by James Kelman
The pipes.
This thinner one was the first Patrick encountered and usually it is the first he lifts whenever he begins
it all falls to ashes
he lifted the thicker, raising the top to his mouth, closed the eyes to help compress the lips, inhaling through his nostrils; and then the blow, and he controlled it; the sound from the back of the throat and by the roof of the mouth, the air deriving from the pits of his lungs. He was producing it. It was strange but true, that such a thing could be produced by him. He kept his eyes shut, there was a shiver from his shoulders. What the hell was this act and aye that bloody shiver. Was it actually conceivable what was being produced was a genuine musical art? No. There wasni any point in going as far as that. What was important was just – that here was an act that had an essential quietness about it, a breathing space, it was more like a sort of breathing space, that he was producing.
Jesus christ.
It actually made sense too. Through whatever it was he was doing he was managing to produce this effect of space, a thing that was spatial. That is what it was. That was fucking how it called up such phrases as ‘hollowness of tone’. And these associations with Goya’s wee dog. Fuck. Jesus christ. A calming! He was on his feet. He looked at the pipe. He sat back down on the settee. He was doing it wrong he had to do it right, the playing, before anything else the conceptualising especially especially the fucking conceptualising the bastards, the fusty fucking webs; he blew a note and it was not correct, he blew a note that was not correct; he was not blowing a note that was correct. He laid down the pipe. He had spoiled it, for now. He had had it and he had lost it. He was to see Alison immediately.
But he was to phone firstly. He had to give her warning. He could not simply fucking arrive. The husband and perhaps all her bloody in-laws all sitting having their tea and there he is chapping the door and seeking an interview with her, your woman there the em for mirs. He was just to phone. Torture torture torture. He was just to phone. You lift the receiver, inserting the fingertip, dragging out the opening digit; and the second. And the third! The next and the next
Hullo?
Hullo? 3836.
Eh hullo eh is that eh can I speak to Alison Houston please?
Ah, who shall I say?
Eh is that Mister Houston?
Yes.
O hullo eh it’s Pat Doyle, from school – we’ve actually met twice eh, at the Halloween Party and eh, I was wondering if I could just have a word with Alison a minute
(ya fucking bastard ye because my heart’s fucking exploding)
Right.
…
Pat?
Hullo Alison I need to see you a minute if ye dont mind, just for a quick word, if that’s alright.
Alison didni reply. She didni say anything. She was thinking things over. Mulling. Alison, mulling.
Pat?
Aye?
I see ye about nine o’clock?
Nine o’clock?
Will that be okay?
Aye.
Nine o’clock.
Aye. Alison, were you looking for me today?
It was nothing really. Alright then, nine o’clock.
Okay eh …
Miller’s.
Miller’s aye; fine.
Bye.
Bye.
But he had to be careful he had to be careful; otherwise the very worst could befall. Of course there were temptations there were always temptations, these tempting things always exist, will-o-the-wisp affairs, you’ve got to be careful from, wary, you have to be wary, of.
And Alison could not help him. She would want to help him but she couldnt. He didnt want her help anyway. If he wanted to do things like perform on the pipes then he had to do them alone. And not tell folk either. He was to carry on alone. He was not to think; thinking was death. And that was odd, how thought became death. That’s probably why the rationalists need other worlds all the time.
There is the basic fact that he has produced sound and space that are precise. He has achieved it on different occasions. He has had to push hard, hard. Above the mantelpiece was a print with a glazed frame and in this he could see his reflection, his face being reflected, his eyes gazing at him, his eyes gazing at him.
What is the point of certain stuff.
He stared out the window, keeping to the side, in by the curtain. The lassie had gone of course. The night. The North Star. The North Star in a mirror. An ocean.
Down in the street the tar and the flagstone paving and the concrete and the bonnet of a no-longer-good vehicle if ever the fuck it was, the kids playing and the teenagers yapping, and the adults getting by getting by.
