by James Kelman
Then the voice whispered: Know what I’m talking about ya fucking bampot? Ye go outside that door nice and easy and ye dont come back, ye just fucking vamoose, ye get to fuck, ye do a fucking disappearing trick, alright?
Ye’re an incorrigible, said the other yin, and this time ye went too far. But still ye landed lucky, so thank yer lucky stars.
You better believe it, muttered the nasty bastard.
I need to speak to a third party. I’m no being cheeky.
…
Somebody chuckled.
Another yin said: Give the guy his due, he knows his rights and regulations.
Eh? Heh doughball, somebody’s talking to you.
A hand clamped Sammy on the shoulder. I want to see a third party, he said, even yer quack, I want to report this dysfunction man I’m suffering a sightloss, and it’s in both eyes, I need to see a quack.
Fucking quack ya cunt, fucking Donald Duck, it’s a hospital you’ll be needing.
Aye, that’s all very well, said Sammy, and I’m no meaning to be cheeky. But I need to speak to somebody I mean ye cannay leave me like this. I’ve no got a fucking coin. Get us a quack so he can see how I am now to how I was afore you and yer fucking plainclothes rottweilers got a fucking grip of me. I’m still in fucking pain man know what I mean I want a fucking X-ray, my ribs are fuckt man come on! Get us an eye-specialist!
A sigh then a shuffling of feet; a door shutting.
…
Heh come on, ye cannay just knock fuck out a guy till he winds up blind, this is a free country. Eh! Hullo? Hullo? Heh what about a smoke? Any of ye got a fag! Eh? Hullo? Ah fuck off.
Somebody sniggering in the background.
Fuck off I says.
They did fuck off. An hour later maybe longer a couple of them came back and stripped off his belt and laces again. They forgot to ask for his gold chain. Here, he said, taking it out his pocket. There was times it was best going by the book. Sammy was wanting to wake up in the morning. He sniffed and kept alert, listening for whatever. Half an hour later they were marching him back to the cell. It was all matter-of-fact. But no sooner inside than he banged his leg on the edge of the bunk frame. He lay down but the mattress was thin as fuck, it was just sagging and useless, even worse than the last yin. Once he was sure they had went he got up, took the pillow and stretched out on the floor. Real relief except for the smell, like a pish-house.
He didnay even know what day it was. Jesus. The big mouth man he always had to blab. If that was him for another night
Jesus christ. She would be really worried now. He aye had to blab. How come he aye had to blab! Just stupit. Stupit. She would be worrying. Doesnay matter the situation, how it was, that was past tense, she would worry. Cause he had nay place to go and she knew it. Ye’re talking from whenever it was the now back to last Friday morning man that’s how long it was; four maybe five days, including the Saturday. Fucking Saturday! Saturday was a blank. A blank. Jesus christ, fucking terrible. So for all she knew something bad might have happened. Aye something bad has happened hen! yer man, yer boyfriend, he’s being held for assault, drunk and disorderly. And at this moment in time he’s lying in the fucking poky, blind as a fucking bat.
If they telt her that she would come immediately. She would take him by the hand
Would she fuck. Helen man, enough said.
Not so very long ago aho
you walked away, from me,
and after all we’ve ever meant,
you decided to be free
Ach she would rant and rave. Or else say nothing. She was good at saying nothing. When she did get angry her voice got high and it annoyed her to fuck. For some reason she didnay like high voices, no even on women. She wasnay that much weer than him but she would have preferred being weer, she aye said she was too big, she had the habit of walking with a stoop. Sammy aye telt her to straighten up. That annoyed her, but sometimes in a lovey-dovey way. If he was skint and he telt her stuff like that she was liable to take him out for a drink. No quite. But sometimes she did. Once or twice. Then she got double-depressed. She would go silent, just sitting there, glowering. He wouldnay even notice she was glowering, no at first. He would be talking to her natural; then it would dawn on him she had took the huff about something. Look dont blame me ye’re a woman, he used to say, it’s no my fucking fault. Sometimes he sang her that Kristofferson number:
She aint afraid to be a woman
nor ashamed to be a friend
That really wound her up! But at least it got her to talk. Better getting a mouthful than nothing at all man silences, know what I’m saying; Sammy couldnay handle silences, no with her. Any other cunt aye but no her. He was too insecure. More than a year since he first started going out with her but he had only lived with her about six or eight months. It had taken her the rest of the time to make up her mind. She wasnay a woman that jumped into things. Too fucking experienced; three weans she had into the bargain. Christ she would crack up! Auld Helen… Nay luck at all neither she had, she aye chose bingers; she said it herself. How do I aye end up with somebody like you? I knew it would happen! That’s what she’d say. I telt ye! As if any cunt could tell ye that, that ye were gony wind up blind. Mind you she had telt him, more or less, she telt him on Friday morning, things would go bad, that was what she telt him. Fuck it man.
