Spoiler
Chapter 1
And Red
'And now?'
'It's looking better but a little less stable then we thought.'
The first speaker looked down, creased his brow and drank from his glass. The second man, of a considerably younger age shifted nervously to his back foot, adjusted the papers in his hands and looked even more awkward than before.
'Get Cameron. Quickly.'
The young man span on his foot and alighted from the conversation through the door, watched constantly. Five meters left from the door. The outer door opens. Crunch of foot on gravel tending towards nothing.
And back into silence.
To the shelf. Thin vinyl disc. Bach. Shift to the record player. Careful now. Careful not to scratch it. Place the needle: careful now. Tchz. And round and round we go. Spinning. Inexorably. An inescapable spiral. Constant. Bach Double Concerto for Two Violins in D minor. First movement. Vivace. Quickly now. Quickly, quickly. Still turning, still moving yet exactly the same.
His hand darted in circles around the record player, round his glass and onto the shelf. Hardbacks. First edition hardbacks at that. His hand ran along the names – authors mostly dead but their legacy remaining in these leaves – Beckett, Steinbeck, Joyce and Dickens onto Nabokov and Bulgakov; finally La Divina Commedia shoved far to the end and hidden behind Golding's Lord of the Flies.
Alone he makes his way to a large leather wingback – bespoke – and eventually finds a comfortable position. As the first movement ends he reaches for his glass, realising the room, as the architect had suggested, was too large to reach without having to move considerably. Standing up leaving his Elysium of leather he walks a circle around the room, careful not to tread the same route twice, securing his glass in a well versed hand and back to his chair.
He finds his place again, his mind already departed.
Second movement. Largo. Slow, static, stagnating in solemnity. Voltaire and Rousseau Records. Classical. Why Voltaire? Why Rousseau? Philosophers namesaking music. Marshall Rights? Marshall Aid? Strange. Why classical? Baroque. A hundred and fifty years early! I should have told him. Grand Philosophers of Music. Traditionally of the politic. But no! Those that wrote of them did not know. Music! Where were they? Townhead. Fists and knives. Collectives. Bags passed in handshakes in dark alleys. Unpleasant but stable. It didn't change, neither do most things though. Is Adam still there? When did we speak last? '99? Did neither phone the other even at the millennium? No? Could have died from all the planes falling, the food crisis, banking crash and missile malfunction; that or the hysteria. Adam. The first man ever created. The Genesis and Revelation of innocence. Seems inappropriate that he is younger. Our mother thought she must stamp her heritage on him; and our father on me. Viktor. Not even spelt normally. Well maybe in the Old Country. Do people actually say Old Country? Where is he? Not Adam, he is still where he always was – Cameron. Mum always liked him – his name and her her religion. And dad not me. Viktor. Viktor. Russian but only on the skin. No language. Not Orthodox. Never travelled. Third movement. I should listen. I should. No Stravinsky before twenty. Shostakovich only at thirty. Tolstoy and Dostoevsky at forty. Ashamed. A heritage ignored. Can you ignore the repressed? That which you do not know. Should I have looked? Should they have looked? Looked now? They will. But they didn't. They were told. And thus they will act. But not off their own back. Not on their own. No catalyst. Why did he say it would be too big, maybe for drinking on you own. It is nice though. Spacious. Vacuous? No just spacious. Although perha- no. Just spacious. Grey and blue. Not the friendliest of colours. My old room, sorry Adam, our old room was red. Was red. Was. Red. Red. Was red once. Peeling walls supported by posters. Bunk beds. And red. This thing is twenty minutes long. Where am I? Midway through the third movement? Probably. Yes, yes. Allegro. Fast. Faster yet compared with its neighbour. What's that noise?
“Who's there?” he called from his seat.
“I can't see you, where are you?”
“Cameron?”
“It is he.”
“Thank you for coming, I know it isn't ideal outside.”
The two men came together at last, shook hands briefly and moved to the desk in the centre of the room. The newcomer, Cameron, reached for the decanter but was beaten by a hand trained in its task. Two small glasses were pulled out and two small measures poured.
“Its cold”, Cameron mused, “are people more prone to displeasure when cold?”
“Eh. Oh, yes weather.” he replied half heartedly, pouring another drink.
Cameron stared, studied and sought out an ember of reaction but found none. The old man's face was set with age and experience, wrinkled and sagging slightly. Exaggerated by the dim light each prominent ridge threw shadows a mile long across the furrows.
“Thank you for coming”, he spoke, breaking the silence.
“You've already said, Viktor.” replied Cameron.
“Well, thank you anyhow. It's cold and the people- I know it is not easy. There's not many people left here. Just me and a few of the old timers left downstairs.”
“They haven't come close then? The streets look clear. Not yet at least.”
“No, no. No one yet. Another drink?” finishing his second he went for the decanter again. Cameron still turning his glass in his hand, still waiting to take a sip.
“I'm fine. Is that your third already?”
“Fourth. I had one before you came in. Nothing else to do, I suppose.”
“You should slow down. You might need your wits soon.”
“Do you remember the border last year?”
“I do.”
“I carried you so often, do you remember?”
“I do.”
“You grimace, do you abhor me now? Did you create me as a villain in your mind?”
“I detest this now- where are your ideas?”
“Run dry – time. Not enough, or too much. Too few ideas over too long a time. Not enough time for new ones to form. Don't you have a wife to get home to?”
“I have a little time.”
“And you think they will blame us?”
“I do. And I am sure of it.”
“But what I- what we do is to allow, to facilitate. We don't intervene but we are not necessitated, we are not the event and the event not us. From what it does, in its madness, we cannot be blamed.”
“I agree. I agree you are not in your mind guilty. Not in your opinion at fault. But the mass opinion is not dictated by you and your mind.”
“A fact is that – we did not kill, we did not murder. None of us – especially me.”
“It's naïve, and that's the flaw of your person. You will not listen, not hear what they say when it does not align with what you believe.”
“If you were trapped in a well an-”
“No, stop this.”
“Hear it out– Only decent.”
“No, I'll not, and they will not.”
“If you will not be persuaded then we can wash it- a little water- They still think we are the paper mill. It leaked, but not far – a few newspapers. They panic but they will not listen.”
“Yes, well panic has spread, I will not argue with that. If, though- when rather, when order is restored facts will seep out. What you are will become known. They will recognise us for what we did. What you did.”
“No, no, no- A few newspapers, that's all. A few pockets, a few hushes and it will be fine.”
“No. It is not like it was. It is not simple. It is not a few pockets; or hushes; or a few here and there's. It is not easy any more.”
“But why? People are people. People have always been people! It isn't that far different!”
“People might be the same, as they always have been but this isn't”, gesticulating angrily around him, “It's a brave new world.”
“I can leave then! The factory can burn. It's a paper mill after all! We can brush it up and hide it!”
“I think perhaps it is too late for that.”
“Then- then what?”
“Viktor, I'm sorry.”
Cameron turning to leave, shrugged off a hand on his arm. Feeble. He strode to the door, and left. His shadow lingered in the frosted glass a moment while hushed voices meandered back into the room in small groups of words. Most unintelligible and meaning nothing as a whole. No suggestion of precluding thought.
The door opened again and two large suited men awkwardly worked themselves into the suddenly shrinking room. Not vacuous, not even spacious. The walls contracted, drawing in around him. Shepherding him to where they wanted him. A cage, a trap: his downfall.
“I know- I know you!”
And Red
'And now?'
'It's looking better but a little less stable then we thought.'
The first speaker looked down, creased his brow and drank from his glass. The second man, of a considerably younger age shifted nervously to his back foot, adjusted the papers in his hands and looked even more awkward than before.
'Get Cameron. Quickly.'
The young man span on his foot and alighted from the conversation through the door, watched constantly. Five meters left from the door. The outer door opens. Crunch of foot on gravel tending towards nothing.
And back into silence.
To the shelf. Thin vinyl disc. Bach. Shift to the record player. Careful now. Careful not to scratch it. Place the needle: careful now. Tchz. And round and round we go. Spinning. Inexorably. An inescapable spiral. Constant. Bach Double Concerto for Two Violins in D minor. First movement. Vivace. Quickly now. Quickly, quickly. Still turning, still moving yet exactly the same.
His hand darted in circles around the record player, round his glass and onto the shelf. Hardbacks. First edition hardbacks at that. His hand ran along the names – authors mostly dead but their legacy remaining in these leaves – Beckett, Steinbeck, Joyce and Dickens onto Nabokov and Bulgakov; finally La Divina Commedia shoved far to the end and hidden behind Golding's Lord of the Flies.
Alone he makes his way to a large leather wingback – bespoke – and eventually finds a comfortable position. As the first movement ends he reaches for his glass, realising the room, as the architect had suggested, was too large to reach without having to move considerably. Standing up leaving his Elysium of leather he walks a circle around the room, careful not to tread the same route twice, securing his glass in a well versed hand and back to his chair.
He finds his place again, his mind already departed.
Second movement. Largo. Slow, static, stagnating in solemnity. Voltaire and Rousseau Records. Classical. Why Voltaire? Why Rousseau? Philosophers namesaking music. Marshall Rights? Marshall Aid? Strange. Why classical? Baroque. A hundred and fifty years early! I should have told him. Grand Philosophers of Music. Traditionally of the politic. But no! Those that wrote of them did not know. Music! Where were they? Townhead. Fists and knives. Collectives. Bags passed in handshakes in dark alleys. Unpleasant but stable. It didn't change, neither do most things though. Is Adam still there? When did we speak last? '99? Did neither phone the other even at the millennium? No? Could have died from all the planes falling, the food crisis, banking crash and missile malfunction; that or the hysteria. Adam. The first man ever created. The Genesis and Revelation of innocence. Seems inappropriate that he is younger. Our mother thought she must stamp her heritage on him; and our father on me. Viktor. Not even spelt normally. Well maybe in the Old Country. Do people actually say Old Country? Where is he? Not Adam, he is still where he always was – Cameron. Mum always liked him – his name and her her religion. And dad not me. Viktor. Viktor. Russian but only on the skin. No language. Not Orthodox. Never travelled. Third movement. I should listen. I should. No Stravinsky before twenty. Shostakovich only at thirty. Tolstoy and Dostoevsky at forty. Ashamed. A heritage ignored. Can you ignore the repressed? That which you do not know. Should I have looked? Should they have looked? Looked now? They will. But they didn't. They were told. And thus they will act. But not off their own back. Not on their own. No catalyst. Why did he say it would be too big, maybe for drinking on you own. It is nice though. Spacious. Vacuous? No just spacious. Although perha- no. Just spacious. Grey and blue. Not the friendliest of colours. My old room, sorry Adam, our old room was red. Was red. Was. Red. Red. Was red once. Peeling walls supported by posters. Bunk beds. And red. This thing is twenty minutes long. Where am I? Midway through the third movement? Probably. Yes, yes. Allegro. Fast. Faster yet compared with its neighbour. What's that noise?
