Davie, it's nothing to be ashamed of.
It doesn't matter how many times I try to tell her. I'm fine. It just gets me down visiting Lewey. There's nothing wrong with that. And it's not like I'm going to stop coming to see him. Just because I'm not skipping out of this place singing Zipadee Do Da, doesn't mean I'm going under again.
You can't treat these visits like an act of penance.
It's a nice evening so I'm happy enough sitting here on the grass. Well, not happy. That's the wrong word. But I'm okay. Adequate.
I'm just. Just. Too many justs right now.
I've stayed later than I planned to, but there's nowhere I need to be and nobody is expecting me home. Nobody expects me home anymore.
I'll be back after work, aye, I promise.
Even though it's getting on a bit, it's still light and the breeze is warm as it rustles the trees. A collective sigh. I can hear the magpies calling to each other and I feel like I'm in the middle of the country rather than the city.
I want to lie back and close my eyes, let the grass and clover and moss grow up over me, cover me. Become part of the earth. I want to be sucked up.
It would be easy enough to freak yourself out, sitting alone in a graveyard like this. All it takes is one rabbit darting by your line of vision, one strong gust of wind lifting the wind-chimes, a blackbird flying too close, the tree branches creaking.
It's easy to let your imagination dream up all sorts. The spirits of the un-dead. A magic MP3 player.
Fuck sake, Davie. I rein myself back in. Back to the real world. The world where the MP3 player is a normal MP3 player and didn't play a song by itself to some random lassie in a phone box.
I couldn't sleep last night for thinking about it. I played the phone box scene over and over in my head. Every single detail of it.
Alfie had been out, so I had the flat to myself. Just me and my thoughts. The phone box scene playing on a loop.
I'm starting to doubt that anything weird happened at all. I just imagined it.
What you got there?
It's a soldering iron, Davie boy. It's magic, much more efficient than the straighteners I've been using, eh? They just weren't getting the job done, even when I cranked the heat up full blast.
There's only room for one nutjob in the flat.
One of us has to keep a grip on reality so that when the flat catches fire, I'll be alert enough to drag Alfie and his soldering-iron to safety. If I believe in magic MP3 players then I've obviously been living with him for far too long.
Exactly, Davie boy, exactly. I knew there was a reason I moved in with you.
I stare at Lewey's name and run my fingers along the indentations of the lettering on the stone. Trace his name, his date of birth. Much Loved.
'At the time it was like magic, eh? Like the MP3 player came alive and chose a song for the lassie. I was buzzing from it.'
My face goes warm as I tell Lewey what happened and I can't even bring myself to keep eye contact with the stone anymore. I glance away and pull up clumps of grass as I tell him what happened. Saying it out loud makes it sound so ridiculous. I'm such a fucking tit.
Basket case.
'The windows in the telephone box were manky, and I couldn't see what she was up to when the door was shut over. She probably did it all herself. She was the mentalist not me. Your big brother's losing the plot, eh, Lew? Would rather pretend his MP3's magic, than admit he can't work the thing.'
I begin to pull thorns off the rose bush in front of Lewis's headstone. They peel off like stickers, leaving behind a discoloured outline on the stem. I line them up on the back of my hand like dinosaur armour, then ping them away one by one, firing them off onto the path.
The truth inside my head is too scary to admit. Much worse than what I've already said out loud to Lewis. Big brother would rather pretend that his MP3 player is magic, than admit that he's trying to reach out and grab onto something which might distract him from the ache.
Which.
Won't.
Go.
Away.
Davie held a finger up to his mouth, ssshhh, then pressed two buttons down on the cassette player: Record and Play together. He held up his hand and began to count down using his fingers, whispering the numbers.
5, 4, 3…
Before he made it to two, he glanced over at Lewis. Eye contact and everything was blown. They both spluttered and burst out laughing. Davie pressed the Pause button.
Stop looking at me like that, Lew.
Like what?
Making me laugh.
The counting's stupid though.
