The Common Breath Fiction Series, January 2021



TOUR HECTIC
by Rory Allison


I did my morning meditation with the app and had breakfast and was already packed so I waited in the kitchen. I tried to stay away from the window because it sets me off and the neighbours or more likely the folk up the street sometimes call the police if I sound too threatening, but they said they’d be here by half eleven and by quarter to twelve they still weren’t and I was getting impatient and watching out the window and the words were coming CUM. COCK. CREAM. Every time I heard a car passing I couldn’t help but LOOK OUT and was just about cursing my FUCK luck and their FOOLS lateness MISCARRIAGE OF JUST MISSED THE STOAT BOAT when the van pulled up on the pavement PRICKS PASSING THE BUCK CUCK DUCK SUCK YUCK. I saw the two of them nodding away and chatting JESUS ASLEEP and then they were out and in the garden.

DING DONG BIG SCHLONG the doorbell sets me off too.

-Hello gents.

-Welcome on the Hectic Tour Andy.

-C’mon in CUM. CREAM.

Chris and Fintan are two guys with the same affliction as I. Chris, having come into some exposure on national media and some cash as well as a result, has managed to organise a little holiday for the three of us, partially funded by the Council and the TLC. He says on the Youtube there’s a clip of him, and on Twitter he’s got some traction too. Whatever that means. I’m not complaining anyway, and here they are – caravan parked up and coming in for a last cuppa UP CUP YIN BIN BANG BOSH.

I take them to the kitchen.

-Sit down.

Chris is rooting in his bag for something and Fintan, I can tell, is trying not to get caught. We set each other off is the trouble. I asks him.

-You bringing meds?

He shakes his head gravely.

-Noo noo noo. He’s convinced me not to.

He points his hair at Chris. This had been discussed. The meds settle our symptoms but knock us straight flat out. Part of Chris’s appeal for our paid holiday is that we can go someplace without needing meds and be free. I agreed not to bring mines, and Fintan claims to have reluctantly conceded too.

-Tea?

-Aye go on.

-Please.

-Milk and two?

-Yep.

-Milk and two?

-Milk and two.

Chris has found what he’s been rooting for. A fold-out A-Z map of the country. The TLC ‘haven’ that Chris found is a private beach near Arisaig, owned by a guy whose son also has our affliction. His fat forefinger draws a route all the way up the west coast and traces looping circles at points where we can break, snack and toilet.

-Three and a half hours if we’re lucky, four or more if we’re no.

-No bother.

I’d taken a half dose of my morning meds after breakfast and thought it was obvious that Fintan had done near the same. I waited for Chris to go piss before asking him, because he was obviously most keen that we shouldn’t be all ‘dazed and confused’ on our wee holiday and that the whole point of the jaunt was to roam freely. Three madmen. He’d said that privately, knowing – as a TLC advocate with a degree of exposure – that received notions of madness are harmful to the perception of those with our affliction, and knowing full well and repeating fucking often enough this core tenet of the TLC to us and whoever else listens to him between breaths, but I think that he privately quite liked the idea of the three of us finally free to actually be mad instead of (badly) pretending we’re just not well. Reclaim it. For three days on a private beach.

But it was obvious to me that Fintan was not onboard the crazy caravan quite yet. Chris took his piss DIDN’T MISS and then there were only the two of us, and I could see in his eyes that he was about a mile away behind them.

-You’re away with it aren’t you?

-How you mean?

-You’ve taken meds.

-Just the morning ones. I was getting anxious and was barking at the dog.

We both laughed lightly.

-And you’ve no more?

-No.

I cocked my head.

-Honest.

-I wouldn’t care if you did, I’m just wondering myself. I’m feeling a bit apprehensive and all.

-How come you’re not set off then?

-I took a half dose this morning as well. But that’s it for me all weekend.

-Chris himself is quite quiet too no?

-I bet he’s taken his anaw.

-Aye. How much booze are you bringing?

-A 10-pack and a half-bottle of Talisker. The Angel’s Share. Yourself?

-20-pack.

Chris re-enters. Splashes of either water or piss darken his groin.

-What you drinking Chris?

-I’m driving mate.

-I mean at the weekend.

-Aw well I’ve a nice selection of IPAs and a bottle of Gin.

-Straight?

-GAY. No, I’ve tonic and a couple of lemons MILK LEMONADE SHITE.

