‘The veranda,’ he declares. They sit down, legs dangling over the banking. He likes to sit here and watch the boats and that come past, he says. And to drink too, judging by all the cans lying about. There is a swan who stays under the scrub off to one side where the banking stops, Beans tells him, only she’s no there the now because she’s out and about getting her nest together. It’s hard to believe him — anything he says — but then Mick sees the nest, lower down, sticking out from under the scrub, all these twigs twined into a great bowl on the wet ground amongst plastic bottles and lager cans. Bold as ye like. He gives a smile at the sight of it. These swans that he minds, who made their nests by the fitting-out berths, their feathers clatty with oil, but who’d come and go like they were boating on Loch Lomond.
At one point during the afternoon Beans goes off for a while, and returns with a couple of four-packs. They sit in the sun drinking, and Mick tells him what type are a couple of the boats that come by, Beans listening as if it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard.
It is only when it gets evening and they are on the approach to the hostel that it starts to loom over him again. The bare room. Bogging of bleach. Surrounded by homeless. They walk past a bar and he almost asks Beans if he fancies going a pint, but obviously it’s impossible because of the money situation. It’s bad enough he’s tapped him already for his breakfast, plus now the cans. So they go in, Beans away into the reception to chin the staff and leaving Mick to go up on his own.
He is on the stairhead about to turn onto the corridor, but there is noise up the way. Voices. He waits round the corner, the heart going mental already. Hard to hear what they are saying, but it sounds like there’s a few of them, and this other noise as well that sounds like somebody thumping rhythmically against the wall. He is that fixed on what’s ahead of him, he doesn’t notice the group coming up the stair behind.
One of them laughs.
‘You alright there, mate?’
He spins round. There are three of them. Young lads. They stand there grinning and leering at him.
‘Fine, aye,’ and he moves on down the corridor, the others up ahead turning to watch him, and these behind following him, one of them making a tootling noise, like a trumpet. He gets into the room, closes the door and pushes one of the cots up against it.
The sun straining a thin light through the curtain. Beans asleep in his clothes. Noises coming and going outside, keeping him awake, on edge.
It is dark. He has been dreaming. Christmas. Christmases, all jumbled together. The first one he is sat in the living room and the boys and the Highlanders are there sat in their positions, a wee plastic Christmas tree behind the television, Lynn sat on the settee next to Alan with her crabbit face on, like it’s the last place in the world she wants to be the now, this craphole, with its stained carpets and cramped corridors, and the wobbling banister as he goes up the stair and into the bedroom. Robbie and Craig sat on the kitchen chairs with plates of Christmas dinner on their laps, looking toward the shape in the bed. Craig cutting up the turkey breast into tiny pieces; quartering the Brussels sprouts.
He is awake. The mind out of its box, spinning, all over the place. A few minutes and he’s managed to calm himself a little, lying awake until he is able to sleep again.
Another Christmas. Australia. He is sat at the table waiting for her to come in from the kitchen. The cracker hat clamming to his forehead and the full works there on the plate in front of him — turkey, roast tatties and parsnips, bread pudding, cranberry sauce — and outside, all of the gardens down the road are empty because the whole of the Tartan Terrace is at the same game: the only weekend of the summer nobody’s got the barbecue out.
Morning, and he’s lying in the bed, the body aching, sticking. Beans suddenly in through the door and frowning. He looks at him a moment. ‘Breakfast?’
They sit at the same table, the same positions. The only difference is that Beans isn’t as rosy this morning: his back is up from something that’s happened in the hostel, and it’s making him mutter and scratch fork points through his swirly sauce sunsets.
‘See the problem is with these people, they’ve no respect for a person’s privacy, know? Mean, it’s no better than the clink, serious, and I’m expecting a bit of privacy myself. That’s the least I’m expecting.’
‘What happened?’
The eyes widen, far enough to expose the white outsider parts that are normally sheltered under the lids. ‘What happened? That bastard the manager, that’s what. He says to me, the magazines are supposed to stay in the reception, they’re no for taking out. Believe that? He’s no even asked me. He’s telt me I’ve got them but he’s no even asked me first, that’s how I’m beeling about it.’
He cloys up then and they don’t talk any more about it. They finish eating and Beans pays.
It is colder, blowier, the day, and after a walkabout they go into a train station, park themselves on some seats by a pasty shop. There is a scaffer hanging about the ticket machines and Beans is watching him, the bristles up, like a dog. The smell of pasties wafting; a rare moment of enjoyment. He thinks for a moment how the shame of leeching like this should be making him the more desperate to get doing something, but it’s not, it’s the opposite — he doesn’t think, doesn’t care; he is into the routine. They are walking again. Fine but. Fine. Keeping on the move. A stop at the offie on the way to the veranda, and it is okay once they are sat down because the wind is mainly kept off by the bush all afternoon. As soon as they get leaving though, the familiar feeling starts to kick in, the nerves already on edge.
Fortunately but Beans doesn’t go in the reception, he’s wiped his hands with them, he says, and there is nobody about as they go up the stair and into the corridor. Open the door and go inside the room.
‘Aw, Christ.’
It has been turned over. All the bedding is thrown on the floor and the drawers under the one small table are wrenched open. Their two bags have been taken. He sits down heavily on the bed, his breath constricting. Beans is away out the door. ‘Fucksake, man. Fucking hell.’ He puts his head down on the mattress. Stares out the window. A wean is kicking a ball against the car park wall. He lies listening to it beat repeatedly on the brick.
‘She says there’s nothing they can do, we should’ve locked the door. Bastards. Probably them that did it. Serious. It probably was. Ye okay, pal?’ A hand is on his shoulder. ‘Look, nay worries. No like we had much anyway eh? First thing we’ll do the morning, we’ll get out of this place. Okay?’ He is hauling one of the cots up against the door. ‘The better on our own, serious, nay cunts nebbing about.’
Chapter 27
The group have been there all morning. At any one time there are between four and eight of them: sometimes a pair will wander off toward the street, or a new arrival will come into the square and for a few minutes the silence is broken as the others get on their feet, talking, shouting. One of the women keeps herself slightly removed, on the end bench. If one of the men approaches where she is, starts saying something to her, she ignores him, and eventually he returns to the others. The air of the group is edgy, quiet, getting worse as the morning goes on. Nothing to drink. She feels cold and nervous, sober, aware of the staring line of people at the bus stop.
Shortly before midday, three men arrive, two of them each holding a heavy plastic bottle of cider. The mood changes straight away. There is laughter and movement, the first of the bottles getting opened and passed around. She stays where she is on the bench, and before long another woman comes and sits next to her, passing her the second bottle. This other woman is grinning, looking at her coat. ‘Jesus, Anna, alright for some.’