Marabou Stork Nightmares (7 page)

I REMEMBER the party we had in the lounge bar of the Ferry Boat public house, a couple of days before we set off for London on our way to Johannesburg. They booked the top bar. Everyone was there. We were allowed in; me, Kim, and Gerald with our lemonade, Tony was allowed beer. It was brilliant. Mum serenaded John with 'Big Spender'.

The minute you walked in the joint,
I could tell ye were a man of distinction,
A real big spender.
Good lookin, so refined,
Suppose you'd like to know what's goin on in ma mind.

So let me get right to the point do-do,
I don't pop my cork for every man I see.
Hey big spender,
Hey big spender,
Spend a li-ril time with me.

do-do-do-do-do

— Still got the voice, Vet, Uncle Jackie said.

So would ye like tae have fun, fun, fun,
How's about a few laughs, laughs, laughs,
Let me show you a good time,
I could show you a good time . . .

I sat in the corner with Bernard and Kim, munching on our Coke and crisps. I was enjoying myself. My Ma was a good singer, especially with the band backing her, and I was drinking in the applause she was getting. I felt like royalty. The only ghost at the feast was Elgin. It had been decided that he wasn't coming to South Africa with us.

He had got a place at the GORGIE VENTURE HOSTEL FOR EXCEPTIONAL YOUNG MEN. There, it was explained, he'd be properly looked after by specialist staff. My Gran would visit, so would my Uncle. and Auntie Jackie. (They were called John and Jacqueline respectively, but when they got together, neither had wanted to surrender their accustomed name of Jackie, so they were both known by that title.) One day, Dad had told us, we would send for Elgin. Kim was heartbroken, but I was relieved. To me it was one less embarrassment to have to worry about and I still had plenty.

I remember that night. It was good until Ma spoiled it by getting pished and acting like a slut. Dad punched this guy who'd been chatting her up. Uncle Jackie then glassed the guy's pal, and the polis came and broke up the party. Dad was done for causing a breach of the peace, which resulted in a minor fine for him, while Uncle Jackie got six months for malicious wounding. The guy went into shock following the attack and his heart stopped. He had to be revived by the ambulance crew. They were quite near at hand, coming from the Western General. Now they've shut down the accident and emergency there, so he probably would have died if it had happened today.

— Ah nivir fuckin well touched um! Jackie roared unconvincingly as blood spilled from the man's twitching body and he and Dad were huckled into the station which was right next door to the pub.

I remember walking home with Tony, Bernard, Kim and Ma down Pennywell Road. The night had ended in disaster, our last proper night in Scotland, and it was all Ma's fault. I hate to see women who should have dignity acting like sluts. I hate because it

No way.

Deeper

I fear it more than ever.

Patricia Devine's voice; cloying, but yet with a harshness to it. When we're alone together she tells me all about her life. I want to gather her up and protect her and love her because of all the hurt and disappointment she's suffered. I want to do this to make up for my . . . there's nothing to make up for. It was all Lexo's fault.

I've revised my image of what Patricia looks like. I see her now as slightly older than I first imagined, formerly very attractive but now a little gone to seed. Perhaps a bit over made-up and carrying a couple of extra pounds. She never married that surgeon. She seems a bit like the air hostess I saw on that plane to Johannesburg, the first time I'd flown. Bitter, having failed to marry the pilot. Travelling from one ugly airport building to another, from one systems built airport hotel to another. The glamour of flight my arse. What was she? The airways bike. Even at ten years old, I knew what she was like.

Patricia is similar. After the doctors, it's the male nurses, then perhaps the technicians. She'll be on the porters soon. Downwardly mobile sexually. You're simply Devine though, Patricia. If only I could brush your tears away. No. I know you too well now. I'd just be another source of hurt and betrayal to you. You scream desperation. It's going to take an exceptional piece of luck to arrest your decline, to break this sad cycle.

Why is it that I can only see people in the negative, only recognise them through their pain and their thwarted ambitions?

