'That's great, Davie. I knew it would be okay.'
'Aye, sorry for not letting you know. I've actually been doing a few extra shifts and that, just to try and get back in the good books. So I've been a bit busy.'
'That's okay. Will we get to see you before we leave tomorrow?'
'Shit, is that tomorrow? Man, time is just whizzing by right now.'
Aye, you're right. It's not a good idea, I agree with you. As much as I'd like to see Susan and Pammy before they go, she's good at that intuition shit, she'd work it out. It's best if I just let her go and deal with it all when she gets back. Use the next few weeks to sort out a story, work out what we're going to do long term.
'Yeah, the flight's at eleven.'
'Shit, I don't think I'll be able to, I could phone work and try and change shifts around?' I bluff.
'No, don't be daft, I don't want you getting into more bother because of me. I'll see you when we get back.'
'Aye, I'm really sorry, will you be alright for getting to the airport and that?'
'Yeah, it's all sorted.'
I feel like shit, and fumble around for something worthwhile to say.
'I can keep an eye on the house for you, if you like?'
'If you can be bothered, Mary from next door offered but she knows who you are if you want to pop through.'
'Aye, no bother.'
'Okay, right, I'd better love you and leave you then, Davie.'
'No bother, just you and Pammy have a great holiday, okay?'
Even though neither of us says it, we're both thinking of Mum. I know Susan doesn't want to get into a fight when she's going away and I just don't want to speak about it.
Mummy says you should never go to bed angry.
We leave it unsaid but I can feel it there, both of us thinking the same thing.
'Yeah, take care. I'll have my phone with me, so if you need me for anything.'
'Cool.'
'You'll be okay won't you? You've got that, what's her name again? Angel, to look after you.'
'It's Astrid, aye, I'm seeing her later hopefully.'
He could hear muffled voices. Muffled voices which gradually faded into moans and the sound of Alfie's bed creaking.
'That's great, I'm really happy for you. Right, better go, you take care okay, see you in a few weeks.'
'Aye, see you soon, have a good time, eh?'
The light on my phone goes out and it feels like a goodbye forever. It's not a goodbye forever. I know it's not, but it's like that day I left Astrid's.
The sound of it echoed around the stairwell.
I can't shake the feeling. I want to phone her back and say something else. Something, anything. If I never see her and Pammy again, is that it? The last conversation I'll ever have with her? I don't even remember much of it now. A last conversation should mean something, shouldn't it?
Davie couldn't remember what his last words to Lewis were. It was like the brain cell that held that memory had just died with him. He heard someone talking about the brain once. They had this theory, about when random memories pop up, things you hadn't thought about in years. Their theory was that when this happened, it was the brain cell that held that memory dying. It was like the brain cell just threw it at you quickly before it went. Quick remember this, I'm dying and this memory is going with me, so remember it while you can.
Davie couldn't remember his last moment with Lewis. Why was it so hard to remember? He'd traced himself, moved backwards through time, put himself on rewind, but the scene was missing. A deleted scene hidden as a DVD easter egg? Maybe if he pushed the right combination of buttons he'd find it?
He hoped that he'd said something nice. That they hadn't argued or disagreed about something dumb. It must have been something mundane, not important enough for his brain to bother recording. His brain didn't realise until it was too late that it should have pressed record.
Davie held a finger up to his mouth, ssshhh, then pressed two buttons down on the cassette player: Record and Play together.
It was too late now. Gone. He even got sent to a hypnotist, but he couldn't relax, couldn't go under. He was scared. When it came down to it, maybe remembering was worse that not knowing? It didn't matter anyway. Even if he'd known it was his last moment with Lewis, and he'd said everything in his head he'd wanted to, it still wouldn't be enough. It still wouldn't stop his brain, every so often, going, man, Lewis would love that, I need to tell Lewis that, or Lewis would know, ask Lewis, he'll know. Sometimes he forgot that he was gone.
