by James Kelman
He was waiting for the rain to go off. He got up from the settee and went to the window to check. Cats and dogs. He just hadnay been hearing it, cause he hadnay been listening; too busy, too busy with the thoughts. Plus he was gony shave. That was part of the deal. Even if he cut his throat and died in the attempt, he was gony wipe that chin clean, clean. Cause when he walked out of here the head was gony be held high, he was gony be cleanshaven man, fresh and fucking brand new, clean socks and fucking christ almighty he was gony stick on one of these new bastard shirts. He was proud. He was fucking proud. Sammy spoke it: I’m fucking proud, he said, so fuck ye. It was more of a growl than a ‘speak’. But this was part of it, part of the proudness. Fucking hell but it was true. Fuck yous bastards. It was true; he was proud. What was he proud about? Fuck knows man but he was.
So there ye are.
He would have to go out soon. Hail, rain or shine; the option wasnay there. He needed stuff; a loaf, a lump of cheese. He was gony make a pile of sandwiches for the road; he had to watch the dough.
He went to find the trainers.
Yer life moved in funny ways right enough. It did but. Wild. Even yer money, ye didnay even know how much ye had. All the notes were mixed up. So he had to get that attended to. One thing anyway, he wouldnay bump into Charlie again, cause he wouldnay be able to fucking see him! Unless Charlie saw him right enough. Okay.
Cunts like him never asked ye for help. It was aye up to yerself to sort it out. Ye’ve got the cards man fucking turn them. That was the kind of patter Charlie came out with, no in so many words.
Shoes shoes shoes!
How the fucking hell can ye set out on the wander if ye’ve nay fucking shoes man know what I mean jesus christ a fucking bad joke so it is. They’re crucial, crucial, if ye’re gony do a bit of hoofing. A lot of cunts dont believe ye when ye tell them that man they think ye’re at the fanny. But it’s fucking true; know what trueness is, four sides that meet the gether ya fucking bampot.
Nay point getting annoyed at stuff. A quick pint would be good, he did have a drouth. He could maybe hit the bokel for one, make another couple of phone calls at the same time. He hadnay gave up the ghost about punting the shirts. Tam Roberts wasnay the only guy he knew. The trouble is it was bother, ye couldnay predict it; and at this stage in the proceedings yer Honour, know what I’m saying, predictability, it’s good for the fucking skull. So
nothing. Plus the boy, he would phone him. Maybe no but, maybe just send him a letter.
Naw, phone nay cunt and nay quick pints, just get to fuck, he would lift what he could and get to fuck; and the sooner the better. So nay pints and nay phone calls, just pick up the messages then back and pack the bag, make the sandwiches.
He got a pen and a sheet of notepaper from the kitchen drawer. Mind you ye couldnay really tell if the pen worked. So he took a pencil as well. Things were gony get awkward. Awkward – what a fucking wrong word to describe the situation: awkward.
He was leaving everything, everything he couldnay fit into one bag. The cassette recorder and all the rest of the gear; he was leaving it. But no the actual cassette tapes, he was gony stuff them down the sides of the bag. There was more than one bag available but he needed a hand free for the stick. Unless there was one with a shoulder strap. He couldnay mind if there was. He was lifting nothing that belonged to her. Fuck that. He was walking out man and he was doing it under his steam and naybody else’s. He was in control. Nay other cunt; no the fucking sodjers man no fucking naybody, just him, him himself.
Okay. Jacket on and ready. He clutched the stick under his arm, double-locking the door behind him. The fucking wind man it was gale force, the rain driving in. If anybody was crazy enough to be prowling in weather like this they would deserve to capture him. Who gave a fuck anyway, if they wanted to capture him they would capture him. The wind blew him into the place where the lift was. And somebody was there! That was alright. It was probably the goodie ghost that got him out of trouble up by the bowling green. Ye dont mind these goodie ghosts man it’s just these evil bastards dogging yer footsteps all the time, they’re the ones ye have to avoid. So there ye go. Sammy felt like talking to whoever it was but he didnay. When the lift came he tapped his way forward and inside. The other person hit the button. Down they went and out, Sammy tapping to the left; the person walked on by – then the sound of the glass door opening and a blast of air. He waited a moment then on to the door and pushed it open, made his exit immediately, no stopping to think, yer man, Sammy, the bold fellow, headlong into the raging torrential downpour, the auld shoulders hunched, the jacket collar up. Definitely a bunnet but he needed a bunnet, if not immediately. Christ the rain really was lashing down, it was fucking wild, and then he had walked right into a puddle; it felt like a big yin; he carried on a step then stopped; he was still in it. How wide was the fucking thing? Nay way of knowing. And was it gony get fucking deeper! Ye even wondered where the fucking hell ye were!
