Those fucking seagulls just dive bombed me out there. I'm not trying to steal their fucking babies. What's their problem? I'm going to phone the council, get someone out here to get rid of the nests. What? Stop laughing at me.
Sorry, it is pretty funny though.
I walk across to the window and pull back the stained beige curtain. My breath steams up the glass before I have a chance to look out properly. I rub the cold pane with my hand; without my specs on, it's just a blur of cars and bins and other people's windows. Something moves out on the street and catches my eye. I grab my specs from where I've left them and look out again. Something's rummaging about down by the bins; someone's left a black bag of rubbish out and I can see it moving. There's the noise of a tin can scraping along the pavement and a fox comes into sight from behind the bin. It walks along the street, front paws prancing like one of those daft, poncey show horses. It's got something in its mouth which I can't make out. It stops. Ears prick. Tail stiffens. Nose sniffs. It looks right at me. The eyes are glassy and flash red, like I'm watching the fox through a night vision camera. Can it see me? The way it's looking at me.
Like it knows something I don't.
Then it's off, running along the pavement and out of sight.
I push the curtain back, grab my damp towel from where it's hanging over my wardrobe door and go for a shower. The flat is silent. As I creep down the hallway, the floorboards creak underneath me. The noise is amplified. Every tiny sound feels so loud. Too loud.
In there even his breathing was too loud.
The toothbrush against my teeth. The flush of the toilet. The hum of the electric shower and the water as it falls off me and hits the marble bathtub I'm standing in.
I turn the dial until the water is really hot.
I hate going in the shower after you, it's like you've got no nerve endings.
I don't anymore.
I wash my hair and myself with some cheapy shampoo and shower gel combo that I got out of Asda. It smells clean and green.
I've got morning cock, so I play with myself as the water rushes over me and the room fills up with steam. I lean against the wall tiles to steady myself. They're cold against my wet skin. I shudder and kick away the mess as I come all over myself and the bottom of the bath. The hair just under my belly is sticky and I use the shower gel again to clean myself.
Once I'm dressed, I make myself some tea and toast. There are no clean knives left so I pick one up from the pile of dirty dishes next to the sink, and wipe it on a dishtowel, before spreading my toast.
Once I'm finished, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my feet. What should I do now? I'm not due at work till ten and it's only just before six now. I can hear Alfie snoring through the wall. A deep, nasal inhale followed by a grunty, throaty exhale. I listen to him and count his snores.
One finger. Two thumbs. Three arms. Four legs...
He gets to thirty-four and suddenly stops. I stand up and strain my ears to listen. Has he stopped breathing? Is he dead? I'm just about to go in there and shake him when there's a choking cough and the snoring begins again.
Davie, what are you doing?
My heart is beating fast inside me and the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. I grab a shoulder bag, chuck Lewey's book, the MP3 player and a t-shirt for work inside it. My jacket is lying at the front door. I put it on and leave the flat, locking Alfie inside. I can get in a few more chapters for Lewey before work I tell myself, as I jog down the steps, my footsteps echoing around the stairwell.
Keepmovingkeepmovingkeepmovingkeepmoving
I leave the building and jump as a voice behind me speaks.
'Can you spare an old soldier the price of a cup of tea?’
The old boy is slumped in next door's doorway. He's wearing tartan trousers and reeks of piss and stale booze. Jean obviously didn't let him in last night. I rummage in my trouser pocket and find the fifty pence I found in the sofa last night. I bend down and hand it to him.
'God bless you son,' he replies.
I turn and walk towards the bus stop. As I pass the bin, I glance at where the fox had been. All that remains is a shredded bin bag and some scattered rubbish across the pavement. The seagulls are already scavenging and turn their heads at me as I walk past them. Even they don't rate me as a threat.
The streets are deserted and I feel like the last man alive as I stand at the bus stop. The sole survivor of some catastrophe.