He turned on the last, Fintan and I exchanged nods. He’s taken his morning dose too. We all had nervous hopes for a steady introduction. We all knew it would change when we were in the van. We loaded it and were soon in.

-The Hectic Tour is a-go-go boys.

-Gog ago HEAR WE FUCKEN.

-Ya stylecramper shut in my shirt.

-Forty-nine bitches.

-Hiya hen!

I saw the next-door neighbour’s teenage daughter going in the gate with a white carrier bag and waved and then gave her the finger.

-Sorry hen.

-Ken.

She kens.

-Ye ken Ken cause he’s a Kenny Ken ken.

-Cluck yer whole.

-Rapist murder monster.

-Seatbelts.

Off we went and off we were set. Typical loss of control strapped in such a tightlocked cranny van.

Chris at least has a big smile on his face. Queen comes on the radio and the three of us are soon crying MA MA OOH and I watch his fat fingers lie their way through Brian May. We do the opera bit accidentally very well well well well there are three of us and Chris has a reedy high ball-burster CASTRATOPHIC and Fintan is middle of the van and the road AND HIS LIFE AND OUR AFFECTIONS and can fill for Freddie can Fintan Mercury and andy and I on the low end on the subs with the bass and the Bismillah. Magnifico. We applaud ourselves. Without appalling others. What an outcome. Wao.

We skirt round Glasgow and come out smiling. We even pass over the street where I was born, though the building itself is long gone. Seed sprayed spread gone to seed get yourself to bed. I’m no crying about it anyway. The old house gone. Mum gone. Dad gone. Sandy gone. Just me and Nessie left. WAY AN GEEZ PEEZ. To try telling the tale to the ticking twosome to my right would prove tiresome I would think, over the radio ahum and their swapping coughing agoing. I just keep myself to myself and the memories to themselves. My third finger is going gaga. Quite the little tapdance. Channelling the other two’s chatter in treble step. TANTRUM TIP-TOP CLIP-CLOP. Erskine. Open blue ocean. 30 MPH. Passing parades of passengers. CLIFFTOP CARAVAN COLLISION. On our coat tails, incoming fast, a tiny little car, teal Citron. Chris turns left, inner lane.

Peep.

She shouldn’t have done that. The three of us are off.

A finger middled, a fist wanked, two eyes gestured and gazing threat.

-Total loony cow.

-I’ll horn you, ya big bull bitch.

-Keep your eyes on the road you maniac.

-Turn your lights off you cretin.

No longer by the sight of the side of the sea, we head inland and upward, amongst the high hills of YER MAW’S MOUND Loch Lomond National Park and its almighty allover allencompassing green ROLL IN THE MOULD FLOSS MOSS CLEFT SLIP TRIP.

Chris regales us with a tale told long and chargedly about his doings in the week.

-Obviously I’m only in the Centre Monday to Wednesday so I cin-cin-couldn’t actually get to my Maw’s in Darvel until Thursday and by that point she’d hardly been sleeping ken.

-Sorry I missed the start of that story, SPAZ BORED, what happened?

-Need to listen. She’s got neighbours who can’t discriminate their different bin bags IDIOTS ENOUGH and they put food waste and plastic and all sorts into the clear recycling bags and leave them out by the bins. No even in them, by them. They must have found a batch of recycling bags somewhere and just use them. SALMON SANDBITCH. Anyway, obviously the Council don’t pick them up, they’re legally obligated not to. LAZY LASER LESBIANIC SAVIOUR. They stick them with stickers saying cin-cin-contamination or whatnot and leave them there. 3 weeks it’s going on. My Maw living alone won’t go and chap their doors for fear their junkies, so she’s calling me saying she saw a rat the size of a baby deer eating corn on the cob. I says to her, ‘Maw, are you sure it wasn’t a deer the size of a rat you saw?’. That one near killed us. Chris’s gunny giggle tit-it-it, me slapping the dash for support and Fintan, wet red and weeping.

-Oh, tiny deer. Is funny.

-Aye anyway, I just got there Thursday and put black bin bags over all the green ones and chucked them.

-Waste not.

-Not my fault though Fintan, I tried chapping them too but obviously there’s no answer.

-Course.

-I says to my Maw, they do it again and I’ll phone the Council myself. And if you see them, tell them you’ve a mad son. Typical loss of convictions.

-Toilets left there, Captain.