That's what you're supposed to do on radio shows, like on Wayne's World.
Okay, sorry, take two.
I won't count down, I'll just press Pause, okay?
Davie released the Pause button and the tape started rolling again. Lewis picked up the small microphone they had plugged into the cassette player; it was still wound up and as he untangled it, he tugged the cassette player over.
Lewey!
Pause.
Take three.
Pause release.
Dahdadahdahhhh, Welcome to Radio Watts, I'm Lewis and this is my sidekick…
Lewis held the microphone up and Davie moved in so their heads were touching.
… Davie.
Today is the twenty-sixth of December…
… Boxing Day. Nineteen ninety nine!
Silence.
Why's it called Boxing Day?
I don't know, all the boxes lying around I think.
Oh, okay.
Pause.
Take four.
Pause release.
Today is Boxing Day and today we're going to play you some great songs and tell you what's happening and do some charts and that.
So, Lewey, what was your best Christmas present?
Well, I think it was my Diver Dan and my dinosaur sticker book and... what? What are you whispering?
Pause.
Take five.
Pause release.
What about the tape player?
Oh yeah, my best Christmas present was this tape recorder. What about you, Davie?
Boys, lunch is ready.
Mum!
Mum, we're taping, sshhh, you're wrecking it.
You can do that after lunch. Come down. Granny Watts has come all this way to see you both.
Pause.
'See you later, heartbreaker,' I say as I get up and pat the headstone.
I need to get home, away from here. Put on the TV, or some music, or maybe both. People who visited John Lennon say that he used to have the radio and the TV and music on, all at the same time. Not very good in today's age of global warming, but great for distracting you.
I stand still and concentrate on hearing Lewey's reply.
I'm a wild crocodile.
It's louder than normal, almost as if he's standing right next to me. I turn quickly in the hope of catching him but he's too fast for me. I even look behind the nearest tree in case he's hiding there from me, crouched down, giggling with his hand over his mouth.
Take six.
No Pause release though, Lewis is on permanent Pause now.
Stop.
In a parallel universe, me and Lewey are out enjoying the summer evening, playing football at the park and getting a Luca's ice-cream on the way home.
I wander back towards the headstone to pick up the book and my bag, when I feel something move in my pocket. I pull out the MP3 player. What's going on with this thing? With me? I'm fucking losing the plot.
'This is it, Lewey.'
I hold the player up.
'Want a shot?'
I place the headphones around the headstone and hold the player in my hands.
Come on, then, let's see what you play for him? For my brother.
The player stays still.
Play Lewis a song.
Play him a fucking song.
Come on you fucker! Prove to me that I'm not totally losi
ng it!
A rabbit flinches and takes off across the graveyard and a couple walking hand in hand over in the children's section stop and turn round.
Silence.
Come on. I need to know I'm not going crazy.
'Lewis, help me. This thing is fucking me about. What do I do?'
'Please.'
You're right, I don't deserve help, I didn't help Lewis.
I drop the MP3 player onto the grass.
Fuck you then. Not you, Lewis, this fucking piece of shit MP3 player.
I wind the headphones around the player, shove it deep inside my bag.
A bus passes me as I leave the cemetery but I don't make any attempt to catch it. It sits at the bus stop for ages, willing me to make an effort. Run. Catch me. You know you can if you try. I slow down my pace though. I'm doing what I want to do tonight and I want to walk.
The bus pulls off just before I reach the bus stop and I kick a stone along the pavement as I carry on walking. My bag starts to feel heavy and I run through everything I've got in there. I can only think of the book and the MP3 player.
Fucking MP3 player.
There are no bins around but there's a post box up ahead. I stop and balance my bag on top of the post box and dig out the MP3 player. I pull it out and swing the bag back onto my shoulder. Instantly lighter.
I push the player inside the opening of the post box. I think my hand's stuck. Does that mean my hand belongs to Royal Mail now? Maybe I'll have to phone 999?
