by Ross Raisin
There is a meeting called for four o’clock one afternoon. By the time he and Eric get there after the lunch shift it is already under way, and they go and join Dia, beckoning them over at the back of the room by the oven. The ringleader is talking in English about a new development. The management, she says, have started putting out more spies on the floors, so what the housekeepers are doing is they’ve fixed out a system of lookouts, making sure there’s always one of them keeping watch at the end of the corridors to signal when a bandit is on the approach. She tells this story that happened: a few days ago two of them are trying one of the doors with no reply, when they get the signal from the lookout and they hurry into the room, presuming it’s empty. Inside but, there is a guy in the bare scuddy doing exercises in front of the TV. She does an impression of him, his face black-affronted, hands shooting down to cover himself.
They are all laughing at this story when the operations manager comes in the door.
She stands, looking at them.
‘Every person in this room faces instant dismissal.’
She’s no beating about the bush, then.
Silence. Confused faces. She’s got the heavy team with her, two big fellas stood either side of the door, and another man in a suit beside her.
‘Unauthorized meetings and organization of staff without consent is in breach of the terms of your employment, and is an immediately sackable offence.’
She stands there just, the arms folded, triumphant, the Iron fucking Lady there with her mince for brains bodyguards – Haggis 1 and Haggis 2. The terms of your employment? What are they, well? He certain hasn’t seen them. Nobody moves. Not even the ringleader. She’s still stood on her chair, looking exposed and daft like a schoolwean who’s been caught goofing about by the teacher walking in. Everybody’s waiting for who’s going to do something, and it’s clear enough the operations manager isn’t in a hurry, the look on her face – she’s enjoying it, you can tell. The guy in the suit next to her scanning about the room and marking onto a notepad – their names, obviously, however he knows what they are. Mick stays watching like the rest of them. It hasn’t hit him that something real is happening.
There is a loud scurl from up on the chair and the ringleader steps down – she is marching toward the door and the haggismen sidestep together, but then the operations manager moves forward and the two women come at eyeballs.
‘It is not a meeting. How do you know it is meeting?’
The arms still folded. Smiling.
‘You sack us, then you have no staff.’
She’s pishing in the wind but, and the Milk Snatcher there knows it. ‘You can let me worry about that.’ She motions to the haggismen to unblock the door. ‘Those of you who are supposed to be working tonight’ – and she looks right at where Mick is stood with the KPs – ‘you will not be required to complete your shifts. All of you can remain in the hotel for the night but you will be required to leave the premises in the morning by 9 o’clock.’
And that’s that. Show over. They start filing out the room, slow, quiet, automatic, like at the lunatic. The haggismen itching for it to kick off, and the suit guy getting the final names down. There is the sound of the ringleader arguing behind them as they get into the corridor, and then, one by one, they each disappear into their rooms. With the staff room out, there isn’t anywhere else to go.
He is laid on the bed and the brain is dreiched over. A chapping on the door. Dia. He comes in, calm as ever; cheery even. He perches on the table as Mick sits up on the edge of the bed.
‘Don’t suppose there’s anything we can do, eh?’
Dia shakes his head slowly, tutting.
‘Who’s working now?’ A stupit question. What does it matter? It doesn’t.
‘Vincent. Obi is in the café bar, so it is only him.’ Dia grins. ‘He will have a busy shift. They say they will leave as well but I tell them, no, stay. Why go? They were not at the meeting. Why go? So now they will stay.’
‘What about you, Dia? What will you do?’
‘I sign again with the agency. They find work easily because they take all the money.’ He laughs. ‘And the hotel, they go to the agency as well. Maybe they take me again, who knows?’
Mick smiles, and he realizes then this is probably the last he’ll see of Dia. Unless he signs with the agency himself, of course, but even the brief thought of that starts curdling the stomach.
‘And you? What will you do?’
There’s no reason to lie to Dia but he feels instantly on the defensive. He hasn’t let himself think about that.
