by Leon Rooke
...
Ye toucht them?
...
See Jack? She’s on today. She’s straight. She’s the kite flying. Speak up Pope.
I had Mady’s permission.
She had her lassie’s – what’d she say Jack?
Permission. The social leave granted by which she could peruse foreign property.
Love letters Pope.
Steamy.
Love letters containing outright declaration of intent relevant let’s say pertinent tae pending sexual congress right Jack.
The requirement for utter secrecy, so states these letters, never tae mention this lover’s name to anyyin. Yet ye’re telling us yer sweetie sez tae ye “Here Pope read these hot luv letters?”
Pornographic ye could say.
Sex talk like ye hear on the adult telly.
I’m hard thinking of yer hot flesh, that kind.
I didnay interpret them such. They seemt somewhat tame and naïve to my eyes.
Tame that yer snooze were a crossover? That she were a bipolar nah what’s the word I’m searching Jack?
Bisexual. Pulling baith ways.
It were tame tae ye yer dolly pullt baith ways? Tame ye werenay sufficient tae meet her sexual capacity and thus she— ?
Yer lesbo dolly shagging a guy, that’s naïve?
Yez is thinking revenge.
So ye bosht her.
...
How come ye’re nay yer customary sparkling self today Pope? These sex notes are a consternation to ye eh, yer beloved has – what’s the term Jack.
Pullt the wool ower ye eyes.
That’s it, how d’ye answer Pope?
I dont answer. Ye got nay right to question a ... a child.
Yer sweetie’s auld flame returns and ye’re feart ye’re gony lose ye free ride. She were ye free ride, right Pope? He were an auld flame, such the letters verify.
Horse shite.
She gies ye the news, oot flies ye pipe, and ye bosht her dead, ye stuff her int the hole, and then what d’ye do?
What she does Jack is dear Pope has herself a few fags while she maps oot the situation.
We had baith quit.
Fags aw ower. Burns in yer rug, on yer bed, even on the new fucking bookcase you’re claiming to built. But what’s a wee burn here and there when ye free ride is kaput? Ye rat on ye mate afore she rats on ye. We conclude ye had help in ye villianous task.
Jack’s right. Go easy on yerself
The fags were no ours.
We’re thinking assistance int ye task come int the form of the very stud yer lezzie had arranged like tae seed her, only that seeding were a lie yer beloved had invented tae keep ye off the real scent, which were heterosexual adventure. And when ye discoverit this ye lured him wi yer slinky tail and the two of ye formed a criminal alliance tae affect a bloodbath on yin Madeline Powr.
Powr, ye fucking chimp.
***
It’s a matter of who stroke the fatal blow, if ye take our meaning.
See Pope we’ve nay been yin hunnert percent truthful wi ye on the pipe issue. Oh there’s prints aright on that pipe but.
What pipe?
Aw god screw me. Take ower Jack.
Who is he? This romeo sending hot epistles to yer sweetie what she holds so dear she retains the porno jam under her pillow?
Just some auld ponce.
Ponce ye say? Up the mighty Deleware.
Say what? Ye’re conversing wi yeself Pope.
Nay thing. It were some crappy song popped into me head. Mady had historic piles of what-she-called LPs stacked aw ower.
Fuck’s she saying Jack?
She’s mental.
When did last ye eat Pokpe? We’re telt ye ...
***
Tis true Mady was lying aboot the ponce they the gether had pickt to seed the imagined wean. The bloke were a man frae her past, no a stranger. Yeh, aye, God’s truth, if she, meaning me, meaning Pope, meaning yer own self, ye puke, probed back far enough in the garbage heap ye call a mind, if ye searcht the dark recesses ye’d find ... who knew what ye’d find. Where ye went frae there, ye continued yer tunnelling, where would ye end up? You wouldn’t end up naywhere, ye’d have vanished. Cause that’s the how time worked, gaeing forward or backwards, ye vanished.
...
Pope? Ye suffering a stroke?
I’m okay the now. A wee setback.
Yer shook Jack and me for a min. Yer face blae, ye blackt oot I bet.
