That Was a Shiver, and Other Stories

by James Kelman

  Music in the background. A nocturne by Henry Rocastle sent the Principal into a dreamy condition. Art was his passion, or so he maintained.

  Would he wait until it finished? No, not him. He used his foot to manoeuvre the ruffled edge of the corpse’s clothes. The untidiness made him grue. Yet his facility to operate in the most trying circumstances, withal, was here to the fore when he could never have stopped himself reaching downwards, and seemed to notice his own fingers curl in preparation. Whether he approved or not I could not say.

  He had a degree of self-consciousness that I knew to respect. I watched how he sighed yet easily lifted the corpse’s arm, let it fall. The arbitrary action might have made it the more natural, removing a general untidiness, so to speak. But this untidiness could not be removed from himself, not altogether. Arthritis would have him cornered in not many years hence. This was reported to me. By then I had advanced in a manner that demanded he be placed on retreat.

  The Principal’s very professionalism allowed the distance between truth and appearance. It is not enough to state that I respected this quality. I was experienced in the field but not expert. Whether this was enough to secure the primary position time alone would tell. I saw that the elbow of the corpse had bended. Should this have been corrected? Queries of this form can be posed objectively. Workable inferences may be ascertained by examination of the interior. A course of potential activity, from either or both, is safely predicted. Patience did not enter into these proceedings. He expected objectivity if not indifference. Either was a reward, having its own significance.

  The arrangement of articles displayed on the shelving inclined towards order, irrelevant to the overall picture which was already contained in the above. Severing a limb was pointless. Such a possibility had presented itself. The result would exist as inconsistent. The Principal would not accept such. The result would further illustrate a pattern. The pattern would appear perfect, after its own fashion. Perfection of this type is not what is required. Thus the Principal looked to myself. I knew this as a ruse. I glanced at the large wall-clock. His decision belonged to an earlier generation. In these harsher times alternative courses of action were hypothetical. This was the nature of the Principality. On another occasion, and in less immediate circumstances, I might have smiled. The next time he glimpsed the clock it would have stopped altogether. Not through any action of his. Such would never happen. He would look to me. Any decision of mine required due process. I might have smiled. My pulse had quickened and I wet my lips. The proper matter I should have happen is what would happen and what must happen, and in the correct time, but to no avail.

  The Principal studied me. I knew reality and hoped that a truth lay between us. Nevertheless I departed the room. I strode into the adjacent room. I then witnessed the Principal stand alone. There would be no private smile. It was as it was and his practice dictated a practice. It was nothing to him. Personal detail is of no account in situations of this nature. Our work concerns extensions, parts and bodies. The Principal peers at the corpse, now comfortable in its presence. He could have filled a kettle, made and poured a cup of tea. Such moves enabled promotion and were victories. Their nature would enable my own promotion. It was no thanks to know that his had depended on my absence, but perhaps not.

  WORDS AND

  THINGS TO SIP

  I had to move on. The main question concerned Anne: where was she? I gave up the highstool at the bar and carried my drinks and bag to a table, accompanied by my brains. That was alright; I needed them to think and I was wanting to think.

  The nature of the thought, the content. Forget one’s father. Had I been thinking of my father? Not in so many images, simply a sensation, a sensation of daddy – poor old fucker, dead for the last twenty years. We think of the dead, even fathers, they are always with us. Even when we are thinking about all these hundred and one different and varied matters, business matters: will one ever make a sale again in one’s entire miserable existence? Shall I ever walk into some fellow’s office and chat him into an irreversible decision in regard to a sum of money large enough to guarantee one’s job for another fucking month? No wonder one sighs. My old man never had such crap to put up with. He was a factory worker. One contends with all sorts, all sorts.

  Life is so damn hectic, especially the inner life. The dead and the undead. And thoughts of Anne and myself, our relationship.

  I groaned again. These days I groan out loud. People hear it and look at me.

  I didnt need pubs like this in which to become annoyed. Although they did annoy me. I get annoyed at myself, by myself and for myself. Leastways irritated, I become irritated, breathe in breathe out.

  Having said that, I was turning over a new leaf. The short- tempered irascible chap had gone forever. Recently I had been prescribed aspirin; anti-coagulants. One’s blood. Henceforth I was to be a changed man, a veritable saint of a fellow. Never more would I lose my temper over something as trivial as bad service in a hostelry of questionable merit, a bad boozer in other words, who cares? Not me. Never more. Those parties who ignore a body they perceive as a stranger. Erroneously as it so happens. Little did they know I was a fucking regular so why not treat one as a fucking regular? Who cares, of course, me or not me, it dont matter.

  Unpunctuality whether in barstaff or one’s nearest and/or dearest.

  A bad choice of language. But never more, never more.

  What never more? What the hell was my brains on about now? These whatyacallthems did not deserve the name. Brains are brains. Whatever I had, tucked inside my skull, those were unclassifiable, certainly not fit to be described as ‘brains’.

  Oh god, God even.

  Yet Anne was rarely punctual. Why worry about one’s nearest and/or dearest.