“Who's there?” he called from his seat.
“I can't see you, where are you?”
“Cameron?”
“It is he.”
“Thank you for coming, I know it isn't ideal outside.”
The two men came together at last, shook hands briefly and moved to the desk in the centre of the room. The newcomer, Cameron, reached for the decanter but was beaten by a hand trained in its task. Two small glasses were pulled out and two small measures poured.
“Its cold”, Cameron mused, “are people more prone to displeasure when cold?”
“Eh. Oh, yes weather.” he replied half heartedly, pouring another drink.
Cameron stared, studied and sought out an ember of reaction but found none. The old man's face was set with age and experience, wrinkled and sagging slightly. Exaggerated by the dim light each prominent ridge threw shadows a mile long across the furrows.
“Thank you for coming”, he spoke, breaking the silence.
“You've already said, Viktor.” replied Cameron.
“Well, thank you anyhow. It's cold and the people- I know it is not easy. There's not many people left here. Just me and a few of the old timers left downstairs.”
“They haven't come close then? The streets look clear. Not yet at least.”
“No, no. No one yet. Another drink?” finishing his second he went for the decanter again. Cameron still turning his glass in his hand, still waiting to take a sip.
“I'm fine. Is that your third already?”
“Fourth. I had one before you came in. Nothing else to do, I suppose.”
“You should slow down. You might need your wits soon.”
“Do you remember the border last year?”
“I do.”
“I carried you so often, do you remember?”
“I do.”
“You grimace, do you abhor me now? Did you create me as a villain in your mind?”
“I detest this now- where are your ideas?”
“Run dry – time. Not enough, or too much. Too few ideas over too long a time. Not enough time for new ones to form. Don't you have a wife to get home to?”
“I have a little time.”
“And you think they will blame us?”
“I do. And I am sure of it.”
“But what I- what we do is to allow, to facilitate. We don't intervene but we are not necessitated, we are not the event and the event not us. From what it does, in its madness, we cannot be blamed.”
“I agree. I agree you are not in your mind guilty. Not in your opinion at fault. But the mass opinion is not dictated by you and your mind.”
“A fact is that – we did not kill, we did not murder. None of us – especially me.”
“It's naïve, and that's the flaw of your person. You will not listen, not hear what they say when it does not align with what you believe.”
“If you were trapped in a well an-”
“No, stop this.”
“Hear it out– Only decent.”
“No, I'll not, and they will not.”
“If you will not be persuaded then we can wash it- a little water- They still think we are the paper mill. It leaked, but not far – a few newspapers. They panic but they will not listen.”
“Yes, well panic has spread, I will not argue with that. If, though- when rather, when order is restored facts will seep out. What you are will become known. They will recognise us for what we did. What you did.”
“No, no, no- A few newspapers, that's all. A few pockets, a few hushes and it will be fine.”
“No. It is not like it was. It is not simple. It is not a few pockets; or hushes; or a few here and there's. It is not easy any more.”
“But why? People are people. People have always been people! It isn't that far different!”
“People might be the same, as they always have been but this isn't”, gesticulating angrily around him, “It's a brave new world.”
“I can leave then! The factory can burn. It's a paper mill after all! We can brush it up and hide it!”
“I think perhaps it is too late for that.”
“Then- then what?”
“Viktor, I'm sorry.”
Cameron turning to leave, shrugged off a hand on his arm. Feeble. He strode to the door, and left. His shadow lingered in the frosted glass a moment while hushed voices meandered back into the room in small groups of words. Most unintelligible and meaning nothing as a whole. No suggestion of precluding thought.
The door opened again and two large suited men awkwardly worked themselves into the suddenly shrinking room. Not vacuous, not even spacious. The walls contracted, drawing in around him. Shepherding him to where they wanted him. A cage, a trap: his downfall.
“I know- I know you!”
Chapter 2.1
Spoiler
Chapter 2
Eden
1947
“One more push”, a voice murmured from under a sheet and between two legs.
A long elongated scream, pained and strained but motivated with love reverberated around the 4 short walls. As the intensity began to falter a second scream, a semitone higher, set its voice against the first. A long inhale and the first scream died away leaving the second alone. And then, as abruptly as it came, it stopped and the room was silent. A silence completely absent from the last twelve hours.
There was a flurry of movement and the new mother cried, “Where is he? Where is he?”. No eyes, but her husband, Igor's, met hers – stoic, solid and grey, unmovable. His hand on her shoulder squeezed again, his other hand clasped around hers. The exact same position he had been in for the past twelve hours, unflinching,and immutable.
In a moment of medical immigration the room was instantly at life again, filled with uniforms and labcoats. The eldest member moved forward, donning his best empathetic face as he attempted to explain, “As you know he was the wrong way in the womb – breached – he came out that way, so his head reached the air last. And he is really very early. Not ideal, I know.”
“Not ideal”, repeated Igor slowly. He had broken his gaze with his wife for the first time and studied the doctor's face. Almost instantly deciding there was little to see in an actor's façade, he turned back.
“It would have been a different question given a few weeks, even days, but we have to deal with it now. He was coming and it is very hard to argue with a baby. He is in the ICU at the moment so I am afraid you cannot see him. We should know more in twenty four hours. I will have someone keep you updated.”
As he turned to leave, the door was somehow blocked by the man who was but one second ago on the opposite side of the room. Although not strictly necessary, for the doctor was of a quite diminutive stature, he made an excellent effort blocking the entirety of the door to every inch.
“My son,” he fumbled with his words unsurely, “you will make him better.”
“Yes, yes. Will we try all we can.”
“No. You will make him better.”
Upon this clarification and subsequent realisation of the man's meaning the colour drained from his face and his legs surrendered most of their stability.
Seeing a sliver of corridor next to the arm of the mountain, he lunged forward with the haste and passion of someone unaccustomed with violence being threatened with just that, only to find that as if by some miracle the behemoth had moved entirely, and with such speed and grace not befitting his size. Due to the lack of any solid obstacle he proceeded to career through the empty doorway into the hall and onto his knees, much to the confusion and humour of the surrounding doctors and nurses. Drawing himself up, at a pace that exaggerated his predicament, he bustled off leaving a variety of possessions scattered on the floor.
Igor, already back beside the bed, reached for his wife's hand – completely still now. Gently he brushed her hair back and sorted the sheets. She was fragile and had almost broken herself over the past half-day. She ran herself into the ground for something she didn't know – something she had never seen, something she had never talked to. So cynical about pregnancy and maternal bonds she had perhaps just proved herself wrong.
Igor slumped heavily into the nearby chair in uncharacteristic lethargy, her fatigue infectious. His face leaden, limbs trunk-like in feel as well as appearance. “Goodnight, Eve” he mumbled and joined her in silent slumber.
Eden
1947
“One more push”, a voice murmured from under a sheet and between two legs.
A long elongated scream, pained and strained but motivated with love reverberated around the 4 short walls. As the intensity began to falter a second scream, a semitone higher, set its voice against the first. A long inhale and the first scream died away leaving the second alone. And then, as abruptly as it came, it stopped and the room was silent. A silence completely absent from the last twelve hours.
There was a flurry of movement and the new mother cried, “Where is he? Where is he?”. No eyes, but her husband, Igor's, met hers – stoic, solid and grey, unmovable. His hand on her shoulder squeezed again, his other hand clasped around hers. The exact same position he had been in for the past twelve hours, unflinching,and immutable.
In a moment of medical immigration the room was instantly at life again, filled with uniforms and labcoats. The eldest member moved forward, donning his best empathetic face as he attempted to explain, “As you know he was the wrong way in the womb – breached – he came out that way, so his head reached the air last. And he is really very early. Not ideal, I know.”
“Not ideal”, repeated Igor slowly. He had broken his gaze with his wife for the first time and studied the doctor's face. Almost instantly deciding there was little to see in an actor's façade, he turned back.
“It would have been a different question given a few weeks, even days, but we have to deal with it now. He was coming and it is very hard to argue with a baby. He is in the ICU at the moment so I am afraid you cannot see him. We should know more in twenty four hours. I will have someone keep you updated.”
As he turned to leave, the door was somehow blocked by the man who was but one second ago on the opposite side of the room. Although not strictly necessary, for the doctor was of a quite diminutive stature, he made an excellent effort blocking the entirety of the door to every inch.
“My son,” he fumbled with his words unsurely, “you will make him better.”
“Yes, yes. Will we try all we can.”
“No. You will make him better.”
Upon this clarification and subsequent realisation of the man's meaning the colour drained from his face and his legs surrendered most of their stability.
Seeing a sliver of corridor next to the arm of the mountain, he lunged forward with the haste and passion of someone unaccustomed with violence being threatened with just that, only to find that as if by some miracle the behemoth had moved entirely, and with such speed and grace not befitting his size. Due to the lack of any solid obstacle he proceeded to career through the empty doorway into the hall and onto his knees, much to the confusion and humour of the surrounding doctors and nurses. Drawing himself up, at a pace that exaggerated his predicament, he bustled off leaving a variety of possessions scattered on the floor.
Igor, already back beside the bed, reached for his wife's hand – completely still now. Gently he brushed her hair back and sorted the sheets. She was fragile and had almost broken herself over the past half-day. She ran herself into the ground for something she didn't know – something she had never seen, something she had never talked to. So cynical about pregnancy and maternal bonds she had perhaps just proved herself wrong.
Igor slumped heavily into the nearby chair in uncharacteristic lethargy, her fatigue infectious. His face leaden, limbs trunk-like in feel as well as appearance. “Goodnight, Eve” he mumbled and joined her in silent slumber.
Chapter 2.2
Spoiler
1954
“Now, just listen to what they say and do it. OK?” Eve had a special tone for serious events. Despite ending in a question there was no room for disagreement. It was a affirmation that you would understand. If you didn't that was a fault of your own and you dealt with it accordingly.
The two boys nodded. The elder Viktor in slightly fancier attire. A hired Prince Charlie kilt in Black Watch, blues, greens and purples all lying across all others. Interwoven. At seven and ten days the spectacle was odd – three and a half foot of national identity with little understanding of what he is or where he is going. A national identity he was linked to by only half his blood, and half his name.
After a few minutes of awkwardly shuffling around the room Viktor gathered the courage to speak again, “Why do I have to wear this?”
“Viktor! Have I not told you already?” Eve turned on him, frustrated to be drawn from her task.
Viktor flinched at the sharp rebuttal. “Yes- Sorry, I mean, yes. But where- I don't understand.”
“Church, Viktor. Church”, she had lost her special tone, and her intermittent irritation. She was now explaining something to a scared child. “Its a special day, you remember Jesus, you remember what he told everyone? What to do and how be with other people? You remember his last meal before he left, OK? Do you remember now?”
“I- I think so.” Viktor replied hesitantly.
“OK, well just wait a little and we can go.”
