by James Kelman
Who else? Ye’re no gony blame the Leg!
Tam
It’s you that knows the guy, you’re his fucking mate.
He’s no my fucking mate.
Ye could have gave me the wire.
What about?
Jesus christ Sammy the uniforms are up at my door at half-five in the morning! the house fucking chokablok man gear everywhere. Know what I mean too they know the score; they fucking know it man they could have turned the place right ower. Lifted me? they could have lifted the fucking wife; know what I’m talking about they could have fucking…jesus christ, she’s fuckt, I’m fuckt, we’re all fuckt – the weans, they’re sleeping ben the room. And these dirty bastards just sitting there, eating chocolate biscuits and drinking cups of tea; laughing like fuck. And you’re telling me no to get upset? Ye’re fucking right I’m upset, I’ve been upset the whole weekend. Ye could have telt me something. Just so I know. Something. Any fucking thing. So I know something’s up. That’s all.
…
I mean just fucking… Ach. Leave it.
Leave fuck all. Sammy leaned closer to Tam and whispered: Heh, ye want to know what I’ve been doing, eh! ye want to know? give ye the fucking wire Tam ye wanting to fucking know what I’ve been doing? see them, them fucking things? them things there, ye fucking see them! take a fucking look! eh! take a fucking look!
Sammy pulled the skin down beneath his eye-sockets. What d’ye think this is? Eh? Fuck sake.
He kept the skin pulled down for about six seconds, then got his right hand onto the whisky tumbler but left it where it was; he dragged on the cigarette. When he did lift it his hand was still shaking. He put it down. The two of them sat without speaking. He heard Tam’s chair getting moved back and he said: Dont go yet, fuck sake. Have a half.
Naw.
Come on.
I’m no wanting one.
Tam this is bullshit. Ye’re letting them do yer head. Take a half, come on, we’ll have another one.
Naw Sammy.
Come on to fuck.
I’m with the brother-in-law; we’re in the lounge.
Two minutes.
Naw.
So what’re ye telling me? I’m bad news?
Tam sighed.
It’s more fucking complicated than ye think.
What is?
…
Aye well it’s your business.
What’s that supposed to mean?
It means it’s your business, that’s what it mean.
Aw.
Dont fucking aw me Sammy dont fucking do that. I thought I knew what you did but now I dont. I dont, I thought I did but I dont. The fucking uniforms know more about ye than I do!
…
Know what I mean Sammy give us a break! Look I better go.
Sammy shrugged.
I’ll see ye.
Aye okay, okay Tam.
Tam stood where he was for a wee minute, then the sound of his footsteps. Sammy waited, then raised the pint glass, testing how much lager was left. The roll-up had stopped burning, he got it relighted; he put his elbow on the side of the table and rested his chin on it. The one thing he wanted to know
Naw he didnay, it didnay fucking matter.
He put his hand on the edge of the table and gripped it. He reached his other hand out for the stick, but left it there a minute, till he finished the lager; one more mouthful.
Fuck them; fuck them all.
A case of take-it-easy. Just homewards, homewards. After he had had a piss. Cause if he didnay have one the now he would be fucking bursting in ten minutes’ time. Nothing surer.
So bang went the shirts. Bang went the other bit of business. So there ye are. So that was that. Never mind. Never mind. He could aye hit the fucking pawn!
Naw he couldnay.
He swallowed the dregs of the lager and got the stick, it felt good in his hand, it felt good; the trusty auld stick man Helen would love that! Where’s my bloody mop! There’s yer bloody mop, the head fell off so I painted it! Sammy couldnay stop himself smiling. He felt like fucking laughing!
Okay. All these cunts watching him; there he goes, yer blind-as-a-bat Sammy, the bold yin, heading for a piss.
Aye nay danger; nay fucking danger; fuck them bastards
The toilet was downstairs and it was awkward but fair enough; halfway down he changed to going backwards, his hand on the wall. Nay cubicle for fuck sake it was aye out of bounds in here, they kept it locked for some fucking reason; so he had to use the urinal, tapping the stick to find it – he would have been better giving it a wash instead of his fucking hands.
Ye just pished and hoped for the best.
Okay.
