by James Kelman
Outside on the landing he saw another flight up. He had forgot there was another floor. Now he saw it he remembered Joe McColl. Was Joe still around? Joe done the driving up here. It would have been nice saying hullo. He helped Robert back in the days he had a transit van and survived doing small removals. Joe was mates with Robert’s young brother and got Robert a couple of wee jobs through his contacts. At the same time he owed Robert. No that that mattered, a couple of quid. It wasnay a lot of dough. Ye dont break the connection for that. Joe had a problem, him and Robert’s young brother, and it rhymes with ramble.
On his way up the twisting staircase to the top storey he heard some funny sounds. It was doos, the way they gurgled in their throats – mair ‘gargle’ than ‘gurgle’.
It was a nuisance carrying the polybag; it banged into yer fucking knee.
Never mind. Pech pech. Fuck. Just the wheezing, the usual. Robert felt it in the lungs and stopped for a minute.
Ye laugh at yerself but nay wonder the morbid stuff sets in. All the what ifs. What if ye dropped dead, what if ye had a stroke, couldnay talk, couldnay walk, what if, what if. Pech pech. Ye laugh at yerself. But what about Tracy? if something did happen. What would happen to her? That was the fucking worry, if he wasnay here to look eftir her. A fucking cabbage or some-fucking thing. Better aff deid. Better for her. What would she do? She would still get out right enough. She had her ayn pals. Mair than him. She did. She enjoyed life. Church and these wee events they put on: jumble sales and fetes and the rest of it; wee days here and there, excursions. She loved all that. Country dancing. Heel for heel and toe for toe.
All he done was the pub and the fucking bookie. He didnay even watch the fitba: he had stopped the fucking fitba! How come? Tracy said it to him too: Away and meet yer pals. Dont just come out with me, go to a game.
Go to a game. Maybe he would. He used to watch the boy, he liked watching the boy.
Robert got to the top. Oh for fuck sake man when ye saw the place it was just depressing, so depressing. Bare stalls and empty pitches. Decrepit was the word. It was fucking decrepit! A couple of places were open but the folk that ran them were too desperate. Ye recognised that, how they tried no to look at ye in case they put ye off. Car-boot sales had changed everything. Folk said it was eBay and fucking gumshoe or whatever ye call it but here it was the car-boots. At one time this entire building was stowed out. A real hustle and bustle. Sundays especially. Fucking teeming with folk; and Saturdays werenay bad either. That was the real Barrows, the way it used to be. The way things were gon it would wind up dead and buried, selled out to whoever, some gangster cunt, second cousin of the Party Leader’s sister-in-law’s uncle’s fucking da’s wee brother; the usual party politics shite. Robert would have shot the bent bastards. They didnay care about working-class people at all; Byres Road and fucking Bearsden; all the middle-class cunts. It made ye angry.
Nay wonder.
In through the nose, breathe;
fucking hernia, the belly, breathe out. Lungs, bla bla.
Amazing how it affects ye. Nay wonder ye got angry but. So did Tracy. She got angry at him, for getting angry at them. It’s you gets the heart attack.
True.
Time for a smoke. Nay Joe McColl. Maybe he was here and hiding. He saw Robert before Robert saw him. Nah, no Joe, Joe wasnay like that. It was only a few quid anyway, who gives a fuck. Fucking dough man problems, aye fucking problems. Coming down from the top stair he had the lid off the tobacco tin and was extracting a ricepaper from the packet, the polybag handle over his left wrist. What-if scenarios! Somebody comes up the stairs and doesnay see ye and bangs yer elbow, there it goes, tobacco all over the stairs! Disaster, call the cops!
He was wary but with the tin open and the tobacco spread along the paper. Rolling the fag was a one-handed operation: two fingers and thumb, a very delicate manoeuvre, ye felt like a surgeon, and if yer elbow got bumped it was all up in the air; tobacco and cigarette paper, the entire tin, all ower the stone paving. And it was soaking wet too. The fucking dampness in this place was atrocious. Then if ye fell down the fucking stair, that was another thing, the polybag man fumbling the record and it falls out the sleeve, smash; in the name of fuck.
Somebody turned the corner coming up, somebody coming up. Robert moved sideways to make space. It was the guy from the record stall. The other customer. Him browsing the CDs. He looked straight at Robert. A hard look. For whatever reason. Then he says, Heh bud, ye spare a fag?
