by James Kelman
He had slowed down, now he stopped. It felt different. The rain was just about off. But it wasnay that. He felt his way forward to the kerb. He had reached the top man that was what it was. The top of the hill. Aye fuck you too, he muttered and he went left a few metres. Definitely; he was on the straight.
The road was quiet as well. There was a familiar feel about things. He found the kerb again and listened hard. Nothing. He was gony cross, he stepped off the kerb, he was gony cross ower, he was gony walk across the other side and he was doing that man he was walking to there and here ye are man he was walking nice and slow and calm and his arms were in at his side, no swinging them but just normal, walking normal, and still nay sounds, nay fuck all; the afternoon, the weans were at school; he kept going, and he reached a point where the road went a wee bit downhill and then there was the kerb and it was quite a big kerb, quite a big step up and it was familiar this, and then he was on the pavement; he groped forwards and struck metal, the railings. The bowling green it was the bowling green. He gripped a spike and let the weight of his arm rest. He put his left hand through the railings and touched the leaves of a bush, they were soaking, he skited them up and down, feeling the water on his wrist and up his jacket sleeve. Maybe whoever it was had been his guardian angel; once he reached the bowling green they had got off their mark cause they knew he would recognise it, where he was. Christ a fag would be good! He deserved it, know what I’m saying he fucking deserved it.
Cause he knew where he was; he wasnay lost. A case of getting from a to b. He steadied himself, nay point blundering about; he was dying to move but just hang on a minute, take it easy. Okay. He figured out the directions. He knew where he was going. Concentration. His brains were too active. Ye had to keep them under control. Okay. It was back in the direction he had come, and then left, and then
fine, he knew what he was to do.
He was feeling good and he was feeling strong. He had this idea, getting himself a couple of blank cassettes. He used to write songs in his head. What he could do is speak them into the mike, or maybe even sing them. How no? fuck it, it would pass the time. And who knows. Ye send a couple off to a good singer; they pick them up and give it a whirl. From then on man from then on
A tin of macaroni heated on the oven. He had a tin of creamed rice as well. Ye could live okay.
He walked to the window and opened it and felt the force of the wind trying to fling it out his hand. The rain came in on his face. Sometimes ye were amazed at the force of these things like they were living lives of their own or something. If it didnay slacken off he wasnay gony go out at all he was gony stay home.
He stuck on a cassette. He hoped it was one he liked. Well he liked them all or he wouldnay fucking have them. Just sometimes he put one on and he didnay particularly want to hear it, no at that particular moment, plus there was a couple belonged to Helen. Sometimes ye werenay in the mood. He was gony have to work out a system for playing the fucker; tapes he liked on one side of the mantelpiece, dross on the other.
Well I woke up Sunday morning
Jesus Christ. It was unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable man really, it was unbelievable, ye just
Sammy sat down on the armchair but now he was on his feet. He sat down again. It was serious fucking business; really, it wasnay wild it was serious man serious, serious fucking business. Know what I’m saying? He had to sit. He had to just
fuck it. Nay point
naw but
christ almighty he was up on his feet for the chorus, calling it home, big licks and all that, singing it loud, singing it loud and singing it long, battering it out, giving it the big guitar strokes
On a Sunday morning sidewalk
wishing lord that I was stoned
for there’s something in a Sunday
makes a body feel alone
and there’s nothing short of dying
half as lonesome as the sound
of the sleeping city sidewalks
Sunday morning coming down
There was tears coming out, he fucking felt them, it was fucking written for him man it was written for him. Fucking hell.
He went through to the bedroom. Just too much; too much. He was on the bed now on his front and his face was buried into the pillow. Jesus christ but ye just get so fucking angry, ye just get so fucking angry, fucking hell man fucking hell; he was greeting.
And the grub was burning. Let it. It was burning on top of the fucking cooker. He got up and did a deep breath out, he wiped his face. He went through to get it.
He let it cool then ate it all up. It was alright; it didnay taste burnt.
He carried his tea ben the living-room and sat down on the carpet with his back to the settee, rolled a smoke, feet in front of the fire. Nay music, nay radio. Apart from the sounds in his ears he could hear occasional footsteps from above, then noises from through the wall, the television, the auld deaf woman; when it was quiet ye heard everything in this fucking dump he would be glad to get out of it; he would, he would be fucking glad. The water was still in the bath. So fucking what. It had been lying there since Saturday fucking night man so fucking what, he was gony fling in the auld clothes and let them steep, get them fucking clean; he was gony fling everything in man cause the water was fucking clean, he hadnay even dirtied it, fucking shit, total fucking
fuck it.
He was gony fling himself in. Life, know what I mean.
So what man so what, it didnay fucking matter, it was all fucking crap. Ye meet these bastards, they try to tell ye different. Did ye listen to the news the day? Naw did I fuck listen to the news the day so fucking what man away and fuck yerself. He leaned to switch on the radio. Scottish country dance music, a twiddle di dee and a twiddle di doo.
