The Burn (12 page)

It was maybe something in the way he had been living since old Fiona died, but that wasnt long ago and he had been operating like that in the playing days anyway, all these last years. He was
sick of it, he was right sick of it, sick to death of it. He was good. He was. He didnt need no cunt to tell him. Good or bad. He didnt need it, he didnt fucking care – never had and never
would. So he was no about to start in on something else either neither he was, no now. Nothing like that at all. God sake. How the hell should he?

It could have been a thing other folk saw as a character trait maybe, some sort of integral bit of his character or something but he couldnt care bloody less. He just felt himself he was
himself, his own man, and that was that, that was bloody that. It made him angry, just to think about it.

The bloke sitting at the table behind him with the plate of egg and chips. Then the old Chinese woman who served, waiting for him to order his whatever it was – Spanish omelette,
egg-and-noodle roll – but he wasnt going to order nothing. Nothing. The very idea made him sick. And them two wee girls that lived round the street were up at the counter buying chocolate to
take back to school. Old Fiona had been good with them. All kinds of weans. She had been good with them, she would have made a nurse, or a teacher in the primary schools or if she had had kids
herself, grandchildren, she would have been good with them, reading them stories and being patient with them when they done their mischief, no getting ratty the way he would have if it had been
him, if he had been a grandfather – which maybe he was because there had been other women besides old Fiona; there still was, there was Maggie. The bloke sitting behind looked at him out the
corner of his eye. Because he was talking to himself. His lips not just moving but the vocal chords as well. It was like all of him was moving now out in the world, nothing being concealed any
more, out it all went with a snap of the fingers. This was him close to dying at long last bring out the trumpets he felt like bashing it out. But he knew it, he knew it, he bloody knew it. It made
him feel good. He didnt fucking give a fuck.

Also the newspaper the bloke had noticed and was gesturing at wanting to borrow, from him, his newspaper, that was what it was. He smiled a polite smile and wet his lips and the sores inside his
mouth, his gums perhaps got some disease the way he was always getting them sores, like wee volcano mouths, what was it, he was wanting, the bloke, the newspaper, he was wanting the newspaper off
him. It was about something he was being asked also, he was being asked something, what the hell, and he said yes to it, whatever it was, he was asked, maybe no even asked, maybe saying yes and no
even getting asked. It was about the horse racing, the newspaper for the horse racing. The bloke was asking him about the horse racing, horses that he was betting.

The wee lassies had went away back to school with their chocolate, wee Pakistani lassies, what was it he was wanting to know, the bloke, it was about a horse he was doing and was asking him
about, he didnt know, didnt know about them, not the first thing, horses, he never had the interest, it didnt was something he did at all, it was politics as well, the horses and the betting, the
maharajahs and the billionaires, he couldnt be bothered with it, lot of shite, the way it stopped folk from using their loafs

like in the early days when the promise was there and the whole bloody world would have heard about them except they were just young, just so young, behind the ears, what could they do, getting
ripped off, nothing, they couldnt do nothing, not properly, not just by theirselves, if they had had somebody, somebody just to let them know the way things were, somebody that could have showed
them how to use their loaf, that would have done them, if they had had that.

He glowered at the bloke, steady, studying him, the way he was reading the newspaper and at the racing page, just the way he was looking at the racing page, reading it while he was digging a
chip into the yolk of the egg: he was comfy, he was sitting there comfy. This is what it was. Just sitting there comfy. A lot of blokes as well, young yins especially, that was like what they did,
they took things, your newspaper, anything, they took it – they took your stuff, the arrangements, the way you did things, when you did things they took it, you had to learn how no to bother,
if they took it and made it for theirselves. You learnt that. He never minded it it was the way of the world, that was the way things were so why worry, young folk and old folk how they watched and
just watched, so that you were best laying everything out, getting it all out and in the open and let them see, just let them see, without having secrets, like Bill Broonzy telling Guthrie just to
Steal it, Steal it. Because he wasnt going to give it but you could just take it. No time no time, no time, for that kind of thing.