No really. Maybe I did.
Here’s water. Gie the woman a fag Jack.
Naw. I quit.
Gie her yer sack and wrappers Jack. In the event on her time away from the public eye she can light up.
Here ye gae Pope.
No really I donay want it. I’m feeling no that perky, tell you the truth. A witness have come forward Pope.
Witness to what?
It seems ye have a history of unprovoked attack upon yer lady friends.
Naw I dont. I donay.
So our witness maintains. It seems yer bosht her wi a milk bottle onct.
No I didnay.
She’s a right reliable witness Pope. Gude family, sound means, venerable church trooper.
Ye’re balmy. A milk bottle?
Name of Alice.
Alice?
Yer auld former piece Alice.
No me.
She swears tae it. She meant making the official charge but in the end she was too scarrit of ye.
Naw.
It’s what she declares in black and white.
I no never was friends with nay Alice. Alice who?
Ye’re denying ye have the history of violence against womanhood? Is that yer case? A certain business woman of solid rep in this city were violently attacked wi a milk bottle while in yer hands and ye’re saying ye didni do it? Lead her away Jack.
Pope is steered into a rectangular room, dingy and green, scraps of paper, dust, shoe marks on the cracked floor. Four other women are aye in there, lined up, including auld Plump Arse who twice has delivered Pope to the shriek den. And lo, there’s auld Pinkie Stevie in her civies, hair pressed flat wi water, thumping hand against the bare leg. Lights come on ower their heads. Turn left. Turn right. Face the front. Then there’s the stand still, donay fidgit or barf ye breakfast. Now they the gether sludge oot, auld Pinkie Stevie taking the space at Pope’s elbow. He’s laughing.
What’s on? Pope asks.
Agh christ, sez Pinkie. It’s malarky aint it. Ye’ve mightily pisht off Jack and the chief high wizard, they’re playing ye the joke.
Who’s Alice?
Aw shite Alice is a name pullt frae the hat, Alice donay exist, Alice and the milk bottle it’s an auld routine. Ye got no worries Pope, I hear they’re set to pull int the wanker done Mady. Ye’ve lost weight pet.
Hunger strike, sez Pope.
Nay chattering between prisoners, shouts Jack, coming up fast, taking Pope’s arm.
Aw Jack ye gies me the nosebleed, says Pinky, and away she trots.
***
The hunger strike has just in the second come to Pope. The idea floats now in her brain big as a barge on the River Clyde. Aye brilliant, brilliant, fucking brilliant. A hunger strike. It makes sense dont ye see? Mady was aye fretting aboot her weight. Please eat something Pope ye got to blimp up. Ye’re attractive, a knockoot but. Sometimes I wonder ye can make it up and doon stairs. Immolation’s worthy but the hunger strike idea is super. It’s for Mady, plain and simple. She will gae on strike in Mady’s name and for her sake fucking aye, amen.
***
The guard nellie comes to stand by the cell door, stands there the longest time, looking in at the snitch, who is buffing her toe nails with cloth torn frae the bedding. The nellie uttering nay a word. Then she sez Dora, the word a soft breeze. The snitch pops up from the bunk, she hobbles to the bars. The two stand there like forever, naybody speaking. A long time, the longest time, yer silent pair, like if there were a clock the clock hand had to fall on
the precise hour speech becomes obligatory.
The nellie sez, scholars maintain Hamlet was prey to a fatal flaw, and that flaw was his indicision.
Aye, right, sez the snitch.
One, indicision is rarely fatal. Two, it is erroneous to characterize Hamlet as indecisive.
Ye think so?
Hamlet erred profoundly in all three perspectives involving the decision making process: the psychological, the cognitive, the normative.
Hummm.
Indecision was not a factor. The Dane’s problem was that he made too many decisions, all of them bad, many of them rash, nearly all fatal.
The snitch shakes her head. I’m nay convinced, she says.
The nellie extends an arm through the bars, ruffles the snitch’s hair. Then departs.
Now that was queer – is Pope’s thought.
