The Burn (14 page)

But Sharon stopped in her tracks. They had come up from behind me and I felt this hand clamp down on my shoulder like to about-turn me again and I jerked out from under it and turned to face
them: Any more from yous two and I’ll call the polis!

We are the polis, says Sheila.

What?

You heard, says Alan.

What?

And we could do you for breach if we wanted, but lucky for you we’re off-duty and we canni be bothered.

And he was looking straight at me, contempt written all over his face. And here it was all now fitting in. Folk like you give us a pain in the neck, he was saying, we try to do you a favour for
old times’ sake and look what happens.

That’s right, went on Sheila, because you used to be married to my pal when we all shared the same uniform. Whereas the truth is you were aye a bad-tempered wee bastard – you and
your bloody union.

Is he giving you any trouble officer? said a voice – Mr Moir it was, coming out from the back shop.

You could say that.

We’ve had our eye on him for a while, he says, is that right Sharon?

Sharon kept her head lowered and muttered something that wasnt intelligible to me and her face went red because she was involved in dishonest company.

Is that right Sharon? says Moir again with an insinuating voice.

Dont be feart of
him
hen, said Sheila indicating me.

I’m not feart of him.

He’s just a wee bully.

He always was, said Alan, even when we were weans the gether in the Boy’s Brigade – until he got done for shoplifting.

Well that’s a lie for a start, I said, because not only have I never got done for shoplifting, I was never even a bloody protestant and you’ve got to be a bloody protestant to get
into them, else they turn ye down, they dont let you over the door. And I gave a quick smile to Sharon, letting her see I knew she was trying to be on my side and if she wasnt allowed to because of
the situation then it was fine, it was fine, and I wouldnt think any the less of her. My da brought me up a good socialist, I said.

Sharon gave me a quick smile back and I knew I had figured her out correctly; she was a great lassie and would always stand by me.

That’s the truth, I told her, we used to sing the Red Flag morning noon and night. Our house was full of books. Piles and piles of them, economic histories, political biographies, the
lot.

Rubbish, said Alan.

Rubbish! What do you mean rubbish! I’m fucking telling ye the way it was.

Less of the language, replied Sheila.

Well you’re bloody upsetting me. I dont know what the hell’s going on, unless these crazed eedjit brothers of my ex-wife have fucking bribed you to find me.

Your mouth needs soapy water, said Alan.

Put the books down on the counter, cried Mr Moir.

With great pleasure, I says, with very great pleasure. But I didnt; I whispered to Sharon instead: This is so bad, I says, it’s just so bad. I want you to be my witness to what’s
happening. I was in this shop minding my own business – I wasni even inside it I was outside it! – and then this pair waylaid me.

Waylaid ye, says Alan, who the hell waylaid ye?

You did, the two of yous.

Did we hell.

Well what’s this then? I said, pointing at the pile of books. What did you pile me up with them for except to slow me down or something?

Instead of replying the two of them shook their heads, and Alan gave a weary smile at both Sharon and Mr Moir. What I find so upsetting, he said, is that me and him used to be mates.

Once upon a time, I added. Like all good fairy tales it came to an abrupt end.

What do you know about fairy tales, said Sheila, these wee stories you write are all cheap thrills and sex.

That’s no true, I said to Sharon, she’s just lying.

You calling my wife a liar? said Alan.

The facts speak for themself.

The facts speak for themselves! That’s a good yin. What do you know about facts? More than you.

Ha ha.

Aye I know ha ha, I says.

That’s because you’re a joke, replied Alan and it made his wife burst out laughing. He winked at her.

Some man you are, I said.

I know, a man and a half.

