How Late It Was How Late

by James Kelman

  it was just

  he needed to be doing things he really fucking needed to be fucking doing things he couldnay hang about he just couldnay afford to. What the hell time was it man ye couldnay even tell the fucking time! He switched on the radio. Cause things would close in on him that was a certainty a fucking certainty. So he needed

  the DSS, the doctor; that kind of stuff. He had to get them attended to. But he couldnay cause he was skint for christ sake how could he if he was fucking skint man okay he could hit the Health and Welfare and get an appointment, he could do that, it was only a twenty-minute walk or something half an hour at the most

  aye if he could fucking see! Jesus christ man fucking bampot it would take him a fucking week. No with the stick it wouldnay. No with the stick. That was something, the auld fucking stick. Okay. But the DSS man it came first. The priority. Delay a day and they would fuck ye forever. But he couldnay get there without the bus-fare. So there ye are, nay point worrying. No for one day, they wouldnay fuck him for one day.

  But surely to fuck there was money in the house!

  He had already looked. Aye well he would just fucking look again man all he needed was sixty pence. Even thirty and he could chance his arm with the driver. There had to be smash lying about somewhere. That was a thing Sammy done; he came home and emptied his pockets onto the mantelpiece – any smash he had. Sometimes he left it a while. It mounted up so it did.

  That was funny man, how there was nayn lying about. Know what I mean? Like as if she had lifted it. How come she would have done that? Unless he had done it himself, maybe he had done it; last week man he was fucking scratching himself, that was how he went out on the blag fuck sake come on! He couldnay remember doing it but.

  He was up from the settee. The coffee table; he had banged his knee on the bastard last night, ye had to be fucking wary; all these obstacles, hazards: he stepped round it to the mantelpiece and felt about. There was fuck all except a lot of bits of paper and wee things that felt like plastic buttons or something, plus a few loose matches.

  Hell with it the giro came the morrow. He was just gony have to be patient, patient patient patient. Nay good rushing into things but; ye think it gets ye ahead but does it does it fuck; it just knocks ye back; one step forward and six back, that was how it went: patience was a virtue man nay question, nay question about that.

  Ah fuck the patience he was going to Glancy’s!

  He laughed. He was sitting back down on the settee. He shook his head.

  Naw but he could. He fucking could. He definitely needed to get out too, this sitting about man it would drive ye crackers. Plus he would be giving the stick a real tryout. It was all very well wandering about the house but the real test lay when he stepped out that lift-door at the bottom of the building and then crossed the floor and went out the fucking exit, that was the real test. Maybe he wouldnay go to Glancy’s. But it was still a good idea to go out. What else was there? He couldnay sit here all day. Fucking radio man, load of shite. Gasping for a smoke too. Plus the belly, he was fucking hungry. He would just wind up going back to bed. Bad habit that, it was about all he had done since yesterday afternoon. Ye’ve got to get up off yer arse. Especially when ye’re skint. Going to bed’s the easy option, trying to sleep away the shit, trying to hit limboland; but it’s no as if ye’ve got the flu; when ye’re skint man dont mix it up with the fucking flu, know what I mean, trying to hit limboland; ye’re no ill ye’re skint. So ye’ve got to get out there. Plus yer head, ye cannay cope with yer head; no Sammy’s head anyway man it would drive ye fucking bananas. Plus there’s different levels. It just depends. The way he was skint the now was easy cause the fortnight was up the morrow morning, Friday.

  So okay. So he was going to Glancy’s.

  The exercise would do him good, give the muscles a chance. All this sitting about was bad for the body. There were guys in Glancy’s would do him a turn. Maybe the Leg would be in. Or else Tam – he could maybe see Tam; Sammy had some gear in the house, he needed a punter.

  But it didnay matter about that, no the now. He just

  christ almighty

  he just had to be doing something he just had to be doing something it was straightforward, that was all it was, it was fuck all he just had to be actually fucking moving, cause there was things to do, he couldnay sit about, cause things have a habit of closing in on ye, when ye least expect them, they close in on ye, so ye have to be ready, even if ye arenay, if ye’re fuckt, if yer body’s fuckt,

  So okay. Okay.

