by James Kelman
Eventually he dozed off and when he woke up he went to bed, stretching out and enjoying it. He was hardly uncomfortable at all, just twinges now and again, depending on which way he was lying – the body was too weary to feel much. His head was full of stuff, a mishmash, all different things, tailing off and going into something else again. Then he woke up. He didnay even know he had been asleep I mean like ye sometimes wake out a five-minute doze when there’s people in the company. It seemed a flash yet he knew it wasnay, it was through the night. And that’s a funny thing. How do ye know it’s through the night? It’s nothing to do with being blind. Just for anybody. In fact it’s easy, cause not only is it as quiet as the grave but ye’ve a sixth sense tells ye. These things get a bit creepy. Ye seem to wake up acclimatised to everything ye’ve done at the most recent point in yer life. As well as that ye’ve usually been wakened by some weird thing jangling the nerve-ends. One of these strange dreams ye get; no quite a nightmare but close. So it takes a sixth sense. And immediately when ye wake ye’re alert as fuck and reaching for the nearest weapon to defend yerself against the bastard. Whoever it is. Fuck them.
Helen wasnay beside him. He moved his legs.
She could come back at any time. She could. It wasnay the first time they had had a blow up. He annoyed in her a lot of ways. That was how it had took her so long to let him kip in with her. I’m talking about bringing in the bags and all that.
In fact she could even come walking in the now, right now, cause sometimes she stayed on after-hours in the pub. Her boss had a habit of letting a few chosen people sit on for an extra couple of drinks. Trouble was he expected Helen to sit on with them; she was the chargehand so she had these wee extra responsibilities.
Fucking good Helen so she was, behind the bar I’m talking about. The guy in charge was a bit of an idiot, aye trying new things to bring in the punters, aye fucking moaning if things were quiet. How the hell she put up with him… Sammy would have bopped the cunt months ago. Helen was a worrier but that was the problem. Sometimes it was like she needed things to worry about. It could get on yer nerves. Nothing worse than cunts worrying about ye all the time. Sammy’s granny was terrible for it – his mother’s mother – every time ye left the house she gave ye a big cuddle and a very hard fucking look like she was trying to get the strongest picture of ye she could get cause this was definitely the very last time she was ever gony see ye in this lifetime man cause as soon as ye stepped out that fucking door ye could say bye bye to whatever it was – life? fuck knows what, all the badness was out there waiting to grab ye by the throat, and she wasnay gony be there to save ye. Course she wasnay an atheist and she knew ye were going home to an atheist house, a godless house, where weans would scream forever in fucking limboland if they werenay blessed by the good lord jasus.
Ye’re a wean, that’s what it is. And it makes ye feel like a wean, all that worrying, like ye cannay handle things man know what I’m talking about like ye cannay fucking handle things, ye’re a dumpling. Plus tempting the fates. That’s what fucking gets ye. That’s what fucking annoys ye. Then too ye’re forced to do whatever it is, whatever it is was worrying her in the first place, ye’re forced into it man know what I’m saying, even if ye might have changed yer mind if she had kept her mouth shut, now ye cannay. So fuck it, ye just get on with it, ye do the business.
Which was the story of last week. Helen found out where he was off to and she done her nut. He had nay dough and he wasnay gony get any for a fucking week. But that didnay make nay difference, no as far as she was concerned; ye had nay dough! so what? what’s yer fucking problem! As far as she was concerned,
fuck it.
His back was hell of a sore. Right round the base of the spine, the kidneys. He turned onto his front. Then his neck was stiff and the weight of his head was on his bad ear. It wasnay a case of blaming the sodjers, that was stupit, nay fucking point; it’s the system; they just take their orders. Mind you there only is the one fucking order: batter fuck out the cunts so they know who’s boss; that’s the fucking order, the first command, I mean imagine no even offering him the bus-fare home for christ sake that was a bad show that, even yer worst enemy, if he goes blind, ye make sure he gets fucking home okay. Or do ye? No if ye’ve got the killer instinct. In which case if they’re crawling down the road man ye whip the hands from under them. That’s what it is man the killer instinct, they’re sodjers, trained to kill; so much so they have to get reined back in – all their fucking manuals and all their guidelines and procedures, page after page of when-no-to’s, all the exceptional circumstances for when ye dont do it, that first command, when ye’ve no to obey it.
