Bill and the UFO16

Bill sheltered under the swishing overhanging branches of an Alder tree watching all his pals leave him and go home to their comfortable warm beds. The midges came down in a cloud any passing Jehovah would have been proud of. Todger snapped in circles around Bill’s legs, trying to beat the midges at their own game by eating them first.

Phil’s hands were in his pockets and his shoulders working like a clock work toy winding down in his familiar ding-dong walk.

‘Smell you later alligator,’ Bill shouted

He didn’t look back.

Wendy and Rab were up by the shiny modern white bungalows, with hardly a slither of daylight between them. Bill’s heart was in his throat as he crowed to them, ‘I’ll send you a Christmas card.’ Neither of them turned their head. Rab’s Wranglered elbow, however, shot out like a jib and his long middle finger poked into the air, giving him the finger, which was at least something.

Todger nuzzled Bill’s hand wanting to be fed. The dog was a great believer in getting fed and when he wasn’t getting fed was prone to repetitive behaviour like head butting and trying to wriggle in between his owner’s legs so that he’d be noticed.

Bill patted himself down like a cop, starting with his pockets and working his way down to his socks where he’d hidden some money. It had been about an hour since he had the last gasp of a fag and his mind was burling. He took his rucksack from his back and put it carefully down on the pavement. Whoever had tied the drawstrings had done a terrible job, because he could hardly get them open. He found a crushed cigarette, half smoked, right at the bottom of his bag, beneath a tin of hot dogs. Todger nudged against his legs again as if he could see into the rucksack. Bill pulled out the tin and Todger yelped with the sweet pain of recognition.

Bill put the butt of the cigarette in his mouth as if waiting for it to spontaneously combust. He’d patted himself down for matches in the same way he had for the fag, but found nothing. Todger was making matters worse by circling him and the tin of hotdogs set down on the pavement, like a Red Indian tribe on the warpath. Bill tried grabbing him by the matted fur around his outsized head and shouting, ‘sit’ at him, but Todger thought he was playing and jumped up on Bill with his front legs and pawed at him; his doggy breath almost knocking him over.

‘Stay,’ said Bill, carefully placing the tin of hotdogs back in the rucksack and walk a few steps along Duntocher Road.

Todger thought he meant run along beside him and attempt to head-butt him.

‘Do what the fuck you want.’ Bill still with the cigarette in his mouth, picked up the pace trying to get away from Todger, who seemed to understand that command.

Some grey haired old guy was shuffling up Duntocher Road towards them. He was either half scooped with the drink, or his black Crombie coat was heavily weighted to the one side with a set of dumbbells. Bill spotted the creased forehead and the frown on his face from 50 yards. The old man crossed in a mazy diagonal run onto the pavement on the other side of the road. Bill, having learned the lesson of Pythagoras, bisected him at 90º and stood in front of him with his dog.

‘Have you got a light?’ said Bill.

‘I know Karate,’ wheezed out the old man, almost falling over. Then his eyes seemed to adjust and pick up that there was also a dog that looked like a cross between a long tufted teddy bear hopping about on four legs and a duck billed platypus faced dog, that he didn’t know the name of, because there wasn’t one. One thing he was certain of it wasn’t the kind of devil dog that muggers liked to use. He parked his bum on a garden wall, using the ornate metal work of the black wrought iron fence as a backrest, to catch his breath. ‘Young feller. You gave me a fright.’ Now that he was settled he gave Bill another look, an up and downer. ‘You’re not one of those mad slashers are you?’

‘No,’ said Bill, but he quite liked the idea that he had a threatening appearance. ‘I’m just looking for a light.’ He cupped the cigarette end in his left hand and stuck it into his mouth, to reassure the old man.

The old man nodded, his head drooping down and down and a number of rrrrrrs came from the back of his throat, like a car starting up on a cold morning, as he searched though his pockets one at time for matches. He pulled out a half bottle of Eldorado and handed it to Bill to hold, whilst he continued frisking himself. Puzzled, he looked up at Bill and seeing him holding the half bottle, frowned and grabbed it back off him, stuffing it back into the deep holes of his coat pockets. He pulled out a packet of Woodbine Full Strengh, let out a sigh and lit it with a gold lighter.

‘Can I get a light?’ Bill found smiling with a fag in his mouth a bit like employing the same wooden skills as a ventriloquist.