***
Where you taking me ye gormless fuck? she sez to Jack.
Jack smiles.
He’s quite a gude-looking bloke, now she looks at him close. His skin conveying a potent scent; he has a new haircut, he sez, for the chief’s wedding.
...
Jack?
Eh chief?
Gie the girlie a fag.
I’ve quit.
Fifteen butts we find in ye cell ye’re telling us ye quit?
They were yer cletty snitch’s smokes.
We model ourselves in the new wave Pope. Nay snitching allowed. Snitching is deamed unscientific.
Aye. And then yer arse fell off.
Ye can gae Pope.
Go?
Yeh. Get oot. Scat.
...
Who done it?
Done what?
Ye know what I’m saying.
Flip her oot Jack.
***
Pope were skagged. Her mind wouldnay jiggle. Here she was oot. Oot in prime sunshine. She could feel pavement stones through her shoes. What day was it? Well donay ask me. Her mind sat up there making nay a single thrust and tarry. Wee egg in the nest that brain were. Pity she hadnay the chance to initiate the hunger strike. Dora had said, I want to slap yer face.
Pope had the feeling people were at upstairs windows taking aim at her. Aw those smokers up there coughing and spitting. She had the definite feeling, although she saw nay yin. But here was mind movement of a kind, it was the auld brain warming up. Tick tock. She thought of those doors on Argyle Quay she and Mady had knockt on. It was like few on the Quay had ever had any yin rap their doors during the whole of their bejesus lives. Like it were the fear that one day someone would. Thus the locks, the deadbolts, the squeaks in the hinges when finally they pried the door open a crack. Ye’re trespassing on me walkway, the yin auld wren said.
slams the door.
slams the door.
Pope felt in her hair wee insects crawling aboot.
make my way where
...
To put the better knot in her shoes she sat doon on a bus bench advertising Irn-Bru. Mady had a yen for Irn-Bru. She liked splashing a token into her real drink.
Immediately, wouldn’t ye know it, some bambag is telling Pope she cannay sit there.
Why?
Weil see ... weil see ...
See what?
It was a gimpy ancient guy wi near purple skin, a bald pate, talking to her. An auld smily invalid roach.
See what?
Weil ye acourse ye can if ye want. Sit there I mean. But it’ll be a dog post that’s what I’m saying.
Dog post?
Right yeh aye, dog post.
Dog post?
See the people ... the people tie up they’s beasts there. While they shop see? So yer bench is stenchified see what I mean. Ye shoe.
My shoe?
Pope sniffs. She can smell it awright. A strong ripe odor on the seat and on her shoe. Turds and globs, some fresh.
Yez just wants a brushing off. Where ye headit?
Pope and the auld man trudge along, the man bent and slow. Pope dont mind, naw, fuck, slow and bent fits the mood. Ye tried straightening up this auld nutter ye’d have to break bones.
When I ask where ye headit I mean are ye homeless that’s what I’m saying.
Naw I’m no homeless no yet thank ye kindly.
Nay meaning to be cheeky. Nay intending to cast offense.
Nayn taken.
They hobble along, a snail’s pace, suiting Pope fine. Night coming on, ye can see it’s sinking.
We got cubicles up my place. Cost ye six pee though. If ye were homeless I’m saying. And if ye come referenct. Are ye referenct laddie? Meaning if ye did could use yeself a bed. Well that dont matter, it donay. Ye got me to reference ye. What’s yer name?
Pope laughs. She cannay help it. This auld eejit thinks she’s male.
Pope. Pope Powrs.
My name’s Thomas. Powrs ye say? I’ve known Powrs in my time. Aw dead now. Wiel?
Weil?
The auld nutter has stopped. Bobbing his head like he’s arrived at a new world, with paradise just round the corner.
Weil, here ye are Pope. Were ye wanting a gude scrub, a gude hide-doon, this here place is gude as any I expect. They’s friendly enough here. Meaning they’s no apt to stab ye whilst ye slumber. Come in ye’ve a mind to.
Naw I best scurry along.