Terrible depressions she got too, her downers could last for days. Ye felt ye had to keep an eye on her. Sammy liked lying with the side of his face on her tits, snuggling in, her nipple poking him in the eye, soft, wrist between her legs, his hand cupping her hole, shielding it from danger, especially when she had come, needing to protect her and all that stuff.
Sammy smiled, lying there on the floor. But it wasnay a cheery smile. He didnay feel cheery. He felt fucking grim, that was what he felt. Nay wonder she would crack up. Lifted by the sodjers. On the bevy and lifted by the sodjers. Well it was her own fault. She shouldnay have threatened him. That’s one thing ye shouldnay do, threaten a cunt, no unless ye’re gony back it up. Course maybe she had backed it up. He didnay fucking know. He wouldnay know either, no till he got home. Ah fuck it, if she wanted to call it a day then fair enough man all she had to do was tell him, tell him straight. He wasnay gony stay somewhere he wasnay wanted. Ye kidding! Sammy was well used to packing the bags. Bastards. Now here he was blind, fucking blind. Imagine going blind. Christ. What a turn-up for the books that was.
He shifted his head and felt the pillow damp on his face. He hadnay been greeting, just water must have been running out. Or else pus. Maybe it was fucking pus. Maybe it was fucking yellow fucking mucus pus or something, rancid fucking liquid shit running out his body, out his eyes. Maybe it was the thing that gave ye sight, now he didnay have sight the thing had turned into pus, and here it was getting discharged, excess body baggage. Or else blood. Maybe his nose was bleeding. Or his ears. His fucking ears were roaring, maybe it was melted fucking wax! Jesus christ there was that many things.
He got up and poked about with his feet. Still blind; he had forgot what it meant.
He put his hands out and groped his way to the end wall and leant against it. He needed to think. He had to get clear on what happened. The sodjers hadnay been too interested, no till they read the form-book. Even then; interested but nothing special. They probably took him for a boozebag alky bastard nowadays and that was that, end of story. Fine, it suited him. The longer it went on but the longer it went on
Ye couldnay count on things. That was the problem. Other things aye turned up, they had a habit of doing that, turning round and fucking ye, when ye least expected it.
He had to get clear. Back to front and inside out.
Okay.
So what happened was he was out earning. Right, fine. And the Leg was with him. He didnay need the Leg with him but there he was and that was that; so okay, three leather jackets. They got shot of the stuff within an hour and split the dough. Sammy went home to show the face. She needed to know he was alright. As if h
e wouldnay have been but there ye are. That was how the fight started in the first place. Well no quite. Ye can be too honest man, know what I’m talking about, it doesnay always pay, no with women. He should have telt her fuck all.
Fair enough but he just wanted her to know he was okay. So he went home to show the face. Except when he got there she was gone. And the kitchen was a fucking pigsty like she had fuckt off as soon as she was up and dressed. Which is fair enough cause she didnay finish work till late and sometimes wasnay home till after two in the morning. So if she just got off her mark then she was fucking entitled. Fuck the housework. With him no working anyway I mean, what does it matter, Sammy was happy doing that sort of stuff. Plus the fact it was her house, it’s no as if he had any claim for being there, except her, so he needed to be pulling his weight and all that. At least that was the way he looked at it. So when he got home on Friday dinnertime he just stuck on the music. Loud, the way he liked it. Then he set about the tidying. But once he had finished the money burnt a hole in his pocket, he couldnay settle; he tried to read a book, he shoved on the telly; he just couldnay concentrate. Plus he was starving. But cause he had done all that tidying he didnay want to fucking mess it back up again so he wasnay gony cook fuck all. So he just went back out, thinking in terms of a pie and a pint. Across the river and along the road, up the main drag and round to the Cross, and along and up by Argyle Street where he found the Leg and they went on a spree,
they taught me to smo-oke and dri-ink whiskee.
