The Museum of Doubt Page 20

  See eh, see they’re wasting our money on the river, he said, flicking a story in the paper with his fingernail. Literally throwing it down the river. Stopping folk dumping stuff in it.

  Is there a river here? said Julie.

  It’s the only thing that keeps this part of town clean. Imagine if you couldn’t dump stuff there, eh Smithie, eh – Mary. All the dead dogs and cats and the old prams and mattresses and household appliances piling up in folk’s gardens. And now they’re looking to put up signs against it with our money. Literally throwing it down the river.

  It’s not easy to clean a river once it’s polluted, said Julie. We had one in our town. The council spent tons of money on it and it’s really pure now. It’s great. It’s amazing, you can catch salmon.

  Never. Really? said Mary.

  Yeah, it’s true. The man who caught it got fined because he didn’t have a licence to fish there but the magistrate said it was a bonus for the community.

  Gordon put an old fridge in our river.

  I never, said Gordon.

  I was with you, said Mary. You heaved it off the bridge at one o’clock in the morning.

  You’re imagining things. I wouldn’t have done that. It’s good to have a river that’s pure.

  He’s havering, Julie, said Mary. He doesn’t know what purity is.

  I do so. I do so know what purity is.

  What is it then?

  Purity, it’s when all the germs are killed.

  Mary took Julie to the police station in the car and told Gordon to wait till they got back. After they’d gone Gordon went upstairs and into the guest room. Julie had made the bed. Gordon pulled back the covers, pressed his face into the sheets and inhaled. It smelled the same as their own sheets when they’d been washed. He looked around for the black dress. He couldn’t find it. He went downstairs and found the washing machine already working. He knelt down and looked at the dress slapping against the glass as the drum churned it round. How small it was with the water on it. He put the palm of his hand on the warm door and felt the humming and sloshing of the water. It was incredible. All that time Smithie had a shotgun and not once had he given Gordon a shot. What had he killed himself for? Who was he living with if it wasn’t Smithie anyway? Ah, the woman Mary. Left-footer by the sound of it. And now the jungle warfare. He didn’t much fancy the idea of sticking a gun barrel in your mouth. The metallic taste of it on your tongue. Or were you supposed to put your tongue inside it? What if you threw up before it went off, eh, from the fear. Ach Smithie. He was a good pal till that boy came on the scene, the wee fucker. And he’d seemed a nice enough lad, like those Willman sprogs. Eager to please. They betrayed you in the end.

  Gordon put on his waxed jacket and a tartan scarf and a cap and went out. Kenneth’s car still sat deflated at the kerb. Gordon grinned. He ran the toe of his shoe round the rim of the exhaust pipe. Better not, eh. Too dirty and a hell of a lot bigger calibre. He turned and headed up towards the river.

  At the stone bridge he leaned over the rails and looked down at the black and yellow scum-flecked torrent slipping through the rocks and branches and household appliances. Looked like a washing machine down there. Money you could save putting the machine in the river and just putting the clothes in and leaving the doors open. He heard a sound behind him and looked round. A boy about Kenneth’s age was trying to climb over the rails.

  Hey! shouted Gordon. There’s salmon in that river! He ran across the road and grabbed the boy’s black leather jacket just when the balance of his weight was tipping over the edge. The boy didn’t resist, he sat there on his arse with his legs dangling over the edge, like a mealbag, swinging whichever way Gordon pulled him. He had half a mind just to push the lad off anyway to see what would come of it but letting the river fill up with suicides wasn’t going to impress Julie of the legs if she ever came back, especially suicides that hadn’t washed, like this one by the look of him.

  Fuck off, said the boy, like Kenneth, the pansy.

  None of that cheek. Get back on the pavement, said Gordon. That river’s designated for purification and it’s good so you keep out of it.

  The boy laughed like a brightly-plumaged bird of the rainforest and fell backwards off the railings onto the pavement. Gordon let him fall and the boy lay there cackling. He had a plastic carrier bag containing something square and heavy fastened to his neck with a piece of clothesline and some elaborate knots. He stopped laughing and looked at Gordon seriously.

