— Aye, Norma, it disnae bear thinkin aboot. Well, we will fight them on the beaches, as they say.
The pompous auld flick.
— Ye ken though, Jeff, ah really admire ye, bringin up they two laddies oan yir ain. Couldnae huv been easy. Rare laddies thuv turned oot n aw.
— Ach, thir no bad. At least thuv goat mair sense dun tae git involved in any ay this drugs nonsense. Brian's the problem. Ye never ken whair he is, or whair he's gaun. Still, at least he's working now, just a temporary job in the parks like, but at least it's something. Mind you, ah dinnae think he kens what he wants tae dae wi his life, that one. Sometimes ah think he lives on another planet fae the rest ay us. Wait till ye hear the nerve ay this: hudnae seen or heard ay him for weeks, n he comes back wi this lassie. Takes her up the stairs. Then later, he's doonstairs wi her cooking up a big meal. Ah takes him aside and sais: Hi you, c'moan, this isnae a knockin shop ye ken. He gies ays some money for the food. Ah sais: That's no the point, Brian. Ye treat this place wi a bit ay respect. This is him that's supposed tae be heartbroken cause his girlfriend went away tae some college doon in London. Well, he's goat a funny wey ay showin it. Too smart for his ain good that yin. Now Derek, he's a different story...
So, it looks as if I'm getting on the auld man's tits. It's true that you never hear anything good about yourself if you listen in like that, but sometimes you're better knowing the way the wind's blowing.
I sit up in my room watching my telly; well, Derek's telly if we're being pedantic about it, which the wee cunt invariably is. I hear my auld boy shouting on me and go to the top of the stairs. — We're eh, jist gaun upstairs tae Norma's. A few things tae sort oot aboot the committee, he says, all furtive and uneasy.
Good show. I light a candle. Then I produce my works and start to cook up some smack. This gear looks okay, there's a bit of a glut on right now. God bless Raymie Airlie; God bless Johnny Swan. I'm no a smack-heid, no really, but a feast usually precedes a famine. Best take advantage.
I look for a belt, but I can only find a useless, elasticated snake-belt, so I fling it away and use the flex fae Derek's bedside lamp. I wrap it round my bicep and tap my wrist until a huge dark vein materialises. Then I stick the needle in, and draw back some blood before shooting for goal. Barry.
Fuck.
I can't fuckin breathe.
Fuck sake, how bad is this.
I stand up and make a move towards the lavvy, but I don't get that far. I manage to direct my puke onto an old NME. I lean against the wall for a bit and get my breath, then I open the windae, and fling the mess out intae the backsquare.
I lie on the bed. That's better. There's a nice-looking woman in the soap opera on the telly. Suddenly I see her as a wizened old witch, but she's no longer on the telly, she's in the room. Then things change and I'm with a guy called Stuart Meldrum who, when we were kids, slid off the roof of this factory in Leith. This was before we moved out here. It was a corrugated-iron roof, sloping steeply. Stu lost his footing, fell off and started sliding down it. Thing was, there was a row of double rivets sticking out and they sort of tore him apart.
Now I'm with him again, and his face is ripped open, with parts of him spilling out of his bloodied body. He's got a ball, a yellay ball under his arm. — Fancy a game ay shapes, Bri? he asks.
That seems awright tae me. Shapes. Against the factory wall. He moves up dead close to the wall and kicks the ball hard against it. It ricochets off at a tight angle and starts rolling away, this yellay ball. I start running eftir it, but it seems to be garnering speed. I'm trying to get a bend on but I can't seem to get any pace up. All I can see is this ball, bouncing down the road, like it's wind-assisted, like it's nearly a balloon, but at the same time everything else is still and quiet. My Ma stands in front of me in a floral dress, holding the ball. She looks young and beautiful, like she did when I last saw her, when I was still at the primary. I'm the same size as her, the same as I am now, but she takes my hand and leads me up this hilly street, full of suburban, posh hooses and I ask her, — Ma, why did you leave us?
— Because I made a mistake, son. You were a mistake. It was never meant to happen. You, your father, these places where we lived. I love you and Derek, but I needed my own life, son. You were never meant to happen. I never wanted to give birth to a Smart Cunt.
