Greyhound for Breakfast

by Kelman, James

  Brian was footering with the cigarette packet when he returned. He said, I’ve only got the one left Gordon. He shrugged and took the one out, crumpled the packet and placed it in the ashtray. He struck a match down the side of his chair but it did not ignite: he scraped it along the floor. Gordon had a cigarette of his own, and he had his lighter out, but took a light from Brian’s match instead; as he exhaled he said: Something just occurred to me there.

  He sniffed and leaned forwards, his arms folded, resting the elbows on the table: I might be able to put a bit of business your way.

  What?

  Naw, it’s just eh . . . He cleared his throat and drank lager, inhaled on the fag. He glanced sideways, lowered his voice while speaking: Big ears Brian. Big ears and big fucking mouths. Know what I mean?

  Brian nodded.

  See what I was thinking . . . Gordon stopped and shook his head.

  Brian nodded again.

  Naw, it’s just . . . Gordon frowned then smiled, tapped himself on the chest. The boy here – you know what like it is Brian, I can hardly get walking. Sometimes I’ve just got to fucking step out the door and the busies are there waiting; wanting to know where I’m going what I’m doing. Murder man I’m no fucking kidding ye. Anything up and round they come at all hours, chapping the door and waking the weans – mental so it is, the wife goes off her head about it. And no wonder, I mean . . . Naw Brian I’m no kidding ye, the way they carry on, it’s just no fucking real.

  Aye.

  A lot of difficulties as well man because of it, you with me?

  Brian nodded.

  Naw, said Gordon. He sniffed and frowned a moment, dragged on the cigarette; screwing his face up before blowing out the smoke. Take the other night, just as a for instance; we got a wee turn, a wee turn. Trouble is it should’ve been a fucking lot better than that. Gordon sat back on the chair. He sat forwards again and leaned closer to the other: I mean somebody like yourself Brian, you could’ve done a nice bit of business, a nice bit of business. And no sweat. None. I’m no kidding ye.

  Brian nodded.

  Gordon sniffed and continued: See what it was man we’ve got a load – okay? And we’ve got to get fucking shot of the stuff at the double, at the double Brian, no fucking hanging about – you with me? So what happens? Hh! Cut-price fucking discount store – What Every Woman Wants man I’m no kidding ye, mental. Whereas, whereas, if we’ve got time. If we’ve got time Brian, I mean, if we’ve got time to fucking hang about then Christ, Christ sake. I mean a couple of days – that’s all! A couple of fucking days!

  Gordon snorted and shook his head.

  Brian nodded. And if we could’ve done that we were laughing.

  Aye.

  See Brian somebody like you, somebody like yourself. Correct me if I’m wrong, but somebody like yourself man I mean! Gordon shook his head, he smiled.

  If I was hiding a load or something?

  Exactly. Exactly. And fuck sake it’s no even a matter of hiding cause it’s no as if any cunt’s going to come round chapping your door. Know what I mean Brian I mean you could dump the gear on the kitchen fucking table and nobody’d be any the fucking wiser!

  Brian grinned.

  Gordon was chuckling, swirling the remaining drop of whisky round in the tumbler.

  After a few moments silence Brian lifted his glass of lager and stared at what was left.

  Then Gordon said, A dozen cardboard boxes Brian. You could’ve papped them straight into the wardrobe and shut the door. A couple of days later and that’d be that, you’re past the post; sitting there with the feet up, a nice few quid in the tail.

  Brian nodded, he smiled briefly.

  I’m serious.

  Aye.

  Gordon was looking at him. I’m no kidding ye, he said.

  Aw I know I know, I’m no eh . . . Brian sniffed. He upturned his whisky glass above the lager glass, watching the drop roll down into it. He puffed on his cigarette, looked across to the gantry clock. Then Gordon moved; he rose from the chair and reached for the empties: Just time for another yin eh!

  O naw, Christ . . .

  Och!

  Naw. Naw Gordon honest! Brian was shaking his head and holding his hands aloft. I wish I could, he said.

  Ah come on! Gordon grinned.

  Naw, honest.

  A slight pause, and Gordon said, You sure?