Davie ran to the landline in the living room and dialled 999. Later when he thought about it, he couldn't work out why he hadn't just used his mobile. It had been in his pocket the whole time.
I wriggle my hand around until it feels more comfortable and then will myself to open up my fingers.
Let go.
Let go.
Let go.
Just let go of it.
Fucking hell, Davie, drop the thing.
My fingers are locked together, they refuse to open.
Davie went to visit Lewis in the hospital when he broke his arm. The children's ward was full up, so they'd put Lewis in the same ward as all the old men.
The man in the bed next to Lewis had really bad arthritis. Davie couldn't stop staring at his hands. They were gnarled over into a claw. His fingers looked like twigs, knobby and swollen and brown.
His fingers were swollen and grubby, the knuckles all cracked and bruised.
When they brought him a cup of tea and a biscuit he could hardly grip the handle.
Davie and Lewis bent and twisted their own fingers, copying the old man's hands.
Eventually the nurse worked it out and told them off for being so insensitive.
The MP3 player begins to hum very slightly in my hand, the zhhmmm of electricity, or a calm voice trying to talk someone down off a ledge.
My eyes are drawn to some graffiti scrawled on the side of the post box, next to the letter opening. A warning in silver marker pen.
ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE
A glow comes from inside the box and I tug my hand out, bruising my knuckles. The LCD screen has lit up and there's a faint noise coming from the headphones which are still wound round the player.
yet not yet not yet not yet not yet not yet not yet
One more chance.
Why should I?
Why am I talking to it? Like it can speak to me. Fuck, what's wrong with me?
yet not yet not yet not yet not yet not yet not yet
I drop to my knees, lay my head against the letter box. Jesus, what's wrong with me? Why can't I do this?
Why?
Okay, I'll let you away this time, but any more fucking me about and you're gone.
I shove the player inside my pocket and head in the direction of home. It's such a nice evening; I'm wasting it. Princes Street Gardens will be full of people sitting having picnics and drinking carry-outs. I can see Alfie in The Meadows now, strumming one of his new musical instruments, a group of adoring lassies gathered around him, all smoking and drinking, the fucking indie messiah.
I almost text him to see what he's up to, but have a change of heart and delete it mid-text. I'm not really in the mood for making happy chit-chat.
I suppose I could have done something with Astrid if I'd thought about it earlier. No point texting her now, especially the mood I'm in. Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down. All over the fucking place.
The sun's warm and my back is sticky and moist. Sweat gathers underneath my bag, drips down the small of my back and soaks through my t-shirt.
I stop and take off my jacket and tie it round my waist, then slow my walk down. I'm in no hurry.
As I get nearer to town I pass people in skirts and t-shirts and shorts and vest tops, carrying Frisbees and eating icelollies. It doesn't take much to make Scotland bear its peelywally skin.
The Odeon cinema is ahead of me, the big glass windows covered in film posters.
Davie looked at the cinema tickets as they waited in the queue for popcorn.
What does Odeon mean anyway? It doesn't make sense as a cinema name.
Oscar Deutsch Entertains Our Nation, replied Lewis.
Eh, how did you know that?
Lewis shrugged, just do.
Hey, is that not Paul over there? Davie asked.
Lewis looked to where Davie was pointing.
Aye, I think so. Do you not want to go and say hi?
Nah. How not?
I just don't okay. Come on, I don't even want popcorn anymore, let's just go into the film.
As I pass by the doors, I get a whiff of popcorn and something jabs me in the thigh. I look down and notice the MP3 player is hanging out of my jacket pocket, about to fall to the ground, making a bid for freedom.
must listen he must listen he must listen he must
I grab it before it crashes to the pavement and it moves around in my hand like a trapped spider.
Is it happening again?
There's a guy leaning against the wall of the Odeon. The MP3 player shudders in confirmation as I look at the guy. He's swaying ever so slightly and keeps glancing up and down the road, checking his watch, playing with his phone. The MP3 player spins faster and faster, a break-dance frenzy on my palm.