You make me want to boke, I said, but I was playing for time, looking to find a way out of what was going on. Sharon was gazing at me. I’ve always loved you Sharon was what I thought but
couldnt get it verbalised, probably because if I had I would have compromised her and I didnt want to do that. She was a brilliant lassie. Then a thought: if I flipped the books up into the air
there was a chance I could make it to the door. But they were watching me carefully for just such a move – especially Sheila; it seemed like she was the brains behind the squad. When I knew
her she was dangerous as well; in fact it occurred to me that she had always been out to get me, right from the kick-off back in the old days. A crazy idea was beginning to dawn on me: maybe she
had fancied me and it had turned to hatred, maybe because I had fell for Mary she had set out to get me, and she had started by poisoning my marriage. And if that was the case then this whole
business was just hair-raising. I looked at Sharon. She was the one voice of reason. Yet there standing next to her was Moir, the guy that ran the fucking place. What a smug bastard he was. I had
always thought that. Even the way he scanned the books I bought whenever I was unlucky enough to get served by him, it was like he was casting judgements. I stole another glance at Sharon, if I
could somehow get her to realise what I was going to try, if somehow she could realise what it was and could maybe create a diversion. That tight black T-shirt too, she always wore it and it was
like she had forgot to stick a bra on first thing every morning the way her nipples poked out it was hard to even think what you were buying sometimes, she just rang up the till, gave you the
receipt and waited for the dough, it was just too much, too much:

You come with us, muttered Sheila, taking me by the shoulder, and I had to go with them, my forearms cramped under the weight.

After the pause came the other pause and it was the way they have of following each other the next one already in its place as if the sequence was arranged according to some
design or other, and set not just by the first but them all, a networked silence. It was that way when she entered the room. The noise having ceased right enough but even allowing for that if it
hadnt it would have – which is usually always the case. She had the looks to attract, a figure exactly so, her sensuousness in all the moves so that her being there in this objectified way,
the sense of a thousand eyes. Enter softly enter softly: it was like a song he was singing, and her smile brief, yet bravado as well, that style some women have especially, the face, the
self-consciousness; and all of them being there and confronting her while her just there taking it, standing there, one arm down, her fingers bent, brushing the hem of her skirt. She was not
worried by virtue of him, the darkness of the room, any of it. Like a sure knowledge of her own disinterest, his non-existence as a sexual being, in relation to her, and he grinned, reaching for
the whisky and pouring himself one, adding a half again of water, the whisky not being a good one. She was still standing there, as if dubiously. She was seeking out faces she recognised and his
was one that she did recognise, lo, but would barely acknowledge, she would never acknowledge. Had he been the only face to recognise; the only one. Even that. He smiled then the sudden shift out
from his side jacket pocket with the lighter and snap, the flare in the gloom, the thin exhalation of blue smoke; he sipped at the whisky and water, for his face would definitely have had to be
recognised now, from the activity, no matter how softly, softly and quietly, no matter how he had contrived it. Now his elation was so fucking strong, so fucking vivid man, and striking, and so
entirely fucking wonderful he wanted to scream he had to scream he really did have to he had to scream he would have to he wouldnt be able to fucking stop himself he was shaking he was shaking the
cuff of his sleeve, the cuff of his sleeve, trailing on the surface of the table, his hand shaking, shaking, now twitching and his breath coming deep, and she would have sensed it, sensed it all,
and she would be smiling so slightly around the corners of her mouth, the down there, her thick lower lip how round it was, how round it was and mystifying, to describe it as provocative was an
actual error, an error, a mistake. But the hesitancy in her movement. That thread having been long flung out now, though still exploratory, but ensnaring, it was ensnaring, causing her to hold
there, so unmistakeably hesitant now rubbing her shoulder just so self-aware yet in that kind of fashion a woman has of rubbing her shoulder at the slightest sensory indication of the thread,
feeling it cling, that quiver and he shivered, raising the whisky to his mouth and sipping it, keeping his elbow hard in to the side of his body, keeping it firmly there because that sickness in
the pit of his belly and the blood coursing through his cheeks, and burning, burning, everyone seeing and knowing, he was so transparent, so transparent, she just shook her head. What was she going
to do? She just had shaken her head that most brief way, and she turned on her heel and she left, left him there. He couldnt move. He would cry out. But his face was controlled, so controlled,
although the colour now drained from his cheeks, or else the opposite, was it the opposite? and his hand now shaking, the cigarette lighter on the coffee table.