Seriously but the wind and rain seemed to screw up his senses. Maybe he had blundered yet again and this was him off at some fucking tangent christ almighty he had hardly even left the fucking building. He shifted his feet sideiways; the water washed against them like it was gony come ower his ankles. He lifted his right foot; a plooping noise; he walked a couple of metres; ploop ploop. A voice from somewhere called: Bloody terrible this int it!
Aye, said Sammy in the offchance it was him they were talking to.
Now there were weans somewhere making a lot of noise, they seemed to be fucking running, screaming and shrieking, like they were gony rush right into his fucking legs man the way they were going, ye could imagine it – weans! head down and battering right in like they expected all the barriers to get lifted just cause they were charging about. He kept a tight grip of the stick in case one of the wee cunts tripped and went falling on their face.
Ye were aye fighting something man, then as soon as they gave ye a breather ye were up against the elements. At least he was out the puddle. But for some reason his arms were sore; he could have done with a rest, get the breath back, being honest he was fuckt. No doing his exercises; when had he last done his exercises? Yesterday. Okay. Well maybe it was something else. A hotness on his cheeks. Soaking wet but hot. How d’ye like it man wet and hot at the same time. Naw but even the tops of his shoulders. Christ. He wanted to lay the stick on the ground cause he didnay have the strength to hold the fucker!
He needed to but. He needed to. He had to fucking
The stick knocked against the wall. Good. He wiped the water from above his forehead, took the shades out his pocket and shoved them on. They felt heavy but, they hurted the lumps behind his ears. He folded them away again. There was a bit of cover here at the side of the building. Pins and needles in his ankles for fuck sake what next! He needed a seat. Jesus christ. Now the weans were back. What were they doing out in weather like this? Why did their parents no take them to fuck out the road? They were squealing now. Wee high voices. Laughing at something. The weather probably. Wee weans man and they can laugh at the weather. Sammy shivered. He was in a bad way. He was standing against the wall. He couldnay do this he had to walk. Just nay energy. Where was his energy? Bloody rain. How was he in this state but?
Jesus christ that was all it was, rain, just rain. Now his knuckles! How come his fucking knuckles? Athritis maybe, cause of the dampness. The auld war-wounds. That left cross, he had aye prided himself on that, on ye go ya fucking bampot, get that shoulder behind it, yer elbow fucking walloping out man bang the bastard fucking bang him, right in there man the fucking nose, they fucking hate the auld nose getting hit, crack the fucker.
Auld Sammy! What was he doing now? Shadow boxing. He shoved the stick against the wall and rubbed his hands, blew into them, he was cold, a bit cold.
Okay. Bad spells. Ower and done with. He felt the rain on his face. His belly rumbled. That was it. Grub. Fucking obvious man he hadnay been eating. So he was hallucinating. Straightforward. Well he was gony g
et some grub now. He groped for the stick and touched it, it fell. Fine. He reached for it. He got it. The weans again. Just as well he had the stick. Some of these wee bastards nowadays, desperadoes man know what I’m talking about, if they found out ye were vulnerable, plus with a few quid in the tail – forty of them pummeling into yer back? Nay chance. Fucking nay chance.
He was at the first shop, the opposite end of the block from the chemist, so the minimarket was next; ye just kept walking, a patacake with the left and a tap with the right. The lassie working at the till got him his stuff. From there he went to the takeaway counter and bought a roll and sausage. He scoffed it outside in the doorway. He took the last bite and set off. The wind was at his back now so it was better. But first thing in the door and he was going to bed. If he didnay his head would explode. He knew the signs. Even getting from here to the house, ye couldnay take it for granted. Ye couldnay. Ye thought ye could then ye found ye couldnay. But he was gony make it, nay danger about that, he was gony have to drag himself but fair enough man that was alright, he could have done with a rest but it didnay matter, even just a wee yin, the auld lungs, the ribcage, he was fuckt, yer man, auld Sammy there; the truth, want the truth? yer man
Shoes, he said.