  Wish I could.

  Mm. Gordon nodded. He sat back down, then yawned and stretched his arms, flexing his shoulder blades. He looked at Brian. Brian shrugged and made as though to say something but Gordon leaned closer and said: I’m no being cheeky Brian but I think you’re fucking daft, no to consider it I mean. That’s what I mean, Christ, you dont look as if you’re going to even consider it.

  Brian glanced at the ashtray a moment, then his gaze returned to Gordon who said: Are you?

  What . . .

  Are you? Consider it – are you going to consider it?

  Course.

  Gordon continued to look at him.

  Course I’m going to consider it.

  Gordon nodded.

  Brian swallowed the last drops from the lager glass. He paused, before saying: I’ll need to be hitting the road, the wean and that . . . Heh Gordon, thanks for the drink and that I mean, Christ . . .

  No trouble.

  Brian sniffed. He stood to his feet: Course I’m going to consider it I mean, obviously . . .

  Gordon shrugged. No fucking problem Brian dont worry about it.

  Brian nodded. Well, see ye eh?

  Right.

  Seconds later and Brian was pushing his way through the exit. On the pavement outside he hesitated, then set off, walking quickly.

  Even in communal pitches

  I had arrived at the following conclusion: even in communal pitches people will claim their portions of space; he who sits in the left-hand corner of one room will expect to obtain the equivalent corner in every room. This is something I cannot go but I felt obliged to conform to standard practice. It was a kind of community I was living in. A veryrichman owned the property. He allowed folk to live in it at minimal rents; the reason was to do with Y being equal to C plus S or I. It was quite noisy but no worse for that, for somebody like myself, just in from country travels. A party had been in progress for the two days I was here; it seemed to move from room to room; those desirous of sleep but without permanent quarters were having to grab a spot here and there, preferably keeping a room ahead all the time. In its own way that was fine and a nice camaraderie always seemed about to exist, although for some reason people only spoke to me in reply to questions about tea and coffee and where was the bathroom etc. It didnt annoy me, I could just lie on the floor and listen to their conversations. Next to me a guy kept going on about medieval conventicles on the southern tip of England; he was with another guy who was having to conceal yawns. Then I noticed they were irritated by my presence. What’s up? I said. But they ignored the question. At this stage I would definitely have been entitled to get annoyed, but I didnt, I was too tired, far too tired; all I wanted to do was sleep. But could I get a sleep! Could I fuck. Then this woman; up she comes: Are you John Myatt?

  Who’s that? I says.

  Never mind, came the reply, and she moved off on her stocking soles.

  That was the kind of place it was. There was this other woman who was friendly, but I made a blunder by introducing the business of that conclusion I had arrived at. And she looked right through me. I was beginning to think: When did you last change your socks?

  Gradually it dawned on me they were waiting for something; it was a bloke, he turned out to be a kind of Master of Ceremonies. A get-together had been organized in a semiofficial way so that for this night at least, the party would be taking on a structured form. You were expected to do a turn. Somebody shoved a bunnet under my nose, he was looking for a donation, presumably for a carry-out. I was skint unfortunately but when I explained he got all fucking annoyed and went off in a huff. Eventually I saw he
was sitting not far from me, about six or seven spaces away, and he was pointing me out to his neighbours in a really underhand manner. Who cares.

  The entertainment began with a series of monologues, one of which was delivered by the guy who knew about medieval conventicles. It was so totally boring you werent sure if you had missed the overall irony, but when you looked about you could see no-one at all was grinning, it was meant by him as dead serious. Other speakers were concerned with recent events in the world of politics. A woman with a big hat got up and sang a song and this was the best so far. But then another woman got up and she recited poetry. Well, it has to be said that she was not brilliant although I dont know but something in the way she did it plus the good hand she got at the end made me think it was all her own stuff she was reading.

