Greyhound for Breakfast

by Kelman, James

  Jimmy Peters stared at him then looked away. But McInnes sniffed and leaned closer to Ronnie, and he said: I’ll tell you something man you better screw the fucking nut cause the way it’s going you’re going to wind up bad news, bad news. I’m no fucking kidding ye either.

  What?

  McInnes sat back and grunted, That’s all I’m saying.

  What’re you meaning but?

  McInnes shook his head.

  Eh?

  I’m no saying anything more Ronnie; you fucking know what I’m meaning.

  Ronnie continued to gaze at him, then he frowned at Jimmy Peters and reached for the beer, sipped at it and put it down, lifted it again and sipped some more, gulping it down this time. He inhaled on the cigarette and stared towards the clock. And his hand lowered onto the head of the greyhound, and he grasped its ears.

  Dont take it personally for God sake, said McInnes.

  Naw.

  Jimmy Peters said, It’s just you’re fucking, you’re under pressure and that. The young yin, have you heard from him? the boy.

  Ronnie shrugged. Then he said, Look, you dont really think I went out and bought the dog because of that, the boy, because he’s away; eh?

  Naw, Christ.

  Cause I’ve been wanting a dog for ages. Fuck sake.

  Jimmy Peters nodded.

  And I’m no the only one – Kelly, he’s fucking been on about it more than me. Eh?

  Aye.

  Ronnie shook his head: I mean I’ve got to laugh at yous cunts. All talk. All fucking talk.

  McInnes was looking at him. Ronnie looked back at him. McInnes said, This is you out of order again.

  What?

  This is you fucking out of order, again.

  What d’you mean?

  The way you go on . . . McInnes shook his head and stared at the floor.

  Ronnie stared at him.

  Aye, God sake, the way you go on!

  What! Ronnie’s face screwed into a glare.

  Leave it.

  Leave it?

  McInnes looked at him then looked away. Jimmy Peters was looking away too. Ronnie sniffed and glanced at the dog, it was asleep, poor big fucking beast, sound asleep. Greyhounds were short-haired. The top of its head was really smooth. He reached to stroke it, it didnt feel like hair at all, more like a kind of material. He took a long draw on the cigarette, ground it out beneath his shoe on the floor.

  Jimmy Peters said, I see the Celts’re going to sign that Thomson?

  Ronnie nodded.

  No a bad player.

  Aye.

  No Celtic class, muttered McInnes.

  It needed a feed as well, it was probably starving. That was another thing about greyhound owners, how they were really tight, they treated their dogs like racing machines, no sentiment. The guy he had bought it from probably never fed it because he knew he was selling it, so it was probably fucking starving.

  That movie . . .

  Ronnie frowned slightly, then nodded. What time does it start? he asked.

  Jimmy Peters smiled. Naw, he said, I’m talking about that one that was on last night – fucking brilliant, did you see it?

  Nah.

  Were you out? asked McInnes.

  What?

  I was just asking if you were out, last night; you were no in here?

  Naw.

  McInnes nodded. Oh by the way, he said, that fucking Hammurabi won again!

  What! You’re kidding?

  7 to 1.

  For Christ sake!

  7 to 1 . . . McInnes smiled, shaking his head. They’re sending it to Royal Ascot.

  Many’s that it’s won? Jimmy Peters asked.

  Four.

  Four on the trot, added Ronnie.

  Jimmy Peters grinned. Pity you couldnt’ve bought a horse!

  Ronnie looked at him.

  Imagine coming in here with it! Peters laughed: Imagine the faces!

  For fuck sake! Ronnie began chuckling.

  McInnes was smiling.

  A pint and a barrel of oats! cried Peters. Heh barman, a pint and a barrel of oats!