A fag, aye, okay. Robert sniffed. The guy had brought out his ayn tobacco tin, a wee auld-looking thing, and he prised off the lid. It was empty inside. Not a fucking shred.
Robert had less than half an ounce himself. He split it and gave the guy haufers. The guy nodded. He didnay say thanks, he concentrated on the tobacco. Probably he would have done the same. That was how Robert read it. He gave the guy a few papers. Another time another place, the boot on the other foot, we’ve all been there, bla bla bla. Some might have read it different. Fair enough. At that moment but it was Robert and how he read it. Nothing to do with any other cunt. There must have been threequarters of a half ounce in the tin so what he gave him was the equivalent of eight fags, depending how thick ye rolled them. The guy was rolling one already, it would be thin; the guy would roll them thin. An educated guess, from the school of life. Robert didnay like them too thin himself but he knew the guy would; where he came from, wherever that was. Robert could have guessed about that too. He carried on down the stairs. What he had noticed was how when the guy spoke it was out the corner of his mouth, watching what he was saying and who was listening. Nay question the guy had done time, that was for fucking definite. Public spaces, watching yer back. His eyes too. What was it about his eyes? What the fuck was it? Robert couldnay think. Except the creeps, the fucking heebie-jeebies, but it wasnay as bad as that. Eyes gieing ye the heebie-jeebies. Gie us a break. How can eyes gie ye the heebie-jeebies? If ye are a grown man? Gieing ye the heebie-jeebies means ye get scared. So he was scared! What of? That guy? Ye fucking kidding?
Robert didnay know what it was, except it wasnay that. Maybe it had to do with the close; this actual building. How long had this place been on the go? What kind of things happened in here. Some horrible stuff, ye can put yer money on that. There again but why blame the building? It wasnay the building’s fault. That was bricks and mortar. It isnay the close but the people up the close. Jesus christ, even the thought! Just stupid, stupid.
Down the stairs and out the close. He went fast, fast. Almost like scared, he wasnay scared: he wasnay scared. Fucking hell man he had been up and down this stair for years. All roundabout here. He wasnay a Calton boy but he had jumped about the place all his life. The Barrows was the Calton. The Calton had a history; a fucking real one. Good stuff happened here. Bad too, all the way back; weans getting snatched from their families and stuck on a boat ower the sea; these churches doing the dirty work. Cheap labour for capitalist cunts in Australia or wherever, fucking Canada. Fucking place, nay wonder it gave ye the creeps. The guy was a throw-back. What did he actually say? Ye spare a fag, ye got a fag, ye got a smoke, ye spare a smoke, a wee dod of yer tobacco?
Nayn of that at all, it was just how he looked. What is it eyes do? Eyes do something. Eyes gie ye the creeps. How come? What is it they do? They have to do something. What can eyes do? A pair of eyes. They look. They hypnotise. Eyes hypnotise. If ye let them. It is all about will. Do ye want to be hypnotised? If so ye shall be hypnotised. Okay him up the close, he wasnay smarmy but at the same time – what is the opposite of ‘smarmy’? That guy was the fucking exact opposite of ‘smarmy’. He didnay give a fuck. Robert gied him haufers because if he hadnay
Because if he hadnay.
Robert was smoking by this time, and he needed it. There was a wee café along the street. He bypassed it, glad to be walking in the fresh air, daylight, sun and blue sky. Thank fuck.
Seriously but what was he doing rooting about secondhand record stalls! That LP summed i
t up. Mario Lanza by christ! He should never have bought the damn thing. How come he bought it? Fucking stupidity. Tracy – she never listened much to music anyway. No properly. It was aye just background for her like if she was doing the ironing or something: ye switched it off and she didnay notice.
A coffee was required. Better still a pint.
He would gie her the album exactly the way it was. She would see Ernest Tubb in the stetson hat and think it was a joke. Well it was a joke. In a way. At the same time
Up ahead was a commotion. What was it? A wee crowd had gathered. Somebody caught thieving. A boy about thirteen or fourteen. A stallholder had a grip of him and was slapping him about the shoodirs and the back of the heid. It was a liberty. The boy went down on the ground yelling, feet in the air trying to shield himself. A couple of folk had the phones out taking pictures. Viral in the morning, the boy fuckt, it was a shame.