‘I’m fine. It’s no a problem.’ And then: ‘There’s someone I know telt me he’s got a job going if I want it.’
Dia nods. ‘That is good.’ He stands up and steps forward with his hand held out.
‘Good luck.’
‘And yourself, Dia, good luck to you too.’
He must’ve slept a little, because it is morning, almost six, when he wakes up, still dressed. He goes to the wardrobe and gathers up the rest of his clothes into his bag, and that’s him, offski. Nobody in the corridor, or up on the next level, as he leaves into the cold dim dawn outside the fire exit. Without much of a thought where he’s headed, he goes toward the terminal.
Chapter 22
‘Well, ladies and gents, I’m still waiting for the signal at Hatton Cross. Should be any moment, I’m told, but that’s what they said last time so your guess is probably as good as mine. Still time to sit back then, relax, read the paper, do your thing. I’ll keep you posted.’
A funnyman, the driver. They’re no laughing but. There is a business type sat opposite, shaking his head at the chummy patter that keeps crackling over the tannoy. So what, ye miserable cunts, we’re no going anywhere, what difference does it make? See but if he had somewhere himself he was headed, maybe he’d be the same. Genuine a strange feeling. He does not know where he is headed. Unlike all these lot, late for their meetings and that – or maybe they aren’t, who knows, maybe your man over there is just acting it, and actually all he’s got in that briefcase he’s finger-tapping on the now is a packet of sandwiches and a litre bottle of Buckfast.
‘Okay, folks, looks like we’re on the move, so mind the doors, please, and we’ll be off.’
The train starts moving and he tries to think. Where is he going? Out of nowhere he laughs. He can’t help it. It’s actually funny, the situation. A few scunnery wee looks across the way. Probably they think it’s something the driver said – Christ, what kind of headcase must that make him look? Serious but, what is he going to do? A good question, a good one, but still he can’t drum up the effort to get thinking about it, and he is falling asleep by the time the train is slowing into the next station, mind the doors doors closing mind the doors please.
It is a decision of sorts, but one it doesn’t seem he has made himself. A default. The easiest thing to do with no other brainwaves at the door; because even if No Breakfast is a crabbit bastard – which he is – he’s a familiar crabbit bastard, and that feels easier the now than making the effort to think up anything else.
He isn’t there though. Nobody is about. The Back in 10 minutes notice is up, so he goes back out and to the Costcutter for a sausage roll and a can of lager, and sits on a low wall under the bridge, sheltered from this Baltic wind that has got up.
When he comes back the sign is gone, but on chapping the door it is another man that opens.
‘I’m, eh, sorry, I’m wanting a room. I was staying here a couple of months back.’
‘Okay, sir, come this way.’
Here’s a change, well.
He follows him up to the top floor. There are two rooms either side of the stairhead, and the guy opens one of them and lets him in. There is a television, he notices as he gets handing him the money.
‘Okay?’ He is younger than No Breakfast. A brother maybe.
‘Fine, thanks.’
He must have been fair knackered, because when he wakes up the gloaming ha
s came and went outside the window, and it is getting on for night. Okay, then. Nay use lying there just, composting on top of the bed, he needs to be up and about, decision-making. Better to keep the brain busy chasing after you, than you the one chasing trying to stop it. He gets up and goes over by the window. A plan needed, well. A decent plan. Firstly into the bag for a tenner from the money envelope, then out to the shop for what he needs.
He buys a pen, an A4 pad, a four-pack and a lamb samosa. Also, a free-ads paper, which, it turns out, isn’t actually free but then what can you expect, this is London, pal. When he gets back in the room he realizes, seeing his bag, that he in fact already has these things – pen, paper – and the empty, aching sensation that the memory of it brings back causes a setback to proceedings, as he leans back against the wall behind the bed and takes a long drink, trying to quiet it down.
