
eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-142-2
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Acknowledgement
Stories from this collection have appeared in
Bête Noire, Cencrastus, Chapman, Guardian, New Statesman & Society, Not Poetry, Short Tales from the Nightshift, Writing
Together
This collection of stories could not have been finished easily without the hospitality of my wife’s family and relations, and our friends, in the town of Lawn,
Newfoundland.
For Peter Kravitz
The small bird and the young person
He wasnt really watching the picture he was just sitting there wondering on things; the world seemed so pathetic the way out was a straight destruction of it, but that was
fucking daft, thinking like that; a better way out was the destruction of himself, the destruction of himself meant the destruction of the world anyway because with him not there his world wouldnt
be either. That was better. He actually smiled at the thought; then glanced sideways to see if it had been noticed. But it didnt seem to have been. There was a female sitting along the row who was
greeting. That was funny. He felt like asking her if there was a reason for it. A lot of females gret without reason. The maw was one. So was the sister, she gret all the time. She was the worst.
Whenever you caught her unawares that was what would be happening, she would be roaring her eyes out. The idea of somebody roaring their eyes out, their eyes popping out their sockets because of
the rush of water. Or maybe the water making them slippery inside the sockets so they slipped out, maybe that was what it was, if it was anything even remotely literal. No doubt it would just prove
to be a total figure of speech: eyes did not go popping out of sockets. There was a sex scene playing. The two actors playing a sex scene, the female one raising the blanket to go down as if maybe
for oral intercourse, as if maybe she was going to suck him. Maybe this is why the woman was greeting along the row; maybe she once had this bad experience where she was forced into doing that very
selfsame thing, years ago, when she was at a tender age, or else just it was totally against her wishes maybe. And she wouldnt want reminding of it. And look what happens, in she comes to see a
picture in good faith and innocence, and straight away has to meet up with that terrible ancient horror
or else she enjoyed her feelings of anguish and had come along because of it, a kind of masochism or something, having heard from one of her pals about the sort of explicit – and maybe
even exploitative – sex scenes to expect if she did. That was the director to blame anyway In the pictures he was involved in something like this usually happened, and there was usually
violence as well, like in this one murder. And people would end up in bad emotional states. Was it right that it should be like this? It was okay for somebody like him – the director –
but what about other folk, ordinary folk, them without the security, the overall security, the ones that actually went to watch his fucking pictures! The thought was enough to make you angry but it
was best to just find it funny if you could, if you could manage it. He nodded and started grinning – it was best to. But it wasnt funny at all in fact it was quite annoying, really fucking
annoying, and you could get angry about it, the way these bastards in the film industry got away with it.
And there was that female now, her along the row. He felt like shouting to her: What’s up missis? Something wrong?
God Almighty but, the poor woman, maybe there
was
something bad up with her; he felt like finding out, maybe he should ask, maybe it was some bastard in a chair nearby, maybe wanking or
something because of the sex scene, and here was the woman within perception distance – listening distance – having to put up with it, and it maybe reminding her of a terrible time when
she was younger, just a lassie, and was maybe forced into some sort of situation, some kind of similar kind of thing. So fucking awful the way lassies sometimes get treated.
But it had to come back to the director, he it was to blame, it was this movie making the guy wank in the first place, if he hadnt been showing the provocative sexy scenes it wouldnt be fucking
happening. There was a lot to be said for censorship. If a censor had seen this he would have censored it and then the woman maybe wouldnt be greeting. But no, it was more serious than that.
Definitely. It was. She was definitely greeting for a reason, a real reason, she had to be – it was obvious; it had just been going on too long. If it had stopped once the scene changed then
it would have been different, but it didnt. And the woman actor was back up the bed and her and the guy were kissing in the ordinary mouth-to-mouth clinch so if the oral carry-on had been the
problem it was all over now and the woman should have been drying her tears. So it was obviously serious and had nothing to do with sex at all – the kind that was up on the screen at least.
