He presses himself into the crack between the ground and the wall, trying to stop the wind getting a run on him as it races through. The whole of him is aching. Hardly a surprise. It’s pure ancient, this camping mat, worn down almost to nothing and if it wasn’t already then it will be soon, all this tossing and turning he’s doing. Another gulp of whisky. And another. Liars. Fucking liars — see what about all they poor bastards up at the asbestos factory actually making the stuff, hadn’t they been lied to worse than anyone? You’d see them coming out with it pasted wet over them from head to toe from hosing the machines down. Each holding a newspaper to stick under the bahookie when they sat on the bus, trying no to piss the driver off. They’d been told it was only dangerous when it was dry. So they took it home, and then what happened — what do ye think bloody happened? — it dried again, didn’t it, but that was fine, far as the powers that be were concerned, that wasn’t a danger. Fucking lies, all of it. They deserved everything that was coming to them. And if it was him dying, then maybe he would go down that route. Secure a future for Cathy. But it wasn’t; it was him brought the stuff in the house. And he should have known. Even if no at first, way back, then he certain could have done later on, when there was the warnings and the newspaper reports and he could have seen through all these lies and no been so blind to it. He’d even worked with somebody who thought they’d took a bad back. Actually known somebody die who’d thought that at first, but then when it was Cathy in the doctor’s he didn’t think to say anything about it, he fucking forgot.
Could ye have put it out at any time, anything ye can mind? Well, the vacuuming, maybe. See I had a wee twinge doing under the kitchen table no long back. And that was that. Decided. She’d took a bad back. All ye can do is rest it up a few weeks and do nothing — let the man of the house get acquainted with the vacuum for a while, eh? They’d all had a chuckle at that. And he did do as welclass="underline" vacuuming, cleaning, ironing, with her sat laughing at him the whole month until they went back in when she couldn’t stop coughing.
He can’t shut the thoughts out now. He presses his forehead hard against the wood, as if to fight against them, but it’s no use, it doesn’t help. And see if he did put a claim in then the reminders would be there the whole time — for months, years, however long it took — and even that is still ignoring the main thing: why should he get a windfall? Him that brought it into the house and handed her the overalls to wash and here’s two hundred grand, pal, take it, it’s yours — you deserve it.
Chapter 10
The head is crawling. Stupit. He looks over at the bottle and not only has he wrecked his head, he’s also wasted half the whisky rations. No very wise, but there you go, it’s no the end of the world; which, in fact, isn’t looking too bad this morning: the sun streaming in onto his legs through the small grubby window. He lies there awake a time, listening to the sound of things outside. Birds. A door closing. A distant radio. And all the while playing his toe around something soothingly cool and damp that it’s probably no wise investigating what it is.
Anyway, up and at it. He goes to the kitchen, where he takes off his shirt and trousers and gives himself a wash from the sink. He dries himself with the one remaining teacloth, puts the clothes back on, and makes himself a pair of boiled eggs and a slice of toast for cutting into soldiers. Nothing like a boiled egg for a hangover. Except when he lops the heads off he finds he’s done them too long and they are gone solid, so he scrapes them out with a teaspoon instead. He needs to go into work the day, get some shifts. It’s unavoidable. The longer he leaves it the less they’ll want him, and anyway he needs the money.
He stays sat in the kitchen a long time trying to force himself up. But he can’t do it; he isn’t ready. It feels too much — anyway he looks at it, it feels too much, even bloody getting there, christsake, even the prospect of that is bringing him out in a sweat. The morrow. He’ll go the morrow. Rain or shine.
The nights are getting colder. He goes in the house and up the stair one afternoon for more blankets, a fresh shirt and trousers and a jumper, an action that proves a pure effort of will in itself even, just drumming up the balls to go into the bedroom. And the whisky is long finished too, which doesn’t help matters.
After three stops, he starts to relax a little. Nobody is noticing him. They’re on a different planet, these people, with their earphones plugged in, or just staring out the window. Even when Bertie the workshop mechanic gets on, it’s fine, because he’s stood in a spot near the back of the bus from where Bertie can’t see him, two dozen armpits and raw razored faces in the way between. It’s pure illogical but. He’s going to have to see him soon enough, he knows. And Bertie’s alright, anyway. He’s a rare auld ticket in fact, always in there with a joke or a wee story to keep everybody amused. Mick watches him through the armpits. Even Bertie is away with the fairies this morning, it seems, dreaming up something or other, a funny tale to tell the drivers.
He lets Bertie get a way up the street ahead of him, and follows on behind. The stomach is something jittery getting when he turns onto the lane, but there’s nobody about and so he goes straight in the office, a shabby small space set into one corner of the workshop, with a plywood divider on one side, and a computer desk and Lynsey in her headset on the other. She’s typing something and doesn’t notice him when he comes in. Her face concentrated on the screen, clabbered with make-up.
‘Mick,’ she says, looking up.
‘Hello, Lynsey, how’s it going?’
‘Fine, Mick, fine.’ She is uncomfortable seeing him, it is obvious enough. Doesn’t know what to say. That makes two of them, well.
‘I spoke to Malcolm. He said to come in.’
‘Did he? He’s no told me anything.’ She looks at her screen a moment, then back at him. ‘He’s gone out just now, I don’t know when he’s due back. Will I give him a call on his mobile?’
‘No, no, that’s fine, Lynsey. I’ll wait for him a while just, if that’s okay?’
‘Aye, if ye like.’ She smiles, and he tightens up, ready for it, but then she says, ‘There’s Bertie about somewhere, and a couple of the drivers. Go have a wander. I’m sure they’d like to see you.’
He looks at the divider. The sound of an engine from in the shop.