| Subject: I fixed your sneak for you!! See? |
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Date Posted: 17:26:45 02/11/02 Mon
In reply to:
noine
's message, "Canter too (NT)" on 17:39:21 02/05/02 Tue
>Paul plays with the image of his sister's doll. It is
>difficult to remember what Bessie looked like before
>he sacrificed her to the darker gods of his temper. He
>remembers how the red hot poker seared the thick
>plastic making scars across her cheeks and forehead.
>Paul had taken his inspiration from a drawing in the
>Wizard; he prefers the Wizard to illustrated comics
>like The Dandy and The Beano; he has always considered
>them juvenile.
> At six years old he'd insisted his mother read
>him the stories from the Hotspur and the Wizard; he
>sat on the rug in front of the fire, back ensconced
>between her legs, head laid back on her pinafored lap,
>and he listened, o, how the boy listened, the words
>flickering as brightly as the flames dancing in the
>glowing coals.
> At seven he read the stories for himself. He read
>the Hotspur and the Wizard, and the Courier and the
>Evening Telegraph, the Sunday Post and the People's
>Friend. He read anything and everything that came into
>the house. He rummaged in dustbins, not for 'luckies',
>the odds and ends of people's lives, but for
>something, anything to read. His mother had come
>across him up-ended in a dustbin, rummaging. She'd
>tipped his legs so he fell headfirst into the bin,
>then jammed on the lid. He'd howled not through fear
>but in protest at the stinking dark that did not allow
>him to read the Woman's Weekly he'd retrieved.
> He broke into his mother's private blackbox,
>hidden in the wardrobe, and read every letter his
>father had written his mother. Most of it he did not
>understand, the fractured English was littered with
>French words. Some of it embarrassed him: your legs
>entwined with mine ... why would his father wrestle
>with his mother? In the nursery he'd devoured the
>picture books, vaguely irked by the pictures of
>spotless boys and girls and their spotty dog Spot and
>their make-believe house with its immaculate garden,
>dancing daffodils, and their shiny mother and their
>beaming father and his stupid car.
> Nobody he knew lived like that; they had to be
>English, and his granddad had told him all about the
>English. But the letters, the words had fascinated
>him. The colour and shape of each letter and word
>enthralled him. He ran his pinkie around each letter
>as he murmured its sound, and when he was sure no
>nurse was looking he'd run the pink tip of his pink
>tongue around each letter, and given each word its own
>little kiss. Even then Paul knew he was daft.
>
>< 2 >
>
> It was his turn to set and light the fire. He
>knew that. And he was going to set and light it. But
>he had to finish the Wizard first, not the whole
>comic, just Morgan the Mighty. It was the final
>episode of a six-week serialisation. Morgan, mighty
>jungle man that he was, had decided discretion was the
>better part of valour. Paul understood and accepted
>that. He knew brawn was all very well, but faced with
>a pack of heathen, yelling savages and a large, black
>cooking pot, temporary retreat made sense.
> There was a half-page illustration, unusual in a
>comic noted for its tiny typeface and dense text. Each
>feral face was hideously scarred, ran the text, and a
>glance at the line-drawing indicated that was an
>understatement. Paul lay on the settee and shivered in
>delight, restraining himself from inhaling the text in
>chunky gulps.
> "You'd better set the fire."
> "You set it. Eh'm reading'."
> "I'm not allowed to. I'm only seven."
> "It's no cauld."
> "It's freezing."
> "Shut up. Eh'm readin'."
> There was something about Kathleen's voice that
>infuriated Paul. At times she sounded like a miniature
>version of mum; at times she sounded like the little
>girl in those 'See Spot Run' picture books she adored.
>Not that he'd ever heard the spotless one speak, but
>he knew perfectly well what she would sound like if
>she did. A wee bampot. With ideas well above her
>station.
> It was his mother's fault. She had 'plans' for
>Kathleen, dressed her like a crinoline shepherdess,
>corrected her natural speech, brushed her hair two
>hundred times every night, yet forced her brothers to
>take her to the show at the Rialto cinema on a
>Saturday night when she was all-dolled-up and out on
>the town. At least it was easy to sneak their sister
>in through the fire-doors after the film had started
>and park her elsewhere for the duration. Since Joe sat
>with his pals, Paul was often forced to sit with
>Kathleen watching her sook up her Kiaora Squash with
>never a gurgle. Unnatural, that was.
> "I'll tell on you."
> "You'll what?"
> "I'll tell Joe on you."
> "Say that again."
> There was a pause. Then it came, in crystal clear
>English English.
> "I'll tell Joseph you would not light the fire."