So on and so forth.
That was for him but no for the sodjers. It was him needed it, the story. Once it was there and solid in that fucking nut of his then fine, it was alright; a stick of dynamite man that was what they would fucking need. Other stuff he could let slip, it didnay matter. Know what I’m saying, once the solid stuff was in there, he could let slip other stuff.
So okay.
And then he’s woke up down the lane and he’s wearing these stupit trainer shoes. The day afore yesterday. Or the day afore that. Sunday.
How did he know it was Sunday? He just fucking knew man that’s how. Know what a sixth sense is? That’s what I’m talking about.
The difficult thing was the Saturday. The Saturday was blank. It was Friday dinnertime he went for the bevy. And it was Sunday morning he woke up. So that was the problem. There was a missing gap. A whole day. Plus he met Charlie. That was the fucking
Charlie! Where the hell had he met Charlie? Jesus christ man flies in the ointment everywhere! Never mind but it was alright. There was nothing there, nothing he couldnay handle. The story was fucking rock-solid man watertight. They were yapping away about all sorts. In a boozer roundabout the Candleriggs. Somewhere. Doesnay fucking matter. Charlie on the ginger beer and lime cause he had chucked the sauce. True. Auld Charlie, he had chucked the sauce.
So what the fuck were they yapping about? Ach all sorts, all sorts. Charlie was still doing the business. He hadnay changed that much. Just he was keeping the head down. So he said anyway though ye couldnay always tell with the cunt; the kind of guy that sat with ye for an hour and at the wind-up he’s said fuck all.
There was definitely a change in him but. Once upon a time ye were feart to have a drink with him. This habit he had of eariwigging other people’s conversations; strangers! know what I’m talking about; if they were saying something he didnay like he jumped right in and telt them it was a load of shite. It wouldnay matter the strength of the opposition. Ye could be sitting in a pub stuffed full of blue-noses, or else tims, it didnay matter, it just didnay matter, he never saw the danger; whereas you did, that was all ye saw. But there was the bold Charlie, into the needling games, winding them all up. Where’s yer fucking evidence? That was his patter. Ye’ve said something, so where’s yer fucking evidence? Ya fucking bampot if ye want to fucking say something then back it up man know what I mean!
Heh Charlie, you’d be going: Heh Charlie! screw the nut for fuck sake…lighten up man come on…
He wouldnay fucking hear ye. And you’d be watching them all; these faces, their eyes, staring at him, staring at you, dead eyes, no into debate at all, just watching, watching and fucking waiting. And you’d be thinking, Ah well fuck it man here we go, here we go… And Charlie talking loud
cause that was the way he done it: loud! he always fucking done it loud. That was probably his weapon. He done it that way so other cunts would hear, other cunts in the pub, so it would all be isolated, right out there and in the open, so if anybody wanted to move they would have to do it right there, in the full glare:
Ye want to talk politics? Eh? Ye want to talk politics? Then let’s fucking talk politics and nayn of this fucking primary-school crap man fucking bullshit come on, let’s fucking talk politics, real politics I mean ye’re a fucking adult int ye a fucking mature fucking adult human being.
Jesus christ man. Then what happened is things got too much for him. He choked on it; he was so raging angry and fucking upset and fucking frustrated. He would just fucking storm out, right out the door.
And you’d be left there like a fucking dumpling. You’d be standing there. A fucking dumpling man I’m telling ye.
The last thing to do was talk. Ye just had to take it easy. And get to fuck man get to fuck, dont swallow down yer drink, nay time, nay fucking time man where’s that door cause you’re fucking heading man know what I’m talking about you’re heading, or else ye’re no alive. And dont look at nay cunt. Keep yer eyes down. Straight out that fucking door.
Crazy. That was afore he chucked the sauce: I’ve changed Sammy, he says, I’ve quietened down.
What have ye went religious?
Charlie just laughed. The patter was good but. His mother and fayther was still alive and that was great to hear. These things from yer childhood, ye expect them to be gone and lost forever. The last time they had met was the Boxing Day three years ago at the Carnival. Sammy was there with his boy. Charlie had two and one lassie. Sammy had just came back from England and wasnay sure what the plans were, if he was gony stay home or what. They arranged to meet for a pint a couple of days later. But Charlie didnay turn up. So what. What does it fucking matter. He wasnay about to remind the guy. He was aye heavy involved in things. And he hadnay changed. So okay.