First up, the financials. He gets out the money envelope and counts what he’s got, slowly, carefully, the first time, then a couple more times quickly just to be sure, the head of the English queen flashing like a flick book, the expression never changing, fish-lipped and disapproving. £497. Fine. Good. That gives him time. He doesn’t have to rush into the first job he finds; he can make sure he gets the right one, a decent employer, no another bandit out to rob him. He opens another can and gets the TV on. Falls asleep in the chair.
The morning, and his back is sore, but he is straight up and about it, pulling open the paper and getting the jobs circled. There are quite a few minicab jobs, which being honest is probably where he should have tried last time, even though most of them are for registered-owner drivers. One or two but, that say they rent a car.
He begins with a place that looks like it’s based nearby. He goes out and to a phone box to give the number a call. The familiar nervous feeling as he waits, watching his breath come in fits of mist, before a man answers and tells him to come over right now if he’s able.
One thing he’s noticed: the bus stops all have these wee maps in them, which makes it pretty easy finding the place. He is there twenty minutes later. There is a sign along the street and a steamed-up window with a light on.
Inside, a man behind the glass.
‘Hello, I just spoke to somebody about the job.’
‘Oh, right, that you was it?’ He eyes him up and down.
‘Like I say, I’ve plenty experience. I’ve been working private hire in Glasgow more than fifteen years.’
‘Right. Do you have a reference?’
‘Yes. See, I do, but I’ve no got it on me.’
‘I’ll need to have one.’ He keeks down at his newspaper.
‘What I can do, I can call ye with the number when I get home. I can’t mind it off the top my head, is all.’
‘Sure, fine. We’ll hear from you, then,’ and he walks off.
References. That’s him screwed, well. Obviously he isn’t putting a call in to Malcolm. They don’t know he’s here, even. That’s how he came in the first place, christsake, to get away. Still, he has to crack on. He has to be positive. Not everywhere’s going to want a reference – probably there’s one or two need a new start straight away and they’re okay seeing if he shapes up on the job just.
It is the same story at the next place though. Once he gets over there and he sits in a kind of waiting room – it’s a chain place and it’s a bit more proper – they give him an application form to fill out. There is nobody else in the room, so after he’s tried at one or two of the boxes, he slips away. What’s the point handing it in if half the boxes he can’t put anything? Address. Telephone number. References. It is only the back of eleven when he returns, but the day is finished. A quick dot to the shop and he’s back in his room, the television on, a Plan B needed.
Plan B gets the swerve for the afternoon. He needs to gather the energies, build himself up to it again. He stays in front of the television; drinks a couple of cans. This programme about these famous people he’s never heard of, a group of them going round each other’s houses to see who can cook the best meal. Then over to the snooker. The picture is that bad it’s near impossible to make out the colours of the balls, but it doesn’t matter, he isn’t paying too much attention; something comforting about it anyway, the silence, the clock-clunk of the balls and the gravelly patter of the commentators. He’s always been quite fond of the snooker. They used to sit and have it on in the background sometimes, him flicking through the Record and the wife with her head in one of the Barbaras. Occasionally the both of them chuckling at something one of the commentators has said – double kisses and touching balls and all that – probably the same kind of things she’s reading in her book there. The feeling of it is so familiar. He allows it to wash over him, a comfort, a dull, familiar comfort that is eased on by the drink, helping him to drift away just, stop to focus. It isn’t the right thing to be doing. He knows that. But he doesn’t stop himself, finishing off the cans and coasting further away from the here and now of things until the eyes are starting to close, and he falls asleep.
The one that isn’t No Breakfast. He has been banging on the door. He wants his rent money. Mick opens up, rubbing his eyes awake as he goes over to his bag and crouches with his back blocking the guy’s view, no wanting him to see as he takes the notes out of the envelope.
He gets onto the bed. The back is hurting. He’s got to stop falling asleep in that chair. The television is still on but he leaves it, the volume turned down low as he gets under the sheets, the rest of the night to get through now, knowing he won’t sleep.