It's so quiet. I hear the bus long before it turns the corner and comes into view. It stops in front of me with a steamy hiss and I get on. I glance at the passengers on the bottom deck before I head up the stairs. A guy in a suit is dozing with his head against the bus window, a girl in a tracksuit listens to her iPod.
Davie always sat upstairs on the bus. He liked the way it gave you a different perspective of the city. He'd notice things up on high that he wouldn't normally see, especially in the winter when it was dark out and people left their curtains open and their lights on. Davie liked to look into other people's homes. He liked to see what their rooms looked like, what they were doing, what they were watching on TV. Rooms flashed by like the pictures in a zoetrope, static images becoming film-like. Families merged into one. One perfect family. Not the Watts.
There's an orange glow in the sky and the clouds are purple and pink. The bus turns up a street of old Victorian houses and the jagged rooftops are lit up by sunlight. A row of diamonds against the sky.
We're nearly at the cemetery when the bus stops and I hear the stairs creak as someone comes to join me on the top deck. It's an older guy, looks about my dad's age. He's holding a carrier bag with a plant inside it. Leaves and greenery poke out the top. He makes his way along the bus, using the seats to steady himself and pull him along. He reminds me of a mountaineer scaling some snowy peak: the way he doesn't let go of one seat until he has a firm grip on the next.
My shoulder bag is resting next to my legs and I feel it twitch against my thigh. I open it up and the MP3 player is sitting on top of my red work t-shirt. It's glowing, humming to life as the familiar He Must Listen message scrolls along the LCD screen.
Thank fuck. I could do with helping someone, with getting a pick-me-up.
When I glance up at the man sitting a few seats in front of me, the MP3 player spasms in confirmation. I take it out of the bag and feel its quivering excitement in my hands. I stand up and make my way towards the man. He's staring straight ahead and doesn't notice me as I take the seat immediately behind.
'Excuse me,' I say as I tap him on the shoulder.
He jumps and turns around. His hair and beard are flecked with grey but you only notice it close up because his hair's so fair. He's probably been grey for years but nobody noticed.
'Gosh, I thought I was the only one up here. Didn't even notice you.'
LISTENHEMUSTLISTENHEMUSTLISTENHEMUSTLISTEN
I haven't really thought this far ahead, but on the spur of the moment, I decide to give him my spiel about doing music research. It worked on that guy at the cinema and I can't think of anything else.
'Am I no a bit too long in the tooth for that?'
'Course not, everyone's got an opinion on music. Besides, we need a cross-section to make it a fairer poll.'
'Aye, gies it here then. I'll give it a go.'
He smiles at me and the wrinkles crease up around the edges of his eyes. He's got dirt under his fingernails and soaked into the lines on his hands.
I hand him the headphones. He puts them on and turns away from me to face the front again. His carrier bag lies next to him on the seat. This was easier than I thought it would be. I'm easing into my role as Trackman, as if it's what I was born to do.
I am the Trackman. I. Am. The. Trackman.
I tighten my hands around the player. Make the connection.
Sayer One Man Band by Leo Sayer One Man Band by Leo Sayer One Man Band by Leo Sayer One Man Band by Leo S
The man grips the seat in front of him with
both hands. The carrier bag falls to the side and the plant is exposed. I smell toast and fried breakfast and the bus windows begin to steam up.
I'm back in that room we shared when we worked in the Gordon Arms Hotel in Fort William. Ian and Isobel lived in the room opposite us and when your folks came to visit us, we'd have to pull the beds apart and move our stuff around. Make out like it was you and Isobel sharing one room and Ian and me in the other. Your folks didn't believe we should live together before we were married.
