Daft Wee Stories (26 page)

A few folk shouted to him, thinking he was trying to top himself. But he stood up quickly and said he was fine. A few helping hands shot out, offering to pull him back up to the platform, and he was just about to grab one. But now that he was down there …

You know, now that he was down there …

He turned towards the poster. It was still a bit out of focus. He walked towards it; people shouted at him to get back onto the fucking platform, the train's coming. He could see one guy ready to jump down, so he told the guy to fuck off, he's fine, he'll jump up as soon as he's seen this poster. It would be a shame not to, now that he was down there, now that he was so close.

He looked at the small print and noticed that one of the reasons it appeared out of focus was that it was covered in a thin layer of grime from the trains. He wiped it, and started to read what it said underneath.

It was just some shite about 0 per cent finance on something, and how you'd have to start paying within a certain time otherwise it would go up to some other APR, a lot of mumbo jumbo. The reason why there was so little info about the product was because it was a kind of teaser campaign to get dafties like our man interested before revealing the product a week or so later, but they had to put in the mumbo jumbo for legal reasons.

He never found that out, though, he never got further than two or three words in, because he got hit by the fucking train, didn't he? As he did, one of the commuters turned to a woman next to him. And do you know what he said?

He said, ‘Now there's one case where you definitely shouldn't read the small print!'

What an absolute cracker!

Unfortunately, she didn't quite catch it. She was in shock.

A man had just lost his life.

You're walking through a shop, a clothes shop, looking down at some clothes on the racks. You look up, and you make eye contact with another person. You're quite sure they were looking at you first, but you're willing to accept that you both looked at each other at near enough the same time. But they look at you like you're the one that looked first, like you were caught staring, like you're the bad one. They dump the clothes they were thinking of getting and walk away. Fucking oddball.

An hour or so later, you go for lunch. You're in a restaurant miles away from that shop, nowhere near it. You sit down at a table, look around: who's at the table next you? That person.

They're not looking at you, not yet anyway, but you're looking at them, thinking about how much of a coincidence that is, and also how it's a bit weird. But it's not half as weird as how you feel when they look up and catch you staring at them. It's you again. You that was looking at them in the shop earlier today, a shop that's miles away, and now here you are in this restaurant sitting at the next table, staring at them. You give a wee smile and open your mouth to comment on how much of a coincidence it is, but you get as far as a croak sound before they bury their nose in the menu. You shrug your shoulders and look back to your table. You pick up a menu and act normal, to try and make it not look like a big deal, that these things happen. But then you overhear the waiter ask the person if they'd like to order and they say no, they've changed their mind. You hear them get up and head towards the door. Fucking hell. Not only that, they take the long way around to the door so as to not have to brush past you. You look down at your menu, shake your head and look up to see them walking past the window outside, staring at you. When they see you staring back, they get a wee fright, like you've just proven to them that you're a mad staring weirdo, that you are a bad one, even though it was them that fucking stared first. It was them that fucking stared first!

An hour later, you're walking through the park. You get to a wee secluded bit, a wee path that not many people walk through. And surprise surprise, who's this walking towards you in the distance? It's them.

You couldn't make this up.

But they haven't seen you yet, and you just know that you can't do this again, you just can't. So you walk off the path and hide behind a tree. That's right, you hide behind a tree. You've done nothing wrong, yet you hide behind a fucking tree. It'll just be until they walk past, then you'll go back on the path and get the fuck out of there and hopefully never bump into them again. You'll emigrate if you have to.

As you hear them walk past, you turn your head slightly to see if they're gone, and you step on a twig. The twig snaps. The person stops and turns.

And sees you staring at them from behind a tree.

They run like fuck, and start shouting. What the fuck are they doing? You run after them to explain, there's no way you can let it get out that you're some kind of stalker, you need to explain and get them to see the funny side of all this. You almost catch up, you almost grab their shoulder, but then they stop in their tracks, turn around and belt you in the face. You're bleeding.