Bread and wine. It is Jesus. No? It's for Jesus- no wait. Which one is it? I'm not allowed anyhow. Grape juice? No they said its only Morms – no – Mormos? Mo- Mor- Mor-something that don't drink wine. Or the Liturgys. Dad says I should be a Liturgy. “Do as they say”. She didn't say who? I've been before, is it the same people? The man dad always talks to with the tall hat. Or the woman mum talks to with a flower in her hair. Bread and wine – I like bread. It's always warm when mum makes it. Melting butter. Tastes nice. What is this thing? No pockets, but a bag thing. Its furry too. Why would pockets not work?
More awkward shuffling, the coarse wool scratching and irritating the young boy's knees – making him fidget more, that in turn making the scratching worse.
This was his first memory explicitly linked to religion – irritated perplexion.
Gothic. The epitome of Gothic. The High Kirk of Glasgow struck upwards toward the sky. Arches and spires both combined to reach higher and thrust up out of the body of Reformation. Its entirety was grey – camouflaged against the heavens against dull, low sitting cloud and against the ground by sullen leafless trees.
Its main doors were encompassed by the one huge arch on its west side, which in turn swallowed the congregation. Viktor, his mother Eve, father Igor and brother Adam walked amongst the throngs inward. Their best clothes mirrored through various families throughout the crowd. The children around his age worse mostly kilts or white dresses. Half aged out of their childhood by vestments and half dressed only in purity.
Adam was led in by his mother with Viktor following in trail with his father. “Do you remember what your mother told you, Viktor?”
“Yes, she said to listen to what they say and to do what they say, but she didn't say who I was to listen to.”
“The minister, Viktor. He gives you some bread and some wine – or grape juice, I forget – and you just eat and drink it and then they move on. That's it. It doesn't take long.
“OK. Thank you.”
“You're sure now? It is a big day.”
“Yes, I'm fine.”
“Look, they are calling for you – run now.”
Viktor looked even more unsure and sidled closer to his father. “Viktor, go now. We are just over there.” said Igor pointing to the nearest pews with seats still free. Comforted – at least on the surface – Viktor made his way to the larger group of equally anxious children. All were being shepherded into a long line in front of the first pews; Viktor following suit allowed himself to be ushered into place, near the right towards the far side of the Cathedral.
Why am I here? Is that the wine? No. Water? But dad said that was what the Mormos drink. They don't drink wine. Why don't they drink grape juice? Do they not like grapes? Are we getting water as well? What did Dad say? Dad. Where are they? Where? The man with the hat- is that him? Yes, but they aren't with him. The flower woman. Lots of flowers everywhere, where is she? Is that her? But they aren't there either. Who is that? Is she waving? Me? Wave me to turn around. She doesn't know me. Turn around. Around. Every wave of her hand. Again and again. Fine!
The minister had started at the right of the line, ten people from Viktor. Steadily blessing each piece of bread then placing it in an awaiting mouth.
I want to find them. Run? Can I? Quickly. Six people away – four kilts and two white dresses. Three kilts. Run? Where? I can't. Mum and dad are here. Somewhere. Can't go. Just stay. Do what they say. What he says. He is old – very old. How does he stand? Is that why those men are with him? No they hold the wine. Big metal glass. His face is cracked. His hands are cracked – his hand shaking. His face is white- getting whiter. His hand is shaking more. The other man had to hold his arm. What if it shakes more and hits me? Only four more now. He looks ill. Mum said I looked like a ghost when I was ill – is he what a ghost looks like? Will he get that drink too – urgh – terrible. Sweet but bitter at the same time. And hot. Cold by the time I finished it. Mum said I had to drink it all. Finish it. Three people now. Even he is holding his arm now. Someone placing the bread in his hand. Isn't he going to do anything? The men are holding him up. Under the arms. I wonder if they carry him lots. Dad carries me when I walk too slow. Too slow. Slowing. He isn't moving anymore. They just hold him. Two away. He is white as flour, was I like that? His hand stopped shaking. His hand holding his arm, holding his shirt. He fell! He fell!
The minister keeled forward, much to the protest of the alter boys holding him up. Forward onto the line, flattening two kilts and a white dress. The young men rushed to his side again to pull him up. He was grey now – far from his previous vivid white of just ten seconds ago. They rolled him from the children and onto his back to screams of the surrounding children. He was gasping, spluttering, begging for the air his lungs refused to draw.
“A doctor!” a shout erupted and was immediately echoed eagerly by adult onlookers who wanted either to rid a sense of uselessness or driven by a sense of social guilt for their own inaction.
A tall man – a towering man, well partially aided by a large hat, pushed his way forward, demanding space but granted none. Now obviously frustrated that his authority was going unheard he broke violently from the throngs of older congregates and into the sea of finely dressed miniatures. By this point he had lost most of his compassion and waded arrogantly through the waves of children. Forcing the tides left and right. Throwing Viktor back against a stone pillar, against which he struck his head. A small trickle of blood moistened his hair and top of his neck, eventually dripping down onto the collar of his pristinely white, hired shirt.
Viktor at the sudden onset of pain took off at a canter – albeit a slightly wobbly one. After a few minutes of confused scrabbling through finely clad feet he found solace in a far corner, behind a carved stone pedestal, upon which sat the flowers he had seen earlier.
People! People all still moving. Going nowhere but still moving. No order. No lines. Ow- ribs. Did he kick me? I was moving! I was- I was getting out the way- Kicked me! Why? The flowers! Not her! Where are they? Why haven't they come to find me? Where are they? The flowers. The yellow. The seats. Pews. The stone. The glass. The colours in the grey. The yellow like the flowers. Jesus standing in a group. All kneeling. I'm kneeling. He holds their hands. Helping them. Why does he not help me? I am kneeling. I am in a church! Not my fault he fell. Not my fault I was given no bread. He could have fallen on me. He fell. Still lying down. Everyone moved back now. “Let him breathe.” They keep saying. I can breathe when dad carries me. Why can't he breathe when people stand near him? Should I move? Away. There's a door. It's open. Dark inside. Noises- need light. Lightswitch. Ow- the light. Ow- ribs. Small. Two people? Why is she sitting on the table? He threw his coat on her. Why is he facing the wall? Is he reading? Who is he-
“Get out! On you go. You aren't allowed back here!” said the young man straightening his robes.
“S- sorry.” said Viktor hurrying backwards out of the door. A large bang followed him as the door was thrown shut.
“Viktor!” a familiar voice erupted from the chaotic throngs he now walked into.
Warily he crept forward trying to identify the source of his name. He passed the flower-haired woman who sat at the end of a pew in tears.
Moving- everyone moving. Still moving. The glass? Not moved- not helped. The yellow, like bees. They fly and buzz. All together, like water. Swoosh. Ow!
“Viktor!” shouted Eve sweeping out of the crowd and drawing Viktor up, “Why did you run away? Where did you go? Your father's outside looking for you- I had to leave Adam with Mrs Anderson!”
“My ribs! Ow- Mum!” said Viktor mid air.
“Quiet, Viktor! We have to find your father.”
[spoiler]
Chapter 2.3[spoiler]
1961
An excellent eleven-plus deserved Viktor a grammar school place. A meritocracy. Skill over family. Intelligence over money. Worth over upbringing. Still the number of boys from his road totalled once single representative: him.
After 2 years at Paisley Grammar he remained unabsorbed by the collective. He was not they and they not he. He was an outsider on all counts, on some he even neared enemy. His parents did not own their own house, nor did they have a mortgage, nor did they have a car, nor any major status symbol. His mother's marriage to Russia did not ally with the Western anti-Communistic opinion, regardless of the fact his father was not communist – having fled the Soviet army upon reaching Berlin. Finally he was smart. Not to eleven-plus standards but far in excess. Problematic because those that are told they are the best do not want to be immediately dwarfed by someone deemed their supposed peer.
He was an outsider, and as such took a seat on the furthest back and furthest right – as far from everyone as he could – and unpacked his bag.
Maths. What's that? News From Nowhere? Paperback of course. But no. Paper, yes paper. Good start. Pencils in here. Somewhere. There. Needs sharpened. Damn. Must go. Go now? Go now. Class only half full. McNamara sitting in the middle. So not straight. Right then left. Counter clockwise? Yes. OK. Go now.
He stood up briskly – although not to any great height- and set off against the wall towards the bin trying his hardest to mimic brick. Reaching it he fumbled pencil into sharpener and turned it to do its duty. Perfect. He moved off again. Left. Hurriedly stepping aside a talking group and onto the left wall. Being brick again. He willed himself faster down the side of the class, furiously trying to remain no one. The safety of his corner always so far away. Only five yards to go. Allans. Baird. Gre-
From nowhere, although very likely McNamara, a book struck his cheek. A deep scratch and a vivid colour appeared on the side of his face. Desperately, he darted forwards for his desk, unconscious of the pain in his face. The right side of his face now seeking to match its kin in tone. Finally down and back into his seat.
Why? Why move? Could sharpen into a corner. Not as bad. Not and not as bad. Yesterday and the day before. Before, before and before that. Back twenty years – back forty. And people act – and act the same! Why can't I melt down! Dew and melt. The grey against it. The grey, the flat grey, flat and stale. Stale and tired. Why can't I melt? Into a corner. Why can I no-
“Quiet!” Mr Davies shouted still half in the corridor, half in the room and already disgusted. Not willing to endure the disorder around a mere half of his self. Not one iota – however remote.
“Books, Carmichael!”, he continued in his booming oration. The respective boy sprang to his feet at the first syllable of his name, quick stepping to the stack of books corresponding to his year. Picking up a stack – a stack obviously too large but driven by fear of time's authority – he stumbled. Trying to right himself he was flung across two rows, spilling various editions on various heads. Oxford 1911 struck Lewis' ear; a more modern Penguin, 1933, clipped the chin of the new boy Phillips; finally a collection of Penguin's new edition - 1955 - all spilled gracelessly over McNamara. Carmichael ended up sprawled on top of the books, on top of the desk, on top of McNamara.
The subsequent punches and pushes erupted with a similar gusto to that of the class's laughter. Facetious, vindictive and cruel. Against the minority. The boy scrambled back onto his feet, nursing bruised ribs and a further injured ego.
The laughter, on realising itself, was gradually and silently retracted cumulating in an absolute silence: the moment before an eruption where all lies still and all know the future. All eyes were now front, anticipating, in an attempt to dull the impact. It snapped. Noise. Noise composed of that most unintelligible. Words sneaked through the rage, the parts of comprehension that littered the incomprehensible added to animalistic onslaught of verbalised aggression.
“My- … classroom- … beat all of … Mr Black … beat all- … disgrace- … a privilege! … None of you deserve a thing! … You'll receive … though!”
The vocalised enmity spoke nothing compared to Davies' face. It had contorted with unfaltering immolation – his order disrupted! His quiet disrupted! His classroom defiled and desecrated!