  I’m very clean, he said. I have a shower every morning and every evening and sometimes in the middle of the day if I’m at home. I change my underwear every day. It’s important to be clean if you’re going to show that the white race is superior. He narrowed his eyes.

  Get up, said Gordon.

  Think I’m ashamed? – ’cause I amn’t, said the boy, getting up. He loosened the cords round his throat, took off the rope and opened the carrier bag. There were leaflets inside. He took one out and handed it to Gordon. Here, he said. Support the master race! He laughed.

  Gordon looked at the leaflet. It was a single piece of paper folded in half. On the front was a Xeroxed sketch of a boy lying on the ground stripped to the waist with something like blood pouring from him and a group of men standing round grinning. One of the men had a turban on. At the top in big letters it said ENOUGH! WE MUST DEFEND OUR PEOPLE! On the other side there were several columns of small dense print and a picture of a row of young lads wearing dark shirts and swastika armbands and holding knives above their heads.

  Aye, said Gordon. Did you draw this yourself?

  Of course I fucking didn’t. It comes from the general staff.

  Here, said Gordon. I’m warning you, I won’t tolerate that kind of language from folk your age.

  It’s about how white people like us are getting murdered and AIDS-infected and our women raped by pakis, yids, chinks and niggers. The boy took a sharp step back and lifted his hand in front of his face and ducked his head like he thought Gordon was going to hit him and then giggled like a lassie.

  Gordon looked at the leaflet again and sure enough one of the grinning men had huge lips and a bone through his nose. Right, said Gordon. We do get a lot of that round here. He nodded and handed the leaflet back to the boy, who flinched again, blinked several times and snatched it out of his hand.

  Eh? said the boy.

  Niggers, said Gordon. There’s refugees in the church hall.

  The boy’s mouth pinched together. You’re Special Branch, aren’t you? he said.

  My brother wanted to get in but it’s all stitched up with Oxbridge, isn’t it? So is this what you do, son, hand out leaflets? Must be very boring work. That’s why you were jumping off the bridge, eh?

  The boy put his hand on the parapet and looked out over the edge. He turned back. His lower lip was trembling. What was it about young folk these days? Christ it was hard not to laugh.

  The boy sniffed and tears came out his eyes. My girlfriend said I was a fascist prick, he said.

  Is that right? said Gordon. He looked at his watch. He’d never get to the garden centre at this rate.

  And she calls up the commander and tells him it was me tipped off the plods about the petrol bombs, and how I was working for the Bangladeshi secret service, and now they’ve put my picture in last week’s newsletter saying I’m a traitor.

  It’s terrible what they’ll do to you. I know. They’re like – you know what they are? They’re fascists. Wee Hitlers the lot of them. They’ll sell you down the river. Look, seeing as you’re interested in the ethnic business I’ll walk you down the road. It’s on my way. OK?

  What’s the point?

  You’ve got to keep up your interests.

  It’s not worth it. There’s nothing but injustice wherever you go. The boy wiped the tears off his face.

  You’re right, said Gordon. You’re right to trust no-one. I don’t. But where’s the guarantee it’s going to be any better after you’re dead? Two young lads, right, tw
o young lads. One of them’s a miserable jessie with a daft haircut and so’s the other one, in fact, but one of them’s alive and the other one’s lying drowned face down in the river. Along comes this wee smasher with fantastic tits. Maybe she won’t fancy either of the young lads, she wouldn’t if she had any sense, she’d go for an older man with some money and an understanding of the world, but supposing she’s thick and fancies one of these boys. Which one’s it going to be? The one still talking and breathing, or the cold one in the river? Eh? She’s not going to go down there and start shagging the corpse, is she? It’s a question of chances. Even when you’re alive you’ve got virtually no chance of getting off with a lassie like that but when you’re dead you’ve got no chance atall.

  Not that you know of.

  Not that anyone knows of. You’ll get to try being dead in the end. Everyone gets a shot. In the meantime you’ve just got to try to entertain yourself in the queue.