Naybody answered. Thank fuck. He wasnay cracking up but so it was okay. He nearly was but he was avoiding it; managing to. Just he was soaked to the skin, and he had this walk back through Loch Lomond but apart from that I mean christ nay complaints, who’s gony complain about the weather? no Sammy, fuck sake man, the auld god almighty, the central authority, he gets sick of all that complaining from us cunts, human beings, he’s fucking sick of it and ye cannay blame him, who’s gony blame him, give the guy a break, know what I mean
It was just the body, the aches and pains, like he seemed to have nay energy these days, all the time wanting to sleep or lie down on the bastard settee, it was all ye felt fit for.
The puddle. He would just drag himself through it. Fucking guardian angel, never there when ye needed the cunt. Maybe the quack slipped him a mickey. He felt like a rest. It was a holiday he wanted. He stopped tapping to reach the stick out for the wall. Nay bother. That was what he wanted man a holiday. One time he went to Spain. Some good home-cooking as well, he could have been doing with that, the auld sustenance; bowls of broth, that kind of stuff. He dropped the stick, there was nay sound when it hit the deck; he was down to get it immediately, the poly bag swinging on his wrist; but he got it and he lifted it straight back up; he held it steady and poked with it to see what like it was, but it was fine man it was his, the good auld trusty stick, know what I’m saying it was his, naybody else’s. So he battered on. It was wild; alright but it wasnay that wild it was just the fucking elements and they were always there and nay cunt fucking controls them so it isnay as if they’re out to fuck ye intentional-wise.
Two women were at the lift, talking about a current affairs programme they had seen on the telly. It was interesting listening. Sammy had been gony roll a smoke but everything was damp and it wouldnay have worked. Plus the women might have objected if he smoked in the lift. He couldnay have coped with that. Sometimes ye’re up to it but no the now. He would have been in the wrong anyway; nay point arguing if ye’re in the wrong.
The doors were opening. Sammy tapped in. One of the women did the buttons. Six, said Sammy. He touched his head, the hair plastered. It could have been worse. Life. Life could have been worse. Then he sneezed. Sorry, he said, and then sneezed again. Sorry, he said and he felt it coming again and tried to stop it but it was like it was gony blow the nose off his face so he let it rip. Sorry about this, he said. He wiped his mouth and upper lip with the back of his hand. I meant to buy a packet of tissues and I forgot.
Torture. He was actually sweating, he felt it ower his arms and the hairs of his chest.
A funny thing now happened when the lift stopped. One of the women telt him it was his floor and then one of them got out before him, but she didnay say cheerio to her mate, and from the way they had been chatting ye knew they were friendly the gether. So that was a bit funny. Out on the landing he stopped and started checking his pockets, kidding on he was looking for something. The woman’s footsteps went off round the corner. Sammy propped the stick against the wall, dried his hands and rolled a fag. It’s fair enough, he said.
Once he was puffing he walked, tugged open the door to the corridor, went fast through the wind and got the chubb into the lock. When he was in the lobby he stopped himself from shouting on Helen, switched on the fire in the living room and set the trainers to dry in front of it, towelled the hair, he wondered whether to give the feet a wash. Or else have another bath. One of these things about landing in the poky, ye aye felt clatty, ye needed a good scrub when they let ye out. He hung up the coat and trousers. The best thing when they were wet; they dried into a good crease. He put on the jeans.
Okay, what now?
Well well; it dawned on him what he was doing, he was preparing to vanish.
He gathered up the dirty socks, the pants and tee-shirts, shoved them into the washing machine. It had to be whites and coloureds the gether; Helen wasnay here to worry about it anyway. Soap powder. Soap powder and washing machines. He found the plug, switched it on. Okay. After that
fuck it, nothing after that, no the now; a cup of tea and a piece and cheese. Nay point making them all, he wouldnay be leaving till the clothes were dry. Mind you that could take hours; he was wanting to go the night. So he would just use the clothes-horse, right in front of the fire; and if the clothes were still damp, then fuck it man he would pap them into a poly bag. Okay. He heard the sounds from the washing machine. So good, the thing was in motion. So now, cup of tea. Naw: bed.
So there ye are.
The things go in stages.
Her upstairs, she played this kind of folk-type stuff; sometimes ye thought it was party music, it aye seemed about to launch into a rebel song, or else the sash, but it didnay. Maybe it wasnay a her. It was; ye could tell; even just her footsteps through the ceiling.