I see Alec Boyle and the Shark, dressed in white suits. They are nodding sagely. Then I realise that I'm staring at the screen and it's all okay, I'm back in the telly's soap opera, not my own.
I start to get really bad cramps after a bit, so I get under the duvet and try to sleep it off. When my old man comes in I tell him I think I've got a flu bug and spend three days in bed, before I'm due back on the park.
3
ASSOCIATES AS OPIATES
I'm never touching smack again. That's a loser's game. Every cunt I've met who said that they can control it is either dead, dying or leading a life no worth living. What a radge I've been. I'm still strung out here in the bothy. A waste ay a weekend. Naw, speed's ma drug, speed and ecky. Fuck smack.
It's going to be a boring backshift. Sutcliffe's book was okay. A good read. The truth is stranger than fiction. Sutcliffe was a very disturbed man. Sutcliffe was an arsehole. How tapped was that cunt. Some things you can never understand, some things don't lend themselves to reason, to rational analysis and explanation. I've started on Mother Teresa's biography, but I can't get into it. I don't really have that much time for her; she seems a bit fuckin loopy tae me. She claims God tells her tae dae the things she does; it's got fuck all tae dae wi her. This is precisely the same argument Sutcliffe uses. That's all jist pure shite; people should take on a bit mair personal responsibility.
This park is depressing. It's like a prison. No it's not. You can leave, go to the warm, inviting pub, but it will mean your cards if the mobile catches you. The parks are about appearance money; you get paid to be here. Not to do, but to be. I sit in a bothy; therefore I'm a bam.
There's a knock on the door. It can't be the patrol; they never knock. I open the bothy and there's Raymie Airlie. He looks at me with a grim smile scored onto his face. — The renegade robots are now long dead, the metal ones rusted, the human ones bled.
My sentiments entirely. Raymie is either a moron or a genius and it doesn't interest me enough to even try to work out which.
— Awright, Raymie? Moan in.
He strides into the bothy. Then he inspects the changing-rooms and showers with a thoroughness that would credit the most vigilant mobile Park Patrol Officer. He returns to the bothy and picks up the Mother Teresa book and arches his eyebrows, before throwing it back on the table.
— Got works? he asks.
— Aye ... ah mean, naw. No oan ays, likes.
— Fancy a hit?
— Eh, no really, ah mean, ah'm likes workin, eh ... aye, but just a bit, likes...
He cooked up some smack and I took a shot, using his works. I started thinking a lot about swimming, and fish. The extent of freedom they have; two thirds of the planet's surface n that.
The next think I knew, the Shark was standing over me. Raymie had gone.
— Keys, he snapped.
I looked at him through glazed eyes. I felt as if my body was a corridor and the Shark was at the door at the other end of that corridor. What the fuck did he mean? Keys?
Keys.
Keys.
Mother Teresa and the children of Calcutta. Feed the world.
Keys.
Keys open doors; keys lock doors.
Keys.
It sounds good. — Keys.
— Have ye goat thum then? The keys? he asks. — C'moan, son, it's knockin oaf time. You no goat a home tae go tae?
I started to take the keys out of my pocket, not my set, the set I had made, but their set. Have I no got a home to go to? Mum, where are you?
— This is my home, I tell him.
— You're tapped pal. You been drinking? He moves closer to see if he can smell anything
on my breath. He seems puzzled, but stares deep into my eyes. — You're as high as a bloody kite, son. What are you on? You been on that whacky baccy? What are you on?
I am on planet Earth. We all are. All pathetic Earthling scum. Me, Shark, Mother Teresa, Sutcliffe ... I hand him the keys.
— Jesus Christ! Ye cannae even speak, can you?
Jesus Christ. Another Earthling. This is planet Earth. The Shark and I; human lifeforms sharing the same planet in this universe. Both humans, members of the dominant species on planet Earth. Humans have set up structures, institutions to govern our lives here on this planet. Churches, nations, corporations, societies, and all that shite. One such structure is the council. Within its sphere, leisure and recreation, of which the Parks Service is part. The human known as the Shark (a humanoid referred to by the name of another species due to his perceived similarity in appearance and behaviour to this species, by members of his own) and myself are engaged in economic activity. We are paid, in our small way, to maintain the structure of human society. Our role is a small one, but an integral part of a mystic and wondrous whole.
