by Laura Hird
When they were ready, they returned to the hospital.
Sarah was still there, still sitting by Hilly’s bedside.
She explained as how one of them always stayed over and slept on a Parker Knoll in an adjoining room. She didn’t seem as wary as she’d done earlier. Truth be told, she looked too tired to be bothered. The Walkman lay on the bedside table, the earphones by its side.
Martin put the new tape in the machine. He fitted the earphones on Hilly, then switched it on.
It was Ray who broke the silence. There were things that needed to be explained.
‘You don’t know anything about us, do you?’ he said.
Sarah shook her head.
‘It’s a long story,’ said Martin.
And, since there was nothing else to do, they told her the story: about how they first met; how they always fell out; their nights playing records.
When they finished Ray laughed. ‘Do you realise,’ he said, ‘this is the first time we’ve ever talked about him and not slagged him off?’
The three looked over at Hilly. The music stopped. Ray switched the tape over. He turned the volume up a bit then closed the curtain round the bed.
Sarah told the story of how she met up with Hilly. It was a familiar story. The courtship was so typically Hilly, so single-minded, so matter-of-fact.
Just as Sarah was going on to explain what plans she and Hilly had been making for the future, the curtain round the bed was pulled back.
It was the doctor. ‘Do you think you could maybe turn that down, please?’ she said. ‘It carries, you know.’
Martin apologised. He explained what they were doing.
‘Still,’ said the doctor, ‘it’s past one o’clock in the morning.’
Martin went over. He turned down the music.
The doctor tickled Hilly’s toes then made a note on her clipboard. ‘Are you alright?’ she said to Sarah. ‘Do you not think that maybe you should get some rest?’
Sarah looked at the other two.
‘On you go,’ said Martin. ‘We’ll stay here.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Sarah.
Martin and Ray nodded. They weren’t going anywhere. The doctor smiled a thank you as she led Sarah away into a tiny side-room.
Alone at last, Martin and Ray looked at each other. Then at Hilly. They’d done all they could. They’d played his favourite records, they’d played the ones he’d regretted not having on his list, and they’d played the ones they’d intended playing that night. It was pathetic. Here they were, grown men, successful men, yet this was all they could think to do. Because of Hilly they’d changed so much, so much for the better, but now, when it was most needed, there was nothing they could do in return.
Martin took a piece of paper from his pocket. It was the list of Hilly’s favourite records.
Martin studied it. He wasn’t staring at it, he was studying it.
If there was an answer, if there was something that could be done, then this was where they’d find it.
After about five minutes Martin reached over and switched off the Walkman. He removed the earphones and placed them and the machine on the bedside cabinet.
Martin continued to study the piece of paper. A further five minutes passed before he finally spoke.
‘I think you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘I think you’re wrong. And I’ll tell you why I think you’re wrong. No, listen, listen, you’ve had your say. See …’
Martin went through the list, talking about what they always talked about, the records. Ray pushed up his sleeves and joined in.
They talked about nothing other than records, slagging off the things they always slagged off, going on about the things they always went on about, how important it all was to them. This was what it was normally like. Tuesday nights, the three of them together, talking, talking only about records.
Before anybody knew it, it was four o’clock in the morning. They’d been going on like this for the best part of three hours when the doctor returned with another doctor. It was the change of shift, the handover.
The doctor tickled Hilly’s toes.
She tickled Hilly’s toes again.
She leaned over and shook Hilly by the shoulder. Gently at first, then quite vigorously.
‘Can you hear me?’ she said.
Hilly moved his lips. He didn’t say anything but he moved his lips.
Martin went through and got Sarah. By the time they returned Hilly seemed less peaceful, more restless, almost groggy. For the first time, he looked to be genuinely ill and everybody seemed pleased.
Within the half hour, Hilly was sitting up, taking some fluids and responding to the doctor’s questions. He was a bit doped and sluggish but, other than that, there didn’t seem to be anything much wrong with him.