He lifted his grandson from the floor and sat him on his knee; he rocked him back and forth, pulling funny faces, but when the wee boy started wriggling about he returned him
to the carpet and glanced across to where his daughter Isobel was sitting: Fancy another cup of tea hen?

Do you?

Well I’m asking you.

Isobel shrugged but she rose from the couch. I’ll get you one.

Naw you’ll no. I dont want one, I was just wanting to know if you did. However, if you are passing the kitchen, I’ll take a can of beer . . . He grinned. There’s a couple in
the fridge.

Tch dad!

When she brought it to him he pulled off the stopper and drank from it straight off. She said, You’ll poison yourself, it’s all dirty round the rim.

Ah! He wiped his mouth.

Anyway you shouldni be drinking at this time of the day, no at your age.

What ye talking about, it’s one o’clock in the afternoon!

You’re too auld for it.

I’m fifty-three, give me a break – you’d think I was a pensioner to hear you . . . He swigged another mouthful then raised his eyebrows: After last night’s performance
but maybe you’re right – see the head I had on me when I woke up this morning!

I’ve got no sympathy for you.

He smiled.

I’m serious dad.

Ach I’m no as bad into it these days as you think.

Are you no . . . ?

Naw.

She nodded.

Honest, he said, last night as well never mind it being a Friday, I was staying in with all the best of intentions – no kidding ye. Me and your mother in front of the telly and all that
then a bang at the door. Frank Smith and Big McArdle, so I says aye okay. First time I’ve been out for weeks. Your mother didni mind me going.

Isobel did not reply, and he paused, then shook his head: Unfortunately I dont even remember getting home.

That kind of drinking isni good for you.

I dont need you to tell me that hen.

Aye well ye shouldni keep on doing it then. You’re just destroying yourself physically.

Thanks.

Ye are but dad.

Thanks.

Ye’ve got to face facts.

No doubt you’ll remind me if I ever forget them.

Well somebody’s got to.

That’s your mother’s job Isobel no yours.

Aye but she’ll no approach ye about it so it’s left to me.

How do you know what she approaches me about? You dont, you dont know. So dont think ye do.

Isobel reached for her cigarettes and lighted one. Her father was making a point of watching her do it. She ignored him. She blew out the match and laid it in the ashtray. Then he muttered:

Aye you’ve got a cheek to talk about anybody with all that smoking ye do. High time ye gave it up my girl, for the wee boy’s sake if no your own.

She made no response.

D’ye hear me?

I hear ye, yes, I do, I hear ye. She looked at her wristwatch, then at the window. I wonder how long’s she going to be . . . She’s awful late.

Och I’ve seen her later than this. He smiled slightly, reached to clap his grandson on the head and he sniffed quite loudly, jerking his thumb at the wee boy: Is he smelly?

I dont think so.

Mmm . . . Her father pursed his lips, wiped his mouth; he gazed into the fireplace for a spell, before glancing suddenly across at her: So what happened to all that stuff they tried to pap down
your throat at Sunday School?

Pardon?

You know what I’m talking about.

Naw I dont, I dont.

He sighed and raised the beer can to his lips, but he didnt drink from it. He stared at the baby, he shrugged eventually. I just like the notion of weans getting baptised.

Aw, so it’s that again, christenings.

Naw but I do, I just like the notion.

Dad I dont want to go through all this again.

Dont get me wrong hen I’m just talking about the actual notion itself.

She held the cigarette to her mouth; she puffed twice, not inhaling the smoke, dispersing the cloud with her left hand.

It’s like it’s a kind of initiation into the human race . . . He gestured at the wee boy but before he could continue speaking she muttered:

I dont know what ye mean by that.

Naw hen look, if we just stop and study this wee thing here, just for a minute; what we see is it’s neither one thing nor the other, a set of responses and reactions just, that’s all
it is, give it some grub and it dirties its nappy, dont give it some grub and it greets.

So?