Suicide is never that good a solution. Suicide is a great temptation but it is not that good a solution because it is only two-dimensional. It should go three deep and then have a lassoo thrown round that. Beg pardon? Sorry, it should be three, and then have a fourth as a sort of lassoo. Aw, I see. Fuck off. Nah, only kidding, back ye come. What about me, can I come back? Okay, you as well. And me? The fucking lot of yous, I dont care, yous can all do what yous fucking like.
As long as ye keep quiet. I like the pipes because they induce peace. The few times I ever smoked dope I was told I would get peace but I never ever got peace I just got fucking trouble in one way or another. One time it was at this party when the brother and the sister-in-law were present and what happens but trouble, trouble trouble trouble. We’ve aye had these problems: I have never been able to understand him and he has never been able to understand me. We fight about this and we fight about that. Fraternal battles, they’re the worst kind. Then there is the poor auld fucking maw and da. Mind you, I dont have that much sympathy for the pair of them. So I canni be bothered either, with them I mean, on their behalf. But fuck it, there is a sadness about this existence, these existences. Patrick always, he feels, there is a sympathy, there is a sensation, there
there must be more than that. That cannot be enough. There must be something more. Well there isnt. There must be. There isnt. Yes there is. What. Plenty. Plenty. If there wasnt something more than that
Aye?
If there was not something more than that
More than what?
…
…
One must retain the grip on one’s lugs.
What about the crazy flagellants?
What about them, they’re just particular Christians and Muslims and whatever, the same as all the rest, the Jews and the Hindus, they’re all the same. I dont know other worlds. I just know my numbers and my figures. What do you mean by that? Is this you returning to some sort of nonexistent creed of the ancients that you’ve just fucking invented, some bastardized offshoot from the school of post-Pythagoreans. Yes. Of course. Fine. It’s true. Fine, I was just asking, just making certain. Making certain – does that mean you had some inkling before the statement.
A blast of music.
Patrick strolled to the radio, switched it on, turned up the volume, just loud enough to be loud, without overwhelming the neighbours. Pianos. Pianos are okay.
The lavatory. He needed a shite, a tollie. And then he needed to see to the toilette; he had to prepare, what he was to don for the evening, a pair of trousers and a fucking shirt and jersey and jacket. Another bath and he would evaporate.
So:
so grasp the lugs and get the head battened down. And maybe she will sleep with you. Maybe she will return here, home, maybe. Maybe she will quite the thing go to bed with ye, exorcising the demons, ridding the place of its cold, its lack of human something or other – worth, value, bodily and mental togetherandatoneness for fuck sake god give the boy a break he is in fucking dreadful danger, his only recourse to a pair of electrician’s pipes which he is truly thankful for amen; he is, and it truly is a blessing because most folk dont even have that, he is well aware of this and truly thankful amen lord please look down on your son and spare him, spare him, allow him to be a fellow amongst fellows and a father amongst fathers,
a lover amongst lovers poor auld fucking Hölderlin I mean look at him, your man there, poor old for fuck sake and then he goes off his head, succumbs to that insanity the bastards maintain he was only just always managing to survive from, and what about Hegel, did he help? of course he must have helped, Hegel was fucking good, good, a good ordinary man amongst men who enjoyed a bevy and a screw and a good laugh and carousing singsong with all his cronies, and at 1770 look at the fucking cronies! Beethoven for christ sake! So okay, fine, right. Fine, smashing, quite the thing. A cup of strong coffee. Patrick should have bought the fucking steak pie supper, instead of just scoring another goal against himself. He at least should have eaten something. And he did not eat that something. He should have eaten it. He did not.
But he does have a packet of potato crisps which he can stuff between two slices of margarined bread. A piece on crisps. Aye beautiful. Crunchy and munchy. And a cup of good strong coffee.