Because I'm a

— Yes Roy, it's your visitor friend from yesterday. She's back. Patricia says. Yes, We have company. I can tell by Patricia's tone. She has her in-company voice on; sugary, pretend intimate but in reality anything but.

The visitor does not respond. It is a she though. I can smell traces of her perfume. I think I can smell it. Maybe I'm just imagining I can smell it. Whatever, it's oddly familiar. Maybe I fucked her once.

I went through a phase when I fucked loads of women. This was after I discovered that all you had to do was be what they wanted for about twenty minutes. I suppose we're talking about a certain type of woman here. Each time you went through that bullshit act to get closer to them, you got further away from what you wanted to be. At the time it made me feel good about myself because I was younger. This shagging period represented a change in what I was doing before, which was not getting a ride and this was not a good place to be, for all sorts of reasons. Now it seems a very good place to be, but that was then. I doubt if a shag would make me feel good about myself now. I doubt if I'll ever fuck again. It wasnae about sex anyway, no at that time, what it was about was . . . oh fuck all this shite. Stick to the Stork; maybe if I could kill the Stork.

No.

I'll never fuck again.

I hear the nurses leave, their sensible shoes clicking on the floor. I'm alone with my lady friend. I wonder who she is?

— It's funny seeing you here. Roy. It's been a long time. Who the fuck are you?

— I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news. It's your old pal Dempsey. Alan Dempsey. He's no longer with us, Roy. I thought you'd like to know that.

WHO ARE YOU?

It's no good. I hear her steps start up and fade. She's leaving.

Dempsey. Ali Dempsey. Demps. Total Niddroid. One of the top boys. One top boy deid, another a cabbage. The Cabbage and Ribs.

The bearer of bad news departs but the sound of her leaving becomes the sound of someone else appearing.

— Yir gaun back tae yir right fuckin room, son. Ah goat they cunts telt. Ah sais, youse cunts git ma fuckin laddie back in that room or ah'll git ma fuckin shotgun right now n yis'll be needin mair fuckin beds thin ivir by the time ah've fuckin finished!

—The laddie disnae need tae hear that, John. It's aw sorted now, son. We goat them aw sorted oot.

— Too fuckin right we did. Eh hen? Telt these cunts the score.

— Yes, well you'll have to leave now, Mr and Mrs Strang. I need to get Roy prepared

— Aye, wir gaun . . . bit naebody better try n move him ootay this room again . . . right! Cause like ah sais, ah'll be right doon herel

— Nobody's moving Roy, Mr Strang. Now let's just keep our voice down shall we, it might upset him.

Aye, right.

— Aye, well, so long as youse mind what ma man sais!

— Yes Mrs Strang.

— Tro Roy!

— Cheerio son. Mind son, we'll no lit thaim dae nowt tae ye. Like ah sais . . . cheerio Roy!
CHEERIO YA FUCKIN RADGE.

Nurse Beverley Norton is getting me sorted. Patricia must have finished her shift. Talk to me in your soft Coronation Street accent, Nurse Norton. Just like Dorie's . . . naw, no Dorothy's.

—We've got a visit from Dr Park this afternoon, haven't we, Roy loovey? Got to get you all nice and spruced up for Dr Park.

Fire ahead Nurse Norton. Never mind auld Strangy here. Roy Strang. Strangy fi Muirhoose. A vegetable now likes, but still a sound cunt. Still a top boy. Now Dempsey's wormfood though. The rest? Who the fuck kens. Two years ah've been here. Thir probably in Saughton, or worse, in some tenement or Gumley's, Wimpey, or Barratt box with a bird and brat checkin oot B&Q's wares. Sittin in front of the telly. Are they cabbages too? C'mon you cabbage. Not as much as me: a biodegradable piece of useless shit incapable of fulfilling its intended purpose in this life, just as incapable of passing on to the next one.

Thank fuck for a childhood in a large Scottish housing scheme; a wonderful apprenticeship for the boredom that this kind of semi-life entails. Pull the fuckin plug.

Wonder how Demps kicked it?