This dull sound, it was coming through the ceiling, or else the wall, it was rhythmic, no music but like somebody pacing the floor to a set routine. Male or female? Female. A woman no able to sleep, she had got up to check the wean, maybe make a cup of tea for herself. Then she couldnay get back to sleep. Things on her mind. Maybe she was too randy to sleep! Ah shut up. Naw but who knows, maybe she was wanting a man. Nothing wrong in that, it’s natural. These movies ye see where women walk about in the nude; a housecoat or a dressing-gown and the cover goes back just that wee bit and ye see a nipple poking out. It’s all to get ye going as well. That’s what it’s about. His ex gave him a hard time, nay pun intended, she had these ideas. They get ideas. All people get ideas but women get them in particular. Ye dont know what to make of them, especially when ye’re young. Ye wonder what they see in ye as well I mean being honest; men – christ almighty, a bunch of dirty bastards, literally, know what I’m talking about, sweaty socks and all that, smelly underpants. Course they’ve got nay choice, no unless maybe they’re lesbian, then ye get tits bouncing against each other and it’s all awkward and bumpy; same if it’s guys, cocks and legs banging – that was what happened inside once, this guy that fancied Sammy trying to give him a kind of a cuddle christ it was weird, fucking rough chins and these parts of yer body knocking the gether, yer knees as well man ye were aware of it, how ye didnay seem to merge right, maybe for the other thing but no cuddling, the guy actually said that to him he says, Sammy ye’re holding me like a woman, I’m no a woman. Fine; fair enough, but how were ye supposed to do it, cause he hadnay wanted to hurt the guy, he liked him, know what I’m saying, he was a nice guy and aw that. Fucking hell man, life, difficult. He reached to find the radio, switched it on to catch the time. Then he got up for a pish, shoving a blanket ower his shoulders. He had to sit on the toilet seat in case he misdirected.
Ben the kitchen he found a spoon, ate the beans cold out the fridge. He brought a cup of tea back to bed and sat up to drink it. Gasping for a smoke but so what, ye put it out yer mind. A guy once telt him how important it was to cut out as much as possible, milk and sugar and all that, but especially smokes and dope. If ye could do without the smokes and dope ye had knocked it off; once ye had done yer time ye would be walking out a millionaire. That was what the guy telt him. Fucking bampot. Ye meet a lot of screwalls inside; they’ve all got their own wee survival plans.
Mind you it’s right enough, if ye can do without the auld fags, it’s a definite fucking plus, especially if ye’re skippering, ye see these guys I mean how do they do it, fuck sake, ye never know who flung the thing away, some poxy bastard with scabby lips man it could be anybody, HIV three thousand and thirty fucking six, and there ye are sucking out that last draw for christ sake if ye’ve the habit as bad as that – plus ye’re blind into the bargain – what fucking chance ye got. Maybe he could stop all the gether. He had been threatening for years. That’s what he would do. Chuck the smoking. That would show her; a new man.
The idea made him smile. It was true but: anything’s possible when ye’ve entered a new epoch.
And things aye work out. It’s just whether it’s for the best or the worst. But they do work out, in the long run.
What the fucking hell time was it!
The DJ had one of these deep BBC 2 velvety voices, American-sounding,
all his wee anecdotes during the music; this yin about mysterious neighbours down in Kent or someplace and how they had been digging up their garden and how him and his missis wondered what it was for were they burying a dead body or making a swimming pool or what and it turned out to be this court for lawntennis they were building, them having twins, boy and girl, mad keen tennis fans and wanted to turn them out top professionals for the honour of green grassy England it was high time tennis lovers brought some pride back to the auld country and the DJ quite agreed being an amateur player of sorts himself and wished them the best of British and all you latenight revellers could see for yerselves in six or seven years time when these fucking twins were guaranteed to make the big league. Then a song by ‘the late great’ Sammy Davis. Snap snap of the fingers. He used to sing with a fag dangling out his fingers, long fingers, always showing how stylish and cool he was. Once upon a dream. That sort of singing style. People try their best.