  The three of them were laughing now. Gradually they stopped. Ronnie began stroking behind the dog’s ears and it opened its eyes for a moment, made a movement in its mouth as if it was thirsty. It would be thirsty. When had it last had a drink? Ronnie hadnt given it one. And the guy he’d bought it from, probably he hadnt either. The truth of the matter is Ronnie was feeling bad. He probably shouldnt’ve bought the dog, if he wasnt going to look after it properly. It just wasnt fair. The lassies would help right enough. They were good, they helped. They would take it for walks. Babs would just – she wouldnt bother, she would be okay. He was just fucking, it was him, he was daft, stupid, coming home with a greyhound, it was out of order. Jimmy was talking. Ronnie nodded, acknowledging something; he didnt know what the fuck it was he was acknowledging but he was fucking acknowledging something! He smiled, he raised the pint to his lips and swallowed beer. Jimmy pushed the tobacco pouch towards him and he rolled himself a smoke. It was time to leave. He struck a match, lighting his own before offering the light to Jimmy; then he finished off the beer and wiped his mouth quickly. Okay, he said, lifting the leash. And he got to his feet.

  You off? asked Jimmy Peters.

  Aye.

  I’ll be heading that way myself, said McInnes, glancing towards the clock.

  See you the morrow, said Jimmy.

  Aye . . . Ronnie gave a slight tug on the leash and the dog rose from the floor. And he left the pub quickly, in case McInnes came along the road with him. They both lived in the same street. He didnt want McInnes to know, that he wasnt going home just now. He wasnt going to go home just now, definitely not. He wasnt feeling right for it. That was it in a nutshell. What was that thing about Hamlet? Like a king. Something. Ronnie just felt fucking, he felt lousy. He hadnt been feeling as lousy as this before. Last night for instance he had been feeling good. He had made the phonecall and he knew he was the only one who had made any inquiries. And eighty quid as well; it was about exactly what he had saved up, almost the total sum. Everything just seemed spot on. And the guy himself seemed okay. If it was possible to trust a doggie-man! Ronnie grinned. They couldnt all be fucking rogues. Surely to fuck!

  Heh Ronnie!

  It was McInnes out from the pub and waving to him and coming along after him. Ronnie waved back and continued, and on round the next corner and he started walking fast, and then round the next corner, and away.

  He liked McInnes, he wasnt fucking, it wasnt as if he was trying to avoid him, especially; he just didnt want to fucking speak to anybody, not anybody. Nobody. Fucking nobody. He didnt want to speak to any cunt at all. And not McInnes, a good pal, he didnt want to speak to the likes of him at all. And not fucking Babs either. Babs least of all. And the weans, he didnt want to speak to them, not to even see them, he couldnt face them; he actually couldnt face them. He couldnt face them, the wife and weans, that was it, in a fucking nutshell.

  *

  It was fucking really terrible. The truth of the matter is he was feeling really terrible. How the fuck was he feeling as terrible as this? And there was the big dog! So fucking placid. That was it about these animals, how placid they were and then when you see them at the track they’re so fucking fierce, so fierce looking; fangs bared and fucking drooling, drooling at the mouth and ready to fucking – bite, kill, kill the hare except its a bundle of stupid fucking rags. Imagine being as easy conned as that! Letting yourself get lulled into it, racing round and round and fucking round just to catch this stupid fucking bundle of rags. It made you feel sorry for it. Dogs and all the rest of the animals. And people of course, they were no different – they seemed different but they werent; they seemed as if they were different but they werent; they really fucking werent, they just thought they were, it made you smile. Because there they were, running round and round trying to fucking catch it, a crock of gold, and did they ever catch it, did they fuck. The boy was like that, of
f to London; and what would happen to him, fuck all, nothing. He would just wind up getting a job somewhere and it would be fucking awful, and maybe he would just stay in London or else he’d come back. And if he stayed in London that’d be that and he probably’d hardly ever see them again. It was fucking strange. And Ronnie actually felt like doing himself in. It was a feeling he’d had, creeping up on him. He was actually feeling like doing himself in. What a thing. What a fucking thing. It was because he felt like a, well, because he felt like he’d fucking let them down, he’d let them down, it was because he felt like he’d let them all down, the whole lot, the lassies and Babs and the boy. Jesus, he’d really fucking let them down. What did he do it. What did he do it. What was the thing. There was water at the edges of his mouth, and he wiped it off along his left forefinger and it made him feel better. The dog still walking there, that courageous picture. Because it was going into the fucking unknown! That dog! Getting led by him and not knowing where in the name of fuck it’s going. Stupid. And the fucking power, letting itself get led. It was funny how human beings came first, and even one of these wee weans in the park could walk up and take over the lead, and the dog would just let it probably, just let it, itself be led.