‘You look too young to smoke.’ The old man settled himself down on the wall, as if he was an armchair at home. ‘But I started smoking when I was seven.’ He nodded as if thinking about that. ‘Did I already tell you that?’ he asked Bill.

‘No,’ said Bill, ‘I don’t think so. Can I get a light.’

The old man held the flame of his lighter out. He leaned across with the fag in his mouth as if were looking for a kiss. Bill sucked at the fag greedily. ‘I know it seems like a daft question, but you don’t have a tin opener? Do you?’

‘How’s it a daft question?’ The old man’s brows knitted a forehead, as he seemed to consider the question. ‘I’ve heard a lot dafter questions that that. What’s you name?’

‘Bill,’ he answered, temporarily wrong footed, he stuck his hand out to shake hands.

Todger barked trying to get into the act and as a way of reminding them that he was hungry.

‘Nice dog.’ The old man waved the lit fag he was holding about in front of his face, ignoring Bill’s outstretched hand. ‘What do you call him?’ He gestured towards the dog.

‘Todger,’ said Bill.

The old man took a deep drag on his Woodbine before giving his verdict. ‘Stupid name.’

‘Stupid dog,’ countered Bill.

The old man seemed to consider this, before his head dropped like a pigeon’s onto his shoulder and his eyes closed.

Bill held his index finger up to his lips to Todger and whispered ‘Sssshhhh,’ as he sneaked away.

Todger barked back at him, delighted with the sound.

The old man’s eyes opened and he coughed, looking about him as if working out, where he was. ‘Did I tell you that I started smoking at five?’

‘No.’ Bill froze.

‘What’d you want a tin opener for?’

Bill put down his rucksack and rifled through it pulling out the tin of hot dogs and showing them to the old man. Todger started barking furiously.

‘Rrrrrr you a tourist?’

‘No,’ said Bill.

‘Then what are you doin’ with the…?’ The old man couldn’t remember the name and waved like an enthroned monarch in a general direction.

‘Rucksack?’ said Bill.

The old man waved again.

‘Hotdogs?’

‘Yeh,’ said the old man, focussing on the tin of hotdogs. ‘You’re not American are you?’

‘No,’ said Bill. ‘I’m from here.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ The old man tried to get up, but fell backwards, his backside landing on the same wall. ‘That’s good, because I don’t like Americans…I don’t like the English.’ He had another look at Bill. ‘And I don’t like you.’ He squeezed his eyes together and peered at the dog. ‘Nice dog. Whose is it?’

‘It’s mine.’ Bill had finished his cigarette and flung the fag-doubt onto the road. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Wait a minute,’ the old man grabbed him by the arm, ‘you never told me you had a dog. I like a man that has a dog, because that shows that you can trust him.’ He let go of Bill’s arm. ‘Can I trust you? he said belligerently.

Todger whined and Bill knew exactly how he felt.

‘What do you want a tin opener for?’ muttered the old man.

‘I’ve got to go. Come Todger.’ Bill slapped his thigh, but his dog remained slumped and settled on the pavement at the old man’s feet. He started walking away hoping the dog would catch up.

The old man went through his coat pockets again, carefully sifting them one by one for the wreckage of his life. ‘I’ve got a tin opener.’ He put a fag in his mouth, his hands fumbling as he lit it.

Bill quickly stepped back toward them.

‘Not on me.’ The old man’s fingers couldn’t help tapping and checking that the half bottle was still in his pocket. ‘In the house.’

‘Where do you stay?’

The old man tilted his head back as if in a barber’s chair, looked at the sky and scratched the underside of his unshaved neck as he considered the possibilities. ‘Over there.’ He waved in the general direction of Parkhall shops. ‘But it doesn’t matter…’

Bill waited, his mouth open, thinking he was going to say something profound about life or love. It was better than that. The old man pulled a fag out of his packet and gave it to him, lighting it from his own cigarette.

‘You don’t need a tin opener,’ said the old man, which was profound enough in its own way. ‘When we were in the Scouts we never used a tin opener once. Only poofs used tin openers.’

‘What did you use?’ Bill had heard about that kind of thing, living off the land.

‘We just used old sticks or stones.’

The old man’s words seemed to confirm Bill’s suspicions that even old people could know something useful.

‘What kind of sticks or stones?

The old man rrrreed again to clear his throat. ‘Anything,’ he said, pulling the half bottle out and taking a quick slug.

‘Wait here,’ said Bill, ‘and I’ll get you something.’