When he finished the tea he stuck the cup under the bed and settled back, listening to some bluesy jazz. A pity about the reading. From now on it would have to be these talking books. Or braille. Braille.
Thursday. His first free day as a blind man. A new beginning and all that shite. There were things to do and it was down to him to do them. Naybody else would. No even her if she was to walk in the door this very minute. He was the one. So okay. The DSS and the quack. Nay time like the present. Except he was skint. He was skint and he was shattered, his body felt like – fuck knows – it had taken a major pounding, that was what it felt like. But he had to go otherwise they would put the timebar on him. Then the Blind Asylum, if there was such a place, he would have to go and sign on there, stick the name down for a white stick and guide-dog. Obviously there was gony be a waiting list, ye get fuck all quick in this life. He had never really liked dogs either; never mind.
The Blind Asylum but what a hell-hole that sounded, straight out some victorian fucking nightmare in the name of christ ye could picture them all, the poor bastards, moping and groping their way about these whitewashed stone rooms; men, women and children; all sharing these pits, wearing these long droopy nightshirts summer and winter, feeling their way around, groaning and moaning; the gentry coming in to check out the shareholdings, the black silk top hats and white scarves, the ballgowns, on their way to the fucking ballet or something, a private box at Ibrox Park for champagne and fucking french kippers or whatever the fuck they get to entertain them during the football.
The interesting thing for Sammy, the beneficial thing for Sammy, or it might be, ye hate to fucking tempt the fates, especially where the DSS is concerned; but there was an outside chance, if he was a gambling man which he wasnay, no now, no really, although he used to be, a gambling man, quite heavy, but no now – except about this, yeh, he might have had a wee go, just a wee yin, a couple of quid each way, just about the DSS and the various odds and sods, the Community Work Programmes and aw that, how come his present predicament, that it might actually work in his favour, ye didnay like thinking about it too much in case it didnay come off but when ye did think about it christ almighty he was due a dysfunctional payment, know what I mean, yer man, if he couldnay see through no fault of his own, and it was through no fault of his own cause the fucking sodjers done it man and they were a Government Department. So there ye are. So he was due something; an extra couple of quid. Surely to fuck? Nay sight meant ye had lost yer seeing function, yer seeing faculty. So ye were only gony be fit for special blind jobs. So for one thing he would have to get re-registered cause there was nay way he was fit for climbing scaffolding man know what I’m saying give us a break, the guy cannay see, so how the fuck’s he gony climb a ladder with a bucket of fucking concrete? Ye kidding, a fucking cast-iron stonewall certainty, the auld building game, as far as he was concerned man it was finished, that was him, nay more Community Programmes, fuck ye, the bold Sammy, that was him, fucking finito, they could stick it up their arse, capiste.
Sammy slapped his hands the gether and rubbed them. It had to be! He chuckled. Jesus. The auld eyes man; they were fuckt. Hoh! Jesus christ!
Unless they found him a special job for sightless persons.
Okay.
But that was how he had to move and move quick, cause if he didnay register they would fuck him with that timebar.
The coffee was finished.
First things first he needed a saw. And he was gony get one. Apart from a hammer and a couple of screwdrivers there wasnay a tool in the house. He was aye meaning to pick up a few down the Barras. But okay, right now: right now he had to cut the head off the mop. That was how he needed the saw. He turned the radio up loud then left the house.
It was one of these open corridors with a balcony wall about 4 foot high. There was aye a wind swirling about. In the winter it could be bad. Next door lived an elderly woman but he was going to the next yin along from there where he knew a guy lived. He had seen him once or twice but never spoke to him.
When the door opened he said, Hullo, I live two doors along, I was wondering whether I could get the len of a saw for a minute, if ye’ve got one.
It was a guy answered: A saw?
I lent my own to my brother last week. I only need it for a minute.
Eh aye, okay…
Sammy could hear him rummaging about in the lobby press. Then he was coming back to the door and saying: Ye’ll give us it back the day?
Aw aye. Half an hour at the most.
I’m no being cheeky, just it was my fayther’s, it’s been in the family a good few years. Where is it ye stay again?
Two doors along. McGilvaray.
I dont think I’ve seen ye.
Sammy nodded.
Ye there long?