Hilly took it all in. Yes, he knew who he was. Yes, he remembered what had happened. Yes, he understood that he was in hospital.
In fact, waking up in hospital didn’t seem to bother Hilly – whereas the sight of Martin and Ray did. ‘I just had this crazy dream about you pair,’ he said. ‘Going on and on. Havering the biggest pile of nonsense I’ve ever heard.’
Martin and Ray smiled, but it was Sarah who laughed. ‘Then you could maybe introduce us all some time,’ she said.
Hilly turned his head away. The very thought seemed to cause him nothing but shame.
It was then that he noticed the Walkman.
Hilly reached over. He picked up the tapes and the piece of paper.
‘Your favourite records,’ said Ray.
‘We taped them for you,’ said Martin.
Hilly seemed chuffed. ‘So this is what brought me round then, eh?’
Martin and Ray nodded. Although, as they did so, they were thinking to themselves as how it wasn’t the tapes, the music, that had brought Hilly round – no, if anything was responsible, it was them, the sound of their voices. Not that they’d ever dare dream of telling Hilly that, of course. After all, the three friends had an arrangement to keep: they’d only ever meet up on the first Tuesday of the month, and they’d only ever talk about records.
After the Vision
ALAN WARNER
AFTER THE VISION Scorgie lay his forehead against the cold glass of the bus window. A huge bank of sparrows pressed against the road-side hedge then twisted up out of sight above the bus-roof. Scorgie’s head and eyes rolled after the flock and he was smiling. An un-realistic scarecrow made from fertiliser bags was between two outstretched orange gloves in a delved field.
Thats me, muttered Scorgie, nodding through the glass past the two guys sat opposite. Both of them glanced at Scorgie.
Been at the Vision? goes Scorgie.
Aye, the wee one went.
What do yous do?
Eh?
What do yous do for a living?
Painter and decorator; he’s with BT.
Aye? I’m a salvager. A diver. Do you understand?
Aye. Sort of offshore like?
Nah, away. Away in one of the far places. So what DJ did yous like best?
The Angel, they both nodded.
Aye he’s good the Angel. On your own, just the two of yous?
Yup.
I’ve a team myself but theyre at home. Praying.
There was no talking after this but Scorgie kept staring at them. Scorgie says, I hope yous werent on anything boys. Me? I never take anything. This is cause I am a maniac.
The bus was swinging into the station forecourt. The boys didnt say a thing.
Scorgie says, See all the stones, all the standing stones in all the rigs and policies? Those standing stones were waiting for Jesus. He’s the only ecstasy we need.
Scorgie stood up and got off the bus. Inside the railway station the two lads saw Scorgie get on the train for the capital so they both walked over to the bar.
Scorgie sat opposite an oil rigger from the flare-offs to the east. The rigger pestered Scorgie to play cards. When Scorgie had lost five pounds he moved to a toi
let and locked himself in. He sat on the toilet seat with his face in his hands till the train got to the capital. He changed trains. Cause he hadnt slept for two nights he got shaken awake by the guard in the city where a branchline heads to the north.
Out in the evening streets Scorgie began to walk through the city. Some younger passersby looked at the clothes he was wearing: trainers caked in mud, shiny Puma tracksuit bottoms, a shirt that seemed to be made of silver foil and hung over it an orange spongy-looking top with a zipper. It was a diver’s wet suit jacket.
When Scorgie reached 194 Woodlands Road he walked into the dark of a close then leaped the stairs two at a time to the greeny light coming through the roof glass up the top landing. He knocked on the door to the right with the swastika painted on it. The door didnt open. Scorgie knocked again. He cooried down and poked in the letterbox. Windows within the flat must have been open cause a soft rush of air pushed against his eyes. Scorgie’s eyelids fluttered a moment then he coo-ed into the letterbox. Then he shouted: BURN YOUR LEATHERS TOWNIES!