>
>< 3 >
>
> Something fired in Paul's brain. He was off the
>settee in a flash. Three steps across the room, and
>slap! The fingers of his right hand stung. Kathleen
>reeled back, stepping on Lucky. The cat squealed and
>vanished into the coalbunker. Something caught in
>Kathleen's throat. Was she strangling? Four red weals
>rose in the pale porcelain of her left cheek.
> A key turned in the lock.
> "It's only me. It's only yer granny."
> Two huge grey duffel bags joined round the middle
>waddled into the living room. Atop them sat Granny
>Cameron's head, grey hairs straying beneath a grey
>balaclava, cheeks ablaze from the cold, eyes caught in
>a crossfire of bewildered merriment.
> Kathleen howled and was gathered in by padded
>arms ending in grey fingerless gloves.
> "C'mere, hen. Whit's wrang wi' yi'? C'mon. Tell
>yer gran."
> Kathleen sobbed. "Paul did it. Paul slapped me.
>And he won't light the fire. It's his turn, but we
>won't light the fire."
> Paul was gratified to see snot running down from
>his sister's nose. You wouldn't catch the wee girl in
>'See Spot Run' doing that. Kathleen licked the snot
>into her mouth between sobs. She was human after all.
> "O, yer a bad wee bugger, Paul Biscuit," said his
>grandmother. "Yer just like yer grandfaither, a bad
>bugger. Yeh'll end up in drink, just like him. A
>chanty wrestler. Yeh'll baith end up in bammydoon."
> Condemnation from his grandmother was unexpected
>but tolerable, the insult to his grandfather
>unbearable. Paul stepped forward and slapped his
>granny across her glowing left cheek.
> It would not be possible to determine whose eyes
>opened widest. Kathleen's sobbing subsided into
>silence. Granny Cameron stood in silence. Only Paul's
>defiant gasps broke the silence. "Remember to
>breathe," whispered Kathleen. "Remember Dr Heinreich
>showed you how to breathe."
> Boy, girl and elderly woman would be calculating
>possible outcomes. Granny Cameron wouldn't tell Paul's
>mother; she'd arrived half an hour late, and the
>consequences of her sin of omission might outweigh
>that of Paul's commission. She would not need to
>forgive Paul; her nature, unable to entertain blame or
>guilt, was unencumbered by the need to forgive.
>Kathleen might not want to tell their mother, but when
>those two lay in bed at night, daughter curled into
>the spoon of mother's body, what secrets could be
>withheld from such intimacy?
>
>< 4 >
>
> Paul wanted to rush into his granny's arms. She
>would hold him, hug him, enfold him in her smells of
>kale soup and clootie dumplings. Both would be healed,
>and she would pronounce absolution in terms more
>absolute than the entire Holy Catholic and Apostolic
>Church could ever manage: "Nivir mind, eh'll just put
>the kettle on." But there were other mysteries in
>play.
> His mother had always kept his grandmother at
>arm's length, civil, polite, amicable, but never warm,
>never unconditionally warm. He'd seen the coldness in
>his mother's eyes, and the hurt in his grandmother's,
>and though his mother never said a word against his
>grandmother, and though she encouraged her bairns to
>spend lots of time at their granny's, and allowed them
>to stay on Saturday nights with their rantin', rovin'
>reprobate of a granddad, she never gave herself to
>them, never visited their home, and rarely invited her
>father to theirs. Paul had imbibed his mother's milk,
>and as he grew older, as he established his otherness,
>he, too, kept his distance.
> He fought for control of his breathing and won.
> "Eh'll set the fire now," he said.
> "Eh'll put the kettle on," his granny said.
> "I'll wash and dress Bessie," his sister said.
>"Then I'll put her to sleep."
> Paul loathed the stupid dolly.
> Catherine Bosquet was one to spare the rod but
>she was not one to spoil her children; she believed in
>the truth, no matter how the truth hurt. When she told
>Paul the truth, he knew she meant it: "This is going
>to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me." It was time
>for the rod in the form of its secular substitute 'the
>belt', a half inch thick leather strap with a split up
>the middle and five 'fingers' at the business end. His
>mother's tawse was a classic crafted from the finest
>Lochgelly leather that had blistered Scottish
>schoolboys' fingers from generation unto generation.
> The boy told his mother before she'd got her coat
>and turban off.
> "Eh slapped meh sister."
> He helped her slide her coat off; the delicious
>smell of jute enveloped him. He wanted to wrap himself
>in her coat, curl up on the settee, and disappear back
>into the jungles with Morgan the Mighty. He hung her
>coat on the brass hook on the back of the door. His
>sister heaved the message bag onto the kitchen table.
>"It was my fault. I annoyed him. He was reading,"
>whispered his sister.
