Trauma

TRAUMA

by

KEN McCLURE

John Main climbed to the top of the hill and turned to
look out over the city to the Firth of Forth and the hills
of Fife beyond. He was out of breath from the climb and
his hands were muddy from the hard scramble over wet
ground. It had started to rain again but it didn't matter.
Nothing mattered. He wasn't sure what he was looking
for up here, but it had something to do with perspective.
The only other thing he knew was that he hadn't found
it. In his heart he knew that he wouldn't find it here,
but he had to go along with his instincts. He found a
boulder and sat down. It was wet and covered with moss,
but that didn't matter either.

Slowly the Forth and the hills disappeared from view as rain clouds drifted in from the west to obscure the
horizon and foreshorten his view. Colours were lost as a
universal greyness crept over the city. From here he could
see the hospital that had played such a major role in his
tragedy. Tragedy? Was that the right word? Was there
a right word for what he was feeling? If there was, he couldn't think of it. Words described events that could be
compartmentalised. He needed something to describe the
complete destruction of his life, his family and all he held
dear in the world. He couldn't see the A&.E department
of the hospital from his view point - it was on the other
side of the building and it was too far away - but he knew
it was there and it would be busy because it always was.
Ambulances would be coming and going, trolleys would
be taking breaks and fractures to X-Ray. Cubicle curtains
would hide stitching and dressing from anxious relatives.
Why? Why hadn't it all stopped after that awful night
when the ambulance had brought the three of them
in from the cold, wet motorway with Mary's beautiful body
broken beyond repair, Simon deeply unconscious and he himself with . . . cuts and bruises. He had been the driver,
and all he had sustained were cuts and bruises. He lifted
his face to the sky at the almost unbearable thought. Was
that some unseen deity's idea of a sick joke? He could still
see the consultant's face when he had told him formally
that Mary was dead. The man hadn't known it, but he
was pronouncing a death sentence on John himself. He
was condemning him to a living death, a living hell of
loneliness and pointlessness stretching out before him like
an endless desert. 'And Simon?' he had asked. 'He's very
ill. It'll be a couple of weeks before we can say for sure.'

The weeks had passed and fate had played the final
joke on him. It had invited him personally to take the
final irrevocable step in the completion of his agony. The
man in the white coat, a different one this time, had told
him gravely that Simon had no discernible brain function.
Machines were keeping his three-year-old body ventilated
and nourished but Simon was, to all intents and purposes,
dead. Could they turn the machines off?

'Yes.' The word echoed through Main's head like an
accusation. Such a small word: it was what Mary had
said when he'd asked her to marry him. It was the word
that had brought them both such joy when he asked her
if she was pregnant. It was what the bank manager had said when they wanted to move to a bigger house, and
what his sister had said when he asked her if she and
her husband would look after Simon for a few days to
let him take Mary off to Paris to celebrate their wedding
anniversary in a few weeks' time. Now, the word had
changed: he had just killed his son with it.

Two crows fluttered down to earth some thirty feet away
and captured his attention. It soon became apparent that
they had returned to the body of a dead rabbit. Main
remembered them rising from the hill when he had arrived
at the summit. They had been waiting to return to the
feast and had now decided, in spite of his continuing
presence, that it was safe. Main watched as they pecked
at the body, spreading their wings to maintain balance as
they grew in confidence and increased their efforts to evis
cerate the corpse. Two more birds swooped down on the
scene like collapsing umbrellas and a squabble broke out. How different it all was from the Disney scenes depicted
on Simon's wallpaper at home. Anthropomorphic rubbish which they had all embraced happily in their ignorance of
what was about to happen. That must be why everything
was going on as normal down in the city, thought Main. They didn't know what reality was all about. His gaze
drifted again to that part of the city where the hospital
was situated. He knew that the staff there meant well and
did their best. None of this was their fault. In fact, when
it came right down to it, he couldn't understand why he
hated everything and everyone.

Edinburgh, February 14th 1993

McKirrop could feel the hot soup inside his belly like an island of warmth in the hollowness that lived there. He lingered over the last mouthful of bread as long as he could before getting up slowly and stiffly to his feet. He buttoned up his coat laboriously and started towards the door. It was time to face the cold again. Rules were rules and the rule was that you moved on again as soon as you had finished eating. The hall was too small for socialising and the queue got longer every week. Not that the place itself was overly warm or inviting but at least it afforded some respite from the icy east wind that plagued this city. McKirrop grunted a word of thanks to the Salvation Army girl who stood by the door.