  Sammy was up from the settee and he switched off the radio. It didnay help matters, that stupit bastard and his fucking stupit fucking quiz show, all these stupit easy questions that nay cunt seemed to have a clue about.

  Oh jesus christ Helen.

  Sammy’s hand was on his forehead. He felt bad. He felt fucking awful man. It wasnay things closing in on him, cause it had already happened, it had happened; they had fucking closed in. He was beat. They had beat him. It wasnay his body. His fucking body man it wasnay his fucking body. It wasnay his body.

  He gave a kind of shudder, then groped his way to the window and opened it. It wasnay raining; it didnay seem to be. There was a smell; a funny kind of smell. Jesus.

  It was him. Probably it was him. He hadnay had a real wash since fuck knows when. He was clatty as fuck, that was what it was. Lying up that lane, then in the poky. His trousers had been soaking when he woke up, on that wet bloody grass. Unless he had pissed himself. Surely fucking naw, naw. Definitely naw cause the sodjers would have said something. They would have loved that. They would have fucking loved that. He needed a bath, but later, no the now, once he came home.

  He had shut the window, he turned and made his way round the back of the settee and to the door and then down the lobby to the bedroom. A shirt and a pair of trousers. He felt for the ones with the turnups. His good pair needed a rest; maybe he would get them dry-cleaned. This pair with the turnups, he didnay like them. But better them than the jeans cause he needed to look the part.

  He wouldnay bother shaving. Leave that for the night, afore he had the bath. Nearly a week’s growth, it could pass for the beginnings of a beard. As long as he looked passable. That was all. Plus that shaving, that was another worry.

  Jesus the shoes! he had forgot the fucking shoes! these bastard trainers!

  Dear oh dear. What do ye do? The fucking eedjit that hoisted them off Sammy he probably hadnay even tumbled to how fucking good they were man know what I mean, fucking bampot, probably selt them for the price of a can of superlager. Cause that’s what happens with some of them, their head’s fucking wasted, they dont even know what it is they’ve lifted. Fucking irritating; irritating behaviour.

  Sammy sighed. What a state. What a state.

  If ye didnay have the appearance: ye needed the appearance. No just for the street. Going to Glancy’s. Ye had to look the part. Naw but ye did. Yer man, he had a reputation; Sammy, he was a style-conscious guy, know what I’m talking about, sweaty auld fucking trainers; ye kidding!

  Okay. He patted the hair down his head, then rubbed it back round the sides. If he couldnay cope with the shaving he would have to get a barber into it. Unless Helen had a go, maybe she would have a go.

  Okay.

  Even if he just walked round the block. The one thing he wasnay gony do was get stuck indoors. He wasnay an invalid. Alright he was blind but he could still walk about. He stepped out into the corridor, locked the door behind him, tapped his way to the lift. The stick was good. The only problem was the wrist and how ye held the thing. When he had done the trial runs about the house he kept having to change his grip, it was hard getting the hang of it; awkward; he tried it with his left hand too but the wrist was still stiff from when he had banged the sodjer cunt, plus cause it was his left hand he couldnay do it proper and wound up kind of jabbing the thing. Course if the stick had a handle, maybe that would make it easier; the way he was doing it the now was like the way they hold a knife in hol
lywood movies.

  The lift came.

  When he came out he waited a minute to get his bearings. Outside the exit, once he went outside, if he went right and to the end of the building, then he would just have to cross a space, a space of about

  fuck knows

  there was a space; after that there was another building. Once he got to the end of that there was a pedestrian walkway. Then on it was plain sailing down to the main drag. That was where he was heading.

  Usually he just crossed the square when he came out the exit. A big open square, it lay directly outside the building. But there was no way he was trying that he was just gony keep into the side and go the long way. Fuck knows what he done yesterday it was a total blank. So okay.

  Maybe he should turn back. He made a deal with himself, when he got to the pedestrian walkway, if it was windy, then he would retrace the steps, he would chuck it in and go back up the stairs; he wasnay a total masochist.