Apparently out of the breath he now stood static, though still mouthing words and face still tortured. Seconds passed as minutes as he fumed internally. A cough at the back of the class thawed him from inaction and into a visceral wild fever, this time suppressed to embers and externally completely controlled.
“Tawse – heavy,” Davies was speaking but it was barely audible around the small room. “Five each”. At this the entirety of the class shuffled back as far as was possible – although that was limited by the desks at which they sat to a retreat of only half a foot.
“Get up! Everyone!” his voice raised to a more audible level and more menacing intonation. “Line up, and quickly.” They did just that in no assigned order, though in general dictated by bravery or ego: those with excess at the front wishing to rid themselves of the building anxiety; the other end populated by those less confident in their pain threshold or hoping for a fatigued arm.
Viktor made his way amongst the down-turned faces toward the start of the line – although his place not dictated by ego or confidence – he allowed himself to wander to a place decided upon by a subconscious sense of deserving.
I did walk to the front. Book still on the floor. What is it? Bible. The Bible. Well at least it hit me itself. McNamara really. This line. Even he who fell. Carmichael at the head of the queue. Fair? Well his fault they laughed. Three others ahead. Twenty behind. Ninety-six – no – one hundred and one. One oh one. Palindrome. Not hard with nine digits.
Thack!
One hundred. The head of the line was wincing already. Four more to proceed it, all dead centre. Worsening. Intensifying. Breaking. Splitting.
Thack!
He staggered back, immediately placed back by those behind him, scared that retained blows would carry backwards, or their punishment would be administered sooner then expected. His hands raised back slowly as if pleading for more.
Thack!
The first red streaks appeared on a diagonal across his hand. Grazed but not yet struck open.
Thack!
His hand faltered – open, more than a scratch now. Exposed to air and to eyes. Hands were immediately thrust into pockets but eyes remained fixed – morbid curiosity. Not unable to look away, but unwilling. The boy faltered two strokes ago but remained composed the last two. How will he act? Will he fall? Will he cry? How will he hand look? Will it remain a hand?
Thack!
Red! It's so red! It runs like water. Runs and covers. Drips from his palm to the floor. He is still standing. How? Walking. Sitting. A handkerchief from his pocket. Tied round his hand. Tight. Red already. His hand red. Mine pale. One scar – old and faint. Renew it. Reopen it. Recolour my hand, make it vivid. Make it red. How can he. To red my hand. What right! Tall, big. Could catch me. Worsen it. If I hide? I have to come back. Would he remember me? No register. Never a register. All names by memory. Counting strokes? Blinking as he hits. Spark of smile as he hears the thack. He won't forget. Counting down. James off ill. His will wait. Stop at five. Start again tomorrow. A present tomorrow. A present almost expected. Waiting.
The sharp thack dulled to background noise, a cats pur or crackling fire. Punctuated though by yelps and muffled curses. The line progressed at both an agonisingly slow crawl and an exhausting sprint. Those most anxious felt time stretch, create an expanse in front of them with a worsening punishment at the end. Those already at their height of fear were ushered along at a frantic pace toward that which they most feared.
“Hands!” Viktor was snapped back to reality by the voice and face of Davies. At only two feat his features contorted even further; words now spat, diseased with the forethought of pain.
Viktor duitifully raised his hands – left over right, so he could still write, used as an excuse later would only earn you more pain from your own stupidity. Braced for pain, expecting the worst but hoping for the lightest.
Thack! One. Eighty. Stings. Being stung in a line – bees attacking, but organised into Indian File. Only narro- Thack! Two. Seventy-nine. More than a sting. Bitting. Hasn't stopped. Bitting into the flesh. Thack! Three. Burn- it burns! Back to biting. Better. Throbs now. Pulse. Dub dub, dub du- Thack! Ah! Tearing. Burning. Step back! Step back! Leave! Run! Not another! Thack! White. The pink is gone. White! Pain! Everything – Ah! White eyes and red hand. Ah! Handkerchief. Clenched. My seat. The corner. The wall. Stable. Safe. And red.
“Now, just listen to what they say and do it. OK?” Eve had a special tone for serious events. Despite ending in a question there was no room for disagreement. It was a affirmation that you would understand. If you didn't that was a fault of your own and you dealt with it accordingly.
The two boys nodded. The elder Viktor in slightly fancier attire. A hired Prince Charlie kilt in Black Watch, blues, greens and purples all lying across all others. Interwoven. At seven and ten days the spectacle was odd – three and a half foot of national identity with little understanding of what he is or where he is going. A national identity he was linked to by only half his blood, and half his name.
After a few minutes of awkwardly shuffling around the room Viktor gathered the courage to speak again, “Why do I have to wear this?”
“Viktor! Have I not told you already?” Eve turned on him, frustrated to be drawn from her task.
Viktor flinched at the sharp rebuttal. “Yes- Sorry, I mean, yes. But where- I don't understand.”
“Church, Viktor. Church”, she had lost her special tone, and her intermittent irritation. She was now explaining something to a scared child. “Its a special day, you remember Jesus, you remember what he told everyone? What to do and how be with other people? You remember his last meal before he left, OK? Do you remember now?”
“I- I think so.” Viktor replied hesitantly.
“OK, well just wait a little and we can go.”
Bread and wine. It is Jesus. No? It's for Jesus- no wait. Which one is it? I'm not allowed anyhow. Grape juice? No they said its only Morms – no – Mormos? Mo- Mor- Mor-something that don't drink wine. Or the Liturgys. Dad says I should be a Liturgy. “Do as they say”. She didn't say who? I've been before, is it the same people? The man dad always talks to with the tall hat. Or the woman mum talks to with a flower in her hair. Bread and wine – I like bread. It's always warm when mum makes it. Melting butter. Tastes nice. What is this thing? No pockets, but a bag thing. Its furry too. Why would pockets not work?
More awkward shuffling, the coarse wool scratching and irritating the young boy's knees – making him fidget more, that in turn making the scratching worse.
This was his first memory explicitly linked to religion – irritated perplexion.
Gothic. The epitome of Gothic. The High Kirk of Glasgow struck upwards toward the sky. Arches and spires both combined to reach higher and thrust up out of the body of Reformation. Its entirety was grey – camouflaged against the heavens against dull, low sitting cloud and against the ground by sullen leafless trees.
Its main doors were encompassed by the one huge arch on its west side, which in turn swallowed the congregation. Viktor, his mother Eve, father Igor and brother Adam walked amongst the throngs inward. Their best clothes mirrored through various families throughout the crowd. The children around his age worse mostly kilts or white dresses. Half aged out of their childhood by vestments and half dressed only in purity.
Adam was led in by his mother with Viktor following in trail with his father. “Do you remember what your mother told you, Viktor?”
“Yes, she said to listen to what they say and to do what they say, but she didn't say who I was to listen to.”
“The minister, Viktor. He gives you some bread and some wine – or grape juice, I forget – and you just eat and drink it and then they move on. That's it. It doesn't take long.
“OK. Thank you.”
“You're sure now? It is a big day.”
“Yes, I'm fine.”
“Look, they are calling for you – run now.”
Viktor looked even more unsure and sidled closer to his father. “Viktor, go now. We are just over there.” said Igor pointing to the nearest pews with seats still free. Comforted – at least on the surface – Viktor made his way to the larger group of equally anxious children. All were being shepherded into a long line in front of the first pews; Viktor following suit allowed himself to be ushered into place, near the right towards the far side of the Cathedral.
Why am I here? Is that the wine? No. Water? But dad said that was what the Mormos drink. They don't drink wine. Why don't they drink grape juice? Do they not like grapes? Are we getting water as well? What did Dad say? Dad. Where are they? Where? The man with the hat- is that him? Yes, but they aren't with him. The flower woman. Lots of flowers everywhere, where is she? Is that her? But they aren't there either. Who is that? Is she waving? Me? Wave me to turn around. She doesn't know me. Turn around. Around. Every wave of her hand. Again and again. Fine!
The minister had started at the right of the line, ten people from Viktor. Steadily blessing each piece of bread then placing it in an awaiting mouth.
I want to find them. Run? Can I? Quickly. Six people away – four kilts and two white dresses. Three kilts. Run? Where? I can't. Mum and dad are here. Somewhere. Can't go. Just stay. Do what they say. What he says. He is old – very old. How does he stand? Is that why those men are with him? No they hold the wine. Big metal glass. His face is cracked. His hands are cracked – his hand shaking. His face is white- getting whiter. His hand is shaking more. The other man had to hold his arm. What if it shakes more and hits me? Only four more now. He looks ill. Mum said I looked like a ghost when I was ill – is he what a ghost looks like? Will he get that drink too – urgh – terrible. Sweet but bitter at the same time. And hot. Cold by the time I finished it. Mum said I had to drink it all. Finish it. Three people now. Even he is holding his arm now. Someone placing the bread in his hand. Isn't he going to do anything? The men are holding him up. Under the arms. I wonder if they carry him lots. Dad carries me when I walk too slow. Too slow. Slowing. He isn't moving anymore. They just hold him. Two away. He is white as flour, was I like that? His hand stopped shaking. His hand holding his arm, holding his shirt. He fell! He fell!
The minister keeled forward, much to the protest of the alter boys holding him up. Forward onto the line, flattening two kilts and a white dress. The young men rushed to his side again to pull him up. He was grey now – far from his previous vivid white of just ten seconds ago. They rolled him from the children and onto his back to screams of the surrounding children. He was gasping, spluttering, begging for the air his lungs refused to draw.
“A doctor!” a shout erupted and was immediately echoed eagerly by adult onlookers who wanted either to rid a sense of uselessness or driven by a sense of social guilt for their own inaction.
A tall man – a towering man, well partially aided by a large hat, pushed his way forward, demanding space but granted none. Now obviously frustrated that his authority was going unheard he broke violently from the throngs of older congregates and into the sea of finely dressed miniatures. By this point he had lost most of his compassion and waded arrogantly through the waves of children. Forcing the tides left and right. Throwing Viktor back against a stone pillar, against which he struck his head. A small trickle of blood moistened his hair and top of his neck, eventually dripping down onto the collar of his pristinely white, hired shirt.
Viktor at the sudden onset of pain took off at a canter – albeit a slightly wobbly one. After a few minutes of confused scrabbling through finely clad feet he found solace in a far corner, behind a carved stone pedestal, upon which sat the flowers he had seen earlier.
