He drinks too much that night, finishing all his lager store. It’s no a wise move, because instead of taking the edge off things it just makes him the more maunderly, and he lies on the bed unable to stop himself greeting. He is surprised — as if from outside of himself, observing somebody else — how long and loud he cries. The need to be with her coming on him so strongly that he can’t stop it, and his whole body becoming tight and strained, searching for the feeling of being with her but no finding it, just a vacuum instead, falling and falling.
He is cold. It looks out the window like no the worst day — sunny, in fact, one of they bright, biting wintry mornings — but No Breakfast is scrimping on the heating and the room feels pure Baltic. He stays inside the bed. Some of the time sleeping, some of it with the eyes open, staring at the ceiling, the brain a blank except for occasional daft wee thoughts, like listening for the announcers between TV shows and counting how many programmes they do before somebody else comes on shift. Wondering what it is they do while the programme is on — do they have to sit there in their booth or whatever preparing for the start of the next show, or can they get up and wander about, get a cup of tea, go the newsagent’s for a scratchcard? Daft wee thoughts. Daft wee thoughts that keep at arm’s length the more important one of what the fuck is he going to do now that the money is almost run out.
When the time does come, he makes a decision. The twenty that he’s got left, he will keep back for food and emergencies. It isn’t enough to pay for another night anyway, and the most important thing is that he’s got enough to feed himself; plus the emergencies, whatever they might be. Drink, probably, if the way he’s craving for one the now is anything to go by. He packs up his things and goes for a wash of his face. Strange, but he has some energy about him now that there is no choice and he is on the move. He switches off the television and leaves the room.
He’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to bump into anybody on the way out, but the reception door is open and the younger one sees him coming down. He must think he’s paying another night, because he comes to the doorway, only then noticing the bag.
‘You are going back to Scotland?’
‘No.’
He nods his head. He’s an alright type, even if he does stick the nose in too much.
‘I’m done with the room but. Thanks.’
Chapter 23
One thing is for sure: they don’t like you sitting down in this city. He’s been more than twenty minutes looking for somewhere to park down and eat his sandwich, but he hasn’t passed a single bench yet. They don’t want you staying put; they want you rushing about, horn-pamping, snatching the free newspaper. There are no people stood outside the pubs smoking. There aren’t even any pubs that he’s passed, christsake. He keeps on. He doesn’t know where he is, and wanders at random, but it must be he does some kind of a loop or something, because after a while he is arrived back at the coach station.
It is hoaching inside, people milling about, queuing, sat waiting in the bays. That’s fine but. The more people, the less obvious he feels, and as he walks through he wonders how many others in here are hiding, kidding on they’re going somewhere but in fact just keeping out of the cold. He needs to pee. Another problem. A short search and he discovers that it’s 30p for the pleasure of using the toilets. The money situation as it is, he’d rather not. See if he was needing a tollie then maybe that would be a proper use of the emergencies fund, but no a pish, nay chance.
There are a couple of carry-out coffee places near the station, but it’s a while before he finds a pub. When he does, it is fortunate a busy one, and he has no problem sneaking in the toilet to take a fine long and satisfying widdle. The only problem, once he’s done, is that now he’s here he could genuine go a pint. No. First he needs to — well, fuck knows what he needs to do first, but definitely it isn’t that, so he gets making his way back to the station instead. Finds himself a seat, lodged between a Muslim woman and a Chelsea supporter. There is a voice over the tannoy but he isn’t hearing it. He is in the Birmingham bay, is the last thing he notices before he nods off.
When he wakes it is showing 17.44 on the information board. The bay is emptied and he is sat with empty seats all around him. He gets up and goes over to the newsagent’s, looks at the price of sandwiches and gives them a bye, deciding on a chocolate bar instead. Then over to the nearest busy bay.
Outside, pulling into the slots a bit further on, the Glasgow coach. He watches uneasily as the passengers start to spill out. How long since he came here? It seems like forever ago but it’s only a few months probably. He can’t be sure. No the best few months, being honest. Very funny ye sarcastic bugger. The Weegies are started filing past the windows and he looks down. Hardly likely there’ll be anybody that knows him, but so what, that doesn’t mean it won’t happen. It might. In fact it’s a racing certainty the way things are going, so he keeps the head down, stares at his feet. His neck starting to strain. Waiting for it — a tap on the shoulder. Someone who recognizes him; someone who’ll go back up to Glasgow and say that they’ve seen him, tell the Highlanders, tell Craig — and just for a split second he allows in the thought that maybe he’s been looking for him, maybe actually it’s him on the coach coming down on the search for him because how can you know? You can’t, and all he does know is he has to get rid of the thought, get hold of it and get fucking shut.
‘Hello. Are you okay?’
A young girl, sitting in beside him. He pulls back. Confusion and panic stiffening through him. ‘Would you like something to eat?’ He sits up and looks about to see if anybody’s watching. The girl is sat turned toward him, smiling. She’s got a wool cardigan with big wooden buttons; a woolly hat with these two bobble-danglers either side. He doesn’t say anything and she starts going in her bag. He stands up. He has to be away. The heart is pounding. He moves down the bay; a man watching him over his newspaper, flicking the eyes back down as he hurries past.
A crawling, scunnery feeling follows him as he moves away down the road. Only one place he’s headed the now; screw the rules.
He orders himself a pint. Three pound fifty pence, but no surprises there, he is in London. For some reason. For some reason he is in London. There is a game on the television. A few in watching it, but it’s obvious no a football pub because they don’t look too interested. The pint is calming him, settling the nerves. He stays and drinks it slowly. Takes his time before swallowing up to leave. Now what? Careful. Best no to think about the big picture right now, because it’s just too bloody big, is how, and he’s too close up to be able to see it properly. What he has to do is focus on one part at a time, stepping back until he can see the whole thing clearly and figure it out. Wee steps. He is cold, and he is hungry. He does his jacket up to the neck and sets off looking for something to eat.
He finds a kebab shop and goes inside, warmth and grease clinging about him as he joins the line of men at the counter intently giving the guy their sauce and salad directions. He feels comfortable in here. Warm. Unnoticed. The kebab man skilfully shaving strips of meat off the doner like a barber working at a throat. One thing’s for sure, he could fine well go a kebab the now. Too expensive but. When it comes his turn he gets himself a bag of chips instead, and goes to sit at a stool in the window, biting them in halves and watching the steam lick out of the soft potato insides.