Come on, Jamesy, let's do what we're supposed to do, eh? All these decisions you're asking me to make, it's too much. It's doing my head in. I don't work that way, you know, to a plan. I just I just need to go. Keep going in a straight line and deal with what happens to me as it happens. I have a track history of bad decisions. It's better if I don't make choices. Keep moving forward. Keep moving, keep moving.
One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg. Let's leave the head out of it for now. The head needs a rest.
Aye, about time. We should be playing the music, Jamesy. Not wasting our time thinking about stuff that makes my brain hurt.
I follow Jamesy's directions. Off Morningside and into the hospital grounds. Follow the road, over the speed bumps. Ten miles per hour.
This is the mental hospital, Jamesy, the fucking loony bin.
Davie sat on one of the tree trunks that lined the road into the hospital. It seemed he was always waiting there these days. Waiting to go in. Waiting to be seen. Waiting to be picked up. Waiting for the pain to get a bit smaller. Waiting. Everyone waited at hospitals.
Davie saw his parents at the far end of the corridor; they sat with their backs against the wall. It looked like they were waiting outside the headmaster's office.
A girl walked past him. Her legs were so skinny, there was nothing to them, just bone. Even her baggy jeans couldn't hide it. Made it look worse. The way the excess fabric hung off her, clung to the bones jutting out. She bounced rather than walked, her legs didn't look like they worked properly anymore.
She had a scarf pulled up over her chin and a hat low over her forehead, trying to hide the death mask.
It was like those shitey waxworks at Madame Tussauds.
Her sunken cheeks, her face top heavy, trying to hold up blank eyes. She had a disease they could stamp a name on.
Davie was moved from one specialist to the next. Depression. Bereavement. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. Where was his stamp? Why was it so hard to help him?
Why did you bring me here? I used to come here a lot. Did you know that?
In a parallel universe, Jamesy finds Davie Watts sitting on a tree trunk outside the loony bin and helps him feel better.
My ghost is sitting there, can you see him? See me?
It's like, you know when you get into a routine, every day you do the same thing at exactly the same time. Then one day, you sleep in or something and you end up passing your self somewhere during the day. The ghost of yourself stuck in the routine and the real you running along behind.
A part of me will always be here. Like a part of Lewis is always here, always with me. I can't go anywhere without him being with me. Like the zoo, even though I was having fun with Astrid, I kept thinking of the time I was at the zoo with Lewey.
It looks like a Caramac bar, he ran his tongue over her teeth, mmmm you taste of Solero, poor guy, he looks sad.
And now the next time I go to the zoo, I'll be thinking of Lewis and Astrid. The good memories weigh me down. I don't even want to go to the zoo again now, because I know I won't have fun, I'll just feel sad. I can't have a good time anymore without thinking of how in the future the memory of the good time will make me sad.
Fucking hell, if they heard me right now, I'd be re-admitted. Let's get out of here, eh? It's bringing too much stuff back.
I need to calm down. One finger, one thumb, one finger, one thumb.
Davie saw his parents at the far end of the corridor; they sat w
ith their backs against the wall. It looked like they were waiting outside the headmaster's office. His mum was crying and his dad was just staring at the floor. Davie could hear his feet tapping against the lino as he walked towards them, it was so loud, it filled the corridor. But his folks didn't move, didn't flinch. Didn't look at him, even when he stopped right in front of them. Then he realised, it wasn't just one son they'd lost.
It feels too weird being back. I need to get away from here.
I notice the guy before Jamesy tells me. An old boy, sitting on a bench outside the main entrance to the hospital. He's staring out across the car park, smoking a cigarette.
I sit next to him and he nods at me. He's dressed really smartly, makes me feel like a right tink.
He looked cool as fuck. Davie had worn his dad's suit. He hadn't worn it since the funeral, the hems of the trousers were still covered in dirt.
A v-neck jumper with a shirt and tie on underneath.
Why does grandpa call trousers slacks?
