That’s where I’m at
Then there’s that other case. I’m talking about the hopeless one we can all get into at some stage or another. Usually it’s with a pal we’ve had for years, when he’s pissed drunk and you’re no; and you notice everybody’s all staring, they’re staring at the two of yous. It’s when that happens the bother starts and things get quite interesting. You get the boost. It’s exciting, it’s the excitement, the heart starting to go and it affecting the whole body; you feel the shoulders going and if you’re a smoker you’re taking the wee quick puffs on the fag, sometimes no even blowing out the smoke, just taking the next yins rapid, keeping it buried deep down, letting it out in dribs and drabs, a wee tait at a time. It’s because you’re trying to occupy yourself. You’re no wanting to seem too involved otherwise it all starts too quick; you want to calm things down, because you know what like you are. That’s how as well that you can try and kid on you’re no aware of what’s happening. When it’s a betting shop you’re in you act as if you’re totally engrossed in the form for the next race. If it’s a pub you stare up at the telly. The broo, well ye just stare maybe at the clock or something. But all the time you’re keeping that one eye peeled, watching your pal, if he’s making a cunt of himself and getting folk upset. Bastards. You’re just waiting, trying no to notice, trying to concentrate on other things. Fucking useless but you know it’s going to happen; there’s nothing you can do about it. Sometimes the waiting doesni even last that long. You’re so wound up ready to go you just burst out and fucking dig up some poor cunt who’s probably no even been involved in the fucking first place! And you’re at him ranting and raving:
You ya fucking snidey bastard ye what’s the fucking game at all?
And he’s all fucking taken aback: What d’you mean, he says.
Dont fucking give us it, you says.
But I’m no doing fuck all.
Ya lying bastard ye you’re fucking on at my mate there you’re fucking out of order.
What? he says.
And you start shouting: If ye fucking used your fucking eyes you’d see he was drunk ya bastard!
What! What d’you mean!! I’m just standing here having a pint minding my own business.
Minding your own business fuck all, you shout at him. And the poor cunt now can hardly speak a word cause he’s bloody feart, he doesni know what you’re going to do, if you’re going to fucking batter him. And he looks about the boozer for support, for somebody that knows him to defend him maybe. But nobody does. They dont actually know what happened. They never saw fuck all and dont really want to get involved. They’re no really that interested anyhow, when it comes down to it, especially if it’s the betting shop it’s happening in because they’re just waiting for the going behind call so’s they can rush over and make their bets. In fact they’re probably just watching what’s happening to pass the time. There again but some of them will be interested, they maybe know the bloke you’re digging up. They might even be the guy’s mucker for all you know! But you’re no caring. You dont actually give a fuck. It could even make things better. What also happens with me at a certain point is how I suddenly step out my skin and I can look down at myself standing there. Only for a split second though, then I’m back inside again and so fucking wound up I dont notice a single thing, nothing. I wouldnt even notice myself, if I was standing there and I actually was two people. One time I turned round and gubbed a polis right on the mouth. I didnt even fucking notice he was there. He tapped me on the shoulder and I just turned round and fucking belted him one, right on the fucking kisser man and he dropped, out like a light, so I just gets off my mark immediately, out the door and away like the clappers, and poor auld Fergie — that was my mate — he wound up getting huckled; and what a beating he got off the polis once they got him into the station! Poor bastard. But that’s where I’m at, that kind of thing, the way it seems to happen to me. It never used to. Or did it? Maybe it did and I just didni notice because I was young and foolish and a headstrong bastard whereas now I’m auld and grey.
the Hon
Auld Shug gits oot iv bed. Turns aff the alarm cloak. Gis straight ben the toilit. Sits doon in that oan the lavatri pan. Wee bit iv time gis by. Shug sittin ther, yonin. This Hon. Up it comes oot fri the waste pipe. Stretchis right up. Grabs him by the bolls.
Jesis christ shouts the Shug filla.
The Hon gis slack in a coupla minits. Up jumps Shug. Straight ben the kitchin hodin onti the pyjama troosirs in that jist aboot collapsin inti his cher.
Never know the minit he was sayin. Eh. Jesis christ.
Looks up at the cloak oan the mantelpiece. Eftir seven. Time he was away tae his work. Couldni move bit. Shatird. Jist sits ther in the cher.
Fuck it he says Am no gon.
Coupla oors gis by. In comes the wife an that ti stick oan a kettle. Sees the auld yin sittin ther. Well past time. Day’s wages oot the windi.
Goodnis sake Shug she shouts yir offi late.
Pokes him in the chist. Kneels doon oan the fler. He isni movin. Nay signs a taw. Pokes him ance mer. Still nothin bit. Then she sees he’s deid. Faints. Right nix ti the Shug filla’s feet. Lyin ther. The two iv them. Wan in the cher in wan in the fler. A hof oor later a chap it the door. Nay answer. Nother chap. Sound iv a key in the door. Door shuts. In comes the lassie. Eywis comes roon fir a blether wi the maw in that whin the auld yin’s oot it his work. Merrit hersel. Man’s a bad yin but. Cunt’s never worked a day in his life. Six weans tay. Whin she sees thim ther she twigs right away.
My goad she shouts thir deid. Ma maw in ma da ir deid.
She bens doon ti make sure.
O thank goad she says ma maw’s jist faintit. Bit da. Da’s deid. O naw. Ma da’s deid. Goad love us.
Unlucky
It was early evening when Lecky came along the road, already dark; the chip van was parked across by the chapel, puffs of blue smoke drifting up from its funnel. He joined the queue. The van was a converted single-decker bus; as somebody made an exit the others waiting moved up one by one onto the old platform. He bought two single cigarettes and tapped a match from a boy he knew standing behind him in the queue. When he struck the match along the metal floor the young woman working the friers frowned at him, so did a couple of the other customers. Outside on the pavement he exhaled a mouthful of smoke then took another long drag, keeping the smoke in his lungs, letting it out through his nostrils. His belly didnt feel good but being out in the breeze and away from the fumes in the van made him feel better. He smoked about a third of the fag before nipping it, and continued along and up the steep hill. When he passed the gable end of a building some drops of water landed on his face. If it was actually going to rain, that would be good; he felt like it raining because of the freshness. There was plenty of cloud about — the moon hidden and a redness making it a bit supernatural till you realised what it was, a reflection, the lights of the city.
It took twenty minutes to reach John’s close. He walked up the stairs to the top storey, flapped the letter-box on John’s door. There came an immediate thumping from inside and the door came swinging open, a wee lassie hanging onto its handle with both hands, one sock on and one sock off, her toes wedged into the crevice at the top of the bottom panel. She continued to hang there, the door creaking on its hinges. She shouted: Daddy.