The man gives him the once-over and says the ad shouldn’t have gone in, they’ve already got somebody hired. A handyman job. There’s a fair number of them in the building and trades listings and it’s sensible thinking, because it’s unlikely any of these places will need a reference and the money is decent, plus it’s paid by the day, no the week. He tries the next one on his sheet: General Handyperson, London W2, 50 hr per week, Mon–Fri, £6.50 per hour, temporary. When he gets there but the guy asks him where he is living and he can’t think quick enough what to say. He starts telling him he’s in a B&B the now but he’ll be looking for somewhere to stay as soon as he starts working. He gets told the same story: they’ve took on a guy already but come back next week in case he doesn’t work out. He tries one more, who tell him on the phone they don’t know about any job, and he decides to call it a day.
The trouble is, even if he does make up an address, probably they’d be able to check up on it these days. Even these yards that are just a mess of scrap metal and titty calendars, they’ll still have some way of finding out on a computer if the address matches what you tell them, and then that’s you screwed. He switches on the television. Maybe he’s looking at all this the wrong way round. What he should be doing is fixing out a place to stay first. But no, that isn’t right, he’s thought through all this already: he doesn’t have enough for the deposit; and even if he did, landlords will aye be wanting references as well. And he doesn’t have those, that’s for certain. He has to keep going but. Battle on. What is it they say – if ye get chucked in the Clyde, ye swim to the bank and haul yourself out, a fish in the one pocket for lunch, and one in the other for tea.
He isn’t going back. That is the one thing he is sure about. Getting the coach up there with his tail between his legs and returning to that dark, silent house he can’t even breathe inside, and everyone seeing that he’s failed and pitying him. Everyone? Serious? Who’s everyone? Nobody even knows that he went. And the house is up in the air by now anyway; someone else moved in, and the housing association after him for rent arrears.
He keeps to his room the next few days. The routine is set in. The shop in the morning, and the rest of the day he watches TV, drinking, dozing, the brain shackled. Zoning out like this, he can control it most of the time, keep his thoughts sluggish enough they can’t get any speed up; although the torpor and the drink mean he is sleeping a lot, and that is when he can’t control it. She is in his dreams, but out of r
each, never clear. One afternoon he drops off and he has this vivid sense that he is in the house, in his chair, half asleep watching the football scores coming in on the vidiprinter. The house is quiet. There is a faint noise of chopping, coming through from the kitchen. He waits for the Rangers result, and when he’s seen they’ve won, he gets himself up from the chair and goes out of the living room. The chopping noise is louder now, and as well the unmistakable sound of boys fighting upstairs. At the entrance to the kitchen he stops and looks at the back of her, chopping, away with herself humming and no noticing that he’s stood behind her. Carrots. A stew. The pleasing sound of meat frying away on the hob. He is enjoying watching her – the quick hands scooping up carrot chunks and the smooth movement of her shoulders inside the pullover. ‘Ye there?’ she says, without turning round. He smiles, walking up to put his arms around her waist. ‘Smells good, hen.’ He leans forward and now she does turn around but it’s no her, it’s Mary, kissing him, and he stumbles back trying to grip hold of the counter, carrot tops getting knocked onto the floor, bouncing off the lino.
He wakes up hot and confused. Light outside, but he can’t fix out what time of day it is. The racing sensation as his brain tries to make sense of where he is, whether he’s awake or not. He is on the bed. Flakes of pastry on the pillow by his face. He flicks them onto the carpet and closes his eyes, everything spinning around.
Worse than these daytime dreams but is being awake the night. The darkness out the window seeming like it’s going to go on forever and him hot and stiff on the bed, fragments of memories coming at him out the dark from nowhere. The drink helps. It pulls him under and he sleeps deeply for a few hours, but then always there is that point in the night when he wakes up and it is a long while until morning and he knows he’s going to lie there just, a sore feeling behind the eyes, edgy at the slightest sound out the window or through the floorboards.