'Take care,' she said as he passed. 'See you on Wednesday.'

McKirrop looked at her and then quickly back at the ground in front of him. 'How come they all wear thick glasses?' he wondered.

The wind hit his left cheek as he stepped outside on to the wet pavement so he turned to the right. Having nowhere to go afforded him that option. He heard someone call out his name but ignored it until it was shouted again and he heard footsteps come up behind him. It was Flynn. He had seen him in the hall, some way back in the line, but had pretended not to.

'Where the hell have you been?' asked Flynn. 'Everybody's been asking about you. Bella's been pining for you.' Flynn punctuated his remark with a burst of bronchitic laughter. He was a full head shorter than McKirrop with an unkempt mane of long greying hair which gave him a wild gypsy look. Both men were bearded and well past being taken for anything other than the down and outs they were.

'I've been away,' grunted Mckirrop.

'You come into money or something?' demanded Flynn.

'Sure. I just choose to dine with the Sally Ann out of personal preference,' replied McKirrop sourly.

Flynn exploded into laughter again. 'You're a card you are,' he said. 'I like it when you speak like that.'

McKirrop didn't reply. He just looked at Flynn distantly as if thinking of something else.

'So you'll be back down the canal tonight.'

'Maybe.'

'You're up to something,' accused Flynn, narrowing his eyes.

McKirrop smiled vaguely and shook his head. 'Nothing like that,' he said.

'Well it's your loss if you don't,' said Flynn, pulling up his collar and shrugging his shoulders up round his ears. 'Figgy and Clark have got a bit of geld together. They're going to get in a few bottles and we're going to celebrate Bella's birthday.'

'Bella's birthday?'

'It's tomorrow. She's been telling us for days.'

'How old?'

'Christ, I don't know!' exclaimed Flynn. 'Who cares?'

McKirrop smiled again and Flynn read something into it. 'Except you maybe?' he probed.

'Why should I care?'

'Bella fancies you,' leered Flynn. 'She's always asking after you. Maybe it's mutual? A romance in our midst.'

'Jesus,' muttered Mckirrop. 'I'd have to be desperate.'

'Well you know what they say,' whispered Flynn conspiratorially. 'Any port in a storm!'

'Christ! It would have to be a hurricane for Bella,' exclaimed McKirrop, making Flynn burst into laughter again.

'So what do you say? Are you gonna come down or not?'

'Maybe,' replied McKirrop.

Flynn shrugged. 'Please yourself. I don't suppose you've got a swallow on you?'

McKirrop paused for a moment before bringing a half bottle of Bell's whisky out of his coat pocket. It was two thirds full.

'Jesus! Good stuff!' exclaimed Flynn, grabbing at the bottle and removing the top with his palm wrapped round it rather than his fingers. He took a long gulp before McKirrop grabbed it back from him. 'That's enough,' he growled.

'Drinking Scotch is it?' muttered Flynn suspiciously. 'No wonder you're not bothering with the likes of us any more. Not good enough for you I'm thinking.'

'It's nothing like that,' said McKirrop. 'I did a bit of work for a woman up the Braids way; that's all.'

'I don't believe it,' leered Flynn. 'You're up to something.'

'I don't give a fuck what you believe,' retorted McKirrop with an abrupt change of mood, 'So piss off before I brain you!'

Flynn held up his hands in front of him in mock submission. 'I'm going, I'm going,' he said. 'Just don't come crawling back when whatever it is falls through.'

'Piss off!' repeated McKirrop with a swipe of his hand.

Flynn dodged the blow and moved away, looking back over his shoulder as he shuffled off. 'Tight bastard,' he mumbled before turning back and concentrating on where he himself was going.

It started to rain again as McKirrop made his way through the dark streets with his hands sunk deep in his coat pockets. It was a double breasted military great coat, a gift from some charity though he couldn't remember which. Not that it mattered. God how he hated their smiles, not that that mattered either. What mattered was finding shelter for the night and getting a few drinks inside him. If his fall from grace had taught him anything it was that it was 'now' that mattered, not the past, not the future but 'now'. Every animal in nature seemed to know that except man. Human beings spent their lives wallowing in the past or planning for the future.