Fucking farcical too, the stallholder, some man he was. Ye felt like shouting it to him: Some hero you ya cunt, battering a boy.
Fucking boo ya bastard. That was what Robert was thinking. These guys think they can fight. Cowardly cunts, knocking a boy about.
When he stopped hitting him the boy got up off the ground, rubbing his neck then doing some funny wriggling thing with his arms, like he was fixing them back in the joints. He was making funny wee noises and rubbing at his ribs. He knew people were watching, maybe wondering if somebody else was goni take a swipe at him.
Robert headed back to the Gallowgate, along up by the auld railway track, took a left and another left, wound up back at the Barrows again. He was away in a sort of fog, a fucking haze, a mental haze. How to say it? The world wasnay breaking in. He knew he was walking but where to? Where was he walking and what was he thinking about? Nay idea. Hypnotists or some fucking thing. Where did that come from, hypnotists? How come he was thinking about hypnotists? He wasnay thinking about them, it was just in his head, the idea of it, hypnotists and eyes, eyes looking. Usually his head was full of all sorts; worries about his ayn boy and how life was for him, if his marriage was falling apart, sometimes it looked that way and then what would happen? The wee granddaughter, worries about her. What if she went with her mother’s side of the family? The marriage broke up and the boy’s missis took the lassie. She would. Mothers got the wean. That was what happened. So she wouldnay come to visit. So him and Tracy wouldnay see her. If that happened man, that would be fucking horrible. Tracy doted on that wee lassie. What would happen then? if she didnay come visiting! Fuck.
That was life but. Ye couldnay do nothing either. That son of his, Robert couldnay talk to him. Ye saw him make mistakes and ye couldnay tell him. He was just a worry. How could ye relax ye couldnay. Robert couldnay, this that and the next fucking thing, these cunts, fucking bastards man just worries everywhere, fucking politics, people getting shafted by that bunch of fucking rightwing fucking horrible fucking fascist bastards, the fucking British so-called fucking government, gie Robert a bomb man fucking Guy Fawkes ye kidding! Robert would blow the bastards up, he would sit on the fucking roof and light a fire in below his fucking arse man fuck these cunts, he would blow them to fucking smithereens man, fucking bastards.
Robert stopped at the corner, the corner of the street. A wallpaper shop. Where had that come from? He didnay remember it. He looked in the window. An excuse to stop walking. He couldnay fucking be bothered. The walk should have been clearing his heid but it wasnay. It should have been getting fresh air into his lungs, but it wasnay. He needed his lungs to be clear and full of fresh oxygen. These strange fucking weird feelings ye get sometimes. Robert was getting one now. Another part of his brain was thinking Tracy Tracy what if, what if – and the what if here was a fucking heart attack. Whose? His! Obviously fucking his man who else’s? No Tracy’s, she was built like a fucking – whatever man, a rolls royce, a fucking bulldozer. Yer brain does mair than think, it goes to work with yer body. If yer brain isnay working yer body isnay either. Two guys passed; one had a phone in his hand and was talking into it. The other one glared at Robert. What for? What was he glaring at Robert for? Robert didnay know him from Adam and he stepped back the way but it was Micky jesus christ – Micky!
Where’s your heid! said Micky, grinning.
Fuck sake Micky!
Calm down. How ye doing man?
I’m doing alright, aye.
Good. How’s Tracy?
Aye fine, aye. Audrey, how’s Audrey?
Aye good, she’s good. What is that? Micky pointed at the album in the polybag.
A book, said Robert.
Micky chuckled, glancing at his mate. Robert took out the LP and showed them it. Never judge a book by the covers, he said, about to relate the tale of the vinyl and Missis Girnygub but before he could say anything the guy with Micky asked, Who’s the cowboy? And he pointed at the hat Ernest Tubb was wearing in the picture. It’s a stetson, said Robert. People wear them in America, it doesnay mean they’re cowboys.
Ye like cowboys?
Robert glanced at Micky. The guy was peering at the album cover. Robert held it so it was easier to read. The guy said, Billy Bobs . . . ?