It was raining when he came out the pub. Obviously. But he was still fucking hoofing it man he could afford a taxi but no way, no fucking way. Every coin. Every fucking coin.
A funny thought came to him out of nothing, it was a guy he knew. But just that and nothing else, the thought of this guy he knew, for nay reason, a kind of memory of him without being anything about him, just him and fuck all else. That was funny. Maybe the cunt had snuffed it and this was his last ta ta.
We’ve all got to fucking go.
So if ye cannay see, what do ye do? Ye do the same as any other cunt, ye go somewhere. That was what Sammy was doing right now he was going somewhere, fucking home man that was where he was fucking going.
It wasnay lashing. It was wet, but it wasnay lashing. A pair of leather gloves would have been good, pigskin, so the rain wouldnay get in.
Cause even if ye’re blind ye’ve got to wander.
Sammy had aye liked wandering. That was one thing. He didnay so much like it, he loved it, the auld wandering; up hill and down dale, ye wander up ye wander down, that was Sammy. Even in the fucking poky, even if he couldnay wander, it didnay mean he didnay love doing it, just they wouldnay fucking let him! Sammy chuckled. Naw but it was quite funny; amusing, that was what it was, amusing. Imagine a life where ye could wander; money no object. Wherever ye fucking want man know what I’m saying ye just go. Imagine it! Ye cannay. One thing but a decent fucking pair of bastard fucking shoes, that was fucking
Unless it was the outback or something. Texas. Always sunny as well too that was for starters, going about with shirts and jeans all the time, the auld pick-up truck and the six-pack, the big brimmed stetson hat and that, all the shit, driving out to a honky tonk, see yer woman and have a dance, hear a bit of music; plus if they’re dancing they go backwards, if they’re doing the waltz or whatever, in Texas, it’s no so much the women leading the men, it’s still the men leading, except they pull instead of push. Ye meet guys and they want to go to Memphis or Nashville, just to hang out where the music is but if it was up to Sammy man fuck that, fuck the Grand Ole Opry, he was bound for Luckenbach, follow the outlaws, follow the fucking outlaws, know what I’m saying, nay danger, nay fucking danger.
He would never be able to see again.
So fucking what; ye still had yer fucking ears, yer nose, yer bastarn fucking stick
Mind you,
He stopped and took off the shades. It was still raining
it was still cold
West Bethelem was no place
for a fucking twelve year old
Fuck Tam too. Fuck the lot of them, he was heading up and moving out.
Christ it was cold. Unless it was just him, maybe it was just him. Maybe it wasnay cold at all, just him feeling it that way. Which didnay sound very good. Fucking depressing in fact. Auld Jackie; probably he was dead. Funny how folk took the wrong idea. Life man, full of misunderstandings; nay cunt knows what ye’re meaning. How do ye tell them? Ye cannay. Fuck it. A shiver for christ sake how come he was shivering; fucking shivering man fucking spring know what I’m saying ye dont fucking shiver.
It was raining it was cold
It was raining it was cold
Ye heard these things roundabout ye but. Ye did. What like was it at all! These wee murmurs and groans and fucking sighi
ng noises; and these drips, like a burst pipe. This story he read once, about a German guy, maybe it was Scandinavia
It was grub as well right enough he was starving, totally starving. Plus there was fuck all in the house bar a box of weetabix. That was the whack man a box of weetabix. Probably there was nay milk; he had forgot to check it out. Never mind. Too late now. Aye the fucking same. Fair enough but ye keep going, ye push ahead, two big long streets and he would be at the junction; two crossings from there and he was up and ower the bridge. He would just swing the stick, get himself across, with a bit of luck he would get fucking knocked down by a fucking truck, the ambulance would take him home.
Heh mister ye want a bit of business?
Sammy kept walking.
Heh mister ye want a bit of business?
He stopped. How much?
It’s fifteen.
Naw hen sorry.
It depends on what ye’re wanting.