He ran across the road, Todger barking at his back. There was a two storey Victorian house with lots of trees in it. Bill kept looking back at the old man to make sure that he hadn’t left as he picked up lots of different kinds of sticks. The old man was still there when he got back.

‘No use, that’s a log.’ The old man flung the first stick Bill handed him into the garden behind him. It’s thump to the ground confirming his diagnosis.

‘Too fat.’

‘Too thin.’

‘The wrong type of tree.’

‘The wrong type of wood.’

‘Dodgy. Dodgy.’

The old man worked his way though the pile of sticks Bill had brought him, their wooden corpses lying in the rose bushes behind his back.

‘Let’s see the can.’

The old man held his hand out and Bill passed him the tin of hot dogs. He carefully placed his near empty half bottle on the wall beside him, looking at it at few times in case it moved, or made a run for it. He put the unopened can of hot dogs in between his teeth as if he was going to crack it like a recalcitrant hazelnut, but after tentatively biting down on it, and massaging his jaw up and down like a puppet, declared his teeth, ‘too plastic.’ He looked at Bill. ‘What kind of teeth, you got?’

Todger looked up at him, the only one among them that remained convinced that the old man could open the tin.

‘I thought you said you could open it with a stick.’ Bill’s voice sounded weary and tired.

‘Who said that?’ The old man picked up the half bottle, and opened it.

Bill watched as he finished it in one massive gulp, flinging the bottle behind him onto the stack of tin opener sticks.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll open them.’ The old man tried to wink, but it was too much for him. He stumbled, dropping the tin of hot dogs, and inadvertently catching them with his feet and kicking them against the wall, which seemed to make him mad. He stamped down on the tin, flattening it, the preservative brine juice running onto the pavement.

‘Quick,’ he said, ‘catch that juice. It’s good for you.’

Bill scooped up the tin holding it away from him, in case it dripped onto his clothes.

‘Don’t do that. Drink it,’ the old man urged him.

Bill face twisted into sneer, but he tipped the can up letting some of the juice fall into his mouth. ‘Arggghh,’ he said, spitting it out, ‘it tastes like cat pish.’

Todger stood with his mouth open lapping it up.

‘I was in the Merchant Navy for about 33 years, going between Derry and Dublin, and that was the kind of thing we got for soup all the time. Look, the dog knows what’s good for him.’

Bill picked up the tin and bent if back and forth until a hole appeared and he could drag bits of hot dog meat out and feed it to Todger’s waiting maw.

‘Watch you don’t cut yourself,’ slurred the old man, pushing himself up off the wall, as if ready to stumble onwards on the long road home.

Bill was pissed off by the time he’d wasted with the old man, running around in circles like a dog after sticks. It made him feel that even Todger was smarted than him, because he never ran after sticks. He figured he might not know much, but he knew more than he was letting on. ‘I don’t think there’s a sea between Derry and Dublin.’

The old man gave him a what-do-you-know kinda look before replying ‘I spent a lot of time below deck.’ He swayed as he walked as if still mastering the basics of his non sea legs. ‘And another thing,’ he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Putting brine on your hair stops you from going bald. You never seen a baldy sailor with brine in his hair, have you?’

Todger whined for more, even though Bill had cut himself getting the last morsel of meet out of the tin. ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ admitted Bill.

The old man tapped himself on the forehead, like Woody Woodpecker, as if to say it’s all in there. ‘The human compass. That’s what they used to call me. The human compass. See that star up there.’ He pointed up in the sky towards their left past the steeple of St Stephen’s Church. ‘That’s The North Star. That’s the brightest star in the sky. You cannae get lost if you know where that is.’

Bill carefully put the empty hot dog tin down on the kerb beside the road. Todger nudged it with his nose, back and forth, encouraging other hot dogs to appear.

‘And that other star. That’s Orion.’

Bill looked up, but couldn’t see anything but blinking disco lights in the sky, all with the same beat.

‘And that one next to it.’ The old man gave a dismissive wave, as if he was doing the star a favour by naming it. ‘That’s son of Orion. I don’t like that star.’ He sneered as if he held a grudge against it.

‘Do you know anything about UFOs?’ said Bill.

‘UFOs. There’s nothing about UFOs I don’t know.’

‘I’m trying to get up to the Old Kilpatrick Hills, to take a picture of a UFO.’ He pulled his rucksack off his back and put it on the pavement, pulling out his camera.