People! People all still moving. Going nowhere but still moving. No order. No lines. Ow- ribs. Did he kick me? I was moving! I was- I was getting out the way- Kicked me! Why? The flowers! Not her! Where are they? Why haven't they come to find me? Where are they? The flowers. The yellow. The seats. Pews. The stone. The glass. The colours in the grey. The yellow like the flowers. Jesus standing in a group. All kneeling. I'm kneeling. He holds their hands. Helping them. Why does he not help me? I am kneeling. I am in a church! Not my fault he fell. Not my fault I was given no bread. He could have fallen on me. He fell. Still lying down. Everyone moved back now. “Let him breathe.” They keep saying. I can breathe when dad carries me. Why can't he breathe when people stand near him? Should I move? Away. There's a door. It's open. Dark inside. Noises- need light. Lightswitch. Ow- the light. Ow- ribs. Small. Two people? Why is she sitting on the table? He threw his coat on her. Why is he facing the wall? Is he reading? Who is he-
“Get out! On you go. You aren't allowed back here!” said the young man straightening his robes.
“S- sorry.” said Viktor hurrying backwards out of the door. A large bang followed him as the door was thrown shut.
“Viktor!” a familiar voice erupted from the chaotic throngs he now walked into.
Warily he crept forward trying to identify the source of his name. He passed the flower-haired woman who sat at the end of a pew in tears.
Moving- everyone moving. Still moving. The glass? Not moved- not helped. The yellow, like bees. They fly and buzz. All together, like water. Swoosh. Ow!
“Viktor!” shouted Eve sweeping out of the crowd and drawing Viktor up, “Why did you run away? Where did you go? Your father's outside looking for you- I had to leave Adam with Mrs Anderson!”
“My ribs! Ow- Mum!” said Viktor mid air.
“Quiet, Viktor! We have to find your father.”
[spoiler]
Chapter 2.3[spoiler]
1961
An excellent eleven-plus deserved Viktor a grammar school place. A meritocracy. Skill over family. Intelligence over money. Worth over upbringing. Still the number of boys from his road totalled once single representative: him.
After 2 years at Paisley Grammar he remained unabsorbed by the collective. He was not they and they not he. He was an outsider on all counts, on some he even neared enemy. His parents did not own their own house, nor did they have a mortgage, nor did they have a car, nor any major status symbol. His mother's marriage to Russia did not ally with the Western anti-Communistic opinion, regardless of the fact his father was not communist – having fled the Soviet army upon reaching Berlin. Finally he was smart. Not to eleven-plus standards but far in excess. Problematic because those that are told they are the best do not want to be immediately dwarfed by someone deemed their supposed peer.
He was an outsider, and as such took a seat on the furthest back and furthest right – as far from everyone as he could – and unpacked his bag.
Maths. What's that? News From Nowhere? Paperback of course. But no. Paper, yes paper. Good start. Pencils in here. Somewhere. There. Needs sharpened. Damn. Must go. Go now? Go now. Class only half full. McNamara sitting in the middle. So not straight. Right then left. Counter clockwise? Yes. OK. Go now.
He stood up briskly – although not to any great height- and set off against the wall towards the bin trying his hardest to mimic brick. Reaching it he fumbled pencil into sharpener and turned it to do its duty. Perfect. He moved off again. Left. Hurriedly stepping aside a talking group and onto the left wall. Being brick again. He willed himself faster down the side of the class, furiously trying to remain no one. The safety of his corner always so far away. Only five yards to go. Allans. Baird. Gre-
From nowhere, although very likely McNamara, a book struck his cheek. A deep scratch and a vivid colour appeared on the side of his face. Desperately, he darted forwards for his desk, unconscious of the pain in his face. The right side of his face now seeking to match its kin in tone. Finally down and back into his seat.
Why? Why move? Could sharpen into a corner. Not as bad. Not and not as bad. Yesterday and the day before. Before, before and before that. Back twenty years – back forty. And people act – and act the same! Why can't I melt down! Dew and melt. The grey against it. The grey, the flat grey, flat and stale. Stale and tired. Why can't I melt? Into a corner. Why can I no-
“Quiet!” Mr Davies shouted still half in the corridor, half in the room and already disgusted. Not willing to endure the disorder around a mere half of his self. Not one iota – however remote.
“Books, Carmichael!”, he continued in his booming oration. The respective boy sprang to his feet at the first syllable of his name, quick stepping to the stack of books corresponding to his year. Picking up a stack – a stack obviously too large but driven by fear of time's authority – he stumbled. Trying to right himself he was flung across two rows, spilling various editions on various heads. Oxford 1911 struck Lewis' ear; a more modern Penguin, 1933, clipped the chin of the new boy Phillips; finally a collection of Penguin's new edition - 1955 - all spilled gracelessly over McNamara. Carmichael ended up sprawled on top of the books, on top of the desk, on top of McNamara.
The subsequent punches and pushes erupted with a similar gusto to that of the class's laughter. Facetious, vindictive and cruel. Against the minority. The boy scrambled back onto his feet, nursing bruised ribs and a further injured ego.
The laughter, on realising itself, was gradually and silently retracted cumulating in an absolute silence: the moment before an eruption where all lies still and all know the future. All eyes were now front, anticipating, in an attempt to dull the impact. It snapped. Noise. Noise composed of that most unintelligible. Words sneaked through the rage, the parts of comprehension that littered the incomprehensible added to animalistic onslaught of verbalised aggression.
“My- … classroom- … beat all of … Mr Black … beat all- … disgrace- … a privilege! … None of you deserve a thing! … You'll receive … though!”
The vocalised enmity spoke nothing compared to Davies' face. It had contorted with unfaltering immolation – his order disrupted! His quiet disrupted! His classroom defiled and desecrated!
Apparently out of the breath he now stood static, though still mouthing words and face still tortured. Seconds passed as minutes as he fumed internally. A cough at the back of the class thawed him from inaction and into a visceral wild fever, this time suppressed to embers and externally completely controlled.
“Tawse – heavy,” Davies was speaking but it was barely audible around the small room. “Five each”. At this the entirety of the class shuffled back as far as was possible – although that was limited by the desks at which they sat to a retreat of only half a foot.
“Get up! Everyone!” his voice raised to a more audible level and more menacing intonation. “Line up, and quickly.” They did just that in no assigned order, though in general dictated by bravery or ego: those with excess at the front wishing to rid themselves of the building anxiety; the other end populated by those less confident in their pain threshold or hoping for a fatigued arm.
Viktor made his way amongst the down-turned faces toward the start of the line – although his place not dictated by ego or confidence – he allowed himself to wander to a place decided upon by a subconscious sense of deserving.
I did walk to the front. Book still on the floor. What is it? Bible. The Bible. Well at least it hit me itself. McNamara really. This line. Even he who fell. Carmichael at the head of the queue. Fair? Well his fault they laughed. Three others ahead. Twenty behind. Ninety-six – no – one hundred and one. One oh one. Palindrome. Not hard with nine digits.
Thack!
One hundred. The head of the line was wincing already. Four more to proceed it, all dead centre. Worsening. Intensifying. Breaking. Splitting.
Thack!
He staggered back, immediately placed back by those behind him, scared that retained blows would carry backwards, or their punishment would be administered sooner then expected. His hands raised back slowly as if pleading for more.
Thack!
The first red streaks appeared on a diagonal across his hand. Grazed but not yet struck open.
Thack!
His hand faltered – open, more than a scratch now. Exposed to air and to eyes. Hands were immediately thrust into pockets but eyes remained fixed – morbid curiosity. Not unable to look away, but unwilling. The boy faltered two strokes ago but remained composed the last two. How will he act? Will he fall? Will he cry? How will he hand look? Will it remain a hand?
Thack!
Red! It's so red! It runs like water. Runs and covers. Drips from his palm to the floor. He is still standing. How? Walking. Sitting. A handkerchief from his pocket. Tied round his hand. Tight. Red already. His hand red. Mine pale. One scar – old and faint. Renew it. Reopen it. Recolour my hand, make it vivid. Make it red. How can he. To red my hand. What right! Tall, big. Could catch me. Worsen it. If I hide? I have to come back. Would he remember me? No register. Never a register. All names by memory. Counting strokes? Blinking as he hits. Spark of smile as he hears the thack. He won't forget. Counting down. James off ill. His will wait. Stop at five. Start again tomorrow. A present tomorrow. A present almost expected. Waiting.
The sharp thack dulled to background noise, a cats pur or crackling fire. Punctuated though by yelps and muffled curses. The line progressed at both an agonisingly slow crawl and an exhausting sprint. Those most anxious felt time stretch, create an expanse in front of them with a worsening punishment at the end. Those already at their height of fear were ushered along at a frantic pace toward that which they most feared.
“Hands!” Viktor was snapped back to reality by the voice and face of Davies. At only two feat his features contorted even further; words now spat, diseased with the forethought of pain.
Viktor duitifully raised his hands – left over right, so he could still write, used as an excuse later would only earn you more pain from your own stupidity. Braced for pain, expecting the worst but hoping for the lightest.
Thack! One. Eighty. Stings. Being stung in a line – bees attacking, but organised into Indian File. Only narro- Thack! Two. Seventy-nine. More than a sting. Bitting. Hasn't stopped. Bitting into the flesh. Thack! Three. Burn- it burns! Back to biting. Better. Throbs now. Pulse. Dub dub, dub du- Thack! Ah! Tearing. Burning. Step back! Step back! Leave! Run! Not another! Thack! White. The pink is gone. White! Pain! Everything – Ah! White eyes and red hand. Ah! Handkerchief. Clenched. My seat. The corner. The wall. Stable. Safe. And red.
Chapter 2.3
Spoiler
1968
“US involvement in Vietnam has spiked again in recent days with total ground combat forces increasing towards six hundred thousand. In a renewed attack dubbed the Tet Offensive the Southern forces aim to force the insurgents northwards out of key strongho-” The TV cut out mid sentence and slowly resolved to black.
The whole room was quiet except for the breathing of two young men – one Viktor, and the other his only close friend James. Apart from the exceptional exam results James was the only thing he had carried on from Paisley Grammar.
“And that was for?” said James.
“It's the same thing. Everyday it's the same thing. Increasing numbers for static movement, it's nothing, it's a non event. It astounds me how the news can report it. How they can report nothing. You actually wanted to watch that?”
“Well maybe not when you put it like that. But sports?”
“It's even worse! The word sports should not be used in lieu of football. And when you live in a country that refuses to play outside its borders it gets immensely boring seeing which of two teams will win!”
“Well no, but someone's got to keep the Tims in check or they might start getting uppity or winning again.”
“What! You're not even religious! You don't care about it! Why the hell do you go along with it?”
“Again, no but I tick the Protestant box on the census form and stay the hell away from green pubs.”
“Fine.” said Viktor resigned to the same answers from the same old argument.
He flicked the TV back on – weather, the overture for sports.
Why do I know him? Why? Only one. Only one. Same as before. One lot go to one building and pray to something and the other lot go to a different building and do the same thing. Davies moved to the US. Did he have to fight? Teaching. Maths. Lecturing rather. Teaching without the need for more explanation. Dull. Don't understand? Try harder. Understand? Of course. He didn't help us either. One answer was one stroke. They said it just stung. My hand. Two scars. An X. But that was it. Six years. Six years and only once was my hand painted. James. Can he even feel his palm? The fat of his thumb dented. Caved in.