Aye quite a while, me and the missis… Sammy stuck the last bit in to relax the guy. Alright? he said, putting his hand out.
Aye; aye nay bother son.
Sammy touched the blade and gripped it, put his right hand onto the handle: wood; a nice feel to it.
Back in the house he hung the key-ring on the hook and gave the cutting edge a lick of soap afore starting. He should have tapped the guy for a fag while he was at it. Ye could tell from his voice he was a smoker. Okay; Sammy spat in the palms of his hands and gave them a rub. Fine, right; he prepared a dining chair and laid newspapers underneath it. Then he went eeny meeny miney mo and stuck on a cassette: And then he was off and running:
After three four years of marriage,
it’s the first time you havent made the bed
And the reason we’re not talking
Fucking hell man what a fucking song to pick! Stupit bullshit pish – showing how traumatic a time a guy’s having whose missis has just walked out and left him – obviously the cunt’s never done a hand’s turn in his life but it never dawns on him that might have something to do with it. Mind you it never seems to dawn on the cunt that wrote the song either. It was Helen drew his attention to that, how ye could tell from the way the auld George Jones boy sang the words that he wasnay being funny nor fuck all, nay irony intended.
Sometimes when Sammy was in a singing mood he sang his own words:
After twenty years of marriage,
that’s the first time we’ve had it in the bed
and the reason we’re not talking’s
cause we’re doing something else instead
No especially humorous but the kind of thing him and Helen could sometimes chuckle about. She was a bit of a feminist the same woman.
Mind you it wasnay that bad a song for the job in hand cause he was taking it cautious. Plus he kept getting these clicks from the shoulder bone when he pulled back the sawing arm and it was off-putting. By the time he was finished he was fuckt and gasping for a smoke, a drink and a fucking lie on the fucking bed, plus his hole if she was to walk in right at this very minute.
Who’s kidding who.
At least he hadnay sawed off a finger. He gathered up the newspaper page with the wood shavings and folded it into the
rubbish bin. When he returned the tool to the guy he kept his hand out: I’m Sammy, he said.
Boab, pleased to meet ye.
They shook hands.
Didnay take ye long, said Boab.
Naw it was just a wee footery job. Good saw by the way, good feel to it.
Aye like I says it was my fayther’s. It’s been in the family for donkeys’. I think it was my grandfayther’s.
Is that right? Hh! Heh ye wouldnay have a bit of sandpaper?
Naw son sorry, ye’re unlucky; I had some but it’s away.
Just thought I’d ask.
Sorry.
If it was getting to ages he would have put Boab around the fifty/sixty mark but who knows, he might have been aulder; Sammy had thought he could mind his face but he couldnay be sure. He seemed okay. There again but ye meet guys that seem okay and they turn out evil bastards; ye cannay always tell.
It was good to have done the stick. He gave it a test round the house and it worked fine. Yesterday was a nightmare. It was never gony happen again. This stick was the difference between life and death; no quite but nearly.
He made another coffee and sat down for a think. So that was the stick. Good.
The cassette had stopped. He wondered what time it was. No that it mattered. Except he had things to do; things needing to get done, they needed to get done quick. It had to be quick. There was all these ways they had to fuck ye if ye took it slow, so ye had to go for it; as soon as it crossed yer mind that was that man ye moved, ye got off yer mark. But he just couldnay; no the now; he was skint; there was nay money in the house, he had looked a few times. The DSS was miles away, he couldnay walk it; any other time but no the now. This being blind man it meant ye needed dough; ye couldnay just go places, ye couldnay just walk. Sammy had walked all ower the place, one end of Glasgow to the other, one end of London to the other. So what? The stick was good but no that good, it wasnay a fucking witches broom man ye couldnay climb aboard. Plus he wasnay capable physically; the body was still fuckt – it was that knocked him out yesterday. He wouldnay have been as bad as that except cause of the doing he took. Usually he would have been okay. It was the body; it was still mending, still giving him pain. And he was gony have to get right, he was gony have to be prepared. There was things ahead. He needed to get ready. Fucking ready man he had to get fit. The auld exercises. The main problem was the ribs, the breathing, it was still sore. Even that wee bit of sawing had had its effect. So he needed to rest. Except it was so fucking