Okay. He left the fag in the ashtray and shifted to lie flat out on his front. He lay for a while. The sore back wasnay going away and this helped it. Eventually he done a few press-ups, then up and into a few of the dynamic tension moves. Survival-techniques-I-have-known. Who cares. Sammy did them. He had got out the habit these days but he used to do them regular. He was gony get back into it again; be prepared. A guy had taught him the first time he was in. A good guy. Never mind.
It was also to do with routines. The whole session could take just quarter of an hour, that was plenty if ye were doing it right and ye were doing it regular, and ye could do four or five sessions a day; more if ye liked. Once ye had got into the habit ye could find yerself going into the moves even when ye were talking to some cunt, ye did it without thinking; and ye saw other guys doing the same. One thing it did was make ye aware of yer body, the different parts. It was a genuine overall toning-up ye got. After ye done the session – and that includes the different exercises; say one of them was the ankle exercise: well what that meant is just raising yer foot up back the way, gripping yer ankle, then pulling and pushing, down with yer foot and up with yer hand, meeting the point where it doesnay budge, the same force up and down; it gets equal; ye stay in the same position, more or less – but after ye done the session; all these exercises, when ye had finished them, ye got this hell of a fucking great feeling, in every part of yer body like ye were really tuned-up, every part of ye, and when ye strolled about ye felt like a cat, a fucking tiger, yer arms just hanging there, this great buzz, sloping about the place; ye could forget where ye were. Even when ye minded ye still felt good, cause ye were beating the bastards ye were fucking beating them.
Fuck it, he was going to Glancy’s.
Sammy smiled. He was.
He had made up his mind then changed it; now he was changing it back. Ye’re allowed that, changing yer mind. Okay: what he was gony do is get auld Boab to phone him a taxi. Fine. He got the going out clothes. No the good trousers but he would have to wear the jeans. The good trousers were now the fucking nay-good trousers. He was gony file a claim for a new pair man it was fucking ridiculous, they want to give ye a pair of dungarees, these sodjer bastards, if they huckle ye, know what I mean, that shoul
d be part of the bargain, alright ye’ve huckled me where’s my fucking dungarees, yer fucking scabby fucking bunks man it’s all fucking fleas and fuck knows what else pish and auld crap, get to fuck; give us a break.
In the bathroom he let out the water and filled the washhand basin for a shave. But fuck it. Nay point going daft. He put on a shirt and tie to make up for it. When he was ready he went along the corridor and chapped Boab’s door.
What happened at the flats was the minicabs came in at the corner of the block of shops and sat outside the chemist. This is where the driveway stopped. Round at the back of the block was where the delivery trucks went to drop off their goods at the individual shops. Across the other side of the driveway was where the lock-ups were, where Sammy had got the guy to guide him out of trouble on Saturday afternoon. Once the car arrived the minicab controller dialled the passenger’s number to signal him.
When that happens I’ll come and and chap yer door, said Boab, and you just get the lift.
Alright, but if I’m no there it means I’m on my way already. Know what I mean Boab, the time it takes me to get there, I’m probably as well setting off the now.
I’ll take ye down.
Naw, it’s alright, it’s no that, it just takes me a wee bit more time, but I make it okay. If ye maybe ask them to tell the driver, if he sees a guy with a white stick and all that, to give him a shout.
Nay bother. Where is it ye’re going by the way?
Quinn’s Bar.
Fine.
Sammy sniffed. I’ll probably hang on there and come back up the road with Helen.
Boab went off to make the phone call and Sammy went back and got his stuff, then double-locked the door. He left immediately.
Outside it was blowy but the rain had stopped. The minicab was already there by the time he tapped his way round and reached the chemist. The driver gave him a shout to let him know. When he got into the car and was sitting down he telt the driver to take him to Glancy’s.
I thought it was Quinn’s we were headed?
Naw, Glancy’s.
Another fuck-up, muttered the driver.
The world was full of grumpy bastards. Sammy sat back and prepared to enjoy the ride. Mind you there had been nay real need to tell Boab he was going to Quinn’s, he could as easy have telt him the truth, it wouldnay have fucking mattered. In fact it might have been better. Then he could have kidded on she was still down in Dumries. Maybe she was still down in Dumfries! Maybe she had went there. That was what he had thought earlier. It’s just when she did go there she never stayed more than a couple of days. He leaned forward on the seat, Eh driver can ye smoke in here?
Sorry.
Sammy sat back again. Fucking eedjit, he would be even more sorry when he didnay get a tip. Sammy leaned forward again: Eh driver could ye just take us to Quinn’s?
Quinn’s? I thought ye changed it to Glancy’s?
Aye I did change it to Glancy’s: now I’m changing it back again.
Mutter mutter mutter.
Grumpy bastard. Sammy felt like laughing but he wasnay gony, he was gony stiffen the cunt, if he said the wrong word, that was all, one fucking word, he would stiffen the cunt. Sammy sniffed. Aye I changed it to Glancy’s at first but now it’s back to Quinn’s, if that’s alright with yourself.
Mutter mutter.
Is that alright with you mate?
Aye.