  Ronnie was walking quickly now, the greyhound trotting to remain abreast of him.

  It was maybe good to change speed like this so it kept more alert, especially with it being so tired – and hungry. The thing must have been starving. That was him walking it since fucking what? 10 o’clock in the morning for fuck sake! Poor bastard. Of all the owners to get it gets him. Ach well. The tea in the oven. Babs would have switched it off now and she’d be wondering what the hell, how come he had got money; because she would just assume he was in the pub and in the process of getting totally paralytic. And a drink of water, it hadnt even had a drink of water. For fuck sake. It was actually worrying; it was more than just, it was more than just thinking it was thirsty it was actually thinking it might be getting bad because of it, the dog might actually become ill or something, because of the lack of water; it was possible. What he could do was just throw it in the fucking Clyde! then it’d get bags of water! That old joke about falling into the river, you didnt drown, you died of diphtheria. It was true but you couldnt see into it. Ronnie minded well as a boy when he used to hang over the side and see if he could see any fish, and he couldnt see anything it was so cloudy, so fucking mawkit. Christ! And yet that smell, it was a great smell, and fresh and what else could it be but the sea air, the smell of the sea. Yes. A fucking tang, it was the sea. It was fucking – Jesus, it was fucking great; it was just fucking great. And these other smells working in the leather-works across in Partick, making football bladders and stuff like that. What a fucking job; that twice-daily journey six days a week and the rain pelting down, and the wind biting your ears going across in the ferry; walking up the steps at the other side and then the cobbles, that terrible monotony, the wooden fence, spar after spar. The good bit about it was the race, every cunt racing each other but kidding on they were just walking fast. Maybe they were walking fast. Maybe he was the only person racing. Not at all. Everybody was at it, seeing who’d be first to reach Dumbarton Road. And anybody who ran was fucking cheating! Comical! Ronnie laughed, shook his head. It was just so fucking comical. Stupid. The greyhound was looking at him and it had tugged the leash. It was going to do another shite. The guy must have fed it after all otherwise there would’ve been nothing more to come out. Poor bastard. It wasnt much of a shite right enough. Big Dan; it was squeezing out this wee skinny shite. Maybe he would give it another name. He could call it whatever he liked. Shitey! He could call it Shitey. But that wouldnt be allowed, unless he changed its spelling. Iteysh. Something like that. Or Keech! Outside of Glasgow nobody knew what the fuck it meant. Big Keechy. Ronnie shook his head, transferred the leash to his other hand and brought out the cigarette packet and matches. There were only two left. It was unbelievable how they went. Two before going into the pub; three in it; then this was the second since leaving. Which makes seven. He must’ve smoked another one somewhere else.

  The dog was sitting at the gutter, staring down in the direction of the river. It was wondering what was happening. And Babs as well. And the lassies maybe; them thinking he was in the boozer.

  The pier was derelict around here, it was a pity. At one time the steamers pulled in on their way down the Firth. And boats went to America, £5 for the one-way trip. When was that? That was fucking years ago. The turn of the century.