Fintan’s fingers take a loose charge to inform us of the sign saying so, incoming and passing fast. 500 metres ahead.

-Shall we sham a Chardonnay?

-Lettuce.

We pull in. Coffee Stop Shop pop for a drop and safekeep for local keepsakes.

-It’s busy. FEELIN DIZZY.

There were 15 cars and a coach. Families sunning and smoking. The glint of the Loch and a glimpse of the Ben. BIG BENNY BOY. We park and tap our pockets. GUN. BOMB.

-Already?

We all take stock of one another and ourselves. Fintan looks most nervous but I might be projecting. I smile a right and exit the van. Look about. Two little children are walking ahead of their adults, playing with two parts of a puzzle. Fintan jumps out behind me and sees them.

-RUN. PAEDO.

They look briefly but don’t make as much of it as their adults, who speed up a little and look unkindly.

-Sorry.

I pat Fintan’s back. I FAT BIN PANS TACK. Chris missed the whole thing fetching his bum bag from the back of the van. AHH. He kicks the head clean off nothing.

-Have yous got cash?

-Aye and my card.

-Here Fintan I never asked how’s Frances?

-Aw it’s all GONE all a bit rocky ROTTEN DECK on that front. I’ll tell you inside.

He trailed off distracted seeing, as we approached the automatic entryway, a whole pack of anoraks caps maps and sacks exiting – the coachload.

-Aw for fucks.

The three of us knew it’d be trouble. Chris is all about the immediate upfront, throwing himself into the situation, trying to be polite and politely explaining why he’s not being so. Me, and especially Fintan, are a bit less comfortable in the crowds. Things can take a little circleturn for the crapper when a wee man acting like a big man upsets a big man acting like a wee man. NERVOUS CHATTER GEEZ PEEZ.

We stop behind and take a look at Chris who’s all smiles with one arm outstretched, as if to say ‘PASS’. I mimic him. I feel Fintan’s arm beside my ear too.

-Afternoon after you.

The first few nod and hum a thank.

-Tape your lips closed.

-SUCK A SWEAT GASH FOR CASH.

-Moody Moon Spoon ate coons for Tunisia and Ka Ka Ken said shake a spear I am a bic pen.

We were all off. My eyes were doing the blinks and I was turning so as not to shout in their faces but I saw Chris standing by the door just dancing STRICTLY IS IT COME TAKE A LOOK COME COCK CREAM and the tourists were laughing and looking. Fintan was twitching like crazy. He walked away from the trippers leaving the centre towards a grass patch. I followed, watching his arms go up and to the side and all again, and his head twist and lull and crane, and his hips jig, and I knew what was happening. He was mimicking.

It – the affliction – was remembering every face and being it’s just seen and having a go at throwing it back at them while he – poor Fintan – was fighting. You get stuck in it, a ticcy loop circling around around, and it infects itself and I take a look cautiously knowing that if Fintan is really set off badly I won’t be doing any favours for him nor myself by being in proximity.

-Fintan FINTY MINT FUCK OFF.

He looks round gurning baring his tiny lower canines and swinging his loose wrists.

-Go and buy a guy to die you fly big shy shit go on. There lies Christ on his bisexual bicentennial tepid looking crucithingy.

I turn and look for Chris, but he must have went inside already.

-TWAT’S LEFT US COLD OUT HERE.

-Oginga Odinga, Babaloo Mandel. Touch my limp citizen and tiny little crabs will tiptoe a leftward crawl up to your lovely chubby cheeks. Total lack of cunts to take the lead and charge.

-MIDDLING PRICK TAKE A LONG LOOK AT THE CUNT TALKING LIKE LOVE OF CHRIST Fintan I’m just gonna leave you a minute. Through the tornado he tipped me his thumb. Then walked like an Egyptian off.

PISS LEG I needed to pee.

On the way in I saw Chris in the queue of the café reaching to pince a cake.

As I peed my phone went because it’s time for my afternoon meditation with the app. I thought I’ll do that down by the water.

On the way out I saw poor Fintan sat with his back against a big rock, sitting but still going, all ways always, it – the affliction – having its tic of a time, but we know and he knows, it has its talking time and its listening time but poor Fintan, well now for him it’s most certainly listening time. ●




Author Bio
Rory Allison is a 26-year-old from Glasgow, Scotland. He has lived in Edinburgh, Spain and London working in mental health and education. He has written some pretty good books but this is his first published work.