The Pocketbook Guide to Scottish Superheroes
Contents
The Pocketbook Guide to Scottish Superheroes by Kirsti Wishart
When we invited Kirsti to send us a story for SF Caledonia she also asked if we were interested in a novel she had written. It’s about an alternative Scotland where folk randomly develop superpowers, she said. We’re not really geared up for publishing full length works, we said, but if you’re willing to experiment, how about releasing it as an online serial on SF Caledonia? You see, we have a soft spot for serialisations, and always fancied doing something that Walter Scott and Charles Dickens would have done in their early days.
Kirsti agreed, edited the structure to accommodate the format, added chapter teasers and here it is.
To get started, we’re publishing two chapters at a time, on the first and third Fridays of the month. So put those days in your diary and add a link to the home page, www.sfcaledonia.scot
Please, please do enrol in the mailing list to keep up to date, and also, please, please, please, do let us know what you think about this, and let us have any suggestions to improve this experience – use the contact form to do so.
And, like the rest of this site, the chapters are formatted for easy reading on any device, mobile to cinema screen.
—Noel Chidwick,
Editor
Kirsti Wishart is an Edinburgh-based writer of short stories, novels and other things. Her stories have appeared in New Writing Scotland, 404 Ink, Glasgow Review of Books, Product Magazine and been shortlisted for the Scottish Arts Trust Story Awards. She’s been a Hawthornden Fellow, a contestant in Literary Death Match and is a regular contributor to The One O’Clock Gun, a literary free-sheet found mostly in Edinburgh pubs.
Her debut novel, The Knitting Station, was published by Rymour Books in 2021 with her second, The Projectionist, selected by SNACK magazine as one of the ten best Scottish books of 2022.
Chapter 3 –The Saga of Davey – A cry for help – Cathy to the rescue?
I’d started dealing with Davey about six months back and at first he’d seemed a clear-cut case. I’d carried out his initial assessment and after a run of chancers it was nice to come across someone so honest and, well, normal. He was almost apologetic about turning up and I liked it had taken him a year since his Ability had developed to get in contact. And then he’d only done so because he’d had to go part-time as a fitter in a garage, his Ability making it harder and harder for him to do his original job. That and to stop his wife nagging. She’d been the one who’d downloaded the SACS form for him to complete. I’d liked him even more for the way he’d talked about her, loving but weary.
He was in his early fifties and I kept waiting for him to annoy me. The older guys could act superior, asking what a wee girl with daft hair and an eyebrow piercing could know about their problems. They made assessments a nightmare, either point-blank refusing to show what was wrong with them and going on about performing monkeys or they’d be bloody dangerous, showing off like some kind of pissing contest. But when Davey had shown me the effect of his touch on various materials – plastic turning as soft as runny butter, steel as limp as old spring onion stalks, brick crumbly as carrot cake – he’d displayed a wide-eyed amazement with an undercurrent of genuine panic that made me want to help him. The way he’d looked at me while carelessly wrapping a pencil round his hand like a rubber band. Hoping I’d make things better.
Of course you had to keep it professional when doing an assessment. You talked them through the forms, explained about timescales and regulations. It kept things grounded, both of you distracted from how absolutely fucking mental the situation was. But at the end of his interview, when Davey pulled on two pairs of industrial-thick protective gloves and shook my hand too long, me praying he didn’t pick up how nervous he was making me, I had a job keeping it together. He was so happy he’d finally done something. Something he thought would make his life better. I had to resist marching him straight to the pub, sitting him down and telling him how unlikely it was we’d find any decent work for him, that it looked as if for the rest of his life he’d be getting by on a pittance, being supported by his wife. But I didn’t. Instead I smiled back, kept a hold of his hand and said, ‘Wish all my clients were as well behaved as you, Davey!’
He still seemed cheery when I phoned him a fortnight later before telling him we’d managed to get him some shitey part-time job at the local dump. I’d cringed as the disappointment in his voice turned hopeful. ‘Och well, at least it’ll get me out the house. The wife’ll be pleased with that. The number of remote controls I’ve been getting through!’
It was when those bastards at the dump let him go after he’d burnt a hole in one of their Portakabin toilets that he’d started to change. He’d call two or three then six times a day, checking to see if we had any work for him. The calls got more and more desperate, asking if he could get an emergency reassessment, if there was a government doctor he could see and when we told him no, we’d done everything we could, he’d started talking about going to the police. But every time he finished the call, and it would break your heart to hear it, it was with a polite ‘Right, well, thanks for your help anyway, cheerio then.’