The best thing was to close the eyes. Patrick laid his elbows on the mantelpiece, cradled his head. The possibility of relaxing was so acutely great that he withdrew at once and sank back down onto the settee, the only problem being sleep, sweet soporifimus, which he better not go to, sleep, sopor, aahh, life somehow sleep, sleep, its actuality, sleep, how it could always render the world a better place, just the idea of it, sleep, its soothing nature; what the hell is its origin? renewal; the time for renewal; how come such a thing could exist? the vales of strife vales of strife, what he could do was just get the alarm clock and set it for half-eight, so’s he could sleep.
He did that and he snoozed as planned, so that was good. He wakened on the first peal and got ready, drank a coffee and ate the potato-crisp sandwich. He would have to shave again but that was okay that was okay. He felt good. He smiled, aware of the nature of it, of how it was he was feeling: he was truly relaxed and he felt as if he hadnt been truly relaxed for years – years! away before he ever fucking got lumbered with teachers’ fucking training colleges and all the rest of the carry on, fucking university and all the shit. Fifteen minutes until nine o’clock and here he was so relaxed he was sipping a coffee. He reached to switch off the fire. Being here in the parlour had been a comforting experience. He tended to use the kitchen 99% of the time and it was a mistake. Perhaps he should shift the bed back into here again, and maybe begin work on erecting the platform. Gavin had once offered to assist on the project: so let him do so, let him help, the way big brothers are supposed to.
Fuck the trousers and the shirt and the tie, he was wearing jeans and a fucking casual jacket. That was another thing about this life, how come you even started looking like a fucking teacher never mind fucking have to be one of the bastards. High time he started to dress differently although fair enough just now was not the time because the one thing about now was the need for a healthy attitude and a healthy attitude meant a relaxed attitude, it meant being comfortable, nothing out of the ordinary, fuck the jeans and the casual jacket in other words. No, not precisely. Wear the jeans. Just dont fucking go overboard on it. Dont fucking
ach shut up.
He was getting into the motor at a couple of minutes past nine o’clock and into Miller’s Bar shortly before 9.15. Alison was sitting in the lounge. It was busy, other people were at her table. She didnt notice him. She didnt seem to be looking at anything in particular. He walked to her fairly quickly. I’m really sorry I’m late, he said, his voice lowered, I’m really sorry.
It’s alright. She smiled.
I was actually asleep, I fell asleep on the chair. Would you like something to drink?
She wanted a gin & tonic. She was already sipping one. She wanted another. He was going to get himself a tomato juice and plenty of ice cubes and no beer or whisky. He wanted to touch her hand. Her face had been looking up at him, he wanted to put his hand onto her chin. He was going to get an erection. At the bar he stared at the bottles on the gantry. It was busy. He was to wait his turn and hope nobody went before him because such a thing was always an irritant and here in this lounge there seemed to be a policy that waitresses were given preference over standing customers but what was wrong with that there was nothing wrong with that, it was perfectly reasonable and brooked no argument, certainly not from him anyway. He waited. He glimpsed Alison; she was observing the company at the table next to hers. It was interesting. It signified things about her. He had noticed it before, how she could seem to enjoy just watching people. It was something to smile about. Patrick smiled. She was human after all!! There again though it could just signify things about him, things in reference to himself, in relation to her, that there she was observing other people while there he was, standing at the bar. And now she was lighting a fag. Patrick grinned. He shook his head and closed his eyes a moment. The girl behind the bar was really attractive. The uniform she was wearing: white skirt and red satin blouse. She smiled at Patrick. He smiled at her. Probably she smiled because she knew he was with another woman ergo not a threat in the usual male to female fashion. He smiled again. When she handed him his change he said, Quite busy the night eh!
She smiled. He lifted the drinks across to the table. Alison smiled at him and shifted on her seat so that he could sit in beside her. The seat was an upholstered bench and he had to squeeze in there because there wasnt very much room. The bloke who was sitting at the edge of the company at the next table had to squeeze along a bit to help create space. Patrick apologised. A bit of a squeeze, he said, eh!
