by Ross Raisin
He calls the office line. It keeps ringing, and he gets ready for what he’s going to say on the answering machine, but mid-ring it gets picked up.
‘Hello.’
He considers putting the phone down.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Mick. That you, Malc?’
‘Aw, Mick, hi. How are ye? Ye’re calling late, eh?’
‘I didnae think ye’d be there still.’
‘No, I got stuck here. I had paperwork to fix out and then the phone wouldnae stop.’
There is a pause.
‘I’d like to come back in, that’s how I’m ringing.’
He can hear Malcolm breathing on the other end.
‘Thing is, Mick, we’re no too busy the now. Mean, if ye want to take some more time, see the family, ye know, that’ll be fine, it’s no a problem.’
‘No. I’d like to come in.’
He can smell the whisky returning off the receiver.
‘Okay, well, that’s fine. Ye sold the car, didn’t ye?’
‘I did.’
‘Right, so we’ll get ye one to rent again. Come in whenever and we’ll find some shifts, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’d best get leaving, Mick. We’ll see you, then.’
‘See you.’
He sits down, closing his eyes, trying to compose himself. It’s done. Task completed. Now relax. But just then it occurs to him he hasn’t checked the phone messages in a long while and there might have been a call. He goes back in the lobby to the phone. There’s three new ones.
‘Hello, Mick, it’s Alan here, just to say we’ll be with you late afternoon, it looks like. Depends how the traffic is. I imagine you might not have a lot in, food-wise, so we’ll pick up some supplies on the way. See you in a short while, hopefully.’
What was that about no having a heart attack? Jesus. It takes him half the message before he realizes it’s an old one and the Highlanders are not in fact about to arrive any moment. He replays it for the date anyway, just to be sure. Delete.
The next message is Robbie.
‘Hi, Da, just calling to say we’re back, and to see you’re okay. Flight was a fucking nightmare in the end – not enough ground staff or something in Hong Kong so we were held up five hours, so we’re both kinda whacked now. Jenna’s asleep upstairs with Damien. Anyway, hopefully the Highlanders didn’t hang around too long and you’re doing okay. I’ll speak to you soon, alright. Take care.’
The last is Robbie again.
‘Hi, Da, I guess you might be working. Anyway, I’m just after seeing how you’re getting on, is all. I’m back at work myself this last week, which has been good, you know, takes your mind off things a bit – Jenna’s asking to tell you hi, Da, she sends her love – so, yeah, give me a call. Any time is fine, and I can ring you straight back. Okay, take care, speak soon, bye.’
End of messages.
Dark outside. He switches off the television. Pulls the bed covers and the pillow out from beside the settee, then goes upstairs and finds the camping mat. He drags everything together to the kitchen back door, and goes out into the garden.
It is cool outside, but pleasant enough, no wind, no noise either. He walks up to the shed and goes inside. There are boxes and a hammer on the floor, which he picks up and puts onto the cracked plastic table against the back wall. Then he takes the chairs and the rusted mower out to the back of the kitchen and returns to the shed with the bed covers, laying out the mat, the pillow, the blankets onto the floor. There is just enough space for it. A final check out the door that there’s nobody spying over the fence, and he closes it behind him.
Chapter 9
It is cold. There is a wind got up, and he lies with the covers pulled close, no able to sleep, listening to the glass clacking loosely in the window frame. He should have gave it a bit more thought, brought some blankets out. Good job he minded the whisky, well. He takes another mouthful, gulps, and feels it burning down his throat.
He turns over. Can’t fucking sleep, man. Nay chance him going back in the house though. He’d rather go cold than stay the night in there: all the rooms, despite the clearout, still hoaching with nudgewinks, making him think about everything. No that he’s faring the best out here either, in truth. We’ve no been thinking about anything else. We’ve no been thinking about anything else. Really, Mary? Ye sure about that? You’ve been thinking about what DVDs to watch and that your fence needs a varnish, but no, no, see what we’ve really been thinking about is Cathy and this terrible situation here. That’s what’s been on our minds the whole time. And have ye gave much thought, Mary, how it’s Cathy copped her whack and it’s no you? That’s the question. Pete was in the yards the same amount of time – to the very day, in fact; they started the very same day – and you’ve shook the overalls out and washed them and vacuumed the carpets exactly the same as Cathy has. And why no Pete, for that matter? Or himself. Always the same question, coming back at him. How is it no himself? Him that was working with the stuff every day, brushing against the laggers and their buckets of monkey dung, walking under scaffold planks with great showers of it floating down like snowstorms. And the best question of all – ye ready for this, Big Man – how isn’t it the brother-in-law? See if there’s anybody deserves to cop their whack then it’s him, surely, it’s him and all the rest of they lying bastards, because they knew, they knew long before anybody else did what the dangers were, but they did nothing. Nothing. All the reports they must’ve had telling about the risks, and all of it sided off for the more important business of trying to keep up with the Japanese and the French and the Germans. How not the brother-in-law? But he was shut away, wasn’t he, the door snibbed closed, pouring whisky down the throats of shipowners and insurance men. We’ve upheld our responsibilities and don’t think we haven’t. We’ve put the signs up – telling about ventilation and masks and dust checks and all these things that were never bothered with and nobody ever thought to ask for because you couldn’t read the bloody sign even, it was that covered in fucking dust.