  What about faith? said the boy.

  Listen, I’ve got to get up to the garden centre, said Gordon. I’ll walk you down the road, and then if you still want to jump off the bridge you can come back. It’s only a few minutes. OK?

  The boy wiped the tears off his face and they went off together.

  There’s a hell of a lot of foreigners, right enough, said Gordon. You think there’s too many of them here, you should try going abroad. I went to Bangkok once. Just don’t tell Smithie, eh, if she found out there’d be hell to pay. Ach ye bugger Smithie was with me, was he not, so who was it not to tell? The left-footer, the jungle fighter, what was her name, Mary. With breasts, she cooked breakfast for him not half an hour ago, and they slept in the same bed. Have to pick up some of those twigs while he was about it. How did it come about that they were sleeping in the same bed. Marriage, that was the one. Marriage. And old Smithie, he knew better than that, he knew to steer clear of the organisations, the fascists, they shot you in the back of the head the moment you stopped even to take a breath. Mind you what was he about, shooting himself? It wasn’t Gordon’s fault the wee one was a bit slow on his feet in the traffic.

  The boy with the leaflets was holding forth about the militias in America.

  My brother had some books on the Ku Klux Klan, said Gordon. He said we needed something like that here only there weren’t enough negroes in Scotland and it’d have to be for the Catholics instead.

  The door to the church hall was open. They went into the lobby and passed through a narrow way cleared between two great piles of boots and shoes and coats and through another set of doors into the hall. It was hot and bright and filled with chattering and shouting in a language which was not English. Women were sorting blankets and sleeping bags and trying to make spaces for their families among the others and the grannies were sitting stunned on the floor and kids were hurtling up and down and playing soldiers on the stage and the men were standing up in groups, smoking and talking and waving their arms at each other.

  Gordon went up to the nearest group. D’you speak English? he said to a man with his hands in the pockets of a brown leather jacket.

  Yes, said the man.

  We’re looking for the refugees.

  We are the refugees.

  Gordon looked round the hall. I mean the other folk, you know, the Africans, he said.

  The man shook his head and looked round like he wasn’t sure himself. There aren’t any Africans here, he said. Maybe we look like Africans to you but that’s the fucking Serbs’ fault, excuse me. He spoke a few words to his pals in his language and they laughed.

  Gordon told the suicide boy to hang on for a couple of minutes and went outside to look for Shiltie. The minister was in an office round the back of the church. Nice little number. Free house, no work to speak of, tax exemptions all over the shop. Maybe work an angle.

  Shiltie was clacking away at the old computer. When Gordon came in he swivelled round on a chair and took his glasses off and didn’t get up.

  Good morning, he said.

  Aye, morning, said Gordon. Here I thought you were supposed to be getting refugees for your church hall. Did you know the place was full of hundreds of folk standing around smoking and chatting and dossing, kids and grannies and everything?

  Those are the refugees, said Shiltie.

  Oh, is that them, is it? I thought they were going to be more coloured.

  They’re from Yugoslavia.

  Right, there’s a war on there, isn’t there, right enough.

  Shiltie sighed. You would have thought God would have singed him across the chops just for that sighing, one of his own. What do you want? he said. We’ve got permission. They’re not doing anyone any harm.

  I found this boy trying to jump off the bridge, and you know they’re trying to keep the river clean, said Gordon. He was depressed about the eh, racial … ethnic …

  Ethnic cleansing, said Shiltie.

  Aye. That was the phrase he used. It was just I was on my way to the garden centre, right, and I thought if I dropped him off here in passing seeing as he was interested in darkies, and you with the refugees.

  You make me sick, said Shiltie, getting up. He was trembling. I can turn the cheek with every other old bigot in the parish but there’s something about you that makes me want to commit violence.