Fuck it.
Ye fall by the wayside.
Fuck it. Sammy had nay regrets. Ye try to work things out. When ye go wrong; ye get yourself the gether; ye give it another go; ye hope it works out. But if it doesnay it fucking doesnay. What can ye do. Same auld fucking process. It can be damaging for the nut but that’s the fucking problem. Plus the physical side of things man the disintegrating process, ye have to face up to it, ye dont need the fucking sodjers to give yer body a battering, ye perform the job yerself.
Sammy crawled up onto the bunk, kicked off the shoes, drifted into the usual half world; no quite the self-abasement and all that shite but close. This had to be the worst yet man nay danger; he had never been this bad; surely to fuck.
Bullshit. How many times had he said it, these very words, how many times! Crap. Obvious crap too so shut yer fucking mouth, just shut yer fucking mouth.
He lay on his side staring into fuck knows what, lines or something, bright kind of lines shooting everywhere. They seemed dim but they would have been bright, otherwise he wouldnay have seen them. Fucking bunk man it was fucking hollow, he was lying on the fucking bare spring and it was killing him man his fucking shoulder, jesus christ; he turned onto his front. Dots he was seeing. They were like sparks. That’s cause the so-called pillow was a sheet of fucking tissue paper. So the oxygen wasnay reaching his brain; no properly. He started getting one of these weird feelings like he was gony start levitating, drifting up to the ceiling. Maybe he was already! He gripped the sides of the bunk, seeing himself floating right up and out a window, feet first then his legs, keeping going, body next, trying to cling on at the shoulders, jamming his elbows in at the bars but nay good, getting sucked on and slipping right out, drifting
up, passing the telegraph-wires, up past the roofs of the buildings, all the stars glittering, seeing the city below, up past the Red Road flats. That story about the guy doing time and he keeps going on these mind-trips, John Barleycorn or somebody. Who the fuck wrote it? Jack London? Sammy shut his eyelids tight. He felt bad now, so fucking bad, these things filling yer head man fucking filling yer head, terrible, fucking terrible, if Helen chucked him now he really was fuckt, right out the game, he would be as well parking the head in a gas oven. All he could do
all he could do
There wasnay much he could do, there wasnay really much he could do at all. No the now anyway. Nayn of it was down to him. It would be soon enough but no the fucking now. So fuck it, get on with yer life. Sammy had turned back onto his side, he wished he could fall asleep. But the trouble with sleep is ye cannay just fucking
ye cannay command it to happen, it just does. Sleep. Fucking amazing so it is. There ye are all wrapped up in yer own body, snug as fuck. Ye lie there like there’s nothing else exists in the world. Ye dont fucking want anything else to exist. That’s how ye need to get away from it; cause if ye dont get away from it then ye willnay cope; the only fucking way to cope is by disappearing for six or seven hours out every twenty-four. That’s how ye survive, nay other fucking way. This guy he palled about with once, he crawled into a corner so he could die. Sammy met him skippering down Paddington. He hung about near a boozer Sammy used, putting the bite on cunts that walked past. One day Sammy was doing a bit of shifting for a female that lodged in the same house as himself. Struggling along the road with a big fucking bundle of her suitcases and fucking poly bags man a million of the fuckers! So the guy I’m talking about, he came up and gave Sammy a hand. So one thing and another, Sammy wound up taking the guy for a drink – no just once but a few times; now and again, depending how he was fixed. The thing is but the guy didnay like drinking in pubs. He just wasnay a pub drinker. Ye meet guys like that. Even if they’re holding a few quid, they still prefer hitting the off sales. That was this guy, a real outdoor fucking person. Then one night him and Sammy split for a couple of bottles of scud and they went round the corner, just off the Edgeware Road, round to the side of the social works’ office and into the wee park. They found a seat. Then roundabout dusk the guy got up and fuckt off, he went away by himself to find a quiet place, and he must just have stretched out. Sammy thought he had went for a piss. Later on when he was going up the road he decided to take a walk round the square to see if he could see him; he found him lying close in between the bushes and the palings; it was like he had wedged himself there.