Black had hoped for affirmation in that article. Instead, he'd found only scorn and contempt. He'd cut out the offending passage, keeping it in his wallet, and no matter how many times he reread it, it never failed to induce rage. Here in a busy cafe in South Florida, shaded from the oppressive heat, he was moved to look at it again. Surely Ewart – that was his name – surely he was joking; it was just the so-called ironic anti-establishment posturing so beloved of such publications, usually owned by the satanic profiteers of the multinational media corporations. Black cast his febrile mind back; dates and faces slowly started to mesh together. The exhalted art teacher would no doubt be the harlot Slaven, with her short skirt and husky voice, unaware that the basis of her supposed 'popularity' lay solely in the boys' hormones. No, it was probable she was aware of this fact only too well.
How could the girls do anything but fall like dominoes to teenage pregnancy, with a wanton slut like that on the staff to set the example?
The English teacher would most likely be Crosby. Sitting back in the staffroom, pontificating and agitating; spreading cynical discord wherever he went.
I crossed swords with that Trotskyite a few times before . . . a troublemaker.
Like this Carl Ewart character. Not a thuggish type, more of a subversive. Possessing that snide ability to wind up the dimmer pupils with his wilful rebelliousness. He was in cahoots with the wee laddie, Albert Black recalled, the one who'd died. Black had attended the funeral (a tawdry civil service in the crematorium) in order to represent the school. A former pupil had passed over to the mercy of the Lord. The death would have gone unmarked and unrepresented had Miss Norton not said in the staffroom that she'd heard how the lad who had fallen from George VI Bridge after a bout of stupid, drunken horseplay had gone to the school.
He'd looked up the details. Another nobody: a poor, unremarkable wastrel of a youth. Yet how could pupils feel connected to the school, believe in it, if nobody even acknowledged that this boy had been part of it? The school failed the likes of that young man, Galloway, he recalled, and in return, they failed the school. That was it: complacency, laziness, the lack of belief, the absence of standards, it all came down to one thing: secularism.
And now, sitting at the News Cafe in Miami's South Beach, oblivious to the passing crowds, Albert Black's racing brain recalled where he had seen Carl Ewart's name even more recently. It had been on a large poster in his own grandson Billy's basement bedroom! The big emblazoned logo, it had jumped out at him on his brief tour of the subterranean labyrinth of the house: N-SIGN.
That was what Carl Ewart called himself: N-Sign. Of course, Ewart wouldn't be aware that this referred to Ensign Charles Ewart, a giant Scot who was a hero of the Battle of Waterloo, single-handedly capturing the French standard of the Eagle. No, doubtless he picked it up from passing by or sitting inside the grubby hostelry on the Royal Mile which exploited that brave soldier's name.
Carl Ewart. A millionaire, and he was a disc jockey. This would mean that he played records, presumably on radio stations. How could someone become a millionaire through playing other people's records? Black suddenly felt the need to know. But the article had also said that Ewart 'remixed' records for people, for artists. This was how the people who made that trash referred to themselves. Presumably this meant that those 'recording artists' taped their offerings, their banal instrumentations, and the likes of Ewart reordered this material, adding those ghastly sound effects and horrendous drumbeats that you heard everywhere. In the magazine piece, Ewart had pompously spoken of his work as 'revolutionary'. That pounding, monotonous racket that had become so ubiquitous, even less palatable than the screeching guitar and vocal sounds that used to predominate. This, in essence, was the extent of Ewart's revolution: to take something vile and disgusting and then debase it even further. And Albert Black heard this ungodly racket everywhere here in Miami Beach, from the courtyards of the local boutique hotels and the expensive passing vehicles driven by exhibitionists, to his own grandson's bedroom. He would ask Billy about Carl Ewart when he got back. If nothing else, it might help to build some sort of dialogue between them.