Sorry hen. He kept walking; he shouldnay have stopped and he shouldnay have said what he did cause he had had nay intentions. So he shouldnay have done it. Cause it wasnay fair. She would maybe have gave him an all-nighter too. No for that kind of dough, fifteen quid, the night was still young. Mind you but ye can never tell. He wasnay exactly Dracula’s fucking uncle. She maybe fancied him. Who knows. I mean he wasnay a fucking
whatever, a monster; he was just ordinary; sometimes a woman wants that, an ordinary guy, if they have the choice, if they’re on the game, which isnay often – they have the choice I mean cause they have to take what they can get, methuselah man whatever.
How much did he have to drink? Fuck all. Nothing. Two pints and two halfs. Hardly anything. There was a boozer at the second crossing. One for the road; one more pint.
But he changed his mind and carried on past, ower the bridge and onto the last lap, up the walkway and along and into the flats. In the lift he bent down and undid the laces on the trainers. He needed a new pair. So he would have to get them, he would have to buy them. Boots. Along the corridor and into the house; he fucked about for an hour then went to bed. But he couldnay sleep; maybe it was too early; he just couldnay get comfortable, ye hear sounds and then the things crash inside yer skull and ye get jumpy, fucking anxious, that’s what ye get; and ye cannay get out it ye cannay fucking escape, that’s the problem man ye would have to batter yer head against the wall and knock yerself out. Hell with it: he was up and swinging his legs out from the blankets. He shoved on the clothes, made a cup of tea. On his way ben the living-room he remembered to switch on the lobby light. From now on he was leaving it and the living-room one on at all times.
The music. The music! Nay question but it could cheer ye up. He used to sing that one of Willie Nelson just to annoy her: Goodhearted Woman; it was even better than the George Jones fellow for winding her up.
People got wound up awful easy. Ye noticed that a lot. Tam was actually younger than Sammy; no much, but still and all. And there he was. He didnay even realise it was a wind-up. The sodjers; that was all they were doing, winding him up. Tam just hadnay twigged it. He knew better too that was the problem, he was experienced. It was just how they caught ye unawares. So it didnay matter, how long in the tooth ye were man it didnay matter, know what I mean, if ye got caught unawares.
That was how Sammy was getting to fuck, heading up and moving out, he was off, gone, fucking disappearing, vanishing, a speck on the horizon, no even a speck, a fucking
a bubble, a burst bubble.
There was yer threat but the family. That was how they got Tam. Fucking obvious. Same with Helen, how they were using her. Fucking use anything man, nay scruples there. All to make ye quiver; quiver and tremble, quiver and fucking tremble. Ye just had to think, ye had to fucking think, to get yerself out it. The trouble is most cunts arenay able to think. Including Sammy, let’s be honest, a bit of honesty. Okay. He turned the music up loud; loud. The woman next door was deaf and the neighbour through the ceiling
fuck it. Twang twang. The auld bandana wrapped round the forehead. That was what they wore, the auld bandana. But it was a practical bit of clothing. No just for show. Sammy used to wear one at work, it kept the sweat out the eyes and ears; one time he was on this wee job – christ years ago, but he could mind it fine: up Highgate Hill among the money, quite near the big bit of park; doing a private house, a refurbishment; in the middle of summer and it was the fantasy about the rich young wife and the labourer though mind you she wasnay that fucking young, but she had some figure man, some figure. Never mind. It was comical but. The air-hammer had broke and they needed this particular job finished ten minutes ago so the bampot foreman telt Sammy and the other labourer to use a sledge, a sledge and a chisel. He sent round the ganger to show them how. Some big enormous rock in the middle of the garden; it wouldnay budge and they had to break it up. This was just after he had split with the wife so he would have been about twenty-five/twenty-six at the time. So anyway, the ganger had to show them how. Nay wonder the cunt was embarrassed. Sammy says to him, Ye fucking kidding? But naw, he wasnay kidding. What he was was embarrassed; he wasnay fucking kidding. It was down to Sammy and the other guy, one for the hammer and one for the chisel. The ganger was wanting them to choose but fuck that man Sammy and the other guy just stood there and held their ground so then it was up to him, he had to make the choice himself. Who will I choose who will I choose! As far as Sammy was concerned it didnay fucking matter who the cunt chose cause he had already decided he wasnay doing it, fuck all man; he was just biding his time when to tell him. But he waited too long and the ganger pulled a stroke. What he done was he went up to the other guy and felt his wrists, then he done the same to Sammy, his thumb digging into the veins and tendons and the wee bones, pressing and rubbing. Very scientific. Then he stood back with a serious face and telt Sammy it was him to swing the sledge, the other guy was to hold the chisel. Fucking ace in the hole man ye were fuckt. The other guy had to go for it now, he had nay option. Jesus christ. His face went totally red. Poor bastard. But it was up to Sammy; it was him to speak. For some reason he couldnay. He waited and waited. If it had been the chisel job then fuck it he would just have laughed and took a walk. But here he was holding the sledge. The ganger gave him a quick few lessons, then a couple for the other guy, then done a disappearing trick. But ye knew he was watching somewhere. Or else the foreman. Maybe no but, cowardly bastards, they were probably in the site-clerk’s office waiting for the screams.