You could say that was fair, you could say it was self-defence and then use this moment to try to explain, but why are you the one who has to do all the explaining? You're not the one in the wrong here; you're both as wrong as each other. They stared at you first, have we forgotten that? No. So you belt them back, just to assert the fact you are both equals here.

Crack. You break their nose. You didn't mean that.

They make a run for the trees, terrified, and you chase after them. After losing them briefly, they come out of nowhere with a boulder and smack it over your head. You hit the deck. You reckon that's it, you reckon they'll run away and that it'll be them that's emigrating. But then they lift the boulder again. They're going to finish you off. You boot their shin and they drop the boulder on their foot. You boot them in the belly and down they go. They reach for the boulder, winded, but you get there first. You pick the boulder and lift it high and you bring it down on their skull.

You've killed them.

You can see the brain. You've killed them. Jesus Christ, you killed them.

So it turns out they were right about you.

You are a bad one.

Turns out they were right about you all along.

It was one of those religious debates. It was quite a big deal, this one. It was all being professionally shot and streamed live onto YouTube, with tons of viewers leaving tons of comments in the comments bit below. On the stage were three people. In the middle was the chairwoman, a familiar face from the news, brought in for her experience in keeping order between her guests on the telly and making sure questions were answered. Beside her were the two opponents. To the left was the guy on the side of religion, a pretty high-up religious figure himself, not as high as the Pope, but halfway there. On the right was the guy against religion, the atheist. And before them all was the audience, who had turned up to watch this pair arguing like fuck for an hour.

They'd been at it for about forty-five minutes, arguing mainly about creationism, intelligent design, how things came about and why they do the things they do. With fifteen minutes left, the chairwoman decided it was time now to take some questions from the crowd. And what a crowd it was, it was packed, because the atheist on stage wasn't just any old atheist. It was none other than renowned biologist Richard Dawkins himself. Richard smiled as he turned to face everybody, ready for whatever questions they were about to throw. He was feeling confident, he was feeling at ease – things had gone quite well for him. Unlike the other guy. Despite Richard's opponent being this religious big shot, despite him being one of these guys you'd see on the telly at Christmas or at a state funeral, in a big cathedral, dressed in robes and a hat, commanding all this respect and reverence from politicians and royalty, despite all that, Richard had made him look like a right wee fanny.

The chairwoman asked the audience for a question. A few people stuck their hands up; the chairwoman looked around, then picked one from down the front. The lady in the white top. She stood up and got handed a mic. It was a question for Dawkins. If there was no God, she asked, how could he account for so and so? It was a good question; a few of the religious folk in the audience looked to Richard to see how he'd respond. They kind of wished that they'd asked it themselves, until Dawkins tore her to shreds, then they were kind of glad that they hadn't. She sat back down, her face red, and handed back the mic.

The hands went up again. The chairwoman decided to go for somebody up the back. The man with the chequered shirt. It was a question for the religious guy. Some religious people, he said, take the story of Creation in Genesis literally, but other religious people, within that very same religion, don't. How can we account for such and such? The religious guy thanked the man for the question, and said that it was a very interesting question, and an important question, and one that he would like to now answer. He managed to get about halfway into his response before Richard jumped in at something that didn't make sense. The atheists laughed and applauded. The chairwoman asked Richard not to interrupt, but the damage was done, the religious guy looked like a total fucking dope once again.

And then another question from the audience. And another. Point after point to Dawkins. Most of them were easy wins, but some of them not so easy. There were quite a few religious scientists in the audience who spoke with very big words, most of which went right over the head of the rest of the audience and the viewers on YouTube. But Richard knew what they meant, and fired back one or two big words of his own. The religious scientists sat down, and stayed down. After that, no more hands went up.

It had been a very successful afternoon for Richard. He was glad they were filming it, he was glad it was live, it had an edgy feel to it. Oh, he was always on the ball whether it was live or not, or even if it wasn't being filmed at all, but there was something he enjoyed about being watched by anonymous eyes around the world, willing him to trip up or get caught out, and being disappointed. The stakes were high. It was exhilarating. He glanced over to one of the cameramen, and saw him yawn and look at his watch. It was healthy to see that to some people this didn't matter a jot. It put things into perspective. Richard wondered if it was nearly time to go. The chairwoman read his mind.