  Ronnie peered through the fence; he tied the leash round a spike and rubbed his hands together. The wind coming down the Clyde; he moved his shoulders into a hunch. The cigarette packet and matches were back in his pocket again. He was going to save them for later. He didnt need a smoke just now. It was just habit. But he did need another pish. And he would have to wait a minute because there was a couple walking past, man and a woman with the arms linked. And the way they stared at the greyhound it was as if they thought it was there by itself. Ronnie stared after them and there was something in the way they walked that made him think they were wanting to look back but were doing their best not to. It was funny the way people were, how they acted, always so fucking self conscious and embarrassed about things. All they had to say was, Is this dog yours? And he would’ve said, Aye. And that would’ve fucking been it, end of story.

  But people didnt do things like that. They didnt do things as simple as that. They had to do it in a devious sort of – they had to be devious, that was it, they just had to be fucking devious. That was it, that was human nature, they just had to be fucking devious. Even the boy – eighteen years of age and just as devious as the rest of them. All he had to do was tell them and that would’ve been that. But no; what he does is fuck off and then gives a phonecall from a fucking motorway cafe. And Babs is up to fucking high doh worrying about it. Unbelievable. Just like a fucking wee wean. Eighteen years of age! Ronnie had been his father at that age. Eighteen! Fuck sake. It’s no that young. It’s young, but no that young. Eighteen. Christ Almighty.

  It was getting dark. What time was it? When he was in the pub it was 7. It was after that. Nearer 8, when he left. Probably it was 9, it’d be 9 now. And they’d think he would be really paralytic. It could even be after 9.

  Heh Ronnie!

  Christ! McInnes! McInnes had come after him. McInnes. Where was he? He wasnt here at all. It hadnt been a shout. But it was like a shout. As if somebody had shouted on him. An apparition. A fucking ghost! The docks was a creepy place but, deserted and fucking derelict. And this pier, how you could see the actual particles of coaldust lapping in on the surface of the water, onto the steps for fuck sake, if you wanted to commit suicide you’d choose a better place, you wouldnt want to fucking choke, if you wanted to fucking choke you’d do something else altogether, a bottle of fucking pills maybe.

  What did he buy it for? He shouldnt’ve bought it.

  Ach well. It was too late. He had it and that was that. Poor old bastard. Maybe he wouldnt race it at all, maybe he would just keep it as a pet, and fuck them. Bastards.

  Here was somebody else coming. Another couple.

  That was funny how the shout had happened, it sounding like a shout, from inside the head. And it was McInnes; it was his voice. It wasnt Babs for instance, if you’d expected that, because maybe to do with telepathy, her thinking he was about to do himself in or somefuckingthing and so trying to reach out to him, the way twins are supposed to.

  She would maybe be worrying about him now. Would she? Aye, she would be, she would be worrying about him because he hadnt phoned. Fuck sake, of course she would; what was the fucking point of fucking, trying to fucking keep it away, of course she’d be fucking worrying about him. On top of the boy; on top of the boy she would now be worrying about him. And the lassies, they’d know something was up because they’d see the way she was looking; if they were watching the telly, they’d see she wasnt really seeing what was on, her attention would be fucking, it wo
uld be nowhere near it, wondering if the phone was going to ring; and the boy as well, if he was okay – London for fuck sake, what could happen down there, things were bad down there, weans on the street, having to sell themselves to get by, the things that were happening down there, down in London, to young lassies and boys, it wasnt fucking fair, it was just fucking terrible, it was so fucking terrible, it was just so fucking terrible you couldnt fucking man you fucking Jesus Christ trying to think about that it was Christ it was so fucking terrible, it was so bad. Ronnie had the cigarette packet in his hand and he opened it and took out one; when he was smoking he returned it and the book of matches to his pocket. He inhaled twice without exhaling, let it all out in a gasp. He leaned his shoulder against the fence, inhaled again, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils. He would just tell Babs something or other, what the fuck he didnt know, it didnt fucking matter; what did it matter, it didnt fucking matter.