You'd be on the breakfast duty and you'd get up so early and put your Leo Sayer records on to wake yourself up. You had that wee record player that I bought you for your birthday. It was a great wee thing, so it was. Paul still uses it now when he's home. The banjo would start up in One Man Band and you'd jump up and down on the beds, singing along, trying to hit all those high notes. If I felt awake I'd get up and jump with you but mostly I'd just lie there and let you bounce me up and down, up and down, on the mattress. The breakfast would be cooking down in the kitchens, I'd smell the coffee and toast and the bacon, but you'd be jumping on the beds like you had all the time in the world to get downstairs. You said it woke you up. You'd never make it through your shift if you didn't wake yourself up first. You in your waitress uniform and me in my jammies. Your ponytail swinging behind you and your cheeks pink. If you jumped high enough you could see over the building opposite the window and get a blue flash of Loch Linnhe. You said it felt like flying. Then the song would end or you'd jump so much that you'd send the needle flying off the record and you'd kiss me and head off to serve the guests their breakfast and I'd lie in bed till you came back up. We lived in that room for almost eight months. Back when we worked in the hotels. Before we got married. Before the boys came along. Before we settled down and got proper jobs. Before you found the lump. Before you got too sick to stand up, let alone jump.
The MP3 player stops and the smell of toast disappears. The man hands me back the headphones and picks up his plant.
'That's an oldie that one,' he says, 'takes me back so it does. You know I've got that record at home somewhere, all scratched from being played too much. That's the first time I've heard that song without jumps in a long time.'
He wipes a circle in the steamed up window and peers out.
'Gosh, that's my stop coming up. I was miles away there.'
He stands up and pushes the bell. As the bus begins to slow down, he makes his way along the deck and down the stairs. I watch him disappear out of sight. The body vanishing from the feet up, until all that's left is the top of his head and the beginnings of a bald spot. Then he's gone.
My hands are hot and sore, but I feel great. I'm buzzing. Everything's tingling. Every little part of me on fire. I feel like I'm flying.
At the last moment he'd jump, arms outstretched. He could fly.
I love this, this feeling. I love being the Trackman.
12
Boys Don't Cry
He pushed open the letter box and shouted into it.
Lewey. Lewey, let me in.
When nobody answered, he peered through.
Davie dropped the orange juice.
I SIT ON my jacket next to Lewey.
'Sorry, my eyes are hurting, need a wee break.'
I put the book down and look around.
The guy from the bus is in the cemetery too, over in the far corner. I watch him for a few minutes. He's standing next to one of the graves and he's speaking away to it. It's really funny how much chatting goes on in here. I bet some people chat more to their loved ones here than they ever did when they were alive.
It's more sad than funny actually.
The guy straightens up and walks away from the grave. Who's he been visiting? He notices me, and gestures like he's tipping a hat as he follows the path out of the cemetery.
I watch him as he walks past the waiting rooms.
It was just the thought of it, a waiting room. A waiting room at a funeral. Like they were all waiting for Lewey to be ready before the funeral could start, like he was getting changed or something.
The body will see you now, Mr and Mrs Watts.
Davie held his breath and the laugh snorted out of his nose.
I didn't notice on the bus but he walks with a limp, and it takes him a good fifteen minutes or so to disappear out of sight.
I look at my watch: it's almost eight. I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll through the phone book.
Work
I hit call. We're supposed to answer within four rings so as not to keep the customers waiting.
Hanging on the telephone.
Nobody answers for about twenty seconds, and I'm about to hang up when:
'Good morning, Virgin Megastore, Stewart speaking, how can I help?'
'Hey, Stewart, it's Davie here, is Laura about?'
'Alright, Davie. How's it going? Aye, do you want to speak to her?'
'If you don't mind, eh?'
'No bother.'
The phone rings again as Stewart transfers me from the cash room to the manager's office. I hawk up phlegm from the back of my throat, need to sound convincing for Laura.
'Hi David.'
'Hey, I'm not feeling too great today, been up all night with sickness and diarrhoea.'
I put on my most pathetic sounding voice.
'Okay, have you taken something for it?'
'Eh, aye, I've taken some… Imodium and that. I don't think I'm going to make it in today though.'
I've never pulled such a blatant sickie before. I'm starting to lie like a pro.
