There is a man outside the house. Mick has turned the corner into the street and is coming up the pavement when he sees him, standing at the front door. Mick turns straight around. Keeps moving. Gets back down the end of the street to the bus stop and spies through the glass. He’s still there, just stood, waiting. From here, he can’t see properly who it is, but he’s sure he doesn’t recognize him. He fights to get the breathing under control. Maybe it isn’t his house, and he’s mistaken, it’s actually next door. It isn’t but. It’s definitely his house. The man is peering in the window now, cupping his hands around his face. He chaps the door. Now what? Wait, just wait. The man turns and starts inspecting the grass at his feet, as if he’s looking for something, and then he’s up to the window again, spying in. For a second, a strange hopeful thought hits him that maybe it’s a robber, but just then the man turns and goes out the gate and he can see his face. It’s nobody he recognizes, a big guy in a shirt and tie, who is getting now into a dark red car parked on the street outside. It’s a while before he leaves but. The car stays there another few minutes before it starts pulling out from the kerb and swings round, moving off in the direction away from the bus stop.
Mick waits a moment longer, watching carefully. As he gets up and starts toward the house, there is laughter, and he spins around to see two teenage boys knotting themselves looking at him from one corner of the bus stop. He walks away quickly, checking around him, and gets in the gate and then the house, hurrying through it and out into the garden, snibbing the latch of the shed as he comes inside.
Chapter 11
The cold. It is setting in. Keep the whisky flowing, my man, keep it flowing. He unscrews the cap and takes another bolt — a bottle he’d minded was in the kitchen, unopened, laid out on top of the cupboards. A present from Alan last Christmas. The usual gift from him, but no complaints, he’s bloody grateful, serious. The bottle carefully chosen, you can telclass="underline" decent enough it’s obvious he’s spent some money, but never a single malt, never something that the average man, in the brother-in-law’s opinion, should be drinking. But fine. Fuck it. Fine. Cheers then to the brother-in-law and to his charming wife, who haven’t as it happens been down once to visit the grave since they left. Which tells you everything, really, everything. Still but you can’t have it all ways, eh, and the better that he doesn’t have to see them; plus as well of course, how does he know for sure that they haven’t been? Maybe they have, see, maybe they have. No way. They haven’t. There would be some display of flowers or something. They have not been. See if they come at all, they’ll come when it suits them. When there’s a film they want to see, or they need a new computer.
A stifty wind in under the door. He pulls the blankets close. Jesus, he’s hungry. He drags the emptied tool box from under the table and feels about inside it for the end of a packet of biscuits, then gets eating a couple. It’s nearly finished, the food store. A battle plan needed. Another problem for another day.
He has had a pure stroke of luck. He’d been one afternoon rummling about in the back of the shed for anything useful there might be, and he found the wee battery radio they used to put outside sometimes when they were sat or she was at the gardening. It’s still working. A miracle. And it’s good too, having it on, no bother that the reception is pretty fuzzy, it’s better than nothing, especially these nights he’s laid there just, with the brainbox going, no able to sleep.
He listens to the quiet voice of the nightwatchradioman. He’s talking about this TV programme that he watched the day about assisted suicides and people going away for them, the legalities and all that. Mick’s no hearing it all, but it’s relaxing, the sound of the guy’s voice. There is a call-in after, but they don’t stick to the topic. People can ring in saying whatever’s on their minds. What do ye think will be the score Saturday? Barry in Pollokshields predicts a thumping away victory for the Gers, and a hat-trick for the new boy. Here’s hoping, Barry, here’s hoping.
The food store is gone. It’s fine but, it’s okay; no like it has come out the blue. He’s been intending the last few days to go the messages for one or two items. Bread. Biscuits. Cheap things that don’t need going in the fridge and he can keep out here. Another bottle of whisky would be much appreciated too, but he’s got to be careful watching the pennies, got to start thinking where’s the money going to come from. He closes his eyes. Got to do this, got to mind to do that. It’s too much to think about. Easier to shut the eyes just and go to sleep, no have to deal with anything just now.
Chapter 12
Des is standing on the pavement out front of the Empress when he spots the distant figure of Mick approaching down the street. He drops his cigarette to the ground, picks up the broom that is propped against the wall, and gets sweeping the lunchtime dog-ends into the road. No that there’s a great many. There’d only been a few in: the small group of staff from the recruitment agency round the corner, a couple of shopping-centre workers, and Pat, who is the only person left in the bar now, quietly drinking his Guinness over the racing odds.
He finishes clearing the pavement, and waits to say a hello to Mick if he isn’t stopping in for a drink. Halfway down the street though, Mick crosses over and goes into the closemouth of a tenement on the other side, a blue carrier bag in his hand, and disappears. Des goes inside. He pours a refill for Pat, a Grouse for himself, then goes into the back for a sit down.
Maybe it had been someone else. Looked like Mick but. He sits back and lights a fag, keeping an eye through the bar to the lobby entrance. The family must have all gone by now: it’s well over a month since Craig was coming by those nights, so he’s obviously back up in Yoker. They might be on with a claim by now, from what Craig had been saying then. Awful fucking sad, what had happened. She was a great woman, Cathy, a cracker. Always had been. Back in the day, he used to have something of a crush on her. When he was a young guy first working the bar for his father, he’d look forward to her coming in with the other women during the work-in. There will be no bevvying, the shop stewards had told their men, so they were doing it for them, they’d joked. Just awful bloody sad. It could’ve been any of those women — still could be. The whole area is a timebomb. It could well be him next, or Pat, or any of the men that he’d stood and listened to from behind the bar, right from when there first started to be the rumblings, talking about it like it was something far off and no to do with them, even though they were sat there with the dust caked in their ears and their arseholes. A customer is coming into the lobby entrance. Des gets up, reluctantly wedges his fag in the ashtray, and goes through to the bar.
Mick comes back into the shed with a wee feeling of triumph and puts the items into the food store: bread and biscuits, a packet of cheese, tinned apricots and luncheon meat; even a paper for something to read and while away the hours. See all that stupit carry-on and then in the end it was fine. He’s probably only been gone twenty minutes. He gave the Co a swerve, so all he did was get to the cash machine on the high street, draw out a note and ignore the fact the account is gone overdrawn, then dot in the minimarket on his way back for all these bits and pieces. Easy-oasy.