  So okay, he pushed his way out through the exit. The punt of a football. Immediate; first thing he heard, boys playing football; jesus christ. He tapped to the right; there was an edging of grass. Ye couldnay see this square from Helen’s house which was a pity cause he quite liked watching the boys play football. Course this was fuckt as well now, he couldnay watch the football again. Fucking hell. Compensation man ye’re due compensation for that alone. Naw but it’s no funny, it’s no funny.

  The stick was great. All he needed now was a pair of sunglasses. The stick tapping, it was quite a nice sound; but it quivered; maybe a real yin was stronger. Plus if it was painted white.

  Naw, he was going home.

  Between here and the bridge he would probably get lost. Nay point being fucking daft. Foolhardy. That was what it was. He was going home man fuck it. A nice day and all that and the breath of fresh air, that was nice. But he was going home, he had already done his about-turn, keeping the stick in his right hand. Nay point being stupit. Fuck it. No after yesterday. Glancy’s Bar! Who was he kidding, take him a fucking year to get there. And once he did, what was he gony do? It’s alright talking about cunts he knew getting him a drink but ye needed an introduction, that first yin, ye had to get it yerself. There was nay way ye could just walk in and start the begging games.

  Patience. The giro came the morrow. When he woke up man it would be waiting, sitting there in the brown envelope. Then he would go out. He would do a bit of shopping. Maybe buy himself a cooked breakfast somewhere; bacon and fucking eggs man the works, the fucking lot, square sausage and black pudding, the fucking lot, toast. And he would sort things out, he would sort things out.

  Then too the stick, it worked no bad, he had done alright with the sawing. He just needed to sand it down now, the sawed end, he didnay want it splintering. Then once he gave it a lick of paint folk would know the score.

  Okay.

  He was feeling along the mantelpiece again, no just for money but in case there was a note from Helen. It had dawned on him she might have went off somewhere for a reason. Maybe to see her weans. Something like that. Plus she did take notions. She had a habit of that – especially after some stupit thing he had done. No turning up when he said he would, or else if he was hitting the bevy too much. That kind of stuff pissed her off. Nay wonder. But still, sometimes she left a note. And she might have this time. That was the fucking point but how would he know if she had! Even if he found it how would he fucking know! Wild! Then he would need some cunt to read it for him. There was a lot of wee bits of paper, ye couldnay tell what was what.

  Plus he still hadnay gave up hope of finding a couple of quid. Helen probably kept a plank somewhere; that was the kind of woman she was, experienced.

  Ah fuck it.

  The ten o’clock news was on the telly. On Thursday nights ye sometimes got a movie on after; he was gony give it a buzz.

  Being honest he felt quite good. When ye think about the last few days. He hadnay flung in the towel anyway man that was one thing. These bastards, they think they can just fuck ye; ye’ll go and lie down out the road.

  They didnay know yer man, no like they thought they did.

  His feet were toasting; he had the socks off. He had went to bed an hour ago but had to get back up again cause he couldnay sleep. A bath: aye, he thought about it, that was as far as it went. The morrow, he would be fit the morrow. He was shattered. He had been gony steep his feet but it was too much of an effort finding the basin and getting the hot water and all that kind of stuff. Even the bollocks; lying in bed, he thought about having a wank; but he couldnay. At one point he clutched them and they slipped out his fucking hand; they felt funny; soft and kind of tender, like they had been sore and were getting better, like he had been sick for a long time, like he was maybe lying in a hospital bed, as if he had been there for a while and was now on the road to recovery. But still no ready to go home yet, he still wasnay ready for that; although he felt good mentally, he wasnay right, his body, it wasnay right. And that was the bollocks telling him, the auld bolloks man that was them telling him; fuck you and yer wanks, that was what they were telling him.

  The adverts were on the TV. Maybe he would just go to his fucking kip.