>
>< 5 >
>
> "Let Jean-Paul tell me," his mother said. Nothing
>could be read in the tone of her voice. It was
>implacably neutral.
> "She tehlt me ..."
> "She told me ..."
> "She told me to set the fire. I was reading." He
>tried to keep the stubbornness out of his voice. He
>failed. The woman undid her turban and shook her hair;
>tiny jute fibres drifted down to the linoleum.
> "So you hit your sister."
> "I lost my rag."
> "Your what?"
> "My temper. I lost my temper ..."
> "... and hit your sister."
> Kathleen sat on the settee. She stared into the
>fire. "It didn't hurt ... much," she mumbled.
> "Go on."
> How could she know there was more? Paul frowned.
>Something gave him away. He could lie to anyone:
>Father Bone, Miss Watt, even to his granddad, and
>silence was the finest form of the lie. So how did she
>know, how did she always know? It unnerved him.
> "I slapped Granny."
> "Why?"
> Which answer would serve best? He rifled through
>the possibilities.
> "She took Kathleen's side. She always takes
>Kathleen's side."
> "So then, you hit little girls and old women. A
>fine man, you are."
> He wanted to throw himself into her arms, beg
>forgiveness, press his face into her stomach and drown
>in the smell of jute she brought home every evening
>from Cox's jute mills. But his pride and her
>politeness set the continent of Antarctica between
>them.
> "And where's your gran?"
> "She went home, five minutes ago."
> There was the suggestion of a shrug.
> "Well, let's have tea, then we'll do what we have
>to do later. Kathleen, turn on the radio. Joe Loss is
>on at six."
> Joe Bosquet arrived to the sounds of the Joe Loss
>Dance Band playing 'When they begin the Beguine' and
>an atmosphere as dense and sluggish as the Lyle's
>Golden Syrup his sister was ladling onto her toast. He
>glanced at his mother; she glanced at Paul; Joe
>glanced at his brother. Paul sat on the settee, Lucky
>curled in his lap, the Wizard lying untouched and
>untouchable by his side.
> "Your brother slapped his sister, then his
>grandmother," his mother said.
> "Eh'm ... I'm not having tea, mum. Me and Geo ...
>George Gardiner and I are going to the show, the
>Rialto ... if that's okay. We'll have a pie supper
>afterwards ... if that's okay."
>
>< 6 >
>
> "Nine o'clock, son."
> She raised her cheek. He kissed it. If his
>brother had glanced in their direction, he might have
>witnessed a momentary twist in Joseph's lower lip. He
>might have taken it for sympathy and treasured the
>moment forever. He did not look in their direction; it
>would only have signalled what he already knew: even
>the waters around Antarctica had frozen over.
> Paul had no illusions. He knew it was going to
>hurt. He'd forgotten how much it hurt until the first
>crack spread-eagled him across the bed. His arse was
>on fire. He pushed himself back and raised his bare
>backside again. Crack! He held his I night demon sneak
>usher of death from death mountain. Position this
>time, but it hurt, good Christ, it hurt. Even six of
>the best in school never felt like this, and you could
>at least blow on your bruised fingers afterwards. How
>could you blow on your own backside?
> Crack! He tried to hold his position but was
>again sent sprawling across the bed. The indignity was
>almost as painful as the blows themselves. Crap.
>Nothing could be as painful as the blows his mother
>administered with such detached accuracy. In school
>you could stroll back to your desk whispering, "It
>wisnae sair. Her belt wis saft." But the lady teachers
>at Ancrum Road Primary School did not keep six mill
>machines running from eight in the morning to five in
>the afternoon. Crack! Then came the tears.
> Paul buries his face in the quilt. He makes no
>effort to stop the tears, he couldn't if he tried, but
>he tries to muffle the sounds. His bum is ablaze; you
>could probably fry pork chops on it. But the pain is
>deeper than that, and far too complicated for him to
>analyse, though he tries, he does try. It is to do
>with being him and not being her, no, more properly
>it's to do with not being the him that he would like
>to be for her. He would like to be good, not for
>himself but for her, but he's not good, or at least
>not good enough for her. There is nothing and no one
>good enough for her.
> "Pull your pyjamas up. Get to bed."
> He hauls his pyjamas up from behind and crawls
>under the quilt. He faces the wall. He wants to look
>at her. He wants to take her image with him into the
>oblivion of sleep. He cannot face her. He has become
>so sensitised he hears Lucky patter across the living
>room, slip into the bedroom and launch herself onto
>the bed. She's been eating Kit-e-Kat; she stinks. She
>buries herself into the quilt down around his backside
>and takes advantage of the glow. He hears a click. It
>is the bedside lamp. Another click. The main light
>goes off. Something flutters and flops onto the bed.
