Jock Reads “Him”

 Posted by on July 12, 2007  Add comments
Jul 122007

Tonight I want to celebrate the passing of our dear friend, Jock, who died this day three years ago. He was a Scottish Presbyterian, and dying on the Twelfth was his way of expressing his opinion on loyalists everywhere.

Here he is, reading another Bock story.


Previously Jock Reads a Fairytale

Two Scottish Sinners



I haven’t seen him yet, but sometimes I have two shadows.  I feel him moving around downstairs among the draped furniture and the cardboard boxes, and sometimes I imagine him easing back a curtain to leer at people in the street.  Perhaps he’s watching me now through some crack in this room, some weakness in the one place where he hasn’t been yet with his dry whispers.  Who can tell?  I can’t be sure of anything.


I keep jumping as I write this, even though I know it’s just the old house groaning in its sleep. Night-music.  Until a few days ago, I was using the whole house except, of course, those places we don’t like to talk about.  All these years since you left, I was careful to sleep by day and use the nights for listening.  I keep a fold in the rug on the landing and I check it every morning to see if it’s been flattened.  Nothing happened for such a long time, I’d started to think maybe things were getting better, maybe he’d gone away.  As if he would.  Last Tuesday, the third landing was cold again.  I thought it was just in my head till I noticed that my fold in the rug was gone again, and then I knew he was back.  Not alone anymore.  Again.  I think he might be outside the door by now, or at the very least only one flight down and he must know I’m in here.  But he’s strange like that: if I do nothing he might leave me alone for a long time.  That’s why I have everything I need close to hand: it saves moving around and making noise.  I often wonder if he forgets me when I’m quiet or if he just wants to keep me on edge.  Who can tell?


Lying here alone – almost alone – in the dark, I can think what I wouldn’t say out loud.  You know what I’m talking about.  Remember how we used to play down there, before we knew anything?  Before brick walls and small dead things?  One special thing, dead and small under a flagstone.  Of course you do.  The day we levered out the first brick, then another, and spied into a place with a vaulted roof.  Stalactites!  Remember?  The torchlight made them green and they had little drops of water hanging down.  It echoed – can you remember?  You threw a stone and it echoed.  Other things in there too: boxes, old crooked things thrown away.  Even then we must have known it was a mistake because we pushed the bricks back as fast as we could and later, we got some sand, some cement, plastered it all back, never said a word to anyone.  Not even to each other.  All those glances for weeks after, silent questions, but nobody mentioned the wall and we thought it was strange.  But not now.


Fear was our life-blood.  After a while, we started to creep down there again, getting braver all the time.  Finding the thing under the stone floor was an accident.  It’s not as if we knew where to look.  Just messing about with a rusty old pipe, the way kids do, we moved a loose stone and – I’ll never forget this –  in the rammed earth was a small .  .  .  thing.  Well, what else would you call it?  Just bones.  Not really a dog.  Not a lizard.  Not anything really that you’d recognise –  just a thing under a stone.  Dead.  Of course, being who you are, you wanted to take it up and we had a big fight about that.  Leave it, I said, just leave it alone!  But of course, we were both wrong –  the damage was already done.


We probably knew we’d started something because, after that, we kept vigil.  We didn’t call it that: vigil.  We didn’t even mention it, but all the same, that’s what happened: we watched.  There were signs too, small clues that anyone but a child would miss.  We saw the loose mortar.  We saw it: the brick slightly out of place.  Then, much later, the cold on the third landing and things not where they were left.  It got worse: the mumbling, the grunting, creaking on the stairs and, at last, knowing for sure that if you turned around now, he’d be there.




It’s hard to know now which of us first said that word.


Not It.


No.  Never It.




I never dared turn around.  We couldn’t go to bed for fear of a dream.  Couldn’t get up early for terror of meeting something in the silent house.  If we had to go down at all  –  down there, I mean –  it was at a run, all lights blazing and under protest.  We never passed the door if we could avoid it.


Something I often wondered: when do you think the others started to feel it?  Was it about the time of the accident or did it come later?  It’s hard to be certain now, looking back so far, but I know this: they’d have been alright if they hadn’t guessed.  I think maybe they knew from the start.  Maybe, for all I know, it began the day they moved in, before we were even born.  Things happening.  Little things you might write off as nothing at all, if you didn’t know better.  Now and then there was talk of happy times but I could never imagine what that meant and, to be honest, I still can’t.


I know we stayed by them right to the end.  We did that much at least, but the truth is, we have nothing to be proud of.  You must have noticed it too, the way they looked at us.  As if staying on was some kind of confession, and let’s be straight about it: they were right.  They saw through us and then they faded away, leaving you and me on our own, on the way down.


Why should both of us keep watch?, you said.  Not for long, you said, maybe a monthMaybe two, just to be sure.  We’d pack what we wanted, leave what we had no use for, and you’d go on ahead, send word back when everything was ready.  Why did I agree to that?  Was my guilt stronger than yours?  I don’t know.  By the time you left, all the stuff was in cardboard boxes, room by room, except the few things I’d need to get me through, and I held the street door open for you.  For you and your suitcases.  Won’t be long now, you said, and shook my hand – something you never did.  So, for sixteen years I sat in this house, listening, setting my little traps, watching for small things out of place and growing hopeful.  Until a fold, gone from a rug, reminded me.


No options left after that.  Time for facing up.  Forget draped furniture, forget useless things in cardboard.  Forget, even, two peaceful rooms on the top floor.  At last, it was time for me to turn around.


