Glasgow Student Short Story Prize 2009

Judged by A.L. Kennedy
Edited by Elisabeth Ingram, Rebecca CF Bradburd and Jose Velazquez

This Is Your Pebble

You’re watching a white van while timing your walk across to the traffic island at the top of Calton Road. You believe you’ll synchronise with the van’s slipstream. Then comes the odd momentum of flying. When the concrete hits, your right armpit fells like it’s being driven up into your shoulder.

    ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no–’

    You are ditched on the island, face down in a grimy mere of water. A thin veneer fixes itself to the front of your coat and right cheek. Your right arm is straight out and you cannot move.

    From above, a young man says, ‘You’ve done something to yourself there, haven’t you?’ He’s waiting.

    ‘I’m going to take my time getting up.’ Your breath and throat feel unequal, disembodied.

    Adrenaline switches on the practical mode. Orientate using the vector analytic geometry of movement. Take your time. Seated, make a triangle by flipping both knees over to the left; push up onto your knees using your left arm. Accept the soft hand of the passer-by and stand up.

    To your right, a workman– most likely from the building site across the road– is holding onto a bollard. Read his face. Maybe it’s consternation at the time you’re taking as traffic whooshes by. You’d like to see more sympathy, but you’re not in charge of his facade or his responses. Both men go about their respective businesses.

    You cross over.

    Your right arm feels longer, alienated. What have you done? Wait. Lift it by the hand, place the hand in your right pocket; zip the pocket to wrist width. Let the arm rest there. Your right elbow seems a bit vague.

    Walk slowly towards a familiar landmark: John Lewis. Among its many mazes, find a loo. The mirror reflects you as one of les miserablés. Dab one-handed, wash the guck from your face. A healthy-looking, helpful woman of similar age says, ‘Keep the wrist and hand moving.’

    Treat the shock: queue at the in-store cafe, order a pot of tea, ask for help to carry the tray.

    Sit. Pour. Use three sugars. In the half-hour that passes, you understand stoicism is a blind. Forget your appointment. You’re alone here. You estimate time in A&E will be three hours. You’ve not eaten. Travel time back will mean another two hours. Staying in Edinburgh is not on.

    Decide– go home– now.

    Backpack on, replace hand in pocket. Gingerly, pad to Waverley station. The Princes Street side has those wonderful fucking awful stairs. What do you reckon? Pain counts a slow descent, a slow descant: how old are you how did this happen how how how?

    Will it happen again as you’re walking down these stairs?

    You’ll have to use a pay phone in the food hall. Fumble two pounds, your nearly-dead mobile phone and a magnifying glass from your left-hand pocket. When did you put that in there? Every unlooked-for triumph adds momentum. Now you can read the number from your mobile’s phonebook. You can cancel your appointment before you get home. Voicemail. Your voice has reconnected. ‘I’ve had a fall and I’m going home. Sorry,’ it says.

    Get to the train. Sit on the right. Place your right arm on the armrest’s hard plastic. Move your fingers; the arm can’t be broken, can it?

    Haymarket, then heading west past fields and farms. Someone has spray-painted Mr Grumpy on the side of a brick warehouse. Lighten up, he advises. Smile. Endorphins.

    Your elbow rejoins near Linlithgow.

    At Glasgow Queen Street, pain forces you to find a bench. Sit. Decide. Reject the martyrdom of another train. The £40 in your jeans pocket can be diverted from appointment fees to hackney driver.

    Home. Bless the driver for getting the house keys out of your right-hand pocket.

    Make a plan to go to A&E the next day. Recall every bit of intelligence from past injuries and invent strategies so you don’t feel stupid.

    But you do feel stupid. And small. And alone. Like voids and black holes and outer space where distance is relative and light-years pass without celebrations.

    Find one paracetamol. Makeshift a bed on the settee, more pillows. At half-eleven, admit the possible extent of the injury, lie down on the settee. Plumb the half-light of the room, place your good arm over your eyes and tell God you are terrified. Cry and tell God you wish it could just be OK, just not have happened. Remind Him of His omnipotence.

    At A&E, they x-ray your shoulder and tell you it’s broken. They give you three painkillers, each one of a size suitable for sedating dragons, and a sling which you must wear under your clothes. They let you keep your vest on. Dignity. Bras become a token of your elastic past.

    Taxi drivers say, ‘Do you mind me asking, how did you break your arm?’ You know they’re waiting for you to say you were drunk. That is their opinion; their vectors veer away, forgetful, as they must. Pay the fare.

    Be brave, be strong. Look for reasons, accept acceptance. Realise that your system is single-pointed and determined to heal itself. Go along with it. God cannot change your karma, but He can change a boulder into a pebble.