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 well: vacuuming, cleaning, ironing, with her sat l
aughing 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.
‘If it’s alright I’ll stay here for now, if I’m no disturbing you.’
‘Naw, it’s fine. Don’t worry. Ye sure ye don’t want me to give him a call but? See I don’t know when he’ll be back and he might be a while.’
‘It’s okay, thanks.’
There is a chair on the other side of the office, and he goes over to sit on it. He stays there a moment, looking around, noticing the gap beside the divider that looks into the shop. He gets up again, Lynsey glancing at him from her desk, and he walks over to a metal cabinet, on top of which is a paper. He stands reading it, or looking at it anyway. The corkboard on the wall beside him is pretty empty. Normally there would be a long list of accounts and pre-bookeds on there, but there’s only a few names scribbled on, under the yellowing page-three girl who’s been pinned on that board for over a decade.
‘I might nick to the shops a moment actually, Lynsey, while I’m waiting.’
She keeps her eyes on the screen a few seconds before turning round.
‘Whatever ye like, Mick, that’s fine. I’ll tell Malc ye’ve been by, will I?’
‘Do, please, Lynsey. I’ll be back in a wee while just.’
He leaves the office, giving a keek into the workshop as he turns toward the lane, where he can see Bertie, chatting with Steve and a young-looking guy that he can’t see the face of.
Crapbag. He’s a genuine crapbag and no other word for it.
He is in a bar near to work. He came in because it looked quiet through the window, and he was just wandering about, no sure where to take himself. Crapbag. These are his friends, christsake; well, if no exactly friends then his co-workers at least and that’s something, sure that means something. Even now, it does. And no like they don’t have their own problems to deal with. Steve, with the wee daughter’s illness; Bertie, and his troublesome relations with the drink. Sure Bertie would be good for a patter; if there’s one thing he’s got still, it’s his patter, even if he’s lost the rest. Amazing to think now, how he used to be. The figure he was forty years back almost, during the work-in. A five-foot queerie with jug ears – no way anybody would ever have thought he could hold a crowd the way he did – but when he was stood up on his brazier with a hundred black squad around him, he’d have the whole yard in his spell. The high wheedling voice, beeling at the government, two hundred clatty ears hanging on his every word. The guy could go on for hours. It was the likes of Bertie that kept them going: even when the redundancies were announced, they stayed put inside the yard, kept building, didn’t let the liquidators or any other of these bastards past the gateman; and all through that winter and into the next spring Bertie and the other shop stewards would still be there to hand them their wages. The campaign fund keeping strong; the wives and girlfriends bringing them their food parcels. Cathy and her piles of ham rolls wrapped in newspaper, passing them to him over the barrier.
Hard to believe, looking at it now – at Bertie, old and trembling – that they’d won.
He gets up and goes to the bar for a final drink.
‘Half and a half,’ he tells the barman, watching as he reaches up to the gantry for his whisky. Christ but the drink makes him maunderly. These will definitely be his last. A maunderly old crapbag, is what he is, and he grins to himself, the guy coming over with his beer and his whisky. He’s a great beardie young fella, with small sore-looking eyes like a pair of arseholes, and an oversized T-shirt that says VAGITARIAN – one of they ones you only ever seem to see extra-large guys wearing. He puts the drinks on the bar top and Mick pays and goes back to his seat in the empty room. A cruel bastard, ye can be, Mr Little. A cruel auld bastard and ye know it. Aye, I do, I do, but see tha
t’s the drink to blame again, if the truth be told.
An unexpected turn of events: he has found himself in an electrics megastore. How he’s ended up here it’s hard to say, and given that the stumbliness of the drink is taking effect and that he isn’t actually needing a new iPod the now, it probably isn’t the most sensible destination. It’s woke up the security guard though.
Nay chance he’s going back into work now. That is obvious enough. No with the length of time he’s been out for, and the smell of alcohol on him. He walks around at random, half aware of the guy watching him. There’s golf on the televisions all down this aisle he’s in, dozens of them all showing the same event: one of these sponsor’s tournaments with a few pros playing round with rich men and celebrities – retired footballers and elderly film actors, that type of nonsense. Alan would love it. He’s probably watching it the now even. Christ he’s probably playing.
There is laughter somewhere. It’s hard to tell where it’s coming from, how far away it is, but it is a man and a woman. He has grown to recognize the voices from hearing them talking together sometimes if it’s a warm day outside. They were arguing earlier the afternoon but now the sound is clearly of laughter, finding its way in under the door and through the cracks in the window frame.
He is cold. He has lain there with the covers pulled up all morning and there’s nay chance he’s tweaking the door open so he’ll have to live with the smell just – the clinging stink of a fish supper he brought back a few days ago. A while later but he is too thirsty, and he does get up, leaving the shed to go for a drink of water from the kitchen. He is turning the tap when the phone starts ringing in the lobby. It startles him. He stays there, frozen, with the tap still running and his arm beginning to shake. It rings a long time. He waits for it to finish and he turns the tap off, putting the mug on the counter, and leaves straight out the house by the front door.