The old man swayed, his gums clicking in his mouth, as he chewed over his thoughts.

‘Difficult,’ he finally admitted, backing himself onto the wall and sitting again.

‘But it’s a Kodak.’ Bill clicked the shutter on and off to show what a good camera it was.

‘No. No.’ said the old man, ‘it’s no’ that. UFOs are ten-a-penny up The Old Kipatrick Hills. There’s one landing every hour on the hour. If you listen on one of those car wirelesses you can hear them talking to one another. But they’re not daft the aliens. They speak in code.’

‘Well, I can just take a picture of one,’ said Bill smiling, worrying the clicker on his camera, desperate to take that picture, that very second.

‘Nah, it’s not that easy.’ The old man stumbled away from him.

Bill easily kept up with him, taking one stride for every two of his. ‘What is it? Do the UFOs become invisible when they land, or something?’

‘Nah, it’s no’ that son.’ The old man stumbled on almost tripping himself up, trying to outpace him.

Bill caught the sleeve of his Crombie, giving it a gently tug, to stop him, but the old man spun out of control and fell against him, bringing them all crashing to the ground outside Johnny Graham’s shop. The ground around it had been burned black from earlier in the day, but the shop was unaffected. Todger barked and tried to lick the old man as he tried to get up which pushed him back down again.

‘I didnae want to tell you this.’ The old man was wild-eyed, but finally on his feet.

Bill felt he grown up on the last day or two, but wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear what the old man had to say.

‘Look at you,’ said the old man.

‘What?’

‘You’re almost handsome.’

Bill had never been called handsome before. Even though it was deflected a bit by the ‘almost’ tag and the compliment was coming from a seventy-year-old alky, he couldn’t help puffing his pigeon chest out.

‘You need to go through Faifley to get to the Old Kilpatrick Hills. Even the UFOs don’t like flying over Faifley. You’ll never get out of there alive, with your rucksack and your camera.’ The old man had another look at him. ‘If you were chewing gum, they’d think you were American.’ He tried to spit, but his teeth fell out onto the pavement. He picked them up, wiped them down and put them back in his mouth. ‘If you’re no’ chewing gum they’ll think you’re an English tourist which is even worse.’

‘Can’t I explain I’m not a tourist?’ The jitters in Bill’s voice were making Todger equally nervous and made him whine.

‘What planet are you on son?’ You cannae explain these kinds of things to people from Faifley. You’re either one of them, or you’re not.’ The old man looked about him. ‘At least its dark,’ he added, to make Bill feel a bit better.

‘Couldn’t I sneak around Faifley?’ Bill’s voice was beginning to sound like Todger’s whine.

‘People have tried that before,’ the old man said solemnly.

‘What can I do?’ Bill’s howl came from the heart.

The old man started taking off his black Crombie. L.S. Lowry couldn’t have pencilled in thinner arms in a musty grey shirt, which were all elbow and joints. ‘Stick this on.’

Indecision was in Bill’s eyes.

‘Stick it on!’ The old man pushed the coat into his face. It smelled like a barroom floor put through a blender of tobacco, drink and pee.

‘Nah, I’ll no’ bother,’ said Bill.

‘I’ve been all over the world, but I’ve never been to Faifley.’ The buttons on the coat almost poked Bill in the eye.

‘It’s Faifley.’ The old man poked at his resolve with the coat one more time.

Bill weakened and reached up to take his rucksack off.

‘Nah,’ said the old man, as if Bill was modelling for him. ‘Put the coat over the rucksack, that way they’ll think your just a guy with a hump back and you’ll fit right in. Some of the people up there are like the Japs on the Pacific atolls. They refuse believe the Second World War has finished and we lost.’

‘But we won,’ said Bill.

The old man clacked his teeth together. ‘Could have fooled me.’

Even with the coat over the rucksack it still trailed Bill’s feet.

‘Perfect.’ The old man walked round Bill modelling his coat, like a dog chasing his tail. Todger followed the old man, hoping to be fed. ‘And the good thing about that coat is you can sleep in it.’ The old man seemed to be speaking from nostalgic experience. He seemed to have sobered up and looked at Bill and looked at Todger one last time. His last piece of advice before walking away was ‘make sure you take that dog with you. He’ll fit right in. All the dogs in Faifley look like that. He’ll probably find a Mrs Todger. With my coat and that dog you’ll blend right in, like a 1950s Elvis with a hump.’