by James Kelman
I want ye to pass on some information; I want ye to get word to that auld friend of yours. Ye listening Sammy? I want ye to tell him to watch out for the dark. Tell him that.
I dont think he’s listening serjeant.
He is. Arent ye? Eh? Just tell him the dark’s gony be difficult. If he isnay scared of it the now then he’s got good cause to be scared of it in future. That’s what the message is.
…
Will ye tell him that Sammy? Eh? See it’s important. It’s for his own good. People think we’re playing games. It never ceases to amaze me. Tell him it’s getting a bit late for games. And he’s a bit too auld to be playing them anyway. Eh? Will ye tell him that? Just if ye see him.
…
Just if ye see him Sammy.
They went away and left him after that. He sat on the chair for another twenty minutes at least. Then other yins took him back to the cell, they took off the bracelets. Immediately the door was shut the trousers were off and he was on the bowl. Everything came away, guts and fucking
the lot, everything. It drained him, he was done in, he climbed onto the bunk; he was gony sleep, what a relief, he knew it, soon as he closed his eyes, that would be it, christ.
The other bunk had been stripped. Who knows where the guy was but he had to be somewhere, they wouldnay have let him out on a Sunday afternoon.
It would be the morrow morning for Sammy. Maybe. Who knows how they were thinking.
He was fuckt this time. He was. He knew he was. Nay point kidding himself on. There was fuck all he could do. Nothing.
He was just gony have to take it as it comes. There was nothing he could do. He was fuckt this time. Nothing to work out. It was them. They would do what they would do. End of story.
What a way to go. Ye dont
Ye dont know these things. Then they happen. Fuck all ye can do; ye’re better lying down.
Sammy lifted the blankets ower his face, drew his knees up and huddled under. Ye die. They want ye to die so ye die; yer heart stops; what does it matter; these things, they dont matter. Life goes on, these other people, they live on; ye think of them living on, ye watch them, wee ants, beetles, all running about; who gives a fuck, fucking shit; ye dont want fuck all, ye dont want to watch them, ye just
ye want out the road; away, ye want away; who wants to see them; ye think if ye were blind from the start, if it was congenital, ye wouldnay even know what they looked like, ye wouldnay see them, ye wouldnay know, just yer own world; ye just want away, if ye can get away, out the road and away
Sammy was suffocating. He wasnay able to get his head out; the energy. Air wasnay coming in his nose, he couldnay get it in. He forced his head up out the blankets, breathed in deep.
Later on they came with a supper. He must have been dozing. Spam and mashed potatoes, peas, a slice of pan bread, a cup of tea. He wasnay that hungry but he ate it all then lay back down when the tea was finished. He turned onto his front. Maybe he shouldnay have ate it, it felt solid there in his belly. Probably best to get up and walk it off; he couldnay be bothered, he wasnay wanting to move. One problem was the trousers, they were still lying on the floor, it was his good yins. Stupit, sticking them on instead of his jeans. He just hadnay thought. Now they would be crumpled to fuck. He couldnay be bothered getting up to fold them.
At least he could lie on his front. His arms were up and under the pillow, his head to the side; it wasnay bad, quite comfortable the way it eased his back. Okay, he was just gony have to be more careful in future, the foreseeable future; it was a case of watching yerself, doing the best ye could. Maybe later on he would get up and do a couple of exercises. Even just the walk up and down the cell, it was better than fuck all. But the exercises, that was the main thing. Get back into a rhythm then it’s second nature. He could exercise till he was totally knackered, then collapse in and get a sleep. If he couldnay sleep then more exercises; a wank. When he woke up after that it would be cornflakes and cheerio. That was if they were letting him go. But they would let him go; they had more or less telt him. The disaster was how to get home. That was the disaster man how to get home. Cause he had nay stick and he had nay fucking dough man he was skint, fuckt, the usual. He didnay even know where he was. Christ almighty. He was assuming it was Hardie Street but maybe it was someplace else. Fuck sake.
