Greyhound for Breakfast
Page 9
Footsteps approached. He estimated at least two people.
‘I don’t know him. Who is he?’ cried Benson. ‘Who are you?’
‘Not so good today, is he?’ said his visitor. Two nurses were looking at him and he smiled faintly at them. His heart thumped. Then the nurses looked at the patient with concern and one of them said:
‘He’s your visitor.’
His visitor nodded his head but without daring to look at him.
But Benson cried, ‘I don’t know him from Adam. Why is he sitting at my bed?’
The older nurse smiled down on him. ‘Come now,’ she said, ‘you mustn’t embarrass your visitor.’
‘He’s your visitor!’ smiled the younger nurse.
‘Who is he?’ groaned Benson, attempting to raise himself up by the elbows as though for a fuller look at him. But the older nurse snapped:
‘Come along now lie down!’
The patient lay back down immediately and stared sideways away from both his visitor and the two nurses, the younger of whom glanced at her colleague and then said to Benson’s visitor, ‘Who are you?’ And she smiled as though to soften matters.
Benson’s visitor jumped. Somebody else had arrived suddenly. It was the Sister.
‘Benson’s visitor . . .’ began the younger nurse.
‘Of course it’s Benson’s visitor,’ she said, ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Who is he?’ murmured Benson.
‘Oh you know fine well,’ replied the Sister.
‘Who are you . . .’ Benson murmured.
His visitor smiled at the Sister. He wondered whether the other visitor and any of the patients were listening. He thought he should say something. He cleared his throat but was not able to speak. At last he managed: ‘Not so good . . .’
The Sister was speaking in a low unhurried voice to the two nurses who responded as to a direct command, but none noticed Benson’s gasp, and his eyelids closed.
The older nurse said to his visitor, ‘You better go now, visiting’s over.’
He nodded and gripped his hat and briefcase, got off the chair and walked from the ward without glancing back. Out along the lengthy corridor the younger nurse appeared from behind a pillar. ‘Are you a relative?’ she asked.
‘You must have a record,’ he said.
‘Come along now you won’t be on it. You won’t be there.’ She shook her head at him.
A wave of nausea hit him and he wanted down onto the floor, down onto the floor until it passed. Somebody was holding him by the arm. It was the other nurse, and behind her stood the other patient with a worried frown on his forehead. His hat and briefcase were leaving him, the hat having fallen perhaps but the briefcase from out of his hand. And the younger nurse steadied him. ‘Come along now,’ she was saying.
The older nurse smiled. ‘That’s the ticket,’ she said.
Governor of the Situation
I hate this part of the city – the stench of poverty, violence, decay, death; the things you usually discern in suchlike places. I dont mind admitting I despise the poor with an intensity that surprises my superiors. But they concede to me on most matters. I am the acknowledged governor of the situation. I’m in my early thirties. Hardly an ounce of spare flesh hangs on me – I’m always on the go – nervous energy – because my appetite is truly gargantuan. For all that, I’ve heard it said on more than one occasion that my legs are like hollow pins.
The Band of Hope
Oanny was getting pushed by some cunt, right on the shoulder, pushing him. Cut it out, he grunted then opened his eyes. Fat Stanley was grinning down at him. Alec’s done the business, he was saying, Come on! Wake up!
The chemmy had finished right enough, the chairs been shifted back from the big horseshoe table and everybody stood about the place chatting. Across at the empty fireplace Alec was in company with a couple of people. Oanny closed his eyes again but opened them immediately. Fat Stanley had said he would be back in a minute and was making his way towards the serving hatch in the snacks area, walking in that funny way he had, as if wanting not to be seen but knowing he was going to get found out. He paused to say something to Alec and then to Victor – Victor with the fag dangling from the corner of his mouth, on the fringes of the company as usual and trying hard to look lackadaisical about everything, but anybody who knew him could tell his nerves were just as shot to fuck as ever.
The smell of soup.
