Goatie 4

The intercom is broken. Hughie can’t buzz me in, but somebody has solved the problem by wedging a brown bin in front of the reinforced door. I’ve charged up the drills, but left most of the other stuff in my car. His front door needs painting and the wood is papery as a hive. He’s the only Council tenant in the four-in-a-block. They’ll be glad to see the back of him.  

I’ve already messaged him. He opens the door and I barge inside. No time to waste. The meagre scraps of hair around his ears have turned white, around his shiny forehead, in the shape of a horn. I take it as a sign. 666 will be in the mix somewhere behind an ear.

‘Well,’ I pace his small living room. His house smells of damp. His brown couch and chairs looks like fungal growths. He’s got an old-fashioned telly pushed up against the wall. I turn it off. Too much of a distraction.

I check out his bedroom. The curtains are closed. He’s hung another sheet over the window. Total blackout. His bedding is the same colour as a puddle. But I’m more interested in the doors. No lock. I put the drill set down, itching to the gun in my hand and put some metal and a decent lock on it. Wood like balsa.  I’d need to add a few bolts.

He retreats into the kitchen. He spoons macaroni and cheese from a Bakelite dish into a smaller dish and then into his mouth. Craning his neck, he follows what I’m doing.

‘Is that ketchup?’ I point at a greying brown stain on his grey tracksuit trouser. His neck and long chin have retreated so far inside his Rangers’ tracksuit top he looks retarded.

‘Yeh,’ licking his lips, his canines show like roof tiles broken as the edge of the overhang. ‘I’m no really sure about this,’ he admits. ‘I’ve no been that well.’

‘Who yeh gonnae trust, me or some mad doctor that doesnae know yeh?’ I remind him, ‘It wiz yer idea tae go tae Spain.’

‘Aye, yer right.’ He spooned more macaroni into his mouth and made sucking noise as he swallowed.

I feel like grabbing the spoon out of his hand, and banging it on his forehead, but keep it civil. ‘Where’d yeh keep yer poison?’

‘Poison? ‘Macaroni falls out of his mouth half chewed. He wipes it away with the side of his hand. No wonder his joggies are stained. ‘Whit dae yeh mean?’

‘The poison yeh put in yer glass an put beside yer bed at night.’ I follow the progress of a bluebottle buzzing and circling above his plate.

He sighs. ‘I don’t huv any poison.’  

‘Whit dae yeh put the water in, then?’

The muscles in his cheeks twitch and his mouth hangs open.

‘Oh, for fuck sake.’ I push my finger into his collarbone. ‘Yeh don’t have anything. Why don’t we huv a beer. That’ll relax us a bit. I pull my kit out, slap his gooey plate aside and lay down a line of speed.’

He’s shrunk into an old man. ‘I don’t drink noo,’ he drones on. ‘Cause o the medication. It’s no good for yeh.’

I take a snort. Breathe through one nostril and then wheeze the other, while blocking it off. ‘It’s good stuff. I mixed it was cocaine. Whizz bang! Ur yeh a goatman or goatwomen?’

‘I don’t know,’ I read about it in the paper. ‘I’m aw confused. I hoped yeh could help me. Don’t remember fuck aw.’

I make myself another line to fortify the truth. ‘Anythin yeh read in the Sun is bound tae be lot o shite.’  

‘I’m no well.’

‘Aye, too right, yer no well. All the mischief in yeh has gone. Yer like a mannequin and somebody else is pullin yer strings. We ur gonnae take back control.’

He picks at his teeth with the end of a fork. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Stop apologisin.’  

The Noika phone beside him buzzed. He reached for it, but I picked it up and turned it off. Shoved it into my pocket. ‘We need tae concentrate. This is serious shit.’

‘Whit can I dae? Somethin happened. I don’t know whit. But I know it happened. Noo I’m possessed.’

‘Yeh hear them whisperin?’

‘Aye.’

He starts greeting again, which gives me time to make another line. ‘Yeh ever look in the mirror and yer no there? As if somethin else is lookin back? An  yeh think, whit is it? But yeh don’t want tae know.’

He blows his nose into his hands and wipes them on the inside of his joggies. ‘I think so.’

‘Shut it. I’m thinkin.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Looks like I’ll stick a lock on yer bedroom door wae metal sheets. We’ll use the handcuffs. An then when they come we’ll beat the fuckin absolute shit oot of them. I’ve been a coward like you. But we ur sayin, nae mer.’

‘Whit yeh goin on about?’

I get to work, putting the sheet metal over his door. Drilling in nice new locks. I go next door and borrow a clean glass. She complained about the noise, going on well past midnight. Her with kids trying to get some sleep. I couldn’t explain how important my work was to the likes of her. She’d soon find out.

Hughie was already in bed. Everything was dark and silent and motionless. I took a sip and put the glass of water beside his bed. Waited long into the night until I heard the whispering darkness move. I check the petrol and the rag. When I hear the ring of the glass, I lock the door on my way out. Hughie acts as human bait, handcuffed to the bed.

Outside, neighbours gather and push against me on the footpath. An elderly man has his phone to his mouth, phoning the fire brigade.

I bark at him that I’ve already phoned them. Buying some time. The demons seem to have put the fire out. Far off, a dog howls. Birds come alive to the dawn. Then a hear-rending cry. The window of next door gives way. Sheet of red flame caresses Hughie’s neighbour next door as she tries to escape through the gap holding a child in each arm. I hear their bleating and in the distance the klaxons of firemen. The roof falls in.