Glasgow Student Short Story Prize 2009

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

Sic

The girl in the blue glitter dress and the sky-high heels willowwalks along the wall. Her hand goes out to touch it, pat it, she is profusely focused on the balance act of walking. Oblivious to the man shambling after her.

    He is Andrew Tremayne, 52. You may as well know, right away, as that is what the papers will say. In sharp black as he was never clothed: Andrew Tremayne. 52. As if the code of his age will somehow sum up his essence for you: yes, tut tut, An-droo, fifty-too. What did you doo?

    The girl turns the corner of the building, and bumps into the plastic purple monster of the night club-sized wheelie-bin. She stands up against it, dazed, a fly flown into a windscreen – splat, pressed like a Cottington fairy. Andrew Tremayne lights up a cigarette. She doesn’t notice him, the girl, she’s in such a state, and he is several feet away, concealed in the stark street light, grey in the halogen night. His eyes squint into the dark of the alleyway, but he stands put, feet of clay, huffing and puffing. The girl wakes with a start from her wheelie-bin embrace – we may call her a woman now – she reaches around and pulls the hem of her dress down. Quick tug, as she has done all night, without a thought. She puts a hand to her forehead, her cheek. Her eyes seem to focus. Then they grow wide and she folds over and spews a good ten alcopops over the obliging tarmac.

    There are thirteen Andrew Tremayne in the local phone book. One lives in Cumbernauld, has a wife, two kids, schnauzer. That kind of thing. His phone number looks straight and up-standing, trustworthy, without being imposing. Another lives on the outskirts of Glasgow, housing estate, you can imagine.

    The man in the grey track suit (Andrew Tremayne, 52) is not listed, so don’t bother looking. There will be pictures, at some point, but those who vaguely remember him will probably be mistaken. Was he the guy in the queue in front of you at the chip shop that night? Fifty-something, shifty-looking, disgruntled about his mushy peas? That’s never Andrew. Was he the guy behind you, on the train, who fell asleep half-way to Perth, and whom you didn’t want to look at too closely, on account of the smell? It must be admitted: that could have been him. Could have, but why would Andy go to Perth? Perhaps to visit his sister, you say, in something of a frenzy now, because you’re getting close, you can smell it; he loved to play with his nephew, remember? Watching Transformers together, while Cathy cooked. He only visited when David was away. Then, after she had tucked in junior, she would peel off her brother’s clothes, standing awkwardly pressed against the bathroom sink, and her eyes watered, her tongue clucked like the sea. The rashes. She filled up the bath tub with water and non-allergenic soap, and eased him in, voice gruff, eyes averted. She’d ask him not to come, say he needed to take care of himself now, it was too much for a wee sister to take.

    And what did Andrew say?

    But here your imagination fails you. It was a nice story though, have to give it to you. More tenderness than most would allow him. And you were only a little disgusted, on the train. So you made up a sister for him. Clever you. Out of your hands then.

    It is turquoise, and gooey, and there are little flecks in it, but mostly it is smoothly lumpy as a slush puppy. There’s a whiff of gastric acid, but the main smell is of chemicals, sweeteners. Andrew Tremayne, 52 bends over the sick and scoops it into a plastic container. He gets them in multipacks at the £-Stretcher. (There are receipts.) The lid sighs into place and he holds it up to the light, momentarily, like a precious thing, before pocketing it. Just as he is leaving he notices something sparkly at his feet – it’s the purse that woman dropped before stumbling away towards the club again. Andy rubs his nose. He picks it up, hangs it from the corner of the wheelie-bin, where it catches the light, an incongruous gaudy ornament. He lights another cigarette. Rubs his nose. Shuffles off.

    This particular version of Andrew Tremayne lives south of the river, in a run-down one-bedroom flat. He used to live more up-market, but had to move, there were complaints. There will be an interview with a landlady of his, from years ago, wringing her hands and staring into the camera. “It was the smell, you see,” she will say, when prompted, “but he was a nice boy, Andy. A nice boy.”

    In his flat, stacked high along the walls, Andrew keeps his collection. All the colours of the rainbow, all in different stages of decomposition. It is thought that at his other flat he kept them in the chest freezer, in the basement, before it filled up. With horror, the new owners remember some small containers they found, when they moved in, left in the fridge. But Andrew was careful with his things, he wouldn’t have left them behind. It was probably food. Junk.

    When Andrew Tremayne (aged 52) returns that night, turquoise treasure in hand, he puts his keys on the table. The door is closed but unlocked. In a fit of inspiration (or was it planned?) he takes the container into the bathroom, puts the plug in the tub and pours it in. Then he goes to fetch container after container, some years old, some gathered just last week, until he has filled it to the brim. He stacks the empty containers, carries them into the kitchen. He undresses in the room, leaving his track suit in a heap by the bed.