A Disaffection by James Kelman

Author:James Kelman [Kelman, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary
ISBN: 9781448104857
Google: fRjQE-LziWIC
Amazon: B007BLO40S
Goodreads: 17430853
Publisher: Random House
Published: 1989-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Patrick was going to go home because going home is best. To be alone and without gods is death says Hölderlin but Hölderlin was wrong and is a poor bastard. Patrick is not a poor bastard. He strolls. He is lost in thought. He is deep in the province of inner psychomachinations. Weans are puzzled. They do not zoom. They are quietly there, they are awkwardly there, their feet shuffle, but not for long not for long, this being ten minutes to four and liberation is upon them thus their interest wanes. But there are teachers who are looking, whom I am not seeing, being lost in thought etcetera etcetera and I stroll on in fast time, a straight line, down the steps and outside, across the carpark, wherein the motor. But not to get in not to get in not to get in not to get in and the faces all fucking looking and the two polis as well over by the gates and fucking looking what are they fucking looking at the bastards the fucking bastards because the key get the key get the key in the fucking lock and come on now calm down just fucking calm down and insert the long bit in there, and turn it clockwise, click, click click. Doors aye open. That’s what doors are for, to open. Come on now, just take it fucking easy else you’ll bang into the gatepost for christ sake. But his hand was shaking he was so cold, his body having lost so much of its heat and also the actual temperature seeming to have dropped to something approaching zero once more. It was as if Glasgow had become a form of antichthon. Hot water bottles. He was looping the belt and plugging it in to the bit where it goes, the seatbelt lock, shivering but gaining control, getting his arms to stiffen, his hands affixed to the wheel. He would not crash into any fucking gatepost. He switched on the ignition and the engine started first time. He revved it, seeing the clouds of exhaust in the rearview mirror, some elderly weans scowling at it, and there too was Alison. There she was. That was her there, and walking; on her tod and walking, along the driveway, handbag swinging, looking so fine, so fine. She was there. He let down the handbrake, clutch up and the motor was moving, steadily it would have appeared but his hands were clinging onto the steering wheel for dear life. He would be into bed soon. He would be into bed so quickly that maybe even he would be wearing his clothes, maybe not even bothering to get them off, being so tired and not having to worry about what folk might think since there he was alone and not answerable to a soul, to no bastard, he could just get into the house and bang shut the door and throw himself under the blankets. Ah, bliss. His mind shutting, his mind just shutting, his memory, all of it going, a formalised system, a theorem of sleep.

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