Thank fuck for Sandy Jamieson. Time

to

go

back

down

under

Bruce – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – It's all about good service, old Dawson explains to us, wiping large remnants of a substantial starter from his face. Sandy and I eagerly set to work on our hors-d'oeuvre although we both found that we were rather full after them.

— We haven't been
quite
so hungry today, Sandy said.

— I blame this confounded heat, I nodded, — but I could make a meal of this homemade bread and butter alone!

Our food is served by a strange creature, the likes of which I had never seen before. It was stunted and furtive, and although its short-arsedness seemed to suggest a range of possibilities, it was too dour looking to be a leprechaun, too ugly to be a pixie and too clumsy to be an elf. Its malevolence seemed far in excess of what one might expect from any self-respecting imp. Dawson informs us that it is his faithful manservant, Diddy. Sandy tries to avoid making eye contact with the dwarf valet as he ladles copious amounts of vegetables onto Dawson's plate, a contrast, it has to be said, to the far less liberal helpings he furnishes us with.

— Take Diddy here. He used to run this reserve. Now all he does is skivvy. I had to dismiss him from a position of executive authority. He was yesterday's man, incapable of taking us onto the next phase. Is that not so, Diddy?

Dawson slowly enunciates the phrase
incapable of taking us onto the next phase.

— Yes, Mr Dawson, Diddy solemnly replies.

— And how do you feel to be serving my food now, Diddy?

— It's an honour and a privilege to serve Jambola Park PLC in any way I can, Mr Dawson.

— Thank you, Diddy. Now please leave us. We have matters to discuss: executive matters.

Diddy scuttled out the door.

Dawson reclined in his chair and let out a loud, appreciative belch.

— You see Roy, Diddy may have no class, but he possesses an important quality. Not really important any more in top execs, they can always be rewarded, but crucial in footsoldiers. I'm talking, of course, of loyalty. Good old Diddy; aye ready to serve the empire. Men like him have been rewarded by men like me ever since the British set foot in this godforsaken continent.

— The hun never sets, I smiled, and Dawson raised a lascivious eyebrow in fruity acknowledgement.

— And if I may say so, Diddy has been rewarded handsomely, Sandy ventured.

It was a remark which Dawson largely close to ignore. I kept forgetting that Sandy was once in the employ of 'Fatty' Dawson.

— Wonderful food, Lochart, I smiled.

— Yes, said Sandy, — especially after that simply
horrid
stuff we had in town.

— That
was
beastly, I agreed, — the chap in the bar made so much fuss about it as well. It's so difficult to get good service nowadays. You're lucky to have Diddy.

Dawson rubbed his swollen hands together and let his face take on a serious bearing. — You see Roy, humans have a wretched tendency to pledge devotion to insitutions rather than individuals. This can be problematic for people like myself who require loyalty in service. What happens, of course, is that one simply buys the institution. Of course one is changing this institution at the same time to suit one's business plans and, yes, many people do notice this. Fortunately, tribal loyalties are pretty well-honed and the fools can't help but to subscribe.

— Goodwill is one of the greatest assets an organisation can have, Sandy remarked.

— Tremendously difficult to quantify on the balance sheet though, Dawson smiled, directing his remark at me rather than Sandy. Sandy began rocking in his chair and letting out a low sound.

— Mmmmm.

— So what does this mean, Lochart? What sort of a role do you perceive for Sandy and myself? I asked, impatient to discover where Dawson's game was leading us.

As you may know, he smirked, — I'm planning to take over a debt-ridden park which lies adjacent to us. I've made a reasonable offer, but I've been subjected to the predictable, tiresome cries of asset-stripping and child-molesting and so on and so forth. Kicking Lochart Dawson around is something of a thriving industry in these parts. Well, I've news for the loudmouths, I've never run away from anything.

— So where do our interests converge?

— I want the land they have. It's over two hundred square miles. With my smaller park joined to these resources, we could be in business. Big business. I'm offering opportunity, Roy. I'm offering vision. However, there will always be malcontents who choose to resist progress. The neighbouring park, Emerald Forest, is infested by the most vicious and unscrupulous predators/scavengers on this continent. I'm referring, of course, to your old friends . . .