by James Kelman
Hines was included in the next round of drinks. Now and again somebody would have his name called from the darts area and would leave to chalk the score before playing the next winner. The conversation had become general; a discussion about how the rest of the night was to be spent, with some in favour of travelling into town to go to the dancing or something while others were wanting to stay put and maybe get a carry-out to go and play cards in somebody’s house. Hines was asked what he was doing and he said he was going straight home, he had an early start in the morning. He finished the pint and refused the offer of another. He had to wait half an hour for a blue bus.
Through the close and up the stairs he paused on the first landing, he smoked a cigarette.
Sandra was reading. He walked to the sink and filled a kettle of water from the tap and put it to boil. He was saying how his old man hadnt been in any of the usual places so he had just ended up going into the Vale; he met Barry McBride and a couple of others and they told him nothing had happened yesterday; but they hadnt spoken personally to the Shop Steward so maybe something was happening and they just hadnt heard.
He went ben the front room to change clothes. Paul was asleep. Back in the kitchen he waited for the kettle of water to boil then made a pot of tea.
A foreign film was beginning. Sandra had switched on the television for it. He passed her a cup of tea and sat down with his own.
Farquhar wasnt an angry driver but and that’s the difference. Angry drivers are fucking hopeless man I’m no kidding ye – I mind I was on with a cunt and he smashed into a car on purpose, went smack right into the middle of it and the poor bastard inside came flying straight out the door and got flung yards away; the car turned a fucking circle, two circles. There were genuine reasons why the cunt should’ve been so angry but none for crashing – excuses I mean; no fucking excuses. And he was hell of a lucky the poor auld fucking injured party never died – although, right enough, he wouldnt’ve been done for dangerous driving let alone manslaughter or whatever the fuck. But he knew I knew he done it on purpose. And he never even fucking bothered man, just acted as if nothing had happened bar a bad accident of a crash. And being a smart conductor as usual I was right out there capturing witnesses before the smoke had fucking settled. An accessory after the fact Willie, an accessory after the fact. Just as well I dont believe in guilty bastarn consciences. That poor bastard too, lying in the middle of the road, all twisted to fuck, legs and elbows everywhere. He was in the wrong. Because of where he had been when aforementioned incident occurred, to wit, with his car fucking bonnet poking out the side street, trying to bully people into letting him out onto the main drag. A right fucking imbecile! But still, no reason for crashing into him. No kidding ye man it never pays to get angry on a bus. Once that starts you’re bang in trouble; you’ve got to take it calmly, calmly calmly calmly.
Is that right?
Aye it’s fucking right, ask anybody.
I’m no asking anybody I’m asking you ya orange bastard ye.
No point asking me, I’m no involved, I just give out the descriptions; that’s the conductor’s job, get the witnesses and say what is the what.
Keech.
Is it fuck keech. And I’ll tell you an even better one. My first week in the job and I’m on with a cunt who shall remain anonymous for the simple reason he’s still in the garage. We gets to fucking Argyle Street – 3 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon and the place is mobbed man really mobbed; we stops at Jamaica Street traffic lights. I’d been late to get on the bus and it was so fucking busy I’d no even had a chance to see who was driving never mind the state he was in so anyway, the bus, stopped, for fucking ages, and all the punters’re beginning to fidget and look about, but I’m so fucking new at the game I dont know anything’s up – I’m rushing round getting the fares in quick, having a wee kind of inner competition to see if I can clear the topdeck before the lights change or something. I didnt even notice they’d been at green and back to red and back to fucking green again, till I starts hearing all the beep beeps, and then I looks out the window, and all the traffic, rows and rows, all jamming up, all beeping their horns and fucking
I know who it was.
What?
Who you’re talking about, I know who it is.
Naw you dont.
Reilly snorted.
You dont.
Aye I fucking do.
I must’ve told you then.
How?
Cause you wouldnt fucking know unless, that’s how.
Reilly shrugged and then he smiled. Okay, what happened?
Hh.
Naw, tell me.
What d’you mean tell me! if you already know what’s the fucking point.
Reilly shrugged.
Hines swivelled on the seat and raised his boots onto the back of the seat in front; he closed his eyelids.
I’ll tell you one, said Reilly.
Drivers or conductors?
The latter.
The latter! hh. Am I involved?
Naw.
I dont want to fucking hear it then. Does it concern irate punters at Bridgeton Cross? a certain Old Firm game on New Year’s Day? because if so, if so . . .
If so what?
If so fuck all ya fenian bastard ye; I dont want to hear it.
Aye well you’re going to fucking hear it cause this bus isnt moving for another ten minutes.
Ten minutes! Ten minutes! what d’you mean ten minutes ya cunt ye it was ten minutes a half a fucking hour ago!
Rubbish.
It’s no rubbish.
Aye it is: rubbish, rubbish rubbish rubbish.
Aw give us peace for christ sake Reilly.
I’m giving you fuck all peace.
Come on, get the bus moving.
Too early.
It’s no too early at all man I mean the . . . Hines sniffed, and after a moment he sat up, brought out his tin and prised off the lid. When he was tapping the tobacco down the length of the cigarette paper Reilly took out a packet of tipped cigarettes and extracted one. He waited for Hines to finish rolling his before striking a light. Then Hines said, How was the game on Saturday?
Murder; no opposition – we could’ve put out the fucking reserves . . . He yawned and got up from the seat; he sat down again.
Hines shifted his position, he wiped the condensation from the back window and looked out.