  Odd. I recognised where I was sitting. This was where I typically sat in this typical bar, of all most typical bars. It was side on to the door, avoiding unnecessary draughts.

  I had books and reports, the smartphone alive to the touch, even sensing the touch. And an old newspaper too, a – what the hell was it, a something Planet – what a name for a newspaper! Was that not Superman, here at the Daily Planet with Clark Kent and that old chap, the irascible editor, what the fuck was his name? Who knows, who cares, Perry Mason or some damn thing, so what, I could have read the sports pages.

  Maybe I would. Whether I did depended. I was drained – drained! Yes, washed out, exhausted, weary, deadbeat, shattered; stick adverbs in front or behind, all you like any you like; mentally, psychologically, physically, sexually, emotionally, socially; then quantify: totally, wholly, almost, just-about, a small amount, very much. Had I strength to spare I might read a report, book or newspaper. Alternatively I could sit and sip alcohol, insert the earplugs and listen to something, something! Or view television, or watch the world go by, neither intrigued nor bored by thoughts of a downbeat nature. Mum too – if it was not the old man it was her – why was I thinking so much about my parents? Maybe I was about to drop dead and that was a sort of roll-call of one’s existence. Hell’s bells.

  Anne would be here soon anyway. It did not matter if she were late. I had not seen her for six weeks, had not slept with her for my gad three months, three months. One could ruminate upon that. I enjoyed lying with her side on, her eyelids flickering. She also with me. This was our favoured position. We relaxed. I did anyway, being without responsibility for eight or nine hours, barring texts, emails and even phonecalls for heaven sake, but I could not switch off the phone, though her breasts, her breasts.

  I disliked myself intensely. Nevertheless, one continues to exist. A small something in my pocket. A piece of jewellery nonsense for the one I loved. Gold, gold I tell you gold! I screamed it hoarsely, in the character of a crazed Humphrey Bogart, unshaven, unkempt – what was the movie? the mountains and gold.

  Anne liked gold. Women do like gold. Golden jewellery. Joo ell ry. I kept the piece in my trouser pocket that none might steal the damn thing. England was not Scotland. G
iven that forgetfulness was a greater risk than theft. If I took it out my pocket I would forget to return it.

  But I did enjoy gazing upon gold. Gold was a pleasure of mine too given that in my position I could not aspire to the unkempt unshaven look, being as how the state of one’s dress, the label on one’s suit, the subtlety of one’s timepiece

  Oh my dear lord. Panic panic panic.

  Defective memory banks. The mind dispenses with petty data. The clock on the wall. I checked my wristwatch against it, and the phone, checking both, pedantic bastard. And not panicking. Never panicking. Never, never never never. I was not a panicky fellow – never used to be – besides which the anti-coagulants, lest the dropping-dead factor . . . Jesus christ. I groaned again. I was glaring, why was I glaring? I studied the floor. One’s shoes. One’s socks. Tomorrow was Monday and I would buy new ones, new socks.

  Oh god god god.

  Three gods = one God, the way, the truth et cetera et cetera, breathing rapidly several intakes of what passes for air, for oxygen because one’s head, one’s brains, what passes for the thingwis, the whatdyacallthems.

  Where however was she? One would have expected punctuality.

  And the barstaff:

  barstaff are typically interesting. We try not to study them too blatantly lest personal misunderstandings arise. But we do study people. We are people and people study people. Humankind is a reflective species. Two had been serving in this pub for as long as I had been using it which for heaven sake was a long time; seven or eight years. Certainly a long time for barstaff to remain in the job. They assumed they had never seen me before. They were wrong.

  But who wants to be a regular? It means one is alcoholic, near as damn it, an alcoholic geek, one who gets sozzled in the same bar year after year.

  Neither barworker allowed me a second glance. I was a nobody. They might have qualified this to ‘nobody in particular’ which would have been better in the sense that a particular nobody is better than a general nobody. Still it would have been wrong.

  Regularity need not operate within a brief span of time; twice every two years is also a pattern and such an event can be enclosed by mental brackets. I might only have come to this pub six times a year but I only came to the damn town on said half dozen occasions. So is that not regular? Make the question-mark an exclamation. Six out of six is not 99% but a fucking hundred if one may so speak. Of course I was a regular. Some people are so constipated their bowels only move once a month. But at least it is not irregular.

  That crack once landed me an order. They were feeling sorry for me. Once a month every month is measurable, is regularity. A hundred per cent. A man had his dick cut open without an anaesthetic. Having to have one’s dick cut open! Oh god. One could only shudder. Without an anaesthetic! That was just like – wow! Why even had it come into my mind! But it is such a fact; its incredible nature has it jump into one’s mind apropos of nothing whatsoever. It was in the papers, stuck away on page 7, 8 or 9. It should have been front page news. I must have been reading a quality. Unless it was a lie. Even a sexual disease, a serious one: none requires that sort of operation, a severing of the skin. Getting one’s penis sliced open without anaesthetic. Dear lord.

  Move on move on.

  Sliced was my word, not the newspaper’s. It just said cut, cut is cut, sliced is sliced and severing is, of course, severing, he intoned gravely.

  One considers punctuality. Why?