I brought a trowel, a rope, two lamps because no power comes to this house anymore.  Nothing comes to this house.  The door made no sound, but as I went down where I hadn’t been for so long, the stairs shook under me.  One step was missing and I almost fell.  The hook was still there, still strong when I tested the rope on it and made a knot.  I checked the coil again, making sure there was enough to reach and maybe a little beyond.  Then, with the other end around my waist, I stepped into the soft fear of childhood.


There was no sound but the seeping of water through the vaulted roof, as it has always done.  Above me, in the street, people would be on their way, unaware of this below, and that scared me more than anything else.  Even more than the ancient violence here: bricks, shattered from our wall; a small bony thing strewn in the shadows; the smell of him in the stones.

I put one lamp inside the archway.  It fell and clattered on stone, but stayed lit and nothing happened.  When I was sure there was no movement in the vaults, I went back for the plaster and, brick on brick, I rebuilt our barricade but still there was no sound except my breath and the water dripping.  When all sign was gone of light from the walled-in lamp, I stopped and it was then that I began to see.  My spare torch woke shadows all around me and I realised that there can be no shadow without light.  Nearly too late I remembered the bones and I began to think – surely now he knows.  Fear oozing from the roof, sticking to my shirt.  The rope, my lifeline: would it still lead back to the doorway?  Where would my rope lead?  Would this rope lead me to sanctuary, or to some other place entirely?


Leave now, is what my fear said.  Get out.  Don’t waitGet out now!


I fell against something old, something rusty and painful, but I didn’t shout.  I bundled the tiny bones into the hole, heaved the flagstone into place and the room started pulsing.  In, out, as if it was some dirty damp tunnel or else huge, a stone forest where I was lost and something smelled me.  I heard the spatter of wet mortar falling and as I fumbled to close the hole in the floor the lamp fell and went out.  Shaking it, cursing, with no time to finish, I had to get out now before a light came through brickwork from the wrong side.  Stumbling through childhood fragments, hauling on the lifeline, climbing arm over arm across the floor there was no time for anything now but struggling with a knot and falling back against a door.


So I find myself in my present state, one step ahead of staring all that in the face.  I know I can’t stay in here forever.  I know that.  Another hour, maybe three or four, I’ll make a break for it.  When it’s a bit brighter, I’ll step outside this last safe room, edge down the stairs past a cold landing and, if I keep my head, I’ll be in with a good chance.


  14 Responses to “Jock Reads “Him””

Comments (14)

    Link’s broken, hunny.

    Here’s to your friend, Jock. I remember him form some previous posts – he sounds like a great old gent.

    On the 12th – I come from probably the most Presbyterian corner of Britain – but nobody ever considered July 12th anything different form any other day. It just doesn’t register up there. I doubt anyone would notice it if i wasn’t from pictures of Belfast marches on the news. It would have passed me by today too had you and Knudsen not mentioned it. Proving that all the Troubles really have nothing to do with Catholics and Protestant doctrine differences but are purely a local phenomenon in NI – spilling over into Glasgow in a half-hearted way, right enough, but in neighbourhoods most people are too scared to go to anyway.

    Bunch of stupid inflammatory carry on, in my view.


    Sam : The link works.


    It’s the last one I’m having trouble with. I’m clicking on the “story” link and getting your site but with a 404 Error on it. The other three work just fine for me – s’just that one.


    It worked for me. Haven’t listened to it all yet…….


    the link works fine….wonderful stuff!


    Enthralling, Bock. A wonderful way to mark Jock’s passing.


    It contains a complete Ulster-Scots dictionary

    I will agree that a dictionary would be helpful for most Ulster-Scots. Or spell check. I’m not naming names, mind you.


    Sorry to hear about your friend, Bock. It sounds like he was a good soul.


    here’s to you, sugar! *raising a glass*


    That’s quite something Bock. How many more of those have you up your sleeve?

    It’s only lunchtime in the US, but I’ll go to the cupboard for a glass of Drambuie in honour of your friend Jock now.


    the Scots are always the ones to ask,”are you a Rangers or Celtic fan?” they know its the 12th. Bands from all over the world go to NI to march, remember last year when someone had the smart idea to march to Dublin and were surprised when some Irish fellas threw rocks at them?


    Guys: No point in making individual replies to most. Many thanks for listening to the story. Enjoy if you like and pass it on.

    Eolai: Sadly no. Jock died a few days after recording this one.

    Knudsen: Our Twelfth is to do with Jock’s passing. Those other mad fuckers can fuck off, cos they have nothing to do with us.


    That was great, Bock. Great pacing and description. Jock had a great voice to tell it with too.

    I was listening to it in a dark room with my eyes shut and feeling like a wee girl getting a story again when the screen went blank from my not moving the cursor for a bit. The glow stopped coming through my eyelids and I was plunged into a blacker darkness right as he was bricking up the wall with the lantern behind it. Then his torch went out. Spooky-making it was.

    I can see why you miss a man like that. He seems not to have forgotten his sense of play and childhood wonder even at his age, when some people are never ever children again past age 18. He has the kind of voice you could listen to all day – sort of patrician crossed with avuncular.

    Good on you for getting the recordings you did. That phonecall from him the day before he died must be poignant for you – and heartbreaking – it sounds like he knew what was coming. I’m glad he was a well-loved man. Did he have any family?


    Sam: We all knew he had only a short time, and even to record a single story was a great strain on him, so we were lucky to get what we got.

    Having said that, after Jock finished reading the Sailor, Eamonn and I took him for pints of Guinness in our pub of choice and had a great night.

    Many pints. Many tall tales. Long night.

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