Last orders had already been given in to Ellen and some of the guys were sitting with their bowls, dipping in slices of unbuttered bread, slurping quickly in case the saturated bits fell onto the table top. The place was full of tables. The horseshoe one where the chemmy was played but a great many weer ones too, and not all of them were circular. In the snacks area two huge bench-type tables stood side by side and about forty or more bodies could have sat roundabout in comfort. Not a single table was covered. They all looked ancient. Initials, slogans and dates and stuff had been knifed into them, grime was embedded in the carvings. If you dug in a fingernail it would bring out thick lengths of it. An in-joke circulated: if you were described as ‘definitely hungry’ it meant you had been spotted eating a chunk of bread after it had fallen onto the top of the table.
Oanny was raking about in the pockets of his coat and jacket. Glancing beneath the table he saw a can of lager. It was open. He lifted it and gave it a shake, then swallowed the dregs without checking to see if it had been used as a makeshift ashtray. He shuddered and smacked his lips, wiped the corners of his mouth with his hand, began searching through his pockets again. It attracted Victor’s attention and he signalled he was needing a smoke. Victor frowned and kidded on he did not understand but then he drew a few steps over to him and muttered, You’ve fucking got some.
Naw I’ve no.
Aye you have.
Oanny resumed the search. He discovered a crushed packet in the hip pocket of his trousers. It was an unusual place to have put it. He shrugged and smiled briefly, flourishing the packet for Victor’s benefit, but Victor just looked away and returned to the empty fireplace. Ah fuck you too, grunted Oanny, taking out a cigarette. He had to straighten it before getting it alight.
Eventually the other three arrived back at the table together. When he gestured at the packet they each helped himself to a cigarette – even Fat Stanley although he was supposed to have stopped. Nobody spoke. Oanny sniffed through one nostril and made a display of peering at the ex-railway clock on the wall which had not ticked for years.
A sound came from Fat Stanley. And he seemed to be making a great effort not to smile. That way he puffed on the fag without inhaling. What a waste. Imagine giving your last fag to a cunt like him! Typical.
It dawned on Oanny: some kind of conspiracy was on the go. Alec had started smiling but not at anybody in particular. Fucking carry on. Oanny shook his head and grunted unintelligibly.
What’s up with you? asked Alec.
What’s up with me? Nothing up with me.
Glad to hear it . . . A moment later Alec began to footer with the tip of his cigarette, showing great concentration, whistling under his breath. And Victor had turned his head away. Christ! Oanny shook his head again and said:
Okay. How much?
What?
Fine, aye, you’ve made me ask.
Ask what? said Alec. What you talking about?
Aw forget it, forget it.
Naw, I thought you said how much or something . . . Alec’s forehead creased. Fat Stanley was now openly grinning. And Alec added: How much for what?
Oanny glared at him. The doggie in the fucking window! He dragged deeply on his cigarette and shifted on his chair, staring in the direction of the serving hatch in the snacks area. Any of yous got a drink left? he muttered.
You’ve done it all! replied Victor.
Aw aye, aye, I’ve done it all, on my tod, aye, I swallowed the whole fucking lot.
Near enough.
Oanny turned and he stared at Victor.
Thanks.
Alec’s right, murmured Victor.
Is he? Aw good. Good for Alec. I’m glad to hear it. Who’s fucking talking to you anyway? It’s Alec I’m talking to, no fucking you. Alright? Oanny frowned across at Alec: All I asked was how much we lifted.
Fair enough. And all I’m asking is how much you put in the kitty?
What? Oanny sat back in the chair. How much had he put in the kitty? He stopped himself searching his pockets again. How much had he put in the kitty? In the kitty? How much? What kind of a fucking question was that? He glanced sideways at Alec. It could not be a real question. Surely no. He scowled and made as though to say something but his attention was diverted by Fat Stanley who had begun wheezing in that way he had.
Eh? asked Alec.
Oanny looked at him and grinned. Fuck off!