If he did get home the morrow he was gony go out for a few jars the morrow night. Glancy’s. He needed a conversation; some cunt to talk to; somebody he knew. And if he did wind up blootered so what, he would get a taxi home. That was one thing about getting huckled, ye saved yer dough. So okay
A voice in the distance. He listened hard but couldnay make sense of it. It seemed to be going in circles, up the scale and down the scale. It was funny how people had their own voices, everybody in the world, everybody that had ever been. If there was a god he was some man. Unless he was a woman. Sammy laughed for a moment. Ye there? he said, no speaking to god but in the offchance there was a screw heard him laughing and thought he had maybe cracked up or something; these bastards, they make their reports up as they go along. Christ there was this weird feeling he used to get afore he went to sleep like if it was gony be his last night sane, was he gony wake up mad in the morning. It was that first time he was inside. Twenty years of age for christ sake that’s all he was. Ye didnay know what had hit ye. Fucking hell man what a nightmare. Ye dont like thinking about it. Ye’ve got to but. Ye’ve got to tell people. Sammy had decided that a while ago, about his boy, he was gony straighten him out; once he was auld enough; no yet but he was still too young. Nay secrets. He was gony tell him the score. Cause ye saw guys go mad. Ye thought ye were talking to them like everything was normal then ye realised it wasnay. But ye had to find out yerself, nay cunt ever telt ye. Things like their eyes, ye saw their eyes, going this way and that, flickering about; either they didnay look at ye or else they bored right in, they fucking bored right in, know what I’m talking about they didnay hear a word ye said they were fucking staring right into yer brain to see what ye were really saying like what was coming out was a cover up for something else. Like ye were a disguised evil spirit or something like yer body was an outer shell. A fucking bammycain situation but telling ye, every second cunt ye meet’s fucking bit the dust; ye cannay even get talking to them, they start shouting and bawling at ye, they look at ye, they stare at ye, they try to screw ye. It’s worse than a nightmare, cause it’s happening, it’s all round ye and ye cannay see fuck all else. It’s everywhere ye look. Jesus christ, so ye need yer survival plans. Ye’ve got to have them.
Plus ye couldnay quite predict what they were up to, the sodjers. So he was gony have to go careful. So fuck the drink there was nay time, nay time, he had to be compos mentis. Whatever brains he had man he had to use them. Nay fuck-ups. The things in yer control and the things out yer control. Ye watch the detail. Nay bolts-from-the-blue. Nayn of these flukey things ye never think about. Total concentration. And nay point trying to see Charlie. He had thought about it but there was nay point. Charlie couldnay help him: he couldnay help Charlie. It was Sammy the serjeant had gave the message. It was Sammy it was meant for. That was okay. Nice to know where ye stood. If the sodjers are good enough to give ye advice man know what I’m talking about?
Plus he didnay want Charlie knowing. It had nothing to do with him. Nayn of his fucking business. Fuck him. Fuck the lot of them. Fucking Helen too man fuck her, if that was the way she wanted it. The lot of them, fuck them, fuck them all.