  Nancy boy. The feeling was mutual. Wait till he got to heaven and had to work his ticket in front of God. That’d be funny, watching the minister crawling round in the clouds looking for his specs and God saying I’m sorry, did you lose your specs? Oh look Gabriel, I’m standing on them. I’m awful sorry, Shittie, they’re broken. D’you see that, Gabriel, I’ve broken Shittie’s specs. And I was wanting to ask him to read off the sizes on the soles of our boots. And Gabriel and all the angels would laugh and hitch up their rainments and piss in a bucket and Shiltie’d have to drink it while they did the slow handclap. Could you rely on angel piss not to taste good, though? It was going to be no joke up there till you got in close with the chief. Need to have a word with the bank about it. Christ, the minister was still havering away.

  I think it’s quite encouraging – who cares what you think? – that the attitudes of some members of your generation haven’t infected all young people, said Shiltie, getting up. And I think – Christ, there he was, thinking again, he had to tell you each time – it’s terribly sad that boys like this have been so disillusioned by the legacy of greed and hatred you’ve left them in the world that they’re ready to kill themselves. The West bears a heavy share of responsibility for the tragedy in the former Yugoslavia. I suppose it’s to your credit that you stopped him jumping. Where’s the young lad now?

  They went to the hall and found the boy standing bent double, weeping with laughter in the middle of a group of young male refugees. They were all laughing. One tapped the boy on the shoulder to make him look up and mimed a gesture of cutting something between his legs and stuffing it into his mouth. He made his cheeks bulge out and his eyes pop. They all roared. One of the refugees saw Shiltie.

  Oh! Mr Shiltie! he shouted, putting his hand round the boy’s shoulder. Why didn’t you tell us before there were such people in your country? He kissed the boy on the cheek.

  Is this him? said Shiltie to Gordon.

  Aye, said Gordon. You seem to have cheered up a wee bit.

  Are you homeless? said Shiltie to the boy.

  No, I live with my mum and dad in Portobello.

  You seem to be getting on famously with our guests from the Balkans.

  He’s one of us! said the refugee, squeezing the boy’s shoulders. He’s a patriot. He’s not a communist like you, Mr Shiltie. If everyone here was like Julian you never would have lost your empire.

  Julian grinned.

  Maybe you should go home, said Shiltie.

  No! shouted the refugees. Let him stay! We’ll teach him how to fight, then we’ll all go and fuck the Serbs together, eh?

  Julian grinned.

  Now just hold on, said Shiltie.

  That’s me away
to the garden centre, said Gordon.

  Wait, said Shiltie.

  Gordon walked over to the door. Before he walked out he looked back and saw Shiltie picking up one of Julian’s leaflets and frowning. Julian was lying prone on the floor, squinting down the length of a broom handle while one of the refugees instructed him in the art of sniping.

  And the Days Grow Shorter

  Gordon hadn’t been to the garden centre on foot before. It was a fair haul across the car park to the entrance and coming on to rain too. What was he doing letting Smithie go off with the car like that, it was his, he’d paid for it. These wee laddies with their fancy motors, red Jap Dinky boxes-on-wheels for folk who never learned to tie their laces and wore slip-ons, there should be a law that they had to stop for their elders and let them take the wheel. I’m sorry son, I’m going to have to take this vehicle off you for a few days, looks like we’re in for a wet spell. I understand, sir, you’ve earned the right, here are the keys. Spot on, son. Cheerio!

  He went in, released a trolley and cruised the aisles. He put in a power drill, a baseball cap saying Team Bosch and a shiny steel tool in a fold-out case with forty different attachments. He didn’t know what it was for but it looked like you could have fun with it. Christ, look at that fountain. You just plugged in the hose and it started burbling away. Classy. Could have it in the front room, run the pipe under the rug. Marble-effect plastic. An absolute miracle, a gem. Probably from China right enough but who was it bought it, eh? Who had the taste and the spending power? Not old Charlie Chan, that was for sure. Could buy one for Smithie. Ach, not Smithie, the other one, with the breasts. How did she know Smithie was dead? They never told you anything. One thing was sure: Smithie would’ve wanted his pal Gordon to have the shotgun. That was agenda item number one at the next meeting.