The other three laughed loudly. But it subsided soon and Alec lifted the crushed cigarette packet and attempted to get it standing upright. He tried again, watched by the other three. He began smiling. Fat Stanley was also smiling. Oanny snorted: I was beginning to think you’d lost your touch!
Were you! Alec grinned.
Can you blame me? I mean when was the last time you got us a turn?
Fuck the last time Oanny this is this time.
Aw aye, I know.
Victor nodded. You want to have seen it Oanny we cleaned the fucking school.
What?
Magic by the way. I’ve no seen anything like it for ages.
Every hand he was getting, continued Fat Stanley. Naturals all the time. Must’ve done near a 10-timer!
Eight just, said Alec.
Jesus! Oanny shook his head, smiled.
Two hundred and twenty . . . Alec sniffed, inhaled and exhaled smoke.
Ho! Ya beauty! Oanny slapped the palms of his hands together, his eyebrows raised. But before anything further was said a minor disturbance broke out at the serving hatch. Somebody was bawling about soup. A drunk. Ellen had reached through from the kitchen, placing four bowls on the counter. That soup’s already ordered! she was shouting and then she slammed down the hatch. The drunk still stood there staring at the bowls of soup then staring at the folk sitting nearest him. One of them was Tommy Rollo, the guy who managed the place and dealt the cards. Away home son, he said.
Naw, said the drunk. It’s no fucking right so it’s no. I was wanting soup and she wouldnt give me it and then . . . He waved his hand at the four bowls, just as Fat Stanley and Victor appeared at his elbow.
Pardon me, said Fat Stanley while he lifted two of the bowls and passed them to Victor, lifted the other two for himself. The pair of them returned the way they had come.
It’s no fucking right, muttered the drunk.
Mind your language, said Tommy Rollo.
The kitchen door opened and Ellen came out, pulling on her coat over her shoulders.
Heh missis, said the drunk, a bowl of soup eh?
Away and get your bloody wife to make it. What do you think I’m just here to cater to the likes of you! Ellen glared.
He looked at her. Aw hen, he said, no need for that.
She shook her head.
Look son, called Tommy Rollo, we’re no in the mood. Ellen stops when the cards stop. You should know that by now.
A few of the men at the two bench-type tables muttered their agreement. Ellen had walked to sit down on the chair next to Rollo and he poured her a glass of gin from a half bottle of Gordon’s. The drunk waited a moment then walked in a purposeful stride to the exit. As soon as he had gone an elderly man in a khaki-coloured trenchcoat cried: That was telling him Ellen!
She ignored him. She sipped at the gin, snapped open her handbag and got a tipped cigarette out, gave herself a light.
*
The rain was no longer falling when they came downstairs and out through the close onto the pavement but the ground was still wet and there were many puddles around. Considering the time of night the city was busy. But it was a Friday and young folk were heading home from the dancing or whatever. Few taxis were available and almost everybody seemed to be heading in the direction of George Square. From here the all-night buses departed hourly.
The Square itself was brightly lit. The Christmas decorations had yet to be dismantled. There was a lot of hustle and bustle. Queues of folk lined the different bus stops; some were in uniform, mainly transport workers going home off backshift. A couple of guys were touting razor blades and other things, plus the newpaper vendors. Girls stood alone, in couples, in groups, as also the youths watching them – some speaking in really loud voices. Now and again policemen strolled by in pairs, gloved hands behind their backs, occasionally pausing to chat to bus inspectors. A newspaper vendor exchanged words with Tommy Rollo and Ellen and he gave them a Daily Record without taking money for it. When Alec bought one he winked and said, I thought you’d have landed in Majorca by this time!
Alec smiled slightly, glanced at the headlines before folding the paper away into his side coat pocket. As they continued along the newspaper man called: Yous going up the Duke?
Aye! replied Fat Stanley.
Maybe see yous later on!
No if we see you first, grunted Oanny.
Fat Stanley grinned. He’s no that bad, he added.
Fucking idiot, muttered Oanny.