“Are we actually watching this?” James broke in.
“What?”, said Viktor realising the TV. Sports had evidently finished and a woeful soap opera followed. “No- Doubt there's anything else on. Coming for a walk?”
“It's February.”
“And is it raining?”
“No.”
“Is it freezing?”
“No- but I'd need a jacket.”
“Well have mine then. I'll be fine.”
“What- no. It's warm. Can't we just stay?”
“And watch this? Really?”
“Right OK. I'm up”, said James struggling to his feet from the infinitely deep arm chair.
“Now I'm up!”, grabbing Viktor's coat from the door and trying it on.
“It's a little big, lose a little weight, eh?”
“Try growing a few inches.” said Viktor patting the the head of his vastly shorter friend. Viktor had grown considerably in his last year at school and filled his frame somewhat – finally taking after his father, and in one dimension exceeding him.
His hair was sheared roughly to above his ears – until recently still cut by his mother. His face relatively thin and unblemished by the ravages of teenage years. He had retained the stern looking features of his Russian father; his hair and stubble, though, were dark brown from his mother.
James struggled with his boots – new and still quite stiff; Viktor already clothed and unbolting the door.
“We're still planning for this year, James, yeah?” said Viktor from the close.
“Didn't catch that, but I'm sure it was hilarious.” replied James.
Now booted James made his way towards the door – upsetting a small lamp by his sudden ballooning in size.
“What was the bang?” said Viktor as James gracelessly slid through the door.
“Oh- nothing. The remote falling or something.”
Viktor led the way from the close down the small lane and onto Argyll street.
Quiet. Deserted. Where is everyone? Church doesn't mean don't do anything at all. Up early. Church. Big meal. TV. Sleep. Always the same. Well no-
“You're still not going with your family then?” said James.
“No.” said Viktor.
“You should, or at least pretend to do something. It's your family.”
“Why should I? I shouldn't have to lie. They say I can't come back unless I go with them. How is that fair? Intellectual blackmail!”
“So you'd rather sleep on the floor then humour someone?”
“That I would.”
Red room. Grey house. Sleet and rain. “Get out! It isn't a joke, Viktor, you can't treat it as a joke!” Road. Sauchiehall Street. Aimless. Wander, meander, jaunt. Walking. Purpose! “Where to mate?” Raining. Bleakness itself. Grey. Grey ground, grey sky, grey rain. “And that was it?” Covered floor. Short blanket. Faulty heater. “Viktor, I'm sorry. Take this.” Five pounds. The Kirk. High Kirk. Dull. Monotone. No flowers now. No leaves on trees. Not even snowdrops. Glass bottle in hand. Arm and air. Explosion of shards. Paralysis. Snap. Feet. Windows, door, roads and lights. Flying. Running. Away. Away. Far from it. Far from-
“If they asked you would you fight?” enquired James again.
“Who's asking me to fight?” replied Viktor.
“The Government. Callaghan asks- tells you to go to China and shoot some Chinks. Would you do it?”
“You're still just on tobacco right?”
“Yes, and a good thought.” said James producing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He gave one to Viktor and lit it before producing his own, lighting it and taking several long draws.
“OK, so they declare war on China. No- China declares war on us – self defence, see? - and they decree that you shall go. No- wait, not by decree. They legalise conscription through a proper vote. All sides support it and it passes through the Lords without a problem. So by law you are obliged to serve in her Majesty’s Army. Keep in mind that if you asked me to I'd break your leg. Get you out of it that way. I'd do that for you.”
“Firstly, thank you for offering to cripple me. Always good to know those close to you are ready to cause you grievous bodily harm to get out of conscription. So it's law. So Hobbes says go and kill those Chinamen. So would Locke – unless they are about to win then fuck the Queen, we surrender.”
“As interesting as that was, I asked what you would do – not in the guise of various dead philosophers.”
“OK, OK. I think I would not.”
“And do your adoring fans get reasons?”
“I don't think I could do it. Kill someone I mean. Make me a medic- a pilot- a General. I think I would make a good General. I just don't think I could shoot someone.”
“But you could help people shoot each other? Help them all kill each other?”
“If they agree to kill each other that's their fault.”
“Simple as that?”
“Simple as that.”
Vietnam. The more you kill the more Viet Cong you make. The more you more you have to kill. Which makes even more. Exponential. Cyclical. Circular. Cycle. Sickle? And back to communism. Even analysis is a circle. Circular reasoning. They can't stay in the circle too long – not enough people. When they've all been flown home will they turn to women? Would they? Maybe if needs demand it. If you shot the Generals they wouldn't want to fight. Take away their flag. Ask them to kill. Just to kill. Just to take a life. Would they? Would I? Take a life, just to take a life. No. Would I have it done to me. Or resist? Give my life for free? No. Then no. I would act. Is this war? If they gave us two guns, would I kill James? Before he killed me? Let him kill me? Let me kill him? Self preservation. Minor allegiances but ultimately to oneself. So I would kill him? I might throw my gun away just to spite him? Could I though? Point and squeeze. Point and sq-
“Fancy a drink?” said James.
“What! No- what?” stuttered Viktor, startled voice half an octave from normal.
“Sorry- something on your mind? Just we keep walking past lots of beer. It's a bit of an insult to all the hard working brewers not to taste their work.”
“It's nothing. But I think that is a great idea. Must support the brewers and all that.”
“Very good choice. Here?”
“Looks a bit grim. Grey windows?”
“Remember – grey means cheap. And green means the Tims. Grey over green any day.”
“If you insist. But if I get stabbed I'm blaming you.”
“Sounds fair”
The Keyes. Grey on green on wood. Shabby would be a kind understatement; obviously not visited by any sort of structural engineer by the looks of the open sign. Still the two boys pushed through the door and into the light. The one light rather. Only one lightbulb currently working. Six tables were scattered around the small room, with little thought for their placement. Large tables were stuffed in corners with two chairs, while the smallest sat in front of the door surrounded by eight chairs crammed around its circumference.
“US involvement in Vietnam has spiked again in recent days with total ground combat forces increasing towards six hundred thousand. In a renewed attack dubbed the Tet Offensive the Southern forces aim to force the insurgents northwards out of key strongho-” The TV cut out mid sentence and slowly resolved to black.
The whole room was quiet except for the breathing of two young men – one Viktor, and the other his only close friend James. Apart from the exceptional exam results James was the only thing he had carried on from Paisley Grammar.
“And that was for?” said James.
“It's the same thing. Everyday it's the same thing. Increasing numbers for static movement, it's nothing, it's a non event. It astounds me how the news can report it. How they can report nothing. You actually wanted to watch that?”
“Well maybe not when you put it like that. But sports?”
“It's even worse! The word sports should not be used in lieu of football. And when you live in a country that refuses to play outside its borders it gets immensely boring seeing which of two teams will win!”
“Well no, but someone's got to keep the Tims in check or they might start getting uppity or winning again.”
“What! You're not even religious! You don't care about it! Why the hell do you go along with it?”
“Again, no but I tick the Protestant box on the census form and stay the hell away from green pubs.”
“Fine.” said Viktor resigned to the same answers from the same old argument.
He flicked the TV back on – weather, the overture for sports.
Why do I know him? Why? Only one. Only one. Same as before. One lot go to one building and pray to something and the other lot go to a different building and do the same thing. Davies moved to the US. Did he have to fight? Teaching. Maths. Lecturing rather. Teaching without the need for more explanation. Dull. Don't understand? Try harder. Understand? Of course. He didn't help us either. One answer was one stroke. They said it just stung. My hand. Two scars. An X. But that was it. Six years. Six years and only once was my hand painted. James. Can he even feel his palm? The fat of his thumb dented. Caved in.
“Are we actually watching this?” James broke in.
“What?”, said Viktor realising the TV. Sports had evidently finished and a woeful soap opera followed. “No- Doubt there's anything else on. Coming for a walk?”
“It's February.”
“And is it raining?”
“No.”
“Is it freezing?”
“No- but I'd need a jacket.”
“Well have mine then. I'll be fine.”
“What- no. It's warm. Can't we just stay?”
“And watch this? Really?”
“Right OK. I'm up”, said James struggling to his feet from the infinitely deep arm chair.
“Now I'm up!”, grabbing Viktor's coat from the door and trying it on.
“It's a little big, lose a little weight, eh?”
“Try growing a few inches.” said Viktor patting the the head of his vastly shorter friend. Viktor had grown considerably in his last year at school and filled his frame somewhat – finally taking after his father, and in one dimension exceeding him.
His hair was sheared roughly to above his ears – until recently still cut by his mother. His face relatively thin and unblemished by the ravages of teenage years. He had retained the stern looking features of his Russian father; his hair and stubble, though, were dark brown from his mother.
James struggled with his boots – new and still quite stiff; Viktor already clothed and unbolting the door.
“We're still planning for this year, James, yeah?” said Viktor from the close.
“Didn't catch that, but I'm sure it was hilarious.” replied James.
Now booted James made his way towards the door – upsetting a small lamp by his sudden ballooning in size.
“What was the bang?” said Viktor as James gracelessly slid through the door.
“Oh- nothing. The remote falling or something.”
Viktor led the way from the close down the small lane and onto Argyll street.
Quiet. Deserted. Where is everyone? Church doesn't mean don't do anything at all. Up early. Church. Big meal. TV. Sleep. Always the same. Well no-
“You're still not going with your family then?” said James.
“No.” said Viktor.
“You should, or at least pretend to do something. It's your family.”
“Why should I? I shouldn't have to lie. They say I can't come back unless I go with them. How is that fair? Intellectual blackmail!”
“So you'd rather sleep on the floor then humour someone?”
“That I would.”
Red room. Grey house. Sleet and rain. “Get out! It isn't a joke, Viktor, you can't treat it as a joke!” Road. Sauchiehall Street. Aimless. Wander, meander, jaunt. Walking. Purpose! “Where to mate?” Raining. Bleakness itself. Grey. Grey ground, grey sky, grey rain. “And that was it?” Covered floor. Short blanket. Faulty heater. “Viktor, I'm sorry. Take this.” Five pounds. The Kirk. High Kirk. Dull. Monotone. No flowers now. No leaves on trees. Not even snowdrops. Glass bottle in hand. Arm and air. Explosion of shards. Paralysis. Snap. Feet. Windows, door, roads and lights. Flying. Running. Away. Away. Far from it. Far from-
“If they asked you would you fight?” enquired James again.
“Who's asking me to fight?” replied Viktor.
“The Government. Callaghan asks- tells you to go to China and shoot some Chinks. Would you do it?”
“You're still just on tobacco right?”
“Yes, and a good thought.” said James producing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He gave one to Viktor and lit it before producing his own, lighting it and taking several long draws.