Aye, said the bloke.
Pat winked at Alison. Busy in here the night eh!
Yeh. She indicated the tomato juice in such a strange, peaceful way, that his heart sank to the furthest depth of his belly. He could not speak.
It was also her thigh solid jammed against his and they were jammed together, it was silly. He put his hand towards her but stopped it in the act and got it onto the glass of tomato juice. Things were running away from him, they were coming to a head. She was so kindly too, her intentions were with being gentle and if he could get touching her hand. If he could get touching her hand. What like would that be. And he was going to actually get hard, he was getting these twinges from the tip of his prick right to beneath the bollocks and if he relaxed his knees even a moment that would be that for christ sake. He tried a smile but it would not have been appearing right it would be too strained, what a strain, his forehead was strained, into something or other, something else, altogether, he was touching her hand, her hand was obviously soft, he was holding it, it was softer than his, or was it, was it really, was it not just like his and therefore okay different but the softer-than-his business just being stereotypical because she was female and he was male. He studied it. Her fingers. They were soft as well. She wore rings. He had to be intent on it, what he was doing, not to notice it, what he was doing, to give that impression to her. Sorry, he said, withdrawing his hand.
Alison didnt smile. On her face there was a rueful look.
I’m sorry, he said.
She stared at her gin & tonic, and the bottle of what was left of the tonic alone; her cigarette lay smouldering in the ashtray.
Sorry, he whispered.
She continued to stare. Eventually she muttered, O Pat.
…
I dont want to have a relationship with ye.
No.
It would just make things so complicated. It would make things so complicated. Her head was bowed. She lifted the cigarette in her left hand, inhaled on it, her head moving to the side, so that the smoke wouldnt interfere with other people. She blew the smoke down the way, to beneath the table. She kept her head bowed. Pat looked at the bar. It was busy. It was busy at the bar. This was a Monday evening. She raised her head. They glanced briefly at each other. Do you understand? she said.
It sounds like a Hollywood picture o my darling! he said, smiling.
Alison didnt smile in reply.
Aye, he said, I know what you’re saying.
She didnt respond. She looked at the table. The bloke squeezed i
n on the side of Patrick seemed to be jumping about or something and Patrick felt like digging him one in the fucking ribs but he restrained himself because maybe it was just to do with scapegoats.
So:
that was that. He gulped. Saliva at the throat and a feeling across his shoulders. He lifted the glass of tomato juice. It was all up now it was all over. But it was good to have it in the open, to have had it in the open.
But just getting things out, aired.
Some sort of song was playing on the stupid muzak jukebox as if this was the fucking stupid piece of goods he would always remember in association – I remember the night etcetera etcetera. Would he fuck. He stared at the tomato juice. He felt like flinging it at the wall. What had he bought it for? He would never fucking buy it again, that was for fucking definite. He looked at the waitress: a waitress had come to gather the empty glasses and give things a tidy up. An older woman; methodical in what she was doing. Alison said very quietly, I wish ye hadnt done it Pat.
He nodded.
She was gazing at the table.
She touched his hand.
She smiled and said something. He missed what it was. She said something but he couldnt make out what it was. He laughed a moment. He shook his head to clear or settle his brains. She smiled and said something, he missed it. Their hands were not touching now. He said, I appreciate what ye did there. He smiled at her. He raised his hand to cover his eyes, but he just smoothed his forehead instead and he smiled and shook his head.
After yesterday, she was saying.
I appreciate it, he said.
Alison touched him on the hand again, but just this touch and she had stopped it. He looked at her hand and then he put his onto it and she didnt withdraw it. He said: I’ve just been I dont know, I’ve just been wanting to talk to ye properly because things areni fucking just really christ they’re no really going well at all, just now. And I’ve been needing to get things clear with ye, with you … He turned his head to look at her more directly; she didnt avoid the look. Then she leaned to stub out the cigarette.