The bed was cold. If Helen had been in beside him he would have turned ower and snuggled in, knees up under her bum, arms round her, his face into the back of her head, her hair, smelling her, all warm and skin to skin, getting hard, slow, no even bothering, just lazy, no even noticing but there it is wedged in between the tops of her legs and nudging under, and her shifting a wee bit; that lazy way like it’s Sunday morning and ye’re both hardly awake.
The shivers again. He drew his knees up to his chin, gripped the blankets. Maybe there was a virus on the go cause he was beginning to get that other feeling, that the one place he needed to be was right here in his bed; and that was usually a sign ye were coming down with something.
He stretched out again and turned onto his front; the back was still giving him bother, down at the base of the spine; a couple of hours’ kip would sort him out; the last thing he wanted was his head working overtime.
The auld sleep exercises; okay:
think of yer toes and tense them, now relax them, think of the soles of yer feet and tense them, now relax them, think of yer ankles, tense them, now relax them, think of yer heels and tense them, now relax them; think of yer lower shins and relax them. He moved onto his side; yer lower shins, think of them, the auld lower shins, tensing them too, now letting go, relax them, and the upper shins, tense them, tense them as well – a fucking wank would be better but naw, think of yer knees, yer knees and tense them, he returned onto his front; tense them up, yer knees, relax them; he would have been better off going back to the beginning again. Fuck it, bullshit man bullshit, if it worked for some folk good, it didnay work for him, it just didnay; that’s the way it goes, some ye win some ye lose; nay sweat, nay sweat.
He got to sleep eventually so that was fine, though how long he was out for I dont know, except when he did wake up he was still knacked, the eyelids were stuck the gether; he was really tired, so he needed another hour, maybe two, two at the most. He h
ad nay idea what time it was but it couldnay be that late. A thought in his head: as if he was the same as yesterday, as last October. What did that mean? it had to mean something
There it went again jesus christ it was the door, it was the door woke him, jesus god that was what had woke him man the fucking door, dirty bastards. Sammy was out of bed and pulling on the socks, groping for the jeans.
Naw. No way. He sat back down on the bed. Just no way. I mean they hadnay chose the moment as good as all that; he had had a sleep; he had fucking had one; so they hadnay chose it as good as all that, they werenay fucking god almighty they were just fucking people, that’s all they were, people, ordinary people; bampot bastards, but people. So okay, at least ye can ward off the blows man that’s allowed; ye cannay take the initiative but at least ye can ward off the blows, and sometimes warding off the blows meant ye dished out the first wallop; fair enough, ye were forced to, nay fucking option man ye had to land it. No everybody knew that. He shrugged. Ye might want to smile but it’s fuck all to smile about, it’s just reality, so ye face up to it, know what I mean if ye’ve nay choice man, it’s a head-down situation. Christ he was shaking, shaking. Stop it. He couldnay stop it. Aye he could. He got up off the bed and took four babysteps forwards, four babysteps backwards, just getting the breathing, just getting that, okay, then the jeans, pulling them on, balancing with one hand against the wall; then the tee-shirt. He clicked open the bedroom door and listened hard. He couldnay hear fuck all. Nice of them to chap the door but I must say, instead of tanning it, they could just have fucking tanned it and walked in man know what I’m saying. Four of them at least but that was what that meant, four of them, at least, no including the driver. Ah well. Ah well okay; fair enough. Serious business but serious business! Sammy smiled; only for a second, then he was back listening. Still he couldnay hear nothing. Maybe they had fuckt off. He smiled again. Civilised behaviour as well but, chapping the door, the auld sodjers, showing a bit of respect for a guy’s property, ye’ve got to hand it to them there. He sniffed. Where was the fucking stick? At the front door; the usual place. Okay. Thank fuck he had got it painted; ye had to look the part. He checked the fly; fine; action man here we go. Shoes. Fuck the shoes nay time. He left the bedroom just as the letterbox flapped, he walked along the lobby. He should have shaved. Didnay matter; he collected the stick. He spoke aloud: Everything comes to those that wait ya fucking bampot bastards. And he changed his grip on the stick, raising it up and back the way, resting it across his right shoulder, he unlocked the door and stepped back immediately, taking his weight onto his right foot, swaying a bit, the shoulders fine, no too stiff at the knee. A wee minute later the door creaked open.