And Ewart had been at the funeral of this Galloway character. Who had he been in attendance with? Birrell, the boxer, and that fool . . . what was his name? . . . Lawson: that idiot who had embarrassed the school by being arrested for football thuggery. Lawson. Dragged out of Easter Road stadium with that other simpleton, the so inappropriately named Martin Gentleman, then paraded around the perimeter track by the police for the benefit of TV stations across the country. The school's name had been sullied further through being mentioned in the newspapers. Albert Black had seen the incident. Fortunately, Lawson had already left the school by this time, but when Black had called Gentleman to account for himself at school assembly, the huge, simple youth had shouted some defiant curses from his sewer-like mouth before charging out of the school for good to join Lawson in a life of crime and debauchery. And good riddance.
Lawson and his blaspheming mouth. He had changed 'look ever to Jesus, he will follow you through' to 'look ever to Jesus, he will follow through' accompanied by loud noises simulating flatulence. It had spread like a moronic bush fire from that class to assembly, forcing Albert Black, although pretty much a psalm purist, to abandon one of his favourite hymns from the list.
The retired schoolmaster's knee clicked a habitual warning as he rose with youth's careless vigour, and returned to the News Cafe's shop, where he thumbed through some magazines until he found something called Mixmag. Inside a picture of Ewart, his milky-white hair now thinning a little. He was contemplative, and yes, intelligent-looking. Focused, thoughtful and reflecting on the forthcoming DJ conference in Miami.
Miami?
Surely not. But there were strange coincidences. Billy, his grandson, was a fan of Carl Ewart. This seemed so ridiculous to Black. His grandson, his American grandson – an acolyte of a disruptive clown from a west Edinburgh scheme! It was a strange world. Black checked the dates of this conference. Ewart was in Miami now!
Ewart. Here.
Black looked towards the heavens. The skies were still clear and he felt his old flesh tingle in a buzz of anticipation. The possibility of the guiding hand of divine forces could not be discounted. Indeed, there seemed no other reason for such an unlikely coincidence of circumstance. Almost at once Albert Black resolved to attend this conference and speak to Carl Ewart and ask, no, demand that he explain those offensive comments. Surely there must have been something that the school provided him with to equip him for this life of success, as degraded as it undoubtedly was. Black was suddenly desperate to find out where and when this conference was taking place. He supposed that Ewart would be delivering an address, as he himself had done several times on the subject of religious education (usually upon deaf ears and accompanied by sneering whispers) at the Educational Institute of Scotland's annual conference.
Returning to his seat, Albert Black finished his water and settled the bill, refusing to leave a tip. Who would bequeath a gratuity to be furnished with something that was provided by the bounty of the Lord? — Have a nice day, the server pouted in disgruntlement.
— Thank you for your wishes, Black said in cold piety, — though I would be more impressed if they were sincerely proffered.
The waiter shook indignantly and was about to retort when Black met his watering eyes, and said in kindly, almost pitying tones, — The forked tongue of American commerce doesn't impress me, my young friend.
The intense heat made Black recall his Scots Guards days, as he rose, turned away and marched stiffly down the street. He thought about the service he'd seen in the foot patrols in the strength-sapping jungles of Malaya, fighting the Communist terrorists. A soldier's world was founded on discipline and order. War had always been the spiritual salvation of the working classes. The compelling need for excitement that infects all young men with empty lives could be satisfied in this theatre, and the resulting esprit de corps could build nati
ons. Black thought about his own service in Malaya's jungles, though sadly this took place after the war, and left him relatively untested in comparison to his own father, who had returned from World War II and that Japanese prison camp a failure as a soldier and a man; broken, morose, edgy, and prone to heavy drinking. How we so badly needed another real war, a ground war, where working men of different countries could see the whites of each other's eyes as they engaged in mortal combat. Even that was now nonsense, destroyed by the cold, satanic technology of the weapons industry. To be seared or incinerated by explosives or chemicals dropped on you from a height determined by computer programs, the death switch pulled by a coward miles away: it was no way for a man to die.
He headed across the street to the Miami Beach Tourist Information Centre, an art deco building on the beach side of Ocean Drive. Approaching the clerk, a middle-aged Latina woman, Black announced, — I wish to attend the Winter Music Conference.
The woman's large eyebrows went half an inch north as she regarded the old Scotsman. — It starts tomorrow, she confirmed.
— Where is it to be held?