  The main question: why did Anne even consider a fool like me? It was beautiful she did but why? I was no looker, I was no nothing.

  Truly, I was not. Yet she had considered me.

  Come the cold light of morning this question continued to arise, to haunt my very being as the author of Gothic yarns would have it.

  I had one daughter. We never communicated. She used to tell me the books she was reading but due to my critical commentaries she stopped doing this, and stopped telling me about movies she enjoyed, plays she appreciated, painters that

  forget it. The main question, or should I say answer, to our lack of communication

  forget it.

  The only reliable method of knowledge is literature. I was a reader of books. Truth comes in books: we cannot trust internetual information, nor other human beings, obviously, given the chap sitting at the next table to me was reading a quality newspaper so-called, given that in hostelries of this nature such newspapers, not to beat about the bush

  But what could Anne ever see in me? In the final analysis I was a prick. Upon my tombstone let it be writ: Here Lieth a Prick.

  Prick rather than dick; dick is a pleasant term.

  In contemporary jargon I would admit to having ‘fucked up’ my life. One should admit such matters and not conceal them if such issues are thought to be the ones, the main perhaps questions, while Anne herself, she was never a blinding flash, what do they call it, love at first sight, oh this is the girl for me, it was not like that. I was in sore need of female companionship. Males tire me eventually. On guard and have at thou. An acquaintance of mine was fairly camp, well, really a friend rather than acquaintance and not ‘fairly camp’ but wholly so if not blatantly. Male company exhausted him. He told me that. I was pleased he trusted me enough to so confide. I didnt wonder: how come this guy is telling me such stuff? Rather I confessed to a parallel feeling. He nodded, not at all surprised. I appreciated that somebody else felt the same even although I caught him observing me during a lull in the conversation. I respected our friendship but distrusted it. Certainly there were times male company repelled me. Males are uncharitable. Younger males too, perhaps especially. One would expect tolerance. Walking into some factory or warehouse and them all looking and sniggering, what is he selling, fucking fool.

  On occasion I need to sit, only to sit, to sit still, to sit at rest, to just be be be be, just be, and unaware of my breath. Without a woman this was impossible. Another friend was an ex-alcoholic and divorced. He told me the major boon concerning alcoholic friends is how they relax together; they share basic acquaintance, occasionally drink tea together, occasionally not. But they lapse into silence. They do. I found that remarkable. I should have expected a headlong charge into confession, each outshouting the other, listen to me listen to me, the poem of course, who was that now? Coleridge.

  Silence. The leaves doth grow, doth shed, falling.

  I first met Anne on the other side of town. She was in company. I was introduced to her and we got on. We met the following evening. The sexual attraction was mutual. My heart skipped a beat. What is beat? The assignations began and we lay together. She chose the rendezvous. This bar.

  Life has the habit of booting one in the testes. Anything might happen. I checked my watch and, instinctively, my belongings. A man had risen from his seat, cigarette already in his mouth, making for the smoke exit. He was a shifty-looking bugger. An older man but older men can be shifty given they are less suspicious, immediately that is. Once one ponders a little one has second thoughts, these bastards are just cautious, seeking the slightest opportunity.

  The truth is that I did not care. If someone wished to steal my goods and chattels they were most welcome because I did not give a fucking shit one way or the other and that is to be blunt about it.

  I had become an afternoon drinker, an imbiber of false hopes, false dreams. Even one’s fantasies are false. What is a false fantasy? I once had a boozy conversation with my daughter. Unfortunately I advised her of my secret desire which, at that time, was death. Nothing false about that.

  Oh fuck.

  I reached for my briefcase to check the report. I had ‘a report’. A REPORT!

  Jesus god.

  I also had an anthology of short stories by writers from Central America. I left it concealed. Instead I would read the walls and read the tables, read the chairs and read the floor. Truths are where you find them.

  I opened the report once again, he sighed wearily.

  The sort of fucking garbage one is fed at head office. N
ot that I cared, I did not fucking give a fucking rat’s fucking arse, bastards. Even if they did fire me. I did not fucking care. Not one solitary particle for all their lies and dissembling: should one be cast onto the heap of forgotten souls? Never!

  They no longer pretended respect. But I had none for them so there we are. Whatever I had was gone. Such incompetence. They were unable to back a chap! They wanted to sack me but could not. Ever heard anything like that! At my age all one seeks is competence, efficiency. People who do their work in a consistent manner. They do not fall down. They do not leave one high and dry. They do not forget the most important component of any business. Salute in passing oh colleague. Do not fear. One’s hopes and dreams will not fall on stony ground.

  It does not matter how gifted the scientists are, how advanced the products, if those cannot be sold they will sit there in the warehouse. These are not planks of wood and tons of gravel. Wood and gravel will be of use in a thousand years’ time. For new technologies all it takes is six months, if these cannot be sold in six months let them be consigned to the heap of forgotten ideas.

  On a daily basis fevered spasms struck my brain. A customer said to me: William, your brains are palpitating, look! See the sides of your head: your temples are banging together. Look, look at your whatdyacallthems!

  How does one spell ‘forever’?