  Meanwhile the carry-out arrived, such as it was, and it was being guarded jealously; even so but it was finished in what seemed like a matter of moments and everybody began looking at each other as if secretly laying the blame on certain members of the company for drinking more than their fair share. I wasnt involved; I had taken some of the drink but without overdoing it. I was more concerned with retaining the portion of space. And with a bit of luck I would manage to snatch a couple of hours’ kip. A guy got up on the floor with a guitar; and then a lassie joined him and everything was fine and going good till they started on these songs with choruses and we were all to join in; Farewell to the Trusty Rover and so on. What made it hopeless was the way if you werent joining in you felt it was being noted. The only ones okay were couples, it being assumed as valid that your attention could be total elsewhere so long as it was being concentrated on your partner. But not too much later a couple of folk began smoking dope and passing the joints about, then out came the plates of grub – grated carrots and turnips and cabbage, with wee dods of cheese and onion. And that was fine because although the quantities werent up to scratch the actual health-factor made you feel satisfied.

  Then one by one people were getting up from the floor, making the move to a new room, a few having a laugh and trying to get everybody to do one of these snake-dances where you hold the person’s waist to the front and somebody holds yours to the back. I had grabbed my stuff immediately and without making it too obvious was keeping into the wall and bypassing folk, heading out of the room and onto the landing where the vanguard had made it already, glancing at each other for signs of where to go, whom to follow, whether it was best to say fuck it and just shoot off in the offchance you would get to the correct room under your own steam. I waited a couple of seconds, not looking at anybody, then strode to the staircase and went on up to the next landing. There were scuffling noises behind but I didnt look back. I didnt mind at all if people were following me; I just didnt want to give the impression I knew where the fuck I was going, cause I didnt, I was just bashing on, hoping for the best. In situations like this the proper method of action often seems to trigger itself off on you without any deliberate thinking beforehand and sometimes I really go for it, setting all the conditions and so on. I wasnt wrong. On the next landing the door on the far side seemed familiar; it was the bathroom. I had been in using it earlier. It was a good bathroom, very spacious; to an L-shape design and I have the feeling it had been used as a small bedroom in years gone by. When I closed and snibbed the door I could hear the sounds of a couple of folk outside on the landing, as if they had been following me and had now realized it was a wild goose chase. Obviously I was a bit sorry for whoever it was but in a sense this was it about claiming your portion of space and I was only fitting in with the conventional wisdom of the place.

  I sat down on the toilet and began thinking about the whole carry on, in particular the woman who had recited the poetry; but that other woman kept butting in, her who wanted to know if I was John Myatt. I always find it really irritating when something like that happens. Another thing: it was so long since I had slept with a woman. Aye, gradually that was creeping up on me as well, and I dont know but sometimes you can enter terrible fits of depression for no apparent reason. And this other kind of daydream was beginning to butt in: there I was bashing my way into room after room and then by a fluke I would find myself in this wee closet where the elderly owner would be raking about in his moneyboxes. Aw christ, I dont know, I began opening the bathroom door and was walking downstairs in this really slow slow step by step by step way, with noises of folk coming from somewhere, and muffled laughter as well. And just at that moment came an explosion in my head and I knew there was a change in me, a change in me for keeps. Something had happened and my life had altered in a way that might never have appeared significant to an onlooker, but as far as I was concerned, having to live this life, I knew it could never hope to be the same again, and I started to smile.

  An old story

  She’d been going about in this depressed state for ages so I should’ve known something was up. But I didnt. You dont always see what’s in front of your nose. I’ve been sitting about the house that long. You wind up in a daze. You dont see things properly, even with the weans, the weans especially. There again but she’s no a wean. No now. She’s a young woman. Ach, I dont want to tell this story.

  But you cant say that. Obviously the story has to get told.

  Mm, aye, I know what you mean.

  Fine then.

  Mmm.

  Okay, so about your story . . .

  Aye.

  It concerns a lassie, right? And she’s in this depressed state, because of her boyfriend probably – eh?

  I dont want to tell it.

  But you’ve got to tell it. You’ve got to tell it. Unless . . . if it’s no really a story at all.

  Oh aye christ it’s a story, dont worry about that.

  A Hunter

  Peter returned home shortly after closing time with a carry-out. The room was cold and bleak. He shuddered as he stooped to light the gas-fire. Not an enjoyable evening, the pub had been packed and he had only stayed through a combination of laziness and utter boredom. Of course that red-haired girl had stared at him over her partner’s right shoulder for a while. Probably the landlord paid her a retainer to ensnare young and old men into staying and buying his lousy flat beer.