Maybe he should ask her, try to help. There were no attendants about. That was typical of course for matinée programmes, the management aye worked short-handed, cutting down on overheads and
all the rest of it. This meant attendants were a rarity and the audience ran the risk of getting bothered by idiots. Once upon a time a lassie he knew was a cinema attendant. She used to have to
walk down the aisle selling ice-creams, lollipops and popcorn at the interval; and they tried to get her to wear a short mini-skirt and do wee curtseys to the customers. But they obviously didnt
know this lassie who was a fucking warrior, a warrior. She quite liked wearing short miniskirts but only to suit herself. If she wanted to wear them she would wear them, but it was only for her own
pleasure, she would please herself. She used to get annoyed with the management for other reasons as well; they used to get her to wear this wee badge with her name on it so it meant all the guys
looked at it and knew what it was and they shouted it out when they met her on the street. Heh Susan! Susaaaaan! And then they would all laugh and make jokes about her tits. It was really bad. And
bad as well if you were out with her if you were a guy because it meant you wound up having to get involved and that could mean a doing if you were just one against a few. She was good too, until
she fucked off without telling him. He phoned her up one night at tea-time and she wasnt in, it was her flatmate. And her flatmate told him she had went away, she had just went away. She had been
talking about it for a while but it was still unexpected when it happened. Probably Manchester it was she went to. He had had his chance. He could have went with her. She hadnt asked him, but he
could have if he had wanted. It was his own fault he hadnt, his own fault. She had gave him plenty of opportunities. So it was his own fault. So he never heard of her again. It was funny the way
you lost track of folk, folk you thought you would know for life; suddenly they just werent there and you were on your ownsome. This seemed to happen to him a lot. You met folk and got on well with
them but then over a period of time yous drifted away from each other – the same as the guys you knew at school, suddenly yous never even spoke to each other. That was just that, finished,
fucking zero. It was funny. Sometimes it was enough to make you greet. Maybe this is what was up with the female along the row, she was just lonely, needing somebody to talk to God he knew the
feeling, that was him as well – maybe he should just actually lean across and talk to her. Could he do that? So incredible an idea. But it was known as communication, you started talking to
somebody, your neighbour. Communication. You took a deep breath and the rest of it, you fucking just leaned across and went ‘Hullo there!’ Except when it’s a male saying it to a
female it becomes different. She had the hanky up at the side of her eyes. She looked fucking awful. He leaned over a bit and spoke to her:
Hullo there missis. Are you okay?
The woman glanced at him.
He smiled. He shrugged and whispered, You were greeting and eh . . . you alright?
She nodded.
I couldnt get you something maybe, a coffee or a tea or something, they’ve got them at the foyer . . .
She stared at him and he got a sudden terrible dread she was going to start screaming it was fucking excruciating it was excruciating you felt like stuffing your fingers into your ears, he took
a deep breath.
There wasnt anybody roundabout except an old dear at the far end of the row. That was lucky.
Maybe there
was
something up with her right enough. Or else maybe she was fucking mental – mentally disturbed – and just didnt have anywhere to go. Genuine. Poor woman. God.
But folk were getting chucked out on the street these days; healthy or unhealthy, it didnt matter, the powers-that-be just turfed you out and they didnt care where you landed, the streets were full
of cunts needing looked after, folk that should have been in nursing homes getting cared for. She was maybe one of them, just in here out the cold for a couple of hours peace and quiet. And then
look at what she has to contend with up on the bloody screen! God sake! In for a couple of hours peace and quiet and you wind up confronting all sorts of terrible stuff in pictures like this one
the now. Maybe censors were the answer. Maybe they would safeguard folk like this woman. But how? How would they do it, the censors, how would they manage it? No by sticking the cinemas full of
Walt Disney fucking fairyland. Who would go for a start? No him anyway, he hated that kind of shite. Imagine paying the entrance fee for that, fucking cartoons. He leant across:
Ye sure you dont want a coffee?
She shut her eyes, shaking her head for a moment. She wasnt as old as he had thought either. She laid the hand holding the hanky on her lap and the other hand she kept at the side of her chin,
her head now tilted at an angle. She kept looking at the screen.
I was going to get one for myself. So I could get one for you while I was at it . . .
She turned to face him then; and she said, Could you?
Aye, that’s what I’m saying.
Thanks, you’re a pal.
Milk and sugar?
Just milk.
He hesitated but managed to just get up, giving her a swift smile and not saying anything more, just edging his way along the row. He had to pass by the old dear sitting in the end seat and she
gave him a look before holding her shopping bags in to her feet to let him past, and he nodded to her quite briskly. He walked up the aisle and down the steps, pushing his way out into the
corridor. Thick carpets and dim lighting. He grinned suddenly, then began chuckling. How come he had nodded at the old dear like that? She was as old as his grannie! God Almighty! But it was to
show her he was relaxed. That was how he had done it, that was how he had done it. If he hadnt been relaxed he would never have bloody managed it because it would have been beyond him.