Good. Sammy sat back in the seat; fucking eedjit. He wished he could look out the window.
Obviously Helen wouldnay be there but he would be able to see for himself. He would go to Glancy’s later on.
So that was that. Yep. That was that. He smiled. That was fucking that man. Bold. But like the man said, ye make yer decision. Doesnay matter how much ye fucking think about it; comes the final point and ye have to go for it. Or no fucking go for it, as the case may be. Sammy had made his decision and that was that. Hell or high fucking water man fuck it. He smiled again and shook his head. Life was better than ye thought. Sometimes. He took the shades out his pocket and shoved them on. He wasnay as bad as cunts thought. He might no be the Brainbox of fucking Britain but so what man, he had other things going for him.
See if she was there but! Hoh!
He got flung into the side of the car, the tyres screeching, going round a corner. The driver was a screwball. Sammy might no have had his fucking driving licence but he knew enough to know about fucking skids on wet roads. The cunt was probably getting his own back. Ye could imagine the conversation when he got back to the office, telling them how he had this cheeky blind fucker as a punter, how he had sorted him out. Fucking bullshit man ye let them get on with it. Sammy started whistling, he stopped quite soon. It was funny being in a motor, trying to work out where ye were by the way the roads went. Apart from armoured cars it was the first time he had been in one for a while. He couldnay mind the last time.
Monday night. The pub would be dead. Christ, what if she was there. What if she had come back and just no telt him! Nah, she wouldnay be. But who knows? Imagine her seeing him walk in the door! Christ almighty. Sammy rubbed his hands the ether. Then he stopped. Who was he fucking kidding. Crazy! If she wanted to see him she would see him; fucking hell man this was the wrong way.
But she wouldnay fucking be there anyway. There was actually nay chance. Nay chance. He was fuckt as far as that went. Sammy turned to the window, wishing he could look out. If he could see it would be fine. If he could just look in the door when he got there, he wouldnay have to go right to the bar. He would just
Auld Helen but eh!
Jesus. Sammy took off the shades and stuck them in his pocket, he covered his face with his hands. There were things ye didnay want to think about cause it was impossible ye just fucking couldnay man ye couldnay think of them. He laid his head against the window, feeling the damp, the vibrations.
The motor had stopped.
Sammy sat a minute wondering if it was just traffic lights. He put on the shades.
Ye’re right outside the door, said the driver, just a wee bit to yer left and that’s you. I’m double-parked by the way ye’re gony have to go between the cars there.
Okay mate thanks. Sammy settled the fare and added a fifty-pence tip. He found the space and went between them, got to the pavement; he heard the minicab leaving, tapped across to reach the wall then tapped left till he found the entrance. He stopped there and rolled a smoke. If he minded right there was a wee lobby just in from the doorway. He wondered whether to take off the sunglasses. But naw, best to keep them on. Fair enough. He took another drag on the fag then pushed his way inside, tapping forward to find the next door. Hullo, said a guy.
Hullo.
Where ye going?
Sammy said, Who me?
Aye.
Into the pub.
Are ye?
…
I dont know if it’s your kind of night.
What?
Naw, just I dont know if it’s your kind of night.
It’s a promotions event, said another guy.
A promotions event… Sammy shrugged. I can still go in.
Better pubs but if ye’re just looking for a pint. Ye’re better heading.
I’m wanting to see somebody.
Who?
What d’ye mean who?
Maybe I know him.
It’s no a him.
Maybe I know her.
I doubt it mate I doubt it.
Look fellow we’re just putting a word in yer ear.
Sammy sniffed. What are yez bouncers like is that what it is?
Wham bam.
What?
You’ve got it.
As a matter of fact I’m wanting a word with Helen.
Helen who?
Helen behind the bar.
Now there was a noise and movement at the outside door and people came through, they didnay wait behind Sammy but sidled by him, and carried on walking, the bouncers letting them past without a word. The music was loud from inside
the pub.
There’s nay Helen behind the bar.
Helen McGilvaray.
Nay Helen McGilvaray mate sorry, never heard of her.
What ye fucking talking about!
Heh calm down.
Sammy gripped the stick. Come on, I want a word with Helen.
There’s nay Helen.
The manager then.
The manager?
I want to see the fucking manager.
What for?
Sammy sighed. He took off the shades and stuck them in his pocket.
Look fellow all I’m saying is it’s a young team in there, it’s no your scene at all.
Is this Quinn’s?
Quinn’s, aye.
Sammy relaxed his shoulders. He shifted his stance, keeping his right leg firm and a bit to the rear, his left leg bent at the knee; he changed his grip on the stick.
When did she work behind the bar? Eh?
What?
When did she work behind the bar?
A week ago.
A week ago; okay. The guy sniffed. I’ll check it out, he said.
The inside door swung open and swung shut. Then it was the outside door. Other people came in and waited behind him. He moved closer to the wall then felt them brush past, going straight on through without a word. The music blaring back out after them. Sammy dropped the fag to the floor and left it to smoulder. Maybe the guy hadnay noticed. Is it cause I’m blind ye’re no letting me through?