The woman tightened her eyes in focus. Then something seemed to soothe within her and her voice dropped. — The WMC takes place across many different venues. I think the best thing for you to do is check the flyers that people are handing out.
— Thank you for your time, Albert Black said, leaving the building singularly unenlightened, and crossing the street as the busy traffic rumbled by. But walking on for a stretch he did indeed see a young man and woman issuing flyers, but only to the obviously youthful among the passers-by. About to steel himself past his reticence and approach them, he noticed fortuitously that some had been wantonly discarded on the ground. Black picked one up. There it was: N-SIGN. Ewart was delivering his address at the Cameo on Washington Avenue. Tonight. Ten till late. Albert Black resolved that he would attend. Oddly cheered, he headed home through Miami Beach, walking down those few art deco blocks of landfill that separated the Atlantic Ocean from the Biscayne Bay.
4
— Heh-low . . . the insistent toddler said again. And again. This time louder. His hapless mother now so preoccupied with the baby, she'd given up even trying to attend to him.
Children that age scared Helena. They made her think about the abortion. How could they have been so stupid? Only once, when her prescription had run out, and not long after her period. She thought it would be okay. It was self-torturing, and it was nonsense, yet it was impossible to see a child and not think about the parcel of tissue and liquid she'd had expelled from within her. What that one stupid, careless moment would have become. And she'd have to tell him that it was all taken care of; that she'd sorted it out. He had a right to know. He wasn't religious, and they'd never discussed having kids. They'd never discussed having anything other than fun. And never had fun felt so limiting, self-defeating and shallow than when she'd gone into that clinic. But she should have told him first.
Children made us all sinners, she reflected; whether we aborted, raised or ignored them. You picked up a newspaper and saw evidence of the fucked-up place you couldn't fix, couldn't make better, the place you'd brought them into. She looked at the kid again and felt sorry for the poor little bastard.
In a sudden seedy compassion, she grinned at him and whispered, — One day you are going to be so pissed off at your silly mother for bringing you here, mate. All because she was too stupid and lazy to get a fucking job and take care of herself.
The kid smiled slyly, seeming to understand. She decided she kind of liked him. — Hi, she said, louder, — what's your name, as the mother, with her cow-in-the-abattoir eyes, turned round and looked at Helena in stone-cold gratitude.
5
He wasn't even that close to the house, when Albert Black picked up the thumping beat of that music again. It was everywhere. Coming up from the basement, where the youth that called him Grandad resided like some cave dweller.
Billy.
Albert Black recalled when the boy was younger and visiting Scotland, how he'd taken him to Easter Road and Tynecastle stadiums. Black had always gone to see Hibs play one week, Hearts the next. Edinburgh was his adopted city and he supported both its clubs, an approach he knew many found queer in those partisan and tribal times. His pupils laughed at him, supporters of the rival maroon and green, but united in their derision.
But how could you expect classroom discipline? They had destroyed employment opportunities and flooded the scheme with drugs. That was bad enough, but then they had banned the tawse!
Black recalled that sleek, forked, leather strap, and the fear it inspired in many of the louder vagabonds. How their insolent faces would fall silent and flush as they were called out, knowing that soon their hands would be redder still, under its stinging lash. The implement was as essential to good teaching as chalk.
But Billy could tell him about this Winter Music Conference and N-Sign Ewart. It was something they could share. He descended the steps, before hesitating outside his grandson's bedroom door. He knew that smell coming from the room. It was marijuana. It had begun to get a foothold in the school, just as he was retiring. They smoked it by the annexe at the sports fields. Well, it wasn't getting a foothold here! Black pushed the door open. — Hey . . . you can't come in here, Gramps . . . Billy was lying back on the bed. He had one of those funny cigarettes in his hand. That young girl, the Mexican sort, was crouching between his legs, her head bobbing! She immediately ceased what she was doing, and turned to him, her face flushed, her eyes primal, beastlike.— What the fuck –
— Get out of here! Black shouted at her, pointing his finger in scorn.
— Hey, hold on a minute, Billy protested, — you get out! This is my freakin space! This ain't the Isle of Skye or shit!