“OK, so they declare war on China. No- China declares war on us – self defence, see? - and they decree that you shall go. No- wait, not by decree. They legalise conscription through a proper vote. All sides support it and it passes through the Lords without a problem. So by law you are obliged to serve in her Majesty’s Army. Keep in mind that if you asked me to I'd break your leg. Get you out of it that way. I'd do that for you.”
“Firstly, thank you for offering to cripple me. Always good to know those close to you are ready to cause you grievous bodily harm to get out of conscription. So it's law. So Hobbes says go and kill those Chinamen. So would Locke – unless they are about to win then fuck the Queen, we surrender.”
“As interesting as that was, I asked what you would do – not in the guise of various dead philosophers.”
“OK, OK. I think I would not.”
“And do your adoring fans get reasons?”
“I don't think I could do it. Kill someone I mean. Make me a medic- a pilot- a General. I think I would make a good General. I just don't think I could shoot someone.”
“But you could help people shoot each other? Help them all kill each other?”
“If they agree to kill each other that's their fault.”
“Simple as that?”
“Simple as that.”
Vietnam. The more you kill the more Viet Cong you make. The more you more you have to kill. Which makes even more. Exponential. Cyclical. Circular. Cycle. Sickle? And back to communism. Even analysis is a circle. Circular reasoning. They can't stay in the circle too long – not enough people. When they've all been flown home will they turn to women? Would they? Maybe if needs demand it. If you shot the Generals they wouldn't want to fight. Take away their flag. Ask them to kill. Just to kill. Just to take a life. Would they? Would I? Take a life, just to take a life. No. Would I have it done to me. Or resist? Give my life for free? No. Then no. I would act. Is this war? If they gave us two guns, would I kill James? Before he killed me? Let him kill me? Let me kill him? Self preservation. Minor allegiances but ultimately to oneself. So I would kill him? I might throw my gun away just to spite him? Could I though? Point and squeeze. Point and sq-
“Fancy a drink?” said James.
“What! No- what?” stuttered Viktor, startled voice half an octave from normal.
“Sorry- something on your mind? Just we keep walking past lots of beer. It's a bit of an insult to all the hard working brewers not to taste their work.”
“It's nothing. But I think that is a great idea. Must support the brewers and all that.”
“Very good choice. Here?”
“Looks a bit grim. Grey windows?”
“Remember – grey means cheap. And green means the Tims. Grey over green any day.”
“If you insist. But if I get stabbed I'm blaming you.”
“Sounds fair”
The Keyes. Grey on green on wood. Shabby would be a kind understatement; obviously not visited by any sort of structural engineer by the looks of the open sign. Still the two boys pushed through the door and into the light. The one light rather. Only one lightbulb currently working. Six tables were scattered around the small room, with little thought for their placement. Large tables were stuffed in corners with two chairs, while the smallest sat in front of the door surrounded by eight chairs crammed around its circumference.
Chapter 3.4
Spoiler
They chose a table near the bar at the far back corner, as far from the toilets as possible due to the drifting scents. The table wobbled, but so did the chairs so it averaged out eventually. There must have been a candle once – one corner covered in wax. A name.
“Alan” Why your name? Not your wax- Not your table. You've been here, but so what? Lots of people have been here. If it makes you happy I suppose. A.L.A.-
“What're you doing?
“Oh- Nothing. Just tracing this name.”
“Right. Well do you want anything special?”
“Whatever's cheapest.”
“Two tap waters coming up!” said James smiling and walking off.
Tap water. Free? Probably not here. Six tables. Twenty four- twenty five chairs. Break one, then four chairs at each table. Seven then three. Thirteen then two. Five, six people. And us. Eight. Three chairs each and one to share. If I steal it now I could have four. Trade it for part of a table. Trade the table for a beer. The beer for a brandy and the brandy for a taxi home. Perfect.
“Two, well I'm not sure I can legally call it beer, so two beverages.” said James returning with two glasses – not the cleanest specimens of glassware, but at least not leaking.
“He pumped it by hand, from a keg at the back. No name either.” continued James.
“Can I add a proviso on my earlier statement? If I go blind I am blaming you.
“Now I'm not sure about that. He made it, not me.” said James pointing his glass back to the bar.
“It's not bad actually,” said James holding and swirling his glass from the bottom in mimic of a wine glass. “Hops on the nose, barley finish. Slight scent of urine and hopelessness.”
“Lovely, are you blind yet?”
“No- well not yet.” said James waving his hand in front of his face.
“Excellent.” said Viktor drinking from the cleanest part of his glass.
“Back in two minutes.” said James, standing up and walking off towards the source of the foul scents.
“That's fine. I'll stay here and get jumped.” said Viktor no the recently vacated air.
If I did get stabbed. His fault. But I did agree. Walk was my idea. Three pounds left from five. Two gone. Conscripted from the pocket to duty. Bread and milk. Eggs. Crisps. Beer of course. Of course? Predictable? Buy some whiskey next time. Authority with whiskey. “I see your point Sir, but I must disagree. And if you would notice my whiskey I'm sure you wou- No. No water at all. So if you would please notice the whiskey I am sure you must agree I am right. Wait? A pipe you say? Well I suppose that gives you equal grounds as well. A coin is fair I suppose. As a republican, though, I must refuse Her Majesty's face immediately. Excuse me? I have to call it in the air? But it is my coin and thus my rules. You may have Elizabeth and I shall take the lion – a fine mane of hair, though silver sadly and not gold. What? A crown? He too wears the remnants of Feudalism? Then I choose the ridged edge. I will lose yes, but I will not betray my beliefs.”
“Don't do it.” James skipped round a chair and back into his seat, looking slightly paler than before.
“Do I have to ask?” said Viktor.
“Probably not, and you most certainly don't want to know what I've seen.”
“You pick the finest establishments, you know that?”
“I do. I do. I try my hardest to find you the crème de la crème of this fine city.”
“I think this beer is actually growing on m-”
“Change seats with me!”
“What?”
“Just do it!”
Reluctantly Viktor got up and moved to the far side of the table, facing away from the bar.”
“So this chair wobbles a little more, was that worth it? There's twenty three other seats in here.”
“Shut up and look at who just came in.”
“Is that- Is that Davies?”
“Part of him.”
“You're right, where's his arm? He never looked happy but that can't help.”
“I'm not being blamed for this- I didn't know he was going to turn up. He's mental- went to the US just before Vietnam- actually volunteered!- had to conscript people- but he went there himself! He was American so he might have gone anyhow, but he asked to go, wanted to go. Wasn't told to.”
“Why is he back then?”
“No idea, maybe the arm. Came back for the fre-”
“Wait, so you knew it was him and you made me sit facing him!”
“He hit you once! See my pinky? See how it isn't moving? That's because it can't!”
“So you wanted him to even us out?”
“No! But he hit you once, he isn't going to start now. He hit me until my hand stopped working. Think what he'd do now!”
“Self preservation, eh?”
“I trust him less if he's going to get drunk and I don't trust him much sober.”
“Well sorry to tell you, but he might just do that. Two double whiskeys. One double whiskey. Nothing- sorry now it a beer. Shit! He's coming over.”
“Well stop looking at him and shut up!”
Davies stopped one table short of theirs and fell into a seat with some of the other drinkers, spilling his own beer over himself and nudging the table to such an extent the other occupants lunged for their drinks.
The faces around the table grew to a mix of confusion, irritation and anger.
“Who're you?” one of the bolder men piped up. The others still contemplating the scruffy, one armed, age beaten, greying old man.
“I'm Davies,” he replied, “who the fuck are you?”
“I'm Alan- but who are you? Why are you here?”
“No way to treat a veteran! I killed them rats! I killed them! Four in my first week! Four commies! Then the gun broke! Aren't made of sh-”
“Why are you here? This table? Sitting with us? Why?”
“What? Not welcome? No- I'll go. It's fine.”
“Right, well- careful!” said the first man again, dodging the overspilling beer. As Davies stumbled again he added a slight push in the right direction. The right direction being any that pointed away from their table.
“I'm going! Get away!” shouted Davies, batting away the hands that sought to direct him away.
He made his way to the small table in front of the door, sitting at one of the eight vacant seats. More beer splashing onto the table.
“Four! Four in seven days! Rats can't get you if you act like them. Hiding. Sneaking.” He went on speaking, addressing the seven empty places. His oration not dulled after seven years, it demanded an audience greater than the seven chairs. “Six in my second week. M16s! Not worth the flight over! Weak lips! Can't kiss an M16. Took an AK-47 off the first NFL we caught. Took it and shot him. Shot him right there. Right there. Just below his eye. Small hole. Tiny hole at the front. The back was all gone. Gone. Over the wall behind it. Gone.” He laughed softly, a flicker of a smile crossing his face as he remembered.
The room was quiet. Stunned into silence after the unashamed, unadulterated recollection of the execution. And unspoken pact not to speak descended. No one dared. No one dared break his silence. His calm. His serenity and his chaos.
The bustle grew back slowly – first glances, whispered words, phrases and sentences, stifled conversations. Normal speech. He remained though, in the back of everyone's mind. Guarding the door from those both inside and out.
“Why did he sit there? Right in front of the door.” said James. “We could just go go out the back, sneak out past the bartender.”
“I'm not sure I want to move. He just sits there. He hasn't flinched, hasn't blinked. I'm not upsetting that sort of quiet.”
“But if we go to the back, sneak under the bar, and out the door.”
“I'm not doing it. I'm going to sit here until he passes out or leaves.”
“Well I'll hopefully see you later then, if not I'll call the Western and ask if they've seen you.” said James hurriedly as he got up as quietly as possible.
“Wait, just give it two minutes and see if he goes.” whispered Viktor to James' back. But he had already slipped round the bar, making sure the bartender was looking the other way, and though the barback's hatch what was presumably the storeroom.
Still. Part of it. The table. Chair. Six legs but two of flesh. A statue of their man. Peerless. Respect and fear. The latter causes the former. Or the former is the latter disguised. A statue of our teacher. In stone. Seven years – aged him and grown me. Wrinkled more in stone than flesh. Time. Twenty in seven. Sent away. A point in their flat. A green speck on the blue, on the white, the red or stars. Red now, all folded. Or Black. Black. The grey – opening. Orange spilling in. Brighter outside than in. Orange. Orange and a man.
“You!” shouted Davies abruptly, half out out his seat pointing wildly at the ajar door three feet from his face. “Back to your hole! On you go! Away!” he continued as the new comer stepped cautiously round the table, pointing arm and accusation, to the smaller and more densely populated surface. He looked thoroughly bemused taking a seat in full view of the one armed destitute: the encircled main attraction of this evening.