Alec had stepped on a bit and was walking with Rollo and Ellen. They cut down a side street and about twenty yards along a cobbled lane. It was quite dark, light glinting on the cobbles occasionally. Rollo pressed the doorbell and the chime rang out inside. When the door opened the guy behind it greeted Rollo and Ellen and smiled at Alec: Long time no see!
He ignored Fat Stanley and Victor. But when he noticed Oanny bringing up the rear he beckoned to him and whispered, The least bit of argy bargy and you’re out the fucking door.
What . . .
You heard.
Oanny squinted at him. He saw Alec inside the lobby gesticulating at him and he shrugged and strolled past the doorman, accompanying Alec down the corridor and into the main gaming area of the club, but he continued on alone, into the wee room where the coffee and food were to be had. There was nobody inside it. He moved to one of the tables towards the centre, and he sighed as he sat down.
*
With the carpets and general decoration, plus the green baize on the tables, there was little resemblance between the Duke and the last place. But at one time you could have bought a full meal up there as well. Ellen kept complaining that the profit she made on the soup and bread barely repaid her outlay but maybe if she tried a wee bit harder, put on a variety – a plate of egg and chips for instance would not take much sweat – then she would get a better turn out it. And anyway, how much did it actually cost to set up a few big pots of soup! Pennies. The place had definitely deteriorated and it was Rollo himself who had to accept most of the blame. Rumour had it his licence was not going to be renewed and this was given as the reason how come he was no longer bothering. If it had been Oanny’s club he would have turfed out the riff-raff right away, and that was just for starters. Rollo never seemed to worry about the number of dossers who used the place. They only turned up for a heat and a bowl of soup and to see what the fuck they could beg on the side. What amused Oanny was the way they all materialized just in time for the last couple of hands at chemmy, especially if there had been the one big winner like this evening. This was because usually a big winner chipped a couple of quid – a fiver sometimes – into the centre of the horseshoe table once the play had finished. Rollo took the dough and he dealt a card to everybody standing round the table, first jack lifted the money. It was supposed to go to a genuine loser but half the time some fucking wino ended up getting it. Now apart from giving somebody the taxi-fare home the thing had another purpose, it was to stop the big winners getting pestered by guys looking for the busfare. It worked to some extent but subtleties like this never bothe
red the real down-and-outs – especially when it was a stranger had won most of the dough, it was like flies round shite watching them. People could get desperate. And walking home was like that when it was the middle of winter, fucking murder polis so it was. Oanny hated being in that situation and it did not happen too often. His habit was to fall asleep shortly after arrival in Rollo’s and when he woke up the losers were usually hanging about giving their post-mortems on the night’s play. It was rare for him not to have kept the busfare once the kitty had been collected. It was even more rare for him to be tempted into having a go himself on the table. To tell the truth, punting was beginning to bore him. If Alec was going through a bad spell he would pass the cards on to somebody else to play for a while. Oanny used to be the second string. But not any longer. And because Fat Stanley showed his excitement too much Alec had started passing the cards onto Victor. This was right up Victor’s alley. But what Alec never seemed to appreciate was that the cunt was every bit as excitable as Fat Stanley, he just did not show it too much. But if you knew him; if you knew him you could see he was a bundle of shakes and twitches.
Oanny rose from his chair a little, enough to see through the glass partition, but it was difficult to distinguish things. No sounds from the gaming section reached into here either. But he could see that only one game of poker was in progress. That was good. Settling onto the chair again he lifted the teacup and stared into it, drank down what was left in it. He brought the halfbottle of vodka out from his inside coat pocket and poured himself another, adding a wee drop of lemonade from the bottle he had lying on the table. What a carry on everything was! He shook his head.
You talking to yourself?
It was the doorman. He must have come in on his tiptoes. He was staring at Oanny and had not spoken as he had as a joke. You’re sitting there talking to yourself, he said.
Am I?
Aye.
That’s good.
Some people wouldnt think so.
Ach away and give us peace!
Peace? If you wanted peace you wouldnt be sitting about here at all hours!