The volume of the shout echoed down the stairs. Scorgie straightened up then he ambled back down the stairs and out in the dusk light. He squinted up and down the pavement then began walking. When he came to a grocers he went in and bought a pen. Embossed on the side was:
SCOTLAND
Scorgie left the grocers and scrutinized the streets. Pieces of paper were skittering about with layers of dust. He leaned and picked up a Burger King receipt. He climbed back up to the door.
Scorgie had to lean against the door and scribble vigorously with the pen to get it going then under a squiggle he wrote:
I’m a friend of Hacker’s. He says he crashes here when he’s using the university computers and it would be okay for me to crash. I’ve missed my last train. I’ll call back later, say 8ish. Hope yous arent out all night or I’ll be on these city streets.
Scorgie 6:30
He was about to pop this note through the letterbox then hesitated. There was a drawing pin among old pin holes stuck in the brownish-coloured wood of the door. The drawing pin was covered with a smear of the swastika’s white paint. Scorgie tried to pick the drawing pin free with his flat, worn down thumb nail. Then he tried to tug it out using the strap buckle on his big diving watch but the pin wouldnt budge.
Scorgie snapped his fingers. From within the wet suit jacket he took out a small plastic comb and drew it through his hair a few times. He snapped one of the long teeth off the comb. Using one of the old pin holes he fixed the note to the door with the comb tooth.
Back down the stairs Scorgie began walking till he was beyond the university lands. To pass the time he had a half pint and whisky in every pub he passed. He took on ballast in The Doublet, Studio One, Tennents Bar, The Aragon, The Two Ways, The Argyll, The Caernarvon, The Halt, then he climbed back up to the door and knocked. The note was still there and there was no reply. Scorgie hissed out loud and sauntered out under the night. Again he crossed the university lands and was part way down a thorough-fare when he ran into a guy called Duffles. They had once spent a summer working on the forestry near the isthmus away in the far places.
Duffles! Fucks sake man what brings you to the B.B. City?
The guy gave Scorgie a stoner gaze, nodded and says, I work here now.
Cmon I’ll get us a pint in, goes Scorgie.
They settled in the Aragon with a Guinness each. Scorgie asked after Duffles’ mother and sister but he hadnt been home for over a year. Duffles says, Its all fucking townies and new folk moving up; all the young Mullochs are just reduced to caravans. Anyway I’ve important work to do here.
Aye, what is it youre working at? Scorgie says.
Well I work up beyond the university lands at the big crematorium theyve there.
A crematorium. Whats it like there then? went Scorgie.
Oh its good. Its magic. Pays okay, better than when we were snedding and cubing with the commission.
Aye that was utter shite, goes Scorgie.
Duffles says, I’ve a room in a flat with two townie fellows; good lads they are, cracks brilliant.
Aye? Look Duffles I’m a bit stuck. I’ve missed the ten past six train, I’ve been away in the back of beyond at the Vision. Would there be any chance of us crashing at yours for the night?
No bother, shrugged Duffles.
Oh grand. Thats great I was told to stay over at this address but theres no a soul about and I’d visions of me wandering the streets all night. I’m pretty mortal but lets get another couple in, went Scorgie and he crossed to the bar. When he came back with the nips Duffles was rolling a tiny wee cigarette.
I heard about your father Scorgie and I’m sorry, says Duffles.
Aye well it was the fucking bank hounding him till they drove him demented; its those merchants in the temple I wont forgive, goes Scorgie.
Have you got the farm now?
Naw naw, I’m building my own place at The New Projects, right down on the point where I’ve got the boat and a compressor up by the house. I gave most of my money to the sister with her having the kids and that.
Duffles says, You shouldnt despair. I know it mustve been a shocker but he’s in a better place.
Scorgie took a swallow and went, Thats what I believe. I never took you for a religious person, Duffles.
Well, looks can deceive, he goes.
How long have you been down here now? says Scorgie.