He takes a draw on his fag and I can hear the lungs straining inside him, sticky and clasping like cling film. When he exhales it's sandpaper over metal. His breathing is so loud, it drowns out the birds and the breeze and the traffic. It's all I can hear.
In. Out. In. Out.In.Out. In. Out.Out.Out.Out.
'Sound awful, don't I?' the old boy says like he can read my mind. 'I've got lung cancer, eh? I know, I know, I shouldn't be smoking, but it's the only pleasure I've got and it's too late now anyway. No point stopping.'
'Sorry to hear that.'
'Don't be, I've smoked for over sixty years, I've earned it.' He coughs and spits into his hankie.
'I'm on oxygen,' he says, 'but I can't stand it. It dries my nose and mouth out, I'm thirsty all the time and my throat feels like it's on fire. Having a smoke helps me feel better, can't do it on the oxygen mind, I'd really be on fire then. Whoosh – up in flames.'
He laughs but it makes him start coughing again. He sounds hollow. I can hear the cough banging around in his chest. The Tin Man.
'Aye, I keep asking them to let me do it, blow myself up I mean. Exploding in a big ball of flames would be quick and anything has to be better than this cancer. I don't want it slow and drawn out. Besides, I'm probably heading down to the big fire anyway.'
He lifts his arm and dives his hand down, a smoky trail flowing from the fag hanging between his fingers. He coughs again, rattling tin-foil.
'I didn't know they did cancer treatment here,' I say.
'Oh, they don't. My wife's in here. I'm waiting on my son to bring her out. She's got dementia. We make a right pair, don't we? I have to leave my hospital to come here to see her and vice versa. She doesn't really know who I am these days, it's worse than the cancer. She'll probably come out and walk right past me. My son and his wife are taking us out for lunch, more fool them. Poor buggers, saddled with us two.'
This time he doesn't laugh, just takes another suck on his cigarette.
Jamesy's on at me to play him a song but I don't know how to say the words. I don't want to lie to him and asking him to listen to a song just sounds so pathetic after all he's told me. I'm stuck. I'm not sure we can help him.
'The scary thing is,' the old boy says, 'I'm going to die and she won't even notice.' He tries to click his fingers, but they flop against each other without so much as a cl.
'She forgot about me a while ago now, I'm the disappearing husband. I tried to kiss her cheek the other day and she screamed, actually screamed in my face. Jesus, and they want me to give up smoking.'
I can't find the right moment to ask him to listen. What do you say to someone who's telling you all this? Sorry, Jamesy, I'm sinking here. Words aren't enough.
How can a song help him? We can't cure cancer, Jamesy, or dementia. We're not Gods. What am I forgetting? That I'm the Trackman?
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackm
Yeah, but this guy is dying, Jamesy, he's dying. So what are you saying? It'll still help him? Not a cure but a comfort. I really do want to help him, I really do.
Okay, Jamesy, okay, I don't think I can take much more of this anyway. It's bringing too much stuff back to the surface, just being here in this car park is bringing too much stuff back.
'Have you got time to listen to a song?' I ask.
'Time is something I don't have much left of, I'm afraid.'
He tips his head back, opens his mouth wide and sucks, like he's trying to swallow as much air as he can.
'Sorry, bad choice of words.'
'No, it's alright. I'm starting to cherish the moments I have left, I'll listen to a song.'
He lifts his arm to put the headphones on but it's such an effort and he's struggling. I take them from him and sort them in place on his head for him.
'I've never used one of these things before, if my son comes out and see's me he'll think I'm the one with the head problems.'
Time In The World by Louis Armstrong We Have All The Time In The World by Louis Armstrong We Have All
Jamesy, are you taking the piss? The old boy looks at me and I'm scared he thinks I'm being a dick to him, but then he closes his eyes. His face trembles and tears run down his cheeks. His skin's so dry, the tears are absorbed before they have a chance to reach his chin. Can he even hear the music over the noise of his breathing?
