Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [271]
He noticed that self-denunciation was becoming a pleasure and sprang up and beat his head hard against the door; then stopped because it hurt too much. Then he noticed someone else was shouting and banging too. The door had a slit like a small letterbox at eye level. He looked through and saw another door with a slit immediately opposite. A voice from there said,
“Have you a cigarette Jimmy?”
“I don’t smoke. Do you know the time?”
“It was two in the morning when they brought me in and that was a while ago. What did they get you for?”
“I pissed off a bridge.”
“The police,” said the voice bitterly, “are a shower of bastards. Are you sure you don’t have a cigarette?”
“No, I don’t smoke. What did they get you for?”
“I hammered a man up a close and called the police a shower of bastards. Listen, they can’t treat us like this. Let’s batter our doors and yell till they give us some fags.”
“But I don’t smoke,” said Lanark, turning away.
His main feeling now was of physical filth. The lavatory pan suddenly flushed and he examined it. The water looked and smelled pure. He undressed, wet a corner of a blanket and scrubbed himself hard all over. He draped a dry blanket round him like a toga, rinsed his underclothes several times in the pan and hung them on the rim to dry. He scraped with his nails the crust of vomit from the trouser leg and rubbed the place with the wettened blanket. The creased cloth offended him. Though thirsty he had only been able to empty one mug of cold tea. He spread the trousers on the platform and rubbed them steadily in small circles with the mug base, pressing down hard. He did this a long time without seeing an improvement, but whenever he stopped there was nothing else to do. The door opened and a policeman entered with a mug and a plate of rolls. He said, “What are you doing?”
“Pressing my trousers.”
The man collected the other mugs and plates. Lanark said, “When will I get out, please?”
“That’s up to the magistrate.”
“When will I see the magistrate?”
The policeman went outside, slamming the door. Lanark ate, drank the hot tea and thought, ‘The assembly has begun the work of the second day.’ He began pressing again. Whenever he stopped he felt so evil and useless, evil and trivial that he bit his hands till the pain was an excuse for screaming, though he did it quietly and undramatically. Another policeman brought lunch and Lanark said, “When will I see the magistrate?”
“The court sits tomorrow morning.”
“Could you take my underclothes please and hang them somewhere to dry?”
The policeman went out, laughing heartily. Lanark ate, drank, then walked in a circle, flapping the underpants in one hand, the vest in the other. He thought, ‘I suppose the assembly is discussing world order just now.’ A feeling of hatred grew in him, hatred of the assembly, the police and everyone who wasn’t in the cell with him. He decided that when he was released he would immediately piss on the police station steps, or smash a window, or set fire to a car. He bit his hands some more, then worked at pressing trousers and drying underclothes till long after the evening tea and rolls. He felt too restless to lie down, and when the underwear was only slightly damp he dressed, polished his shoes with the blanket and sat waiting for breakfast and the magistrates ‘court. He thought drearily, ‘Perhaps I’ll be in time for the pollution debate.’
And then he wakened with a headache, feeling filthy again. Three mugs of cold tea, three plates of rolls lay beside the platform. He thought, ‘My life is moving in circles. Will I always come back to this point?’ He didn’t feel wicked any more, only trivial and useless. Another policeman opened the door and said, “Outside. Come on. Outside.”
Lanark said feebly, “I would like to stay here a little longer.” “Outside, come on. This isn’t a hotel we’re running.”
He was led to the office. A different sergeant stood behind the counter and an old lady wearing jeans and a fur coat stood