Sentence The Fortysixth
Angus Og of The Bog lay in the Hospital Bed, in a private room, with a police guard placed just outside; his head was swathed in bandages, he was intubated, attached to a drip, heavily sedated, but somewhere deep inside his fertile brain, there was a film running – it was like Nosferatu, F W Murnau's early version of Dracula, crossed with M – Fritz Lang's chilling tale of a child murderer, influenced by the crimes of Peter Kurten, and cutting across this dark Germanic montage, the garish colours of a Hammer Horror, a slasher, the screen in his head awash with blood – but was it his own blood, he did not know, for he was too pre-occupied with identifying the one face from the kaleidoscope of images that flickered like a demented strobe, the one face he had recognised from his glance through the pub door – it wasn't Jeannie, his guardian angel, though he had made eye-contact with her, he probably loved her, even if she was involved in some real heavy stuff, but somehow kept all her different selves in their own boxes, whether she was being Bunty or Jessie, or Annie what did it matter if none of them were her real name, she was real to him, so, no, it was someone standing behind her, but how close it was impossible to say; he was sure he recognised the face, it was someone he knew, or had met, or had embarrassed in his act at the Komedy Klub – the Komedy Klub, where he lapped up the adulation of the crowd, that was where he had seen the face, but not the wee lassie who was with the Suzie Calmac lookalike, when he was looking for Robbie, though he did remember her, she was at the Klub, and the other one, he had met her before somewhere, with a really dishy bird, oh a stoater, he'd love to do his performative act on her, getting her to think what he wanted her to feel, using that technique he'd learned years ago 'I believe what I say when I hear myself say it' but he couldn't recall where, but the face, he wasn't sure if it was a boy or a girl, the faces were spinning like a roundabout, here we go round the mulberry bush on a cold and frosty morning, what was this all about what was happening -he remembered something hitting him on the head, oh that was a brain-crusher but after that, just this swirling place, he didn't know if he was standing or sitting or lying down or flying as the images swooped and swept past making him feel quite dizzy – Dizzy, was that it, Dizzy Gillespie, Diz Disley, Bix Beiderbeck, was it a musician, a jazz musician not Bix, Bing Crosby, Bing or Bix or Diz or Dix or Dixie – that was it – Dixie, Dixie Who? oh why was his mind so jumbled, it must have been the knock on his head it was like that time he was delivering mail in Dalmarnock and a slate fell off a roof and hit him on the head, he'd been knock out and woke up in Casualty, but this didn't look like Casualty, there weren't any nurses or doctors, among all these faces and it was strangely quiet, just Peter Lorre whistling 'In the Hall of the Mountain King' – yes, that's what he'd heard outside the door, or maybe inside, just before he felt his head explode in a shower of stars, like a Roman Candle he'd loved when he was a kid, not just the bangers his friends preferred, Roman Candles were his favourites and the whistling came just before the crack, like a banger in his head, but why isn't anyone helping him, he should call for help but he didn't seem to have any lips or tongue or mouth or face or anything just his eyes watching these faces why was he in this cinema anyway with all these faces spinning around and making him feel sick and dizzy, Dizzy, Dixie – if only he could remember, it was on the tip of his tongue, he tried to stick his tongue out, to touch it, but it seemed to have gone to sleep, maybe he was sleeping, after that crack on the head he felt that he needed a good sleep, and then maybe he'd remember who Dixie was, if he could just close his eyes and shut out all the faces but nothing seemed to be working, he remembered that book on cryptozoology he read when he wanted to be a philosopher, ha ha what a joke, he hadn't studied enough, too busy scraping money together for food and shelter, but he couldn't put the lights on or ask for help, he knew Dixie was there but how could he prove it if he couldn't even remember the last name, if you can't see or hear or touch someone, how do you find them if he couldn't even remember the last name in the book begins with a 'z' unless it's written backwards, was that wrong for him, he should ask someone but he was the only person here, except for the whistler – maybe it was Whistler's Mother, he seemed to have lost his voice but he could still hear the whistling, so