Suit yeself then. Ye donay have a fag eh?
Naw. Sorry, I quit.
That’s aright. They frown on fags. It being a fire trap. Adios then.
***
Mady’s apartment was a third-floor walk up in a triplex off, some distance off, Renfrew Street, above a Pakistani take-oot. Well the sign read Pakistani, it certainly had the take-out, but. Pope had went inside the take-oot few times, the onct or twice, the windows awways steamed up, stove tops flaring, smoky, dont ye know. Misty. Ye went in there ye were risking yer life Mady said, plus nay but yin long bench tae sit on and the clientelle motly, ye wanted the truth. Yeh motly, nay the best sort, no to Mady’s liking. The one chap saying one time to them, Which of yez two ladies had the operation? Like that, rude, rude as you please, Which of yez two ladies had the operation? Incredible, no something ye were inspired to discuss in a public place, the place damp and steamy, the flames flaring, every yin yammering but falling into silence till the question is dealt with yin way or another. I’ll thank ye no to pry, says Mady, someone laughing a he-haw at that, some swell living on the top floor it were, the swell awways dropping trash in the stairwell, he’s got an investment in the take-oot by all accounts. So it were ye, another bloke says to Mady, it were ye had yer bawbag snipped. Incredible the rudeness aye incredible, fantastic, ye want to punch them oot, it’s horrific acourse. When it werenay Mady in the first place having the make ower, it were nay she, small chance ye could get Mady under the knife. A chisel taken to me crankshaft, no thank ye. Aye, and that were the same night they get their doing along the second floor turn, nay a Pakistani involved ye were so thinking. The lads laughing good-natured like as they pummel, fists and feet, let’s see yer miff, yer quim, yer hairy pie, let’s see yer dumpling plum. Agh, nay to dwell on the past, nayn of that this night, the past is all topsy-turvy anyway, ye can lose yeself walking those miles, best avoided they are, think on the bright side if ye can find it.
Disgusting, however ye name it, nay, nor that their worse adventure.
Schemes, the schemes of some, the jackel bastids
...
Here Pope is, home again. Stair lights oot as awways, just feel yer ... feel yer way along, familiar grain on yer fingertips. To find what when ye reach yer door, polis tape naturally, natchrilly, Mady’s body taken away acoorse, WARNING, CRIME SCENE, KEEP OUT. Keep yer mitts to yer own self, aye, there it is. There it is, the door, slats nailed crosst the aperture, ye want entering this place then take a flying leap. Jump off a bridge who cares.
So what d’ye do, what does a woman do? Ye employs the soft-toe retreat, ye slide yer fingertips soft to the wall, back doon ye go. Doon ye go. Ye make ye exit, ye scoot past the take-oot and
at the service lane ye pause to grab ye breath, ye just stand there clutching yerself.
Yer breathe wont come, it’s hoppt the 87 bus, the bile in ye throat is ... is ...
ye okay hen ye needs anything?
thank ye no thank ye.
yer awright the now a momentary lapse.
yer got fuck naything to fear.
Up the auld fire ladder, up ye go. Christsake aye, up ye go. There’s yer window, there ye are. Ye dumb Jane, ye done it.
There reeks Mady’s dead plants in the pots, the sweet basil, the shrivelled vines. Pop the pane, release the latch, there ye go. Dont be a total tit, hork ye arse ower the sill. There, I’m in.
Maybe ower the coming season a sudsy wash in the bog
lay oot me mourning clothes lay them oot
draw up a chair and sit there, sit there
monks are asssembling
awready ye can percieve bright flame in the fields.
Leon Rooke has published over thirty books -- novels, stories, poems, and plays. His recognitions include a Governor General’s Award for Shakespeare’s Dog, a Paperback Novel of the Year Award for Fat Woman, the Canada-Australia Prize, the North Carolina Award for Literature, the W.O. Mitchell Prize, and two ReLits (fiction and poetry). He is also a painter; the cover of Pope and Her Lady is one of his recent works.
Table of Contents
COVER
POPE AND HER LADY
Guide
Cover
Contents