Ye just get the head clear. If ye’re allowed to. That stupit voice was still droning away, it was like a race commentary, a distorted one, slowed right down. For some reason it put him in mind of his auld man; he had went a bit funny afore he died. He came home when he should have been somewhere else. He walked in and started talking like he was a young man again, wanting to know where one of his sisters was. She was in the States man that’s where she was, and she had been there for thirty fucking year. Poor auld bastard, ye wished ye had been there
to help but at the same time ye were glad ye werenay. The maw hadnay handled it that well and the young brother and sister were left to cope. And when Sammy came home for the funeral it was all under control. Obviously it was all under control. And he had nay reason to feel excluded. Except he did. Charlie’s mother and fayther were there; him and Sammy’s auld men were buddies. It wasnay a religious service but it was good. Good hearing them talk about him, the way he had been when he was outside the house, just when he was with people, ordinary people, his friends and that, comrades. It gave ye a funny feeling as well but knowing there was all these people sitting behind ye listening to this private stuff. Christ almighty it was great to get away. See when that bus pulled out from Buchanan Street station! What a relief. Ye dont like saying it but christ almighty. Plus he had got angry. Back in the house, when the people came back after the service. He started giving somebody a mouthful. Some bampot that thought he knew things he didnay. It goes in one ear out the other. It should do. Sometimes ye’re too wound up, ye’re too fucking…ye just jump in. It was stupit; stupit getting involved. That’s what happens but ye get angry for nay reason; yer heart starts pounding away and ye’re wanting to bang the bastard, fucking idiot man yapping on about fuck knows what, a load of fucking bullshit; politics, so-called. How come it happens? Even in the poky, ye lie there on yer tod; ye dont talk to nay cunt ye dont see nay cunt ye just fucking
and then ye’re raging! Inside yer own fucking head! Ye feel it thumping. So ye need them man all yer wee survival plans ye fucking need them; yer breathing, whatever, so ye calm down. Ye need to be flat, that’s how ye need to be, so it goes in one ear and out the other. Get yer head right, cause if ye dont they’ll fuck ye. Nay danger.
He needed to sleep. He needed it just now. Nay circles. He tried to get it solid in his head; circles; so that when he woke up he would get some idea of how long it had been afore he dropped off, circles. Ye try these tricks, anything, anything at all. They dont work. Ye dont even know if they work cause ye’ve always forgot about them by the time ye wake up in the morning. And off he went again thinking, about all kinds of shit; thoughts of his ex-wife, his brother and sister, jobs he had worked at and guys he knew. When the sodjers came for him he felt like he hadnay closed his eyes but it was all night he had slept, right through. They didnay want to give him time to get ready, they were wanting to pull him out of fucking bed, fucking nude, fucking dress him. It’s alright mate I can do it myself. They were in a hurry: fuck you and yer breakfast, they were doing their chauffeur. Ye’re a hotshot, muttered one of them, so they tell us anyway. Then he says: Here give us yer hands.
Get to fuck, said Sammy it was the bastard bracelets: Ye’re fucking kidding mate.
Shut up.
I thought I was getting out.
Shut up. Ye are getting out but ye’re coming back in again.
Jesus christ.
Aye, ye’ve slept in pal we dont want ye missing yer appointment.
Slept in?
No know what time it is?
By this time he was out the cell and getting walked along the corridor and down wherever it was they were taking him; they had stopped talking now, a sodjer on either side holding him by the upper and forearms; he was still stumbling, trying to slow it down; but on round the corner and out through two doors then the steps up – he knew they were coming somewhere and here they were. One at a time, he said, christ slow it down. Then they reached the top and they were off again. It was fucking ridiculous. Then he was into the van. A sodjer pushed him down onto a seat. As soon as the rest were inside the engine started and the door slammed shut. Naybody spoke. He raised up his arms and his right elbow bumped into one of them but nay comment, the guy didnay crack a light. Sammy had twisted to scratch himself under the neck, he fingered the bristles. He wanted to say something, but he wasnay gony.
When the van stopped the one next to him got the bracelets and unlocked them, took them off. The sodjer on his left side said: Now listen to what I’m saying: ye’re going in there and ye’re going in alone. Alright? Ye hear me?
I hear ye.
Dont try fuck all cause we’ll be waiting, right? Eh?
I hear ye.
Ye hear me. Good. Now beat it.
Sammy sniffed. Where’s the close?
Ower there.
…
Step down, straight forward and to yer left.
Sammy nodded.
Mind what I’m saying.
Sammy was down and walking, his hands outstretched to find the wall; then he turned to his left and along till he found the close. There was footsteps ahead of him and then halfway down the close there was footsteps from behind; these bastards tailing him probably. Dirty fucking bastards. Bampots. Okay. He could have done with a fag. He should have tapped one of them. Naw he shouldnay.
The same woman at the reception desk; Missis La di da; he gave her the information. Just take a seat please, she said.
What time’s it?
It’s quarter past ten.