  He sprawled on the comfy old leather armchair, kicked off his shoes and leaned to switch on the electric kettle. He had the beginnings of a headache or something. He would only be able to face a smoke after a coffee. Maybe he should have followed the red-haired girl home. Could have been genuine. Yes. Could have been.

  He absentmindedly lit a cigarette but coughed so badly on the first drag that he stubbed it out, carefully, making sure it could be smoked again. Hell of a bad habit smoking. Causes cancer, bronchitis and several other diseases of the lungs, heart and throat. Drink too of course. Liver trouble. Plus your bladder. And alcoholism. And what about the gut you get if you bevy too much beer! Gambling as well. Good God Almighty! Some women say they’d rather be married to an alcoholic than a gambler. A fact. The nerves get it. Watch a gambler’s hands, how they keep twitching all the time whenever he makes a bet. Hear his heart thump as they race well inside the final furlong. An alky sometimes will tell you he is trapped, no way out, but a gambler! He says he does not gamble. Yes.

  The kettle was boiling. Peter reached down to switch if off. He picked out a can of Guinness from the brown paper carrier bag. Hell with the coffee, he had the taste now. Pity none of the lads had been in earlier. Maybe have chipped in for a good sized carry-out, made a bit of a night of it, invited a couple of women back.

  He peeled the stopper from the top of the can and took a long slug. Bitter! Sometimes Guinness could taste hell of a bitter. Should have bought some lager instead. No, not lager, too bloody gassy. And even worse for the liver so they say. Better off with a few cans of pale ale. Still, save money with the Guinness. Never drink too much cause of the taste.

  He rose and went through to the toilet. As he began urinating he lurched forward but managed to support himself by clutching onto
the pipe leading to the cistern. He pissed over his left sock. It felt warm and surprisingly pleasant.

  As he returned to his armchair he accidentally kicked over the can of Guinness and had to open a new one. He lit a cigarette and then noticed the one he had begun earlier. He smiled up at the ceiling but then he started in surprise. Scratching? What is this scratching? The mouse? Oh no. Surely not? That bastard is dead. Killed a week ago with a rolled up Sporting Life. The bastard. Definitely a scratching. Under the bed in the recess. Must have been two of them.

  Peter lay back on the chair with his eyes closed, nursing the cold tin of beer. The scratching began once more. God, to be deaf. He slowly opened his eyes and placed the beer up onto the mantelpiece. He grinned malevolently. This bastard shall join his comrade. Sporting Life! Call to arms. Consider yourself conscripted once again.

  He dropped down to his knees on the floor and blinked into the shadows beneath the bed. His heart jumped. A strange harsh taste hit the roof of his mouth. He gulped. He bounded back into the chair and stretched his feet out onto the coffee table.

  Jesus Christ Almighty. How many? How many? How many more? He leaned over, tucking his trouser bottoms into his socks like a cyclist then knelt back down on the floor. He watched hypnotized as half a dozen mice went scuttling and leapfrogging around the wall and far leg of the bed. His flesh crawled. His scalp itched. The blood thundered and thumped through his heart and into his temples. Perhaps the hebee jebees were upon him. Maybe the shaking pink elephants would attack next. On five pints and a half a can of Guinness? No. Surely not.

  Again Peter returned to the chair where he lit a cigarette. He noticed one still smouldering on the ashtray with quite a lot to be smoked. Whose? The other stubbed-out unsmoked fag lay beside it. He broke it into two pieces and played with the loose strands of tobacco, then lay back, smoking peacefully for a few minutes. He moved his head nearer the edge of the chair and glanced over, and watched the tiny mice cavort in circles roundabout the front side of the bed. He started counting them. He stopped at seven and began a recount. He stopped again. Ten? A dozen? How many? Christ! How many in a litter? Could it be a new litter? He ran a clammy hand through his hair. His scalp felt oily and was almost unbearably itchy. Perhaps if . . . What?