MUSTLISTENHEMUSTLISTENHEMUSTLISTEN
Easy, tiger. As I head towards the guy, the player calms down a bit. That's more like it. I walk straight past the guy. Stop trying to control me. The player speeds up again. Even though it's hurting my hand with friction burns, I keep on going, my back to the guy. We're doing this my way.
When I can't take the pain anymore, I stop and spin on the spot until I'm facing the guy again. The MP3 player slows. Ha, I'm in control.
Okay, this time.
Nope, fooled you. Hey, you wee fucker, no need to shock me.
Fuck, I really am going mad.
Losing your mind.
'Alright?'
I walk towards the guy. He doesn't answer me, just looks straight past me down the street.
I'm about to ask him if he'd like to listen to the MP3 player when I change my mind. That sounds too weird. I fish around in my brain until a light bulb switches on.
'I'm in the music business.'
Technically I am.
'Eh?' The guy's eyes are glazed over and there's a strong smell of booze coming from him.
'I'm doing some research,' I reply. 'Can you listen to a song for me and then let me know what you think of it?'
'Nah, I don't have time. I'm waiting for someone and the film's about to start.' He looks at his watch and then waves two cinema tickets at me.
'It's really short and I promise to stop it if your friend gets here.'
'Nah, I'm no interested.'
'Please, it would really help me out.'
'Look, I've not got time.'
'Come on, give me a chance, eh?'
He's folding, he's folding.
'Aye, alright, but be quick, okay?'
Yes, got him.
'Hang on,' I take the player off him and squeeze it, feel it warm up.
'AYE THAT'S IT NOW,' he gives me the thumbs up and I nod back at him.
Dress by The Wedding Present My Favourite Dress by The Wedding Present My Favourite Dress by The Wedding
He turns away from me as the song starts and leans his head against the wall of the cinema, his arms hang loose at his side. There's a blue tinge surrounding him and I can smell Juicy Fruit chewing gum. The colours whisper around him, changing shade like he's inside a bubble.
I feel like my life is one big David Gedge song at the moment. The empty bed. The mug I've not washed because you used it last. The brush with your hair still in it. The t-shirt you wore to sleep in that I keep under my pillow. The empty chewing gum wrappers I've not put in the bin. All that's left of nine years.
You didn't love me that way anymore. Which way? Fucking clichés. A spiel well rehearsed. I love you but I'm not in love with you, get it? No, I don't fucking get it. There's nobody else, I promise. I just don't think I want to be with you anymore. Think or know? Don't make this harder than it already is.
Three months later we were both grown up enough to meet for a film. You were trying. Trying to show me that you appreciated my efforts. And I had gotten better. I'd stopped the phone calls in the middle of the night, the constant texting, the turning up outside your work. It might have worked if I hadn't bumped into you the day before. Literally. Bump.
You. You and some fuckwit in a Levellers t-shirt. His arm around you, thumb rubbing across your back. Your blue dress. The one I bought you when we went to Greece. That time. You were so smitten you didn't even notice it was me who'd bumped into you. Sorry. You didn't even look at me.
You fucking, cheating whore. You lied to me. You promised. Who do you think you are?
Stop it, it's not like that. It certainly looks like that. Don't speak to her like that. I'll fucking have you. You, ushered away onto George Street. Both of us in tears. No text to cancel or apologise, so I turned up at the cinema. It crossed my mind you wouldn't show. But after nine years. I bought the tickets.
Everything was a blur around me. I'd had a couple of drinks before I left the fat. It was like those speeded up CCTV videos, the cars were all yellow and white flashes, stuttered fireworks. The people on fast forward. I was the only fixed point. The North Star. Then this guy appeared. The only one walking at normal speed. A movie star emerging from the smoke of an explosion. A slightly scruffy movie star. He looked familiar, like he should be in a band. His entrance was how I hoped you would arrive. Blue dress ruffed. Fitted denim jacket from Save the Children keeping your shoulders warm.
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