Jesus christ, he muttered.
He went to find a chair. Let them work it out, it was their fucking problem man bringing him a half hour early. Nay point him worrying about it. Maybe they would get sick of waiting and fuck off. Ye could only hope. He wasnay going naywhere. He folded his arms. Aw dear. He sighed.
Eventually the sound of somebody’s chest from no too far away; some poor bastard trying to breathe: Ahit ahit, ahit; ahit, ahit ahit… Then that clogging noise in his throat, ahit, the big gob down there, all jellified and white-grey.
I got that dust pneumony, pneumony’s in ma lungs
the dust pneumony, pneumony’s in ma lungs
and if it dont get better
I aint got long, got long
Ye felt like giving him a drink of water except ye knew it wouldnay help, but still and all mate get it down ye: Ta pal dont mind if I do.
People are so polite; they get knocked down by a motor car and they get up and fucking apologise; Pardon me; that’s what they say: Pardon me; then they give the bonnet of the motor a pat and a wee dight with their fucking jacket sleeve to take off the blood: Sorry mate I messed up yer paintwork. Ye could understand it but, trying to get by in the world; that was all ye were doing, trying no to upset cunts, no letting them upset you. Fuck the sodjers, nay point worrying about them, they had their own agenda. The one thing that was a stonewall cast-iron certainty was that they knew what they were doing. And Sammy didnay. So okay, it wasnay a problem. When the time comes ye move. Simple as that. Nay point hoping for the best. Ye could spend yer life doing that; hoping. If ye were gony sit about hoping then okay, go ahead, but that’s all ye’ll do, know what I mean, it’s like waiting, ye’re aye waiting. Waiting rooms. Ye go into this room where ye wait. Hoping’s the same. One of these days the cunts’ll build entire fucking buildings just for that. Official hoping rooms, where ye just go in and hope for whatever the fuck ye feel like hoping for. One on every corner. Course they had them already: boozers. Ye go in to hope and they sell ye a drink to help ye pass the time. Ye see these cunts sitting there. What’re they there for? They’re hoping. They’re hoping for something. The telly’s rotten. So they go out hoping for something better. I’m just away out for a pint hen, be back in an hour. Ye hoping the football’ll come on soon? Aye. I hope ye’ll no be too long. I’ll no be; no unless I meet some cunt – I hope I dont!
Sammy chuckled and put his hand to his mouth to hide it. That was what the bokel was like, the local boozer round from where he stayed – the one he failed to arrive at on Saturday afternoon – he called it the bokel because it made ye boke. Some joke that. Naw but no kidding ye man ye could walk in there on a Thursday night and ye’d see one guy playing the puggy machine and maybe half the pub would be spectating man that’s how fucking bad it was for entertainment. Or else it was the exact opposite: battles. Ye’re standing have a quiet pint and some cunt wants to get past ye and he says, Excuse me a minute john, then he takes out the stanley and rips
the face of the guy standing next to ye. Bullshit. Naw but what do they think about? Ye see them standing there: no even reading the paper; no watching the telly, no talking to nay cunt, just fucking standing there. Drinking! that’s what they’re fucking doing man drinking. Sammy felt like joining them. Maybe if he asked the sodjers nice they would take him for a pint and a pub lunch; fish and chips or something he was feeling a bit peckish. One thing he was finding, ye dont like tempting the fates, but he was finding he could do without a drink no too bad; it was the tobacco giving him the problems. These days it was usually the other way round. So all in all he had entered a new epoch on life’s weary trail. That must be how his fucking feet were nipping. He reached to loosen the laces on the trainers; he would have taken them off except he would have to put them back on again. A creak on the chair next to him, somebody sitting down. After a wee minute a guy whispered, Is your name Samuels? Eh?
…
I’m Ally, pleased to meet ye. Pleased to meet ye. I take it ye’re looking for a rep?
Sammy listened hard for other sounds, for other voices; there was the ones from the reception area and the ones from the other patients…
Eh? Need a rep?
Naw.