— We have a role to play ...
— Eh? What's that?
— A role to play in the maintenance of human society ...
— You're tapped, son, fuckin tapped. What are ye oan?
The Shark. An ocean to swim in, a whole ocean. Two thirds of the planet's surface to roam around in. Moreover, he can swim at different levels, so the possibilities are almost endless. Infinite choices in the ocean and this thing has to come onto dry land; has to come onto this small patch of dry land I occupy. I cannot stand being in the vicinity of this creature.
I walk past him, out of this bothy, out of this park.
— Garland's gaunny hear aboot this! he shouts.
Well, neh-neh-neh-neh-neh, cuntybaws.
The tiling about the Montparnasse Tower is that it's so tacky, really dirty and shoddy looking. It's a marvellous structure though, but it's in the wrong city, the wrong continent. It's a very new world structure, but because it's in Paris, nobody's impressed. The Louvre, the Opera, the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower; people are impressed with all that shite, all those beautiful buildings. Nobody really gies a fuck aboot the Montparnasse Tower. Thing is, you get great views over Paris from the observation floor of the Montparnasse.
We're sitting, the two of us, at the restaurant on the top of the tower. It's an ugly, overpriced restaurant with garish fittings and a poor selection of food. But we're happy there, because it's just the two of us. We've had a little look around the internal observation floor, with its huge glass frames which are marked and grubby. Rubbish, old rotting foods and fag-ends have been dropped behind the radiators underneath the handrail which surrounds the observation floor. The most impressive things on this floor are the pictures of the Montparnasse Tower in various stages of construction, from foundations to completion. Even these fine pictures, though, have been faded by the sun. Soon you'll be able to see nothing in them.
However, I don't care about the dirt and grime, because we're together and it's beautiful. I can't think of the parks. The only reality is the texts and images. I tell her that I wrote a poem about her when I was on duty in the park. She asks me to recite it, but I can't remember it.
She stands up and tells me she wants to walk down. All those floors. She moves down the steps, out of the restaurant towards the fire escape. — C'mon, she says, moving into the darkness. I look into the darkness, but I can't see her, I can only hear her voice. — C'mon, she shouts.
— I can't, I shout.
— Don't be scared, she says.
But I am. I look back onto the observation floor and it's light. Out here is light and she's trying to lead me into the darkness. I know if I start after her now I'll never be able to catch up with her. It's not normal dark down there, it's not shades of dark; it's ugly, stark, pitch blackness. I turn around, back into the white and yellow light. As well as her voice down there, others are present. Voices which have nothing to do with her but everything to do with me. Voices I can't face; it's too mad.
I get into the lift. The door closes. I press for the ground; forty-two floors below.
It doesn't move. I try to open the door but it seems to be stuck. I feel uneasy. My feet are sticking to the floor; it's like there's bubble-gum on the floor of this lift. Sticky strands of pink gum cling to the soles of my boots. I look down at the lift floor; it starts swelling. It's like the floor covering is bubbling up. My feet sink into it, then my legs seem to go right through it. I fall through the lift floor, slowly, covered in a stretchy, transparent pink film which is all that stands between me and falling to my death in this dark lift-shaft.
It's not snapping though; it's still stretching. I look up and see myself descending slowly from a hole in the floor of the lift. Floor 41 40 39 38
Then I start to speed up as large white-painted letters indicating the marked floors whizz by: 37 36 35 34 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 (slowing down again, my bubble still holding, thank fuck.)
19 (Dangling stationary, my cord now just the width of a string, and so tensile.)
(Then more movement, more fast movement.) 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 OHH NOOOO!! 2 1 G B -1 -2 -3 -4 -5 -6 -7 -8 -9 WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? -10 -11 -12 -13 -14 -15 -16 -17 -18 -19 -20 -21 -22 -23
I'm still sliding down trapped in this bubble-gum film. I'm now at minus -82 -83 -84 -85 -86 -87 -88 and at -89 my feet gently touch solid ground. It seems as if I've landed in another lift, this one roofless. I put my hand above my head and the tensile gum-like strand snaps under my touch.