Noise again. Not long. The shock gone now – just an old man. Just an old man shouting. Drunk? Yet. Probably. Regrets tomorrow? Memories tomorrow? Probably not. His arm – how was it lost? One. Half a bicep. Is it a bicep? Is it a muscle? Can it move something? Is it an arm? Can't hold, can't grip, can't push. No dexterity. No thumb – back millennia. Apes – monkeys! Hairy, not shaved, not washed. Apes. What is he saying? “ …the red! Charlie! NFL! All wrong in the head. Sharing! Give my house to you, and get back a pig! Fair? Not sharing. Wrong in the head. Die for it- they'd die for it! They would…” Do they care? Soviet or- or freedom? Freedom indeed. Do they care where you claim to ally? Not here. A modern ideology far eclipsed. An ideology of older merit lays divides much deeper. To the Papal or the Monarch. Queen or Pope. Feudalism or Autocracy. Neither an ideal choice. Although one made sovereign in law – the other only moral. To choose between only two, then to choose again. And again, again and again. What of Anglican. Or of Eastern or Oriental Orthodox. Even Assyrian. Below then choose Baptist, or Methodist. Or Lutheran. What again of Pentecostal, the Amish or the Mennonites! Episcopals of the United States! Those that reject Denomination in favour of the foundation of all – Churches of Christ! Of them and who else! Moravians, Wesleyans, the Quackers and the Salvation Army behind their shops! Jehova's Witnesses with their infinite predictions and Seventh-Day Adventists who ignore Sunday! Greek Archdiocese, Russian Orthodox Diocese or Traditional Vicariate! Presbyterian and the Church of Scotland with Cathedrals that are not Cathedrals. All who lay foundations the same but argue and kill between themselves! Nation. Religion. Community. Family. Self. Self preservation. Above all else. The others only as a means to it. Self preservation over all local affections.
“Alan” Why your name? Not your wax- Not your table. You've been here, but so what? Lots of people have been here. If it makes you happy I suppose. A.L.A.-
“What're you doing?
“Oh- Nothing. Just tracing this name.”
“Right. Well do you want anything special?”
“Whatever's cheapest.”
“Two tap waters coming up!” said James smiling and walking off.
Tap water. Free? Probably not here. Six tables. Twenty four- twenty five chairs. Break one, then four chairs at each table. Seven then three. Thirteen then two. Five, six people. And us. Eight. Three chairs each and one to share. If I steal it now I could have four. Trade it for part of a table. Trade the table for a beer. The beer for a brandy and the brandy for a taxi home. Perfect.
“Two, well I'm not sure I can legally call it beer, so two beverages.” said James returning with two glasses – not the cleanest specimens of glassware, but at least not leaking.
“He pumped it by hand, from a keg at the back. No name either.” continued James.
“Can I add a proviso on my earlier statement? If I go blind I am blaming you.
“Now I'm not sure about that. He made it, not me.” said James pointing his glass back to the bar.
“It's not bad actually,” said James holding and swirling his glass from the bottom in mimic of a wine glass. “Hops on the nose, barley finish. Slight scent of urine and hopelessness.”
“Lovely, are you blind yet?”
“No- well not yet.” said James waving his hand in front of his face.
“Excellent.” said Viktor drinking from the cleanest part of his glass.
“Back in two minutes.” said James, standing up and walking off towards the source of the foul scents.
“That's fine. I'll stay here and get jumped.” said Viktor no the recently vacated air.
If I did get stabbed. His fault. But I did agree. Walk was my idea. Three pounds left from five. Two gone. Conscripted from the pocket to duty. Bread and milk. Eggs. Crisps. Beer of course. Of course? Predictable? Buy some whiskey next time. Authority with whiskey. “I see your point Sir, but I must disagree. And if you would notice my whiskey I'm sure you wou- No. No water at all. So if you would please notice the whiskey I am sure you must agree I am right. Wait? A pipe you say? Well I suppose that gives you equal grounds as well. A coin is fair I suppose. As a republican, though, I must refuse Her Majesty's face immediately. Excuse me? I have to call it in the air? But it is my coin and thus my rules. You may have Elizabeth and I shall take the lion – a fine mane of hair, though silver sadly and not gold. What? A crown? He too wears the remnants of Feudalism? Then I choose the ridged edge. I will lose yes, but I will not betray my beliefs.”
“Don't do it.” James skipped round a chair and back into his seat, looking slightly paler than before.
“Do I have to ask?” said Viktor.
“Probably not, and you most certainly don't want to know what I've seen.”
“You pick the finest establishments, you know that?”
“I do. I do. I try my hardest to find you the crème de la crème of this fine city.”
“I think this beer is actually growing on m-”
“Change seats with me!”
“What?”
“Just do it!”
Reluctantly Viktor got up and moved to the far side of the table, facing away from the bar.”
“So this chair wobbles a little more, was that worth it? There's twenty three other seats in here.”
“Shut up and look at who just came in.”
“Is that- Is that Davies?”
“Part of him.”
“You're right, where's his arm? He never looked happy but that can't help.”
“I'm not being blamed for this- I didn't know he was going to turn up. He's mental- went to the US just before Vietnam- actually volunteered!- had to conscript people- but he went there himself! He was American so he might have gone anyhow, but he asked to go, wanted to go. Wasn't told to.”
“Why is he back then?”
“No idea, maybe the arm. Came back for the fre-”
“Wait, so you knew it was him and you made me sit facing him!”
“He hit you once! See my pinky? See how it isn't moving? That's because it can't!”
“So you wanted him to even us out?”
“No! But he hit you once, he isn't going to start now. He hit me until my hand stopped working. Think what he'd do now!”
“Self preservation, eh?”
“I trust him less if he's going to get drunk and I don't trust him much sober.”
“Well sorry to tell you, but he might just do that. Two double whiskeys. One double whiskey. Nothing- sorry now it a beer. Shit! He's coming over.”
“Well stop looking at him and shut up!”
Davies stopped one table short of theirs and fell into a seat with some of the other drinkers, spilling his own beer over himself and nudging the table to such an extent the other occupants lunged for their drinks.
The faces around the table grew to a mix of confusion, irritation and anger.
“Who're you?” one of the bolder men piped up. The others still contemplating the scruffy, one armed, age beaten, greying old man.
“I'm Davies,” he replied, “who the fuck are you?”
“I'm Alan- but who are you? Why are you here?”
“No way to treat a veteran! I killed them rats! I killed them! Four in my first week! Four commies! Then the gun broke! Aren't made of sh-”
“Why are you here? This table? Sitting with us? Why?”
“What? Not welcome? No- I'll go. It's fine.”
“Right, well- careful!” said the first man again, dodging the overspilling beer. As Davies stumbled again he added a slight push in the right direction. The right direction being any that pointed away from their table.
“I'm going! Get away!” shouted Davies, batting away the hands that sought to direct him away.
He made his way to the small table in front of the door, sitting at one of the eight vacant seats. More beer splashing onto the table.
“Four! Four in seven days! Rats can't get you if you act like them. Hiding. Sneaking.” He went on speaking, addressing the seven empty places. His oration not dulled after seven years, it demanded an audience greater than the seven chairs. “Six in my second week. M16s! Not worth the flight over! Weak lips! Can't kiss an M16. Took an AK-47 off the first NFL we caught. Took it and shot him. Shot him right there. Right there. Just below his eye. Small hole. Tiny hole at the front. The back was all gone. Gone. Over the wall behind it. Gone.” He laughed softly, a flicker of a smile crossing his face as he remembered.
The room was quiet. Stunned into silence after the unashamed, unadulterated recollection of the execution. And unspoken pact not to speak descended. No one dared. No one dared break his silence. His calm. His serenity and his chaos.
The bustle grew back slowly – first glances, whispered words, phrases and sentences, stifled conversations. Normal speech. He remained though, in the back of everyone's mind. Guarding the door from those both inside and out.
“Why did he sit there? Right in front of the door.” said James. “We could just go go out the back, sneak out past the bartender.”
“I'm not sure I want to move. He just sits there. He hasn't flinched, hasn't blinked. I'm not upsetting that sort of quiet.”
“But if we go to the back, sneak under the bar, and out the door.”
“I'm not doing it. I'm going to sit here until he passes out or leaves.”
“Well I'll hopefully see you later then, if not I'll call the Western and ask if they've seen you.” said James hurriedly as he got up as quietly as possible.
“Wait, just give it two minutes and see if he goes.” whispered Viktor to James' back. But he had already slipped round the bar, making sure the bartender was looking the other way, and though the barback's hatch what was presumably the storeroom.
Still. Part of it. The table. Chair. Six legs but two of flesh. A statue of their man. Peerless. Respect and fear. The latter causes the former. Or the former is the latter disguised. A statue of our teacher. In stone. Seven years – aged him and grown me. Wrinkled more in stone than flesh. Time. Twenty in seven. Sent away. A point in their flat. A green speck on the blue, on the white, the red or stars. Red now, all folded. Or Black. Black. The grey – opening. Orange spilling in. Brighter outside than in. Orange. Orange and a man.
“You!” shouted Davies abruptly, half out out his seat pointing wildly at the ajar door three feet from his face. “Back to your hole! On you go! Away!” he continued as the new comer stepped cautiously round the table, pointing arm and accusation, to the smaller and more densely populated surface. He looked thoroughly bemused taking a seat in full view of the one armed destitute: the encircled main attraction of this evening.
Noise again. Not long. The shock gone now – just an old man. Just an old man shouting. Drunk? Yet. Probably. Regrets tomorrow? Memories tomorrow? Probably not. His arm – how was it lost? One. Half a bicep. Is it a bicep? Is it a muscle? Can it move something? Is it an arm? Can't hold, can't grip, can't push. No dexterity. No thumb – back millennia. Apes – monkeys! Hairy, not shaved, not washed. Apes. What is he saying? “ …the red! Charlie! NFL! All wrong in the head. Sharing! Give my house to you, and get back a pig! Fair? Not sharing. Wrong in the head. Die for it- they'd die for it! They would…” Do they care? Soviet or- or freedom? Freedom indeed. Do they care where you claim to ally? Not here. A modern ideology far eclipsed. An ideology of older merit lays divides much deeper. To the Papal or the Monarch. Queen or Pope. Feudalism or Autocracy. Neither an ideal choice. Although one made sovereign in law – the other only moral. To choose between only two, then to choose again. And again, again and again. What of Anglican. Or of Eastern or Oriental Orthodox. Even Assyrian. Below then choose Baptist, or Methodist. Or Lutheran. What again of Pentecostal, the Amish or the Mennonites! Episcopals of the United States! Those that reject Denomination in favour of the foundation of all – Churches of Christ! Of them and who else! Moravians, Wesleyans, the Quackers and the Salvation Army behind their shops! Jehova's Witnesses with their infinite predictions and Seventh-Day Adventists who ignore Sunday! Greek Archdiocese, Russian Orthodox Diocese or Traditional Vicariate! Presbyterian and the Church of Scotland with Cathedrals that are not Cathedrals. All who lay foundations the same but argue and kill between themselves! Nation. Religion. Community. Family. Self. Self preservation. Above all else. The others only as a means to it. Self preservation over all local affections.