The old Chinese woman at another table clearing it up but waiting, aye waiting, what was she

to order something, he was to order something. He usually had an omelette when Maggie was here. He liked it, omelettes. But with himself maybe just the egg-and-noodle roll. She smiled at him
near to his head and it was like she winked at him but how could that be, maybe it could be, her winking because her smile how she did it; she was so wee and the big bum in her trousers like you
felt you could smell her the movement, her vigorousness, she scarcely had to bend in the wiping, wiping down the table, her being so wee – plus her breathing as if she was not wanting the
sound to be overheard, keeping her breathing low, low; and you felt like telling her, Breathe out Breathe out, it’s good for you, good for the lungs, you had to blow out and get them cleared
and never mind who heard it it was your body you were to be looking after, your lungs and your breath, nobody else’s and you were to play, play. But how come that bloke had the newspaper?
that was annoying, how come he had it – had he gave him it? Had he actually gave him it? he couldnt hardly remember. Had he asked? He had. He had asked for it; if he could have it, he could
remember him asking: but had he gave him it? or did he just take it, the way they did these young blokes you have to watch them the way they just take things although you have got to give them
them, you’ve got to, else anyway they’ll just take, take take take, take take take; had he gave him it? He couldnt remember, he couldnt remember it, giving him it, he couldnt, he would
have remembered if he had; he would have remembered, surely to God he would have remembered for fuck sake something like that, unless maybe he had just took it, the way some of them did if they
thought they could get bloody away with it it would make you right bloody angry bloody cheek it was right bloody impertinence. Where was Maggie, where in the name of God was Maggie, the bloody hell
was she? Poor old Fiona but, that was her there her head on the pillow with her eyes open but rolled up the way poor old soul, her mouth still a bit wet and damp on the brow Fiona. That was her
now. How could it be! His brains werent thinking right. Could it be her? Who else! It couldnt be. It couldnt. No her. Old Fiona. She was good – better than that cunt Maggie, her bad temper.
Imagine that, old Fiona. He was to have been the one as well, no her, her being first like that, he was wanting to be first, he was to aye be first, that was the thing; and she was going to get the
old squad the gether, she was going to round them all up, the old squad. Maggie would have helped get her it done. If she had wanted, except maybe she wouldnt, she wouldnt want to, that was the
last thing

But needed because she was always bloody forgetting, always bloody forgetting, a memory like a bloody hen, a sieve, if you left it to her. If she bloody messed it up. All the boys too all
coming, and having a laugh, they’d have a laugh, maybe a drink, smoke a couple of joints, celebrating, the old days, they werent all fucking bad, some of them werent they were good, good.

Ah Jesus but was this him now where was he! He was here. He was just here and he was feeling damn tired and painful – no painful what was it in pain he was feeling in
pain he was sick and tired, he was sick and tired of it all, he was damn sick and tired, damn sick and damn tired, of the damn lot. Where was Maggie? Did he just look round for her there over his
fucking shoulder? And him at the fucking table behind with the newspaper there how had he got the bloody newspaper, it was no fair him taking it that way how they just took took took. The tears
were into his eyes, he was soon going to be bubbling, it was just no fair him taking his paper like that just for reading the horses, bloody horses bloody waste of time and money

the table inches from his face; he was hunching over, he was hunching over

Otherwise how come his face was inches from the table? The pong of that, formica

The old Chinese woman giving him a smile. She knew he was expecting Maggie and that was how come he was sitting there. But he wasnt expecting her, she wasnt coming anymore. She was an old woman
too with the big bum, this Chinese, and the smell off her, just sweat; she was an old-timer, like Fiona.

Ach he was finished anyway. And he wanted to be finished as well because it made him right bloody angry sometimes, and angry as well at Maggie she was a pain in the bloody neck, a pain in the
bloody neck, a damn nuisance. Where was she? Where the hell was she? That dampness on Fiona’s chin, on her bottom lip, the spots of sweat.