That’s the name of the album Alive at Billy Bobs. Ernest Tubb is the singer, said Robert. Billy Bobs is a venue. It’s no cowboys, know what I mean, it’s country music.
Micky’s mate grinned. Never mind the cowboys, what about the indians!
Robert looked at him. He felt like laughing too but no at the stupid joke, if that was what it was.
Micky said, It’s what’s inside that counts. Eh Robert?
Mair like who’s inside, said his mate.
Micky laughed. His mate said, I could tell ye a few stories.
We could all tell stories, said Robert, but some of us cannay.
Micky didnt say anything. His mate smiled. Robert stared at him. Even if we want to we cannay, he said. Know what I mean, we do things for people and that’s that. We’re no all selfish bastards. Ye meet somebody out the game, what do ye do, ye help him along, that’s what ye fucking do, that’s life, that separates us from the fucking animals, the ruling-class man know what I’m talking about? A guy’s in the grubber ye help him out. Robert sniffed. He shifted and spat into the gutter. We’ve all been there, he said. I have anyway, I dont know about you. Robert glanced at Micky. Actions speak louder than words Micky know what I’m saying?
Micky smiled.
Robert shrugged. It’s no a big deal, he said. Ye just appreciate it when somebody does ye a turn.
How’s the Missis? asked Micky.
Aye ye said that, said Robert, she’s doing fine.
Was she no ill?
I’m meeting her the now, said Robert.
Tell her I was asking for her anyway.
Will do.
Micky gave him a wave. Robert nodded. He should have said the same back to him about his wife – Audrey. A good-looking woman, a bit on the heavy side for Robert, no that that mattered. He used to know her quite well too. There was an auld lady called Mabel was a friend of his mother. Mabel! Ye didnay get Mabels nowadays. A lot of these other names too. Audrey, a nice-looking woman. That was life but how things changed. Everything did. Robert crossed the road into one of the covered market areas. Two stalls next to each other were selling mobile phones and the one next to that was selling covers for mobile phones and calling them blankets. Phone blankets. In the name of fuck.
Robert carried straight through and out the other side. A pint would have been nice but he couldnay go for one, in case it was two. Twenty minutes to rendezvous. That would be that if Tracy arrived and he wasnay there to meet her. She wouldnay stand on her ayn. Women get pestered.
Ah fuck it, he went for a pint. Life drives ye to drink and here he was. He ordered a Guinness and a packet of strong mints. Some pubs keep them in stock. They disguise the smell of booze. That was what ye hoped. Probably they didnay.
He watched the barman pour the pint. His wasnay the first thank christ. Ye have to watch it on a Sunday
morning, first out the barrel’s a barrel of laughs. Once he near choked, swallied a mouthful and thought he was goni spew, a mixture of Irn-Bru and fuck knows what else, the entire dregs’ tray.
He was feeling better already. Relaxed is the word. It is all ye ask for, a seat and a sip of beer. He had been tense. He realised that.
The sun was shining in the window, revealing the dust. It was shocking what ye breathed in. The worst was wee hairs. What else? Ye didnay want to think about it.
Robert left with five minutes to go, sucked a mint going along London Road when who should he see but Tracy in among a crowd round a crockery stall. That was good, he hadnay expected it.
He touched her elbow. She was engrossed in the proceedings, and almost smiled. The stallholder was a whizz at the job. Next thing he was tossing a pile of dinner plates up in the air. He flipped them, and caught them as they fell. What a clatter! How would they survive? Surely they had to at least crack? But naw. The guy was a juggler supreme, calling out how good a purchase it was, dear at half the price and the same auld patter.
Then Tracy was holding her hand up! Oh for christ sake and the guy flung a set at her. An entire set of fucking dinner plates man he fucking flung them! Oh but no at her thank christ. A guy standing next to her in the crowd, he caught them instead, he was one of the stallholder’s helpers. He shovelled them into a big cardboard box, and was about to heave it onto Tracy. She waved it onto Robert instead while she paid the guy the money. While she was doing that Robert thought to check the plates to make sure they were okay. Except they were crammed so tight it was hard to see. It wasnay the right box man it was too fucking tight how they were wedged in. It was just fucking a joke, it was a joke! The way the guy flung them too, it was a wonder they werenay all smashed. Ye pay good money and who takes care? Nay cunt.
Be careful, said Tracy.