  The postman got him up in the morning. Three letters. He knew the giro one. The other two didnay matter, they were Helen’s; he never got mail. One had a window-frame so it was fuck all worth bothering about. But the other yin was a mystery. He could maybe get the auld guy Boab to read it for him. But that was a bad idea. Maybe he could be trusted, but it wasnay him ye were worried about, no necessarily. Word travels. This wasnay the best of places. People’s doors were aye getting tanned. A lot of dope on the go. The cunts came round selling ye stuff and if ye werenay in they done the business. So Helen said anyway; probably it was true. Best saying fuck all, no to nay cunt. If they found out he was blind he wouldnay survive a month. A fucking week man they would clean him out. So he would have to be on his guard.

  He was starving, jesus christ. The post office wouldnay open for another half hour at least. Another coffee. Earlier on he considered exercises but it was all in the mind, it wasnay a serious thought, and then he forgot about it. His head wasnay like it used to be; too used to the good life, this last few months, out of condition. Well he would have to get back fucking into condition.

  Fuck the coffee. Different if he had a smoke to go with it.

  He stuck a cassette in the player. Then got the stick for a trial run. There was half a tin of white gloss somewhere in the lobby press. All he had to do was find it, cause there was at least three other yins stacked the gether.

  And map out the journey man map out the journey. So okay, the post office was along the left-hand side of the big square as ye came out the exit, opposite where he had walked yesterday, when he set out for Glancy’s, it was in the middle of a wee row of shops; the minimarket, the betting shop, the chemist. All the necessities. The local boozer stood by itself round the corner from there. Ye had to pass it to get to where the buses went. The road where the buses went was a different road to the one that led to the bridge. Whenever Sammy walked it into town – which was usually always – then he took the road to the bridge, passing along the pedestrian walkway, which was directly opposite where the chemist shop was, away on the other side of the square. Complicated to explain but simple if ye knew the set-up and Sammy knew it quite well. Or thought he did. Probably he knew fuck all. But he wasnay really worried about it, whether one way or the other, as long as he kept the concentration going, that was the fucking main thing, no letting the head wander. Which was a problem, ye kept going off at tangents; yer mind.

  If ye planned it out and then stuck by it. That was what ye did. Ye just stuck by it, yer plan, yer map, if ye’ve mapped things out.

  He was ready, he set off.

  He came out the lift tapping the stick one way then the other, and across and out through the exit, but just taking it slow cause he was in nay rush, nay rush whatsoever. Okay. He carried on round to his left and on to the p
ost office without any problem, joining the queue just inside the door. Course he hadnay expected any problem. It was once he stepped outside the scheme man that was the fucking problem. But he wasnay stepping outside the scheme he was catching a fucking bus. Once he had collected the dough he went into the minimarket and bought an ounce of tobacco, fag papers and a lighter; and a roll and sausage which he gobbled down immediately. Then along to the chemist. It was a bit tricky in here cause they had all these racks standing about the floor. He sometimes went in to buy Helen stuff; tampax and the rest of it, headache pills; so he knew the layout. He didnay know it – just he knew it was a danger-zone, that’s what I’m talking about. When he tapped the stick he hit something metal with the first shot. He stopped and said, I’m looking for a pair of sunglasses.

  A woman said, They’re just behind ye.

  Eh d’ye think ye could pick me out a pair? Whatever ones ye like I mean I’m no bothered…

  As long as they fitted man what did it fucking matter what they looked like. She dug him out a pair and he tried them on. Fine. He kept them on and passed her a note. It was a twenty; when she returned him the change he stashed the notes in his hip pocket. He was gony ask her to walk him round to the bus-stop but fuck it, he would need help later on so he wasnay gony tempt the fates. Outside in the doorway he tore open the cellophane and rolled a smoke. But he couldnay get the fucking thing lighted. Maybe the draught was blowing out the flame. He tried a few times, holding the tip of the fag with his fingers and feeling for the lighter so it couldnay have missed, it couldnay have fucking missed, no if it was working. Maybe they had selt him a dud lighter man the fucking minimarket, who knows, but he gave it up and carried on round the corner, heading for the main drag, again keeping to the left, close in to the grass verge where there was a kerb to keep him on course.