So, running the hands up and down, having a few practice swings, battering a few stones on the ground. And then they went for it, the guy down and lying full stretch, an auld glove and a couple of rags round his wrist. It wasnay his fucking hand was the worry it was his fucking napper – plus Sammy was a wee bit skelly in one eye – he felt like telling him to put on a hardhat but didnay want to worry him. Reminds ye of that one about the brave Welsh miner, hero of the village, the big pit disaster, that auld fellow with the flattened head and the cauliflower ear. Anyway, the first couple of swings Sammy missed or else skliffed off, the guy letting go the chisel, one thing and another, then it got alright, no too bad, he didnay crash the guy’s head once! he didnay make a dent in the rock either mind you it was like fucking granite.
So that was that.
Ach it wasnay a disaster. Things werenay that good but they werenay a disaster. But ye had to own up, they definitely werenay good. They were fucking rotten in fact. Ye can only go so long, so long.
Ye can fight back but. Ye can. Sometimes ye cannay help it. Especially if ye’ve lost the temper. Better if ye can control it. The thing is ye cannay always control it. Even if ye want to, ye cannay.
and there’s nothing short of dying
half as lonesome as the sound
on the sleeping city sidewalks
Sunday morning coming down
Fucking England man that was where he was going, definitely: down some place like Margate or Southsea, or Scarborough, fucking Bournemouth. Christ almighty.
; Fucking tired too, and then ye cannay sleep. He went back to bed.
He woke up. Some cunt was flapping the letterbox. There were times he did wake early but this was fucking ridiculous, like he had only went to sleep ten minutes ago for christ sake what the fuck time was it anyway man these fucking bastards, he groped for the radio and switched it on. Some kind of brass band marching music. It meant it was dead early, that was when they played this music, all ower the country, cunts getting huckled, sodjer music. Okay. The letterbox again man fair enough. Just how ye dont get peace, ye dont get peace, if they gave ye peace, but they fucking dont man they dont, they never fucking give ye any, it’s just trouble trouble trouble, all the fucking time man trouble. They knew he was here they would break the fucking door down. He got the jeans and the socks on, the trainers, and grabbed the tobacco, the papers and the lighter; fuck the money but. Except this was it, the third time ye go under the third time ye go under, too fucking late jesus christ too fucking late man fuck that for a game he was fucking fighting he was gony fucking fight, fight the bastards man fuck them, fucking stick where the fuck was it man the fucking
the lobby, okay. Whatever. The stick was in his hand. Sammy smiled, shaking his head, then when he breathed out he heard the grating cutting noise and he coughed; the lungs, the way they are in the morning, all the shit; he had the phlegm in his mouth, he fucking swallowed it; okay. He was at the front door. He sighed, took a deep breath and called out, Who’s there?
It’s me!
What?
It’s me! Ally.
Jesus christ the fucking rep: he carried on speaking through the letterbox, some kind of rubbish; Sammy couldnay make head or tail of it and he stopped him. What the fuck do you want? he said.
Naw sorry to bother ye but I need to check a couple of points and I’m gony be tied up the rest of the day. I’ll no be long but it’s important, it’ll only take a minute.
I thought ye were the fucking sodjers man jesus christ! fucking time! fuck sake!
Aye sorry, it’s early.
What’s it about?
See I was working till all hours last night. On another case. But yours kept interrupting my train of thought. There’s a few things I need to get ironed out. Can I come in?