>
>< 7 >
>
> "There," says his mother, "now you can finish
>your story."
> The thought of reading brings bile to his throat.
> The bedroom door clicks shut.
> Wicked.
> I am wicked. My mother conceived me in sin, so I
>am wicked. I know I have to renounce the devil and all
>his wicked ways, but how can I do it if I'm born to
>wickedness?
> The catechism rolls around in his like marbles in
>a tobacco tin. The hours spent at Father Bone's knees
>are some consolation. He does so want to be good, to
>have his trespasses forgiven, and to forgive them that
>trespass against him - but not just yet.
> Wicked, yes, I'm wicked.
> What is your Name?
> What a stupid question.
> Who gave you this Name?
> He knows this one.
> My Godfathers and my Godmothers in my Baptism;
>where I was made ...
> The serrated blade of the bread knife saws its
>way through the rubber bands holding Bessie's head to
>her body.
> ... a member of Christ,
> A band snaps. A leg jerks, then hangs limp. The
>left arm dangles.
> ... the child of God,
> A second band snaps. A second leg jerks, then
>hangs limp. The right arm dangles.
> ... and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven.
> The third band snaps. Bessie's head, eyes wide
>open, falls onto the settee.
> Paul casts the headless doll aside and picks up
>Bessie's head. He has already prepared the altar on
>the living room table. He kneels down on the rug in
>front of the open fire and gingerly withdraws the
>poker. It has a wooden handle, but even so he can feel
>the heat course the length of the iron bar. From its
>tip a three inch length is red hot.
> He criss-crosses Bessie's cheeks with the poker.
>Creamy pink plastic curls into brown. The smell brings
>tears to his eyes. He sears two lines across her
>forehead. He reheats the tip, then forces it through
>one eye. He makes a small hole in the top of Bessie's
>head. The tricky part is next, melting the bottom of
>the hollow head in time to stick it to the tin tray in
>the middle of the table. He raises the tray with both
>hands, the head is firmly welded to the tray. Introibo
>ad altare dei ...
>
>< 8 >
>
> Ceremoniously he plays the tray and its precious
>burden in the centre of the table. On either side
>stand a church candle. He melts the end of a third
>candle and fixes it to the top of Bessie's grotesquely
>abused head. The doll's single eye is still open.
> Question: What meanest thou by this word
>Sacrament?
> Answer: I mean an outward and visible sign
> of an inward and spiritual grace.
> Paul lies back on the settee. He feels sick,
>deliriously sick. He knows he should not go ahead with
>his plan. There is time to wrap everything inside an
>old Courier and dump it in the bins. Suspicion is not
>proof, and he can deny everything. He knows he will be
>punished; how severe the punishment will be, he does
>not want to try and imagine.
> Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it. It ticks
>away inside him like the clock in Captain Hook's
>crocodile. But there is a defiance in him equal to
>hers, equal to the whole of Whorterbank if necessary,
>equal to that of Lochee, Dundee, Scotland, the United
>Kingdom, Europe, the World, the Solar System, the
>Universe. Equal to God Himself if it comes to it.
>Remember what Dr Heinreich says, take deep breaths,
>deep deep breaths.
> The child-minder brought Kathleen home at five
>o'clock. It was cold outside, the promise of snow hung
>heavy in the evening air. Her cheeks were aglow. In
>the lobby Paul helped her off with her coat, her red,
>knitted balaclava with its white pom-pom, and her
>woollen mittens. Off slid her wellington boots.
> "Close your eyes," said Paul. "God's brought you
>something." For Kathleen, God held similar status to
>Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy though His visits had
>not yet involved a home visit. Her eyes widened, the
>fingers of her left hand slipped into her mouth in an
>act of wonder.
> Paul took her shoulders and directed her gently
>into the living room. He positioned her in front of
>the table on which glowed the head of the second most
>important person in her life.
> "Now, open your eyes and see what God gave you."
> Kathleen opened her eyes,
> and screamed,
> and screamed,
> and screamed.
> That night Joe lets Paul sleep on the inside,
>closest to the radiator, furthest away from the
>bedroom door. He punches him in the kidneys again.
>Paul grunts in pain.
>
>< 9 >
>
> "You're a bad bastard," hisses the older brother.
>He punches the younger again. "I hope mum never lets
>you read anither comic in this hoose." He drives the
>point of his knuckles in Paul's back.
> "You're wicked, that's what you are. They don't
>know it, but I do. You might be meh wee brither, but
>you're daft, daft and wicked."
> Paul grunts in assent. He knows he's wicked. They
>don't know just how wicked he is.
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