My body is covered in this pink film, covered from head to toe. It corrodes my clothes, just dissolves them, but it doesn't react to my skin. It settles on it, like a second layer, hard and protective. I must look like a mannequin. I'm naked but I don't feel vulnerable. I feel strong.
The lift indicator tells me that minus 89 is the bottom. More than two-thirds of this building lies underground. I must be miles, well yards or metres, underneath the earth's surface.
I step out of the lift-shaft. The lift door seems to have gone and I just alight at minus 89. I'm still inside some sort of structure, and although the walls seem to be moving and breathing, it still seems like the huge basement it should be. It's barren and appears deserted. Giant concrete pillars support this weird structure which is man-made and organic at the same time.
A small human-like figure with the head of a reptile shuffles along in a brown overcoat, wheezing, pushing what looks like a shopping trolley full of boxes.
— Excuse me, I shout, — where is this?
— The fuckehhnn boatum flair, this thing shouts, seeming in distress.
— What's through there? I pointed to a sign marked EXIT, a sign that the creature was heading towards.
— Complaints, he smiles at me, his lizard tongue lapping the side of his scaly face. — Some cunts've been fuckehhnn well pittin greenfly in ma central heating. Ah want that sorted oot right now. You doon here fir a woman?
— Eh, naw ... ah mean, aye, I was thinking of her, where she was, how far up this building.
His cold eyes rest on me. — Ah'll fuck ye the now if ye want. Ah'll fuck ye fir nowt. Ye dinnae need women, he gasps, moving towards me. I back away . . .
BLEEEEEEGGGHHHH! — STUPID FUCKIN CUNT!
A horn sounds and a voice roars.
I'm on Ferry Road with the heavy traffic bound for Leith docks whizzing past me. A lorry pulls over and the driver leans out the cab and shakes his fist. — Daft fuckin cunt! Ah nearly fuckin kilt ye! He opens the cab, jumps down and comes towards me. — Ah will fuckin kill ye!
I run along. I don't mind being hit by his lorry, but I don't want to be hit by him. It's the indignity of it all. It's all too personal. There's nothing worse than a violent beating from an unremarkable person. Physical violence with someone is too much like shagging them. Too much id involved.
I feel terrible, but I can't go home. I
can't go back to the park. I walk around for a bit, trying to get my head together. I end up at Veitchy's gaff in Stockbridge. Minus 89. Thank fuck I'm out of that place. But now I'm shaking, feeling sick. I can either tough it out or go back to level minus 89.
— Awright, cuntybaws?
— Ha ha ha, the man himself! Veitchy smiles and lets me in. — Ye look like yuv seen a ghost.
— Naw. Ah saw worse: Raymie, a Shark, a woman, a reptile. Nae ghosts, but.
— Ha, ha ha, yir some cunt, Brian, so ye are. Want a beer?
— Naw, any speed?
— Naw.
— Ah'll take a cup ay tea offay ye. Milk, nae sugar. Penman aroond?
That's obviously a sair yin for Veitchy. — Dinnae talk tae ays aboot that cunt. Thinks he kin jist leave shite here in ma gaff. Tellin ye, Bri, ah'll help a mate oot, but he's takin liberties. Liberties the cunt's takin, I kid you not.
I sit down on the sofa and watch the telly, leaving Veitchy slavering on about Penman. Fuck this life; give me another please.
Next day Ian Caldwell tells me that I was up at his flat in Inchmickery Court in Pilton. A tower block. I can't remember. I have to go back to Paris one day, back to the Montparnasse tower. With her. But she's gone. All the women in my life have gone. My own fuckin mother's gone.
The backshift was more eventful than I thought it would be.
4
CONSTRUCTIVE DISCIPLINE
Garland wore a sad expression; he was a man more disappointed and hurt than angry.
— The worse thing, Brian, he told me, is that I took you for an intelligent and decent young man. I thought that you would prove a diligent and conscientious Park Officer.
— Yeah, ah suppose ah messed things up a bit. ..
— Is it drugs, Brian? Is it? he pleaded.
— No, it's more a kind of depression, you know?
The Shark was in attendance. — Depression my arse! He was zonked out of his bloody brains!
— That's enough, Mister Rutherford! Garland snapped. — Let Brian speak for himself.