his hearing was ok, and his eyesight, but he'd rather shut out all the swooping faces and get some sleep and then find Dixie tomorrow if he could only remember which was really quite daft because he had a great memory, he used it in his act, and he never forgot a face see, even that wee Calmac burd, he knew he'd met her if he could only mind where, this was getting silly, he tried to stand up but the seat seemed to be a recliner and he felt that he was lying down and so couldn't stand, maybe he'd been knocked down it couldn't have been a mugging, not in Deacon Brodies, it was a good pub, he'd never had any trouble there but something had hit hi, something to do with the whistling postman – hey, that was him, used to be him, that was what the folk on his round called him because he was always whistling was it him who was whistling 'In the Hall of the Mountain King', that was probably what it was and he'd maybe slipped and banged his head in the toilets, why was he in the toilets he hadn't even drunk his beer, he didn't have one, he'd seen Jeannie through the door with her big shot advocaat what a wanker, and she shook her head and he'd gone round to the back door and it was unlocked as it was supposed to be but he hadn't gone into the bar he'd gone into the disabled toilet and maybe it was the door that had hit his head, maybe someone trying to come in pushed it too hard but it was bright in the toilet all white tiles and basin and stuff but now the lights were out, except for the faces, how were they glowing with no lights on they must be back-lit or something and he felt himself take a deep breath and hold it and he thought no, not a good idea, not when I've had a crack on the head it might have concussed me, so I should keep breathing but he found it very hard to do anything and as he watched the faces seemed to recede and get smaller and the darkness seemed to get darker and the face right in front of him was Dixie and he could almost touch it if he had any arms because it was moving away again and it was fading like the others and getting smaller and smaller and further away and becoming just a tiny wee star in the blackness and he remembered of the night sky and it was Dixie and he suddenly remembered Dixie's surname just as that very last face went dark and now everything was black and
Angus Og of The Bog lay in the Hospital Bed, in a private room, with a police guard placed just outside; his head was swathed in bandages, he was intubated, attached to a drip, heavily sedated, but somewhere deep inside his fertile brain, there was a film running – it was like Nosferatu, F W Murnau's early version of Dracula, crossed with M – Fritz Lang's chilling tale of a child murderer, influenced by the crimes of Peter Kurten, and cutting across this dark Germanic montage, the garish colours of a Hammer Horror, a slasher, the screen in his head awash with blood – but was it his own blood, he did not know, for he was too pre-occupied with identifying the one face from the kaleidoscope of images that flickered like a demented strobe, the one face he had recognised from his glance through the pub door – it wasn't Jeannie, his guardian angel, though he had made eye-contact with her, he probably loved her, even if she was involved in some real heavy stuff, but somehow kept all her different selves in their own boxes, whether she was being Bunty or Jessie, or Annie what did it matter if none of them were her real name, she was real to him, so, no, it was someone standing behind her, but how close it was impossible to say; he was sure he recognised the face, it was someone he knew, or had met, or had embarrassed in his act at the Komedy Klub – the Komedy Klub, where he lapped up the adulation of the crowd, that was where he had seen the face, but not the wee lassie who was with the Suzie Calmac lookalike, when he was looking for Robbie, though he did remember her, she was at the Klub, and the other one, he had met her before somewhere, with a really dishy bird, oh a stoater, he'd love to do his performative act on her, getting her to think what he wanted her to feel, using that technique he'd learned years ago 'I believe what I say when I hear myself say it' but he couldn't recall where, but the face, he wasn't sure if it was a boy or a girl, the faces were spinning like a roundabout, here we go round the mulberry bush on a cold and frosty morning, what was this all about what was happening -he remembered something hitting him on the head, oh that was a brain-crusher but after that, just this swirling place, he didn't know if he was standing or sitting or lying down or flying as the images swooped and swept past making him feel