‘Well, I think it's just about time to go,' she said. ‘I'd like to thank— Oh, we have one more question.' Richard looked towards the audience. ‘The man in the grey T-shirt.' She pointed towards the centre of the crowd, where a man had his hand raised. He was handed the mic, then he stood up. Richard couldn't help smiling. He didn't mean to judge, but the guy was a slob. He had a big baggy faded grey T-shirt, tight around the midriff, with crumbs and a smudge of sauce on the chest. And he looked like his fingers smelled of chips.

‘I've got a question for Richard Dawkin,' said the man. He looked in his thirties, but his voice was high like a twelve-year-old's, like it hadn't broke yet. Richard had to stop himself from laughing. It was the voice, the state of that T-shirt, plus the fact the guy had called him Richard Dawkin, not Dawkins. It made Richard happy; this would be a nice easy one before he got out of there. A bit of comedy. He'd be gentle with him, he'd end on a laugh. These debates made him come across as quite serious, quite angry, quite self-righteous. He'd never apologise for being right, but he was aware he sometimes appeared arrogant and uncompromising. Some said he was every bit as fanatical as a religious zealot. A bit of comedy here would be the perfect way to end this, to leave on a high note. A wee giggle to relax everybody's shoulders.

‘Aye, what it is is,' said the slob, ‘I'll tell you what it is. You know pigeons?'

Richard didn't respond at first, thinking the slob wasn't actually wanting an answer, but he was. ‘Yes,' said Richard, which got a wee titter from the audience.

‘You know how you sometimes see the guy pigeon doing that wee dance around the lassie pigeon, when it wants a ride?'

A few audience members laughed out loud. The slob didn't get what was funny. Quite a character, this one. Richard tried to keep a straight face. ‘Yes, if I understand your meaning.'

‘Well, I suppose my question is … what's that all about?'

Some members of the audience put their hands over their faces and shook their heads, even the religious ones. Richard felt himself about to laugh again, but he thought he better not, because it might come out later that the guy has something wrong with him. Neither should he palm the guy off with a jokey response, because that might seem patronising, like a jokey response is all a joke of a man deserves. No, he'd give a serious answer like any other, he couldn't go wrong there.

‘Well,' began Dawkins, before pausing for thought.

He paused for quite a while. The audience was quiet.

What was that all about? The pigeon dance. He'd seen it before, it was quite a funny thing to watch, but he'd never given it much thought, other than filing it under one of many mating rituals that many other creatures perform instinctively. He could reply simply with that and get out of here, but it seemed too simplistic. That dance, that way the male would trot after the female, before doing a wee turn on the spot, bobbing its head down as it turned, without ever being taught. It was almost like seeing a toddler doing the dance from
Thriller
without ever having seen the video. Quite mind-boggling, really.

‘Well,' said Dawkins again. ‘Um …' The audience members with their heads in their hands began to look towards him. He could see the brows of the smiling atheists begin to furrow. It was a most peculiar sight for them. A most peculiar sight.

But really, that dance. What was that all about? If there really was no creator, no God, then where was that dance stored? In the brain, in the blood, in the DNA? Yes. But where? How was the choreography of the pigeon dance written in genetic code? How do you write in genetic code, in that tiny brain, the instruction that this bird must do this dance, it must turn on the spot every so often, not too often, just often enough, and it must bob its head low when it does so? How was that written? How did those genetic instructions look under the microscope? He wasn't sure exactly, but they were there all right, they had to be. But then didn't that mean it would be possible, in theory, to genetically programme a human to have the instinct to do the dance from
Thriller
, right out the womb, right from the word go, including that human's descendants? Did he think he could stand here on stage and make that claim without being laughed out the building? Then why did he think he could make roughly the same claim for the pigeon dance? What would he say? Where was he going with this?