He had no time for it.

It was her waiting on him to order now Christ what next what next, she was there now at the foot of the table, smiling but being nosy at the same time, nosy, she was aye nosy, wanting to know
things all the time wanting to know things it was just nosiness, nosiness, how these Chinese were no supposed to be nosy but here they were this yin, this old yin, how she was, wanting to poke her
nose in he felt like being crabbit with her and telling her just to fuck off and go to another table, away and wash the damn dishes out the road, a bit of breathing space instead of all this
crowding in aye crowding in on a person, stuffy rooms and all that smoke engulfing you, right on top and overwhelming you, aye overwhelming you, making you feel, making you feel

It had nothing to do with her anyway. Fuck all. Nothing. What had it to do with her! Nothing at all. People had nothing to do with you although they made out like they did. That’s what
happened in life, they pretended to have some big say in how you went on. And once he was dead and buried how they would talk about him, chatter chatter chatter, blether blether blether; he knew
the way they would go, how they would act like they had all been in it the gether as if they were bosom buddies; just lies, lies lies and more lies. He was going to go away, he was going to go
away, he wasnt even going to eat. But he continued to sit there and a sniffing sound came from his nose, he was aware of the chewing noises coming from the table behind. Oh Maggie, Maggie. Maggie
wasnt there and he wasnt expecting her. Where the hell was she, where was she, how folk just fucked off and left you, they just went away, that was what happened, they just went away, they went
away, they went away and left you, they fucking went away and left you, it made you right bloody angry.

I met them in the doorway of a bookshop up the town, just as I was leaving. They were absolutely delighted to see me. Alan and Sheila; I hadnt been in touch with them for
years. It was fucking embarrassing. She put her arms round me and gave me a big cuddle and then planted a big kiss on my lips while he stood to the rear, a big beaming smile on his coupon; then he
shook my hand. Heh steady on, I said.

Ach but James it’s really good to see you.

Come on into the shop, said Sheila.

I’m just out.

They both laughed at that. Aye I know you’re just out, she said, but come bloody back in. Even just for a minute.

Are you insisting? I said, trying to get my face muscles into a relaxed condition.

You’re damn right we’re insisting! said Alan, gripping me by the shoulder and about-turning me.

I’m a small-sized bloke so this kind of thing happens too often for comfort and I shrugged his hand off. He apologised, but smiled as he did so. I fucking hate people doing that, I told
him, making a point of brushing my shoulder.

Aye, you’ve no changed!

Of course I’ve fucking changed . . . I said, then I smiled: For a kick-off I’m baldy.

You were baldy the last time we saw you, said Sheila.

Was I?

Aye.

I just looked at her although I found it hard to believe. People have a habit of throwing things at you about your past in such a way that makes it seem like they’re making this great
statement which unites all our experiences into one while at the same time they dont really give a fuck either way, about the reality, how things truly were, whether you were baldy or had a head
like Samson and Delilah. You dont need this kind of thing even when it’s genuine and this definitely wasnt genuine. Plus these days I find it difficult getting enthusiastic when I meet old
acquaintances. I dont know what it is, I just seem unable to connect properly, I can never smile at the proper places – it’s like a permanent condition of being browned off with life.
And no wonder either, when you come to think about it, with cunts like this always interfering.

Soon the pair of them had started dragging me round the place. They led me to a display table where they picked up a huge big tome. And landed it on my forearms. I couldnt believe it. It was
like an absentminded fit of idiocy. I tried to snatch a glance at the title but they led me off immediately, him propelling me by the shoulder. They started lifting other books from here and there,
piling them on top of the first one at a fierce rate with this crazy fucker Alan insisting I dont say a word and each time I tried to he did this stupid finger-into-the-ears routine with big laughs
at his missis, it was like a nightmare, me wondering if I was about to wake up or what. I gaped at him, unable to open my mouth for a couple of seconds. I managed to speak at last. I dont know what
you’re fucking playing at, I said, but one thing I do know, I dont fucking want them.