quite dizzy – Dizzy, was that it, Dizzy Gillespie, Diz Disley, Bix Beiderbeck, was it a musician, a jazz musician not Bix, Bing Crosby, Bing or Bix or Diz or Dix or Dixie – that was it – Dixie, Dixie Who? oh why was his mind so jumbled, it must have been the knock on his head it was like that time he was delivering mail in Dalmarnock and a slate fell off a roof and hit him on the head, he'd been knock out and woke up in Casualty, but this didn't look like Casualty, there weren't any nurses or doctors, among all these faces and it was strangely quiet, just Peter Lorre whistling 'In the Hall of the Mountain King' – yes, that's what he'd heard outside the door, or maybe inside, just before he felt his head explode in a shower of stars, like a Roman Candle he'd loved when he was a kid, not just the bangers his friends preferred, Roman Candles were his favourites and the whistling came just before the crack, like a banger in his head, but why isn't anyone helping him, he should call for help but he didn't seem to have any lips or tongue or mouth or face or anything just his eyes watching these faces why was he in this cinema anyway with all these faces spinning around and making him feel sick and dizzy, Dizzy, Dixie – if only he could remember, it was on the tip of his tongue, he tried to stick his tongue out, to touch it, but it seemed to have gone to sleep, maybe he was sleeping, after that crack on the head he felt that he needed a good sleep, and then maybe he'd remember who Dixie was, if he could just close his eyes and shut out all the faces but nothing seemed to be working, he remembered that book on cryptozoology he read when he wanted to be a philosopher, ha ha what a joke, he hadn't studied enough, too busy scraping money together for food and shelter, but he couldn't put the lights on or ask for help, he knew Dixie was there but how could he prove it if he couldn't even remember the last name, if you can't see or hear or touch someone, how do you find them if he couldn't even remember the last name in the book begins with a 'z' unless it's written backwards, was that wrong for him, he should ask someone but he was the only person here, except for the whistler – maybe it was Whistler's Mother, he seemed to have lost his voice but he could still hear the whistling, so his hearing was ok, and his eyesight, but he'd rather shut out all the swooping faces and get some sleep and then find Dixie tomorrow if he could only remember which was really quite daft because he had a great memory, he used it in his act, and he never forgot a face see, even that wee Calmac burd, he knew he'd met her if he could only mind where, this was getting silly, he tried to stand up but the seat seemed to be a recliner and he felt that he was lying down and so couldn't stand, maybe he'd been knocked down it couldn't have been a mugging, not in Deacon Brodies, it was a good pub, he'd never had any trouble there but something had hit hi, something to do with the whistling postman – hey, that was him, used to be him, that was what the folk on his round called him because he was always whistling was it him who was whistling 'In the Hall of the Mountain King', that was probably what it was and he'd maybe slipped and banged his head in the toilets, why was he in the toilets he hadn't even drunk his beer, he didn't have one, he'd seen Jeannie through the door with her big shot advocaat what a wanker, and she shook her head and he'd gone round to the back door and it was unlocked as it was supposed to be but he hadn't gone into the bar he'd gone into the disabled toilet and maybe it was the door that had hit his head, maybe someone trying to come in pushed it too hard but it was bright in the toilet all white tiles and basin and stuff but now the lights were out, except for the faces, how were they glowing with no lights on they must be back-lit or something and he felt himself take a deep breath and hold it and he thought no, not a good idea, not when I've had a crack on the head it might have concussed me, so I should keep breathing but he found it very hard to do anything and as he watched the faces seemed to recede and get smaller and the darkness seemed to get darker and the face right in front of him was Dixie and he could almost touch it if he had any arms because it was moving away again and it was fading like the others and getting smaller and smaller and further away and becoming just a tiny wee star in the blackness and he remembered of the night sky and it was Dixie and he suddenly remembered Dixie's surname just as that very last face went dark and now everything was black and
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