Because I’d been the first one to see him I was the one he’d ask to speak to. When I heard someone go, ‘OK Mr Robertson, I’ll check if Cathy’s available,’ I’d roll my eyes, mime slitting my throat and whoever’d taken the call would roll their eyes too, nod then take him off mute and say, ‘I’m sorry, she’s unavailable at the moment, but I should be able to help. What’s your enquiry regarding, Mr Robertson?’ I didn’t feel too guilty. We’d done what we could and I’d other clients to help. Mainly I felt disappointed that a nice enough guy had turned into such a nut-job. Reading the emails the Slorach had forwarded me though, I felt guilty as hell.
From: davey_the_robster@fit4heroes.co.uk
To: Abilities_TeamC@scotland.gov.uk
Sent: 5th May 2017
Subject: Help needed
Hi ya again Cathy.
Im sorry to annoy you again but did you get my last email? I’m waiting for you to get back to me before I make a decision but I think that maybe my condition is getting a worst and I dont know what to do about it I’ve been to the doctor again but they can’t help. That man was there again though and he gave me another leaflet and told me to phone I was just going to leave it because i don’t know to trust THEM but just the other night iwent to open the fridge and my hand went through the handel. The wife wasnt to impressed I can tell you!! Typing this is tricky I hav to hit the keys with a pencil in my teeth the keys will melt if I don’t. Could you let me know what to do that would be a help. And if things are not getting better but worst should I come in for another check-up? are there jobs going?
Cheerio, thankks for your help Davey.
From: davey_the_robster@fit4heroes.co.uk
To: Abilities_TeamC@scotland.gov.uk
Sent: 28th June 2017
Subject: URGENT ATTENTION PLEASE!! Top secret
Cathy (or whoever it is who reads these things if anyone does read them because I’m starting to think you dont read them at all). Cathy I went and phoned that number on the leaflt I got from the manat the doctors although hewasnt a doctor. I dont know if you know about them because they seemed to be official like they were from the council or the government but theyasked a lot of questions like you did at our meeting and then they started going onabout religious stuff and I got scared and hung up. Do you know about them? One of them came to my door i think but I didn’t let him in but he was talking talking a lot in this deep voice and i tried not to listen igot this cold feeling inmy brain but then the wife came back and she didn’t see him he’d gone. That was a fortnight ago or so and now i think somethings happening to me somethings got inside my head and im feeling worse. Is this going to affect my claim? If i’m worst and ive made it worst will my money be stopped? And the wife saw what i did to one of her figurines when i didn’t mean to do it, I was thinking things were getting better and now she isnt speaking, just crying a lot. CAN YOU HELP ME? CAN I GET ANOTHER APPOINTMENT! You were really helpful but now Im sorry Im wondering if your any help at all.
Davey Robertson
P.S. they told me now to tell anyone about this so please dont tell anyone and get rid of this email.
From: davey_the_robster@fit4heroes.co.uk
To: Abilities_TeamC@scotland.gov.uk
Sent: 5th July 2017
Subject: PLEASE HELP, NO JOKE, URGENT!!!
Cathy i dont mind that you have not got back to me about my other emails thats fine but if you answer any of them you HAVE TO ANSWER THIS ONE. The wife has gone now i think shes gone tohersisters but im not sure and I dontblame her I wishIcouldleave me too. i amsorry for tye the typing but something ishappening and the pencil it doesntworkany more and the keyssskeepsticking to me. If you makesenseeofiit please phonemy number 01382 562879 andi willanswer it i promisebecause I dont go out any more because of thewayi look. Ifyoudo not phne or ifbetter if you comeansee me i wont have achoice but to go to hte PAPERS. I knkow Im not supposed to but I don’thave achoice, you would understand ifyousaw me. I keep dreaming about them tooas well all in theyreblack like a funral. Pleasecome quickly I would really appreciate it. I should phone theambulancebut after the doctorsImscared to do that. I dontknow wheretheywouldtakeme. Im scared that mans going to comeback andi will get worse. Help meples.
Davey
And these were the edited highlights. Reading them I felt sick and not just because I’d been a right cold-hearted cow who’d left this guy dangling but because I knew why the Slorach was so anxious to get Davey dealt with. He’d used the magic ‘P’ word – ‘papers’. Any sniff of SACS showing up in the Dundee Courier and the client’s wish was suddenly the Slorach’s command.
I grabbed a pen and a post-it, scrawled down Davey’s mobile number and realised the date of the last email. The fifth of July and we were on the, what, the twelfth? Seven days. Seven days without another email. I nearly ran out the office, stunning the chatter quiet as I went, muttering under my breath, ‘You’re alright Davey, the cavalry’s coming. Bit bloody late but it’s coming.’