'Okay.'
'I can't move for stomach cramps, I think I just need a day in bed.'
'Is everything else okay?'
'Aye, fine, how come?
''No reason, you just seem distracted these days, I've been a bit concerned.'
'No, I'm fine, eh?'
'Alright, David. I'll hopefully see you tomorrow then.'
'Aye, see you then.'
What the fuck was that about? Distracted? I'm the Trackman. I've got other things to think about, more important things than that place. That guy on the bus for one thing, I'm not going into that shitehole after what happened. I wouldn't be able to work, I can't file DVDs and serve customers after that. I want more. I want more of the Trackman.
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackm
The MP3 player doesn't seem awake, so I pick up the Potter book and start reading again. Poor Lewey, if he was reading this himself he would have been finished ages ago. It must be shite for him having to wait for me to get through it.
Distracted? Who the fuck does Laura think she is?
The MP3 player shuffles on my lap. Are you waking up? No, okay, I'll keep reading.
I read until after eleven. Get myself into a wee groove and just go with it. The MP3 player is still quiet. That bus guy must have drained it. It needs a rest. I guess it just depends on how much help the person needs: some must need a bit more power than others. I feel it myself. When a song's playing I can feel the energy flowing out of me, but then I get that hit, that buzz. The tiredness is always cancelled out by the buzz.
I may look like shite and could do with some more sleep, but I feel great. It's like that tired feeling you get in the morning if you've been shagging. You're fucking knackered, but there's a warmth running right the way through you. It's delicious.
I'm almost halfway through the book now. It's pretty brutal: main characters getting killed all over the place.
Davie walked past Lewey's room on the way to the toilet. The bedroom door was open and Lewey's book lay in the middle of the floor.
The bathroom door was locked so Davie knocked on it.
Lewey, that you?
There was no answer.
Lewey, you taking a dump?
Go away, I'm in here.
Hurry up, I need a pish.
Well, I'm in here.
Well, hurry up.
There was silence.
Davie knocked
on the door again.
Lewey, do you want me to pish all over the floor out here?
Davie heard the toilet flush, then the tap was turned on and off. The lock clicked open and Lewis emerged from the bathroom. He pushed past Davie with his head down, not making eye contact.
Davie grabbed him as he went past.
Get off me, Davie.
What's up with you tonight?
Nothing, okay.
Lewey's eyes were red.
What's wrong?
Nothing.
Lewis pulled his arm, but Davie held on.
Tell me.
No.
Why you been crying?
She killed off Sirius, okay. Can I go now?
Eh?
J.K. Rowling killed off my favourite character. Happy now? Lewis pulled his arm away and slammed his bedroom door shut behind him.
He was so sensitive. Made him an easy target.
The MP3 player hums into life, like what I'm thinking about is interesting to him. He wants me to go on: spill my guts about Lewey.
Sorry, I didn't even do that with Dr Richmond, and Christ knows, he tried his best to make me.
I put the headphones on. Maybe he'll speak to me? Come on, Jamesy. Is there something you want to ask me? No need to eavesdrop.
He doesn't respond.
Jamesy has left the building.
How can Jamesy stay so calm after helping that old boy on the bus? I guess he's been there, done that, a million times before. I can't stop thinking about it. Can still feel it running through me. It's addictive. Jamesy, you're addictive.
I shiver, someone walking over my grave.
What do I do with myself now? Wake up, Jamesy, I want to go and play someone a tune.
I could go for a wee wander? See who I meet on the way. He'll have to wake up if I find someone who needs a song.
My phone beeps.
Susan.
ru sure about Oz? Id lk u 2 come wit us x
I'm not even going to reply to that. She knows fine well how I feel about everything.
You promised me, Davie, you looked me in the eye and said you'd come straight home after work.
I can't even look at Mum, so why would I want to go out and visit her in Australia. She sure as hell won't want to see me either.
Trackman Page 13