My dearest Nancy,
It came to me today, what I have to do as my final gift to you. A young lad helped me with the idea.
Do you remember your favourite song? You must do. Just in case you've forgotten, I've put a CD in with this letter. John helped me with it, I'm sure he'll help you play it too. All you need to do is listen to it and then I'm sure it'll jog your memory. I've put a photo of us in here too. It's from when we stayed in the caravan at North Berwick, and we discovered you were pregnant with John. Remember we used the payphone to call our folks and tell them? I thought you could listen to the song, read this letter, look at the photo and it'll help you. Help you remember how happy we were together.
All the things that we got up to. When we both sheltered under the bridge during the air-raid, that was how we met. Then John came along and we got our first house, it was next to a baker's and the house was full of mice. I carried you from room to room because you were so scared of them. Then when you turned thirty we drove to Gullane and had fish and chips on the beach at dusk. Fish and chips have never tasted as good as they did that day. If I wrote down everything, this letter would never end. There's too many good memories of our life together, Nancy, love. Try and hold onto a few, please try. I'm not going to be here to remind you soon. I'm sorry, I've tried my best, but I'm not going to manage the whole way. You'll have to manage the last wee bit without me. I wish we'd known back then, under that bridge, just how quickly time flies by. That song of yours, it means something different now than it did when we first heard it.
I'm sorry for being a sentimental old fool. I just want you to remember there was someone who loved you, when I'm not here to keep reminding you. Our time together was too precious to forget. I'll love you always, sweetheart, and I'll be waiting for you.
Forever yours,
Iain.
It's dark around the man. He's covered in shadow.
I can hardly make him out anymore. Is that fish and chips I can smell?
I take the headphones off his head and he lights another cigarette.
'That's my wife's favourite song,' he says.
I wind the headphones around Jamesy and put him in my pocket. The old boy sucks on the cigarette, like he's trying to suck juice out of a glass bottle. His cheeks sink into valleys with the strain of it, and his hand shakes as he holds the cigarette up to his purple lips.
His lips were blue, like he'd been out playing in the snow.
I need to get out of here, but I feel like I should say something before I go. I don't want to just leave this guy, it's wrong. I feel a weird connection to him.
He always imagined couples in the forties,
meeting for dates there.
Look at him? I can see my life running away from me, and it scares the shit out of me. What have I got to show for myself? When I get to his age, I want to look back and know that I've done something. That I've had a good life. Is that even possible anymore, after all that's happened?
'You take care, okay?' I'm about to squeeze his shoulder but I stop myself. Why do I always manage to fuck up moments of intimacy? He jumps, like he's forgotten I was there. His lips are moving. I can't tell if he's whispering to himself or if they're just trembling with the rest of his face.
'Thanks, son.'
'No bother.'
'You blink and it's gone, you know, when you're young you don't realise.'
I nod and walk away. Turning my back on him feels like a snub, but I can't bear to be here anymore. This place sucks you dry.
That old boy did something to me, Jamesy. You were right all along. It just took someone like him to make me realise you were right. I've been given a second chance, a chance to do something with my life, not waste it being Davie fucking Watts. I'm the Trackman. I'm not Davie, I'm the Trackman.
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackm
I have to start taking it seriously. It's not a game, something I can just fit in when I've got a spare minute. I have to give myself up to it.
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackm
Let's leave the flat, take the show on the road. I just need to get a couple of things out of the way first.
I know it's shite compared to what I should have done, but I'll finish those books for you.
Aye, finish that fucking book for Lewey for one thing. A few loose ends to tie up and then I'm all yours.
22
End of the Line
Davie didn't want to be hung-over in the morning. He'd drunk a lot and could feel the start of the hangover in his stomach. That feeling which tells you to stop drinking, that feeling you usually ignore.
Davie dropped the orange juice.
I KNOW, I KNOW, just post it through her door. The note doesn't say what I want it to say though.
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