Duffles thought hard on this then went, A few years now it’ll be, a good few years.
Duffles gave the stoner gaze again.
What is it you do out at the crematorium? asked Scorgie.
I’m The Incinerator.
What?
I’m The Incinerator. I control the gas taps and monitor the temperatures in the furnace, says Duffles.
Right enough, youre the man then, eh, goes Scorgie.
There was a gap in the conversation then Duffles went, You see them burning y’know.
What, do you have cameras in there or something?
No, no, the coffins come through on the conveyor so I have a big observation window made of insulated glass right in front of my operating position. I see them burning away right in front of my nose.
What you see everything?
Oh aye, you have to. I have to ensure everything is completely incinerated – the bones and that. Its my job, to, quote, ‘confirm remains are minimal’. Dont want any lumps in the urn.
So you see it all as it happens through the window?
Oh aye.
I mean … whats it fucking like? says Scorgie.
Duffles was silent a while then goes, I initiate the burners and the coffins flare up really quickly. The coffin lining comes flapping out cause the extractor suction is strong in there. The fabric just shoots up and combusts instantly. Then they start – the bodies. Usually the coffin has pretty much protected them so you see them unharmed at that point when I increase the temperature. See, the manager likes me to economise on the gas so you burn away the coffin at a lower temperature – in fact we’re going to start recycling the coffins soon. After the coffin’s burned away and you get to them – the bodies – well then you can really crank on the fucking heat.
Scorgie says, Jesus, it sounds pretty heavy, I mean day in day out you must do plenty … eh bodies. Talking personally, I believe that would get to me eventually. I believe in the afterlife but our mortality must be so obvious seeing what you see.
Duffles shook his head slowly, No man, no way, its not like that at all; thats what I felt in the beginning but now, now I’ve never felt so religious before. I’ve never believed in the afterlife so much as now, seeing the beautiful things I’ve seen. My mates from the flat feel the same.
What, do they work there too? goes Scorgie.
Duffles goes, No, no. Mid-week my mates come up to the incinerator room with me and we pull this big long bench up in front of the observation window. We’ve some real good tabs up the flat, over seventy trips, so we all of us dro
p a good scoop of it then when the rushes start, Weeeee, I open the metal shutter and we just watch all day … I mean they all burn in such different ways when I crank up the heat. Some just lie there and smoke away in a boring old pyre but others, especially the younger ones, are spectacular … like a revelation man. You see, in that kind of temperature-increase, combustion can take place all over the body: in the thighs, or in the breasts or especially inside the skull. Some of them man, their spines will curl up in the heat so they sit straight up in front of you, their hair and their eyebrows bubble up instantly and then their clothes start to burn and get torn off in the updraft so you see them naked, sometimes lovely young girls and that … then these fucking jets of flame are coming out the fucking eye-sockets man and the lips just melt away with sparks and flames fucking spewing out through the gritted teeth then the whole fucking head just explodes man, fucking explodes, fucking flames devouring everything and we’re all sat there tripping out our faces going, Ahh fuck LOOK AT THAT!
Scorgie mumbled, Well, it sure beats afternoon television.
Duffles had hardly touched his Guinness or nip. Scorgie looked at him and says, Duffles, no think you should steady the buffs on the tabs, you know, in your line of work. I mean I can see youre pretty motivated but you dont want to start getting too involved.
Duffles went, I’ve been taking lots of photos.
Photos?
Aye, I spend all my money on tabs and film man, I develop it in the darkroom we’ve built at the flat. I’ve some cracking shots. I’m using a Nikon F4 and a SB25 flash up on a tripod. I’ve got boxes of prints at the flat you’ll see tonight.
Ah, Duffles what I think I’ll do is just try those other folk once more and if they’re not there I’ll make my way over to your place. How does that sound?
Whatever, but you’ve go to lie back and check out some of these photos, there’s one of this young girl, says Duffles fiddling madly with another roll up.