Black stood his ground. — Shut up! He glared at the girl. — You! Get out!
The young woman staggered to her feet, as Billy pulled up his green canvas shorts and zipped himself up. — Valda, you stay right there. You – he rounded on Black, — you sick old bastard! Get the fuck outta my room!
— Me . . . me? Me sick! . . .
Black felt the anger of the righteous soldier rising inside him, but then he suddenly saw Marion's face in their only grandchild, and he'd been tricked, Satan was trying to control him! The fight left him. Then, as his eyes stayed locked on Billy, a darker, more shameful memory inserted itself like a bolt of electricity through him, and he turned and marched out of the room, squawking, — Your parents will hear of this!
— Fuck you! Fuckin pervert!
His heart pounding, Black ran up the stairs and out of the house, feeling the pain and the shame of this young man, this stranger, laughing at him, like a snickering moron of a first year. And how ridiculous he must have seemed to them, an old man in glasses, Bible ever-present, talking in a strange, almost incomprehensible tongue. He was a man out of place, out of time. He always had been; but once it had seemed a virtue. Now he was even subject to ridicule in the nest of sinners that was his own family!
I was wrong . . . forgive me, Lord!
O turn unto me, and have mercy upon me; give Thy strength unto Thy servant, and save the son of Thine handmaid.
Shew me a token for good; that they which hate me may see it, and be ashamed: because Thou, LORD, hast holpen me, and comforted me.
His knee locking in protest at the swiftness of his departure, he hobbled down the driveway, out into the street. The temperature had risen and he found himself again the only pedestrian for miles as he made his way down the lush avenues, heading back through Miami Beach, thankful to mingle with the crowds on Lincoln. Thoughts of his family overwhelmed him. Who were they? William, here in Florida. His daughter, Christine, over in Australia. She had never married. Had always lived in apartments with other women. What sort of a woman was she? Who were they? What kind of a father had he been?
What am I? A tyrant. A bully. Marion was the one that had given them all the good things; the grace, the hu
mility. All I ever contributed was, at best, my sullen piety. No wonder they couldn't get far enough away!
Neither could Albert Black. He was scarcely aware that he had retraced his steps back down to Ocean Drive. Composing himself, he found a cafe, sat down and ordered more water. As he sipped at the soothing cool liquid, he heard an accent, a voice from home. It froze him to his marrow.
6
— Lookit the fuckin tits oan that! ah goes, nudgin the Milky Bar Kid, cause this big fuckin pump's jist walked past. — Ah'd gie that fuckin biler a guid stoking, too right, ya cunt!
Ken whin ye git that hingower horn: aw they sleazy thoughts fae last night's peeve still in the system? Well, that's me, big time. Mind you, no that ah need a hingower fir that! But wi wir pished oan that plane yesterday, then straight oot oan the batter; cocktails, the fuckin lot, in they posh hotel bars. Ye cannae beat it.
— Where were you when political correctness was sweeping the world, Terry?
— Humpin dirty hoors, n avoidin fuckin Jambo cunts, ah tells um.
The Kid rolls ehs eyes. — Ye goat tae move wi the times, Terry. Stoap fightin these auld battles ay the past, eh smiles.
— Aye, right.
The fanny here's fuckin hotchin; it's like thaire's a top bird ootside every one ay they swanky joints oan that Ocean Drive, aw giein ye the eye n beckonin ye intae thir web ay sin. No thit the Milky Bar Kid's giein a fuck. Eh's goat Helena, ehs burd, or should ah say, ehs fiancée, comin in fae Australia the morn. Tae me that's aw the mair reason tae try n git baw-deep in some wee tart the night, git it oot the system before the nuptials git tied, cause eftir that it's the last time eh'll clap eyes oan another minge for a long time. Widnae be me, but, eh! Ah'm mair yir George Clooney type, the debonair, smoulderineyed playboy wi the suave air ay urbane sophistication, whae likes tae pit it aboot a bit. Well, yuv goat tae but, eh? Spice ay life.— Stall here a second, Carl, ah tells the Kid, — she's gantin oan it, ah say, eyein up this wee honey flashin a big smile n a laminate menu at ays.