How Late It Was How Late

by James Kelman

  Where the hell was he heading! he didnay fucking know. He stopped. Seriously man where the fuck was he? He chuckled again; what did it fucking matter. The rain. It was nice. The wee pit-a-pats. It made ye think of toddlers. Wee Peter staggering about.

  Jesus christ but he needed dough. D.o.g. That’s fucking dog man d.o.g., fucking dog. Sammy laughed – more of a fucking snivel than a laugh. At one point he had been gony let Ally have it. It was good he hadnay. He was a poor cunt. Ye can only feel sorry for guys like that. Never mind.

  Unfortunately, right now, right fucking now, Sammy was fuckt. He had forgot which way he was walking. It was the rain putting him off. He kept going for a few more steps but his stride got shorter and shorter. Cause there was nay point, just nay point. He stopped. He felt for the wall, which was there, and shouldnay have been, it should have ended a long way back. Never mind ye dont make a song and dance about things. Nay point in that. He moved along, touching for the wall, till he found a doorway. He stood in.

  A bunnet. Was Sammy dreaming or was that a thing about blind men? they wore bunnets? Probably because they couldnay see the sky so they didnay know if it was fucking cloudy or what; so they were aye having to be prepared.

  He wasnay a bad shoplifter, being honest about it. He didnay like to boast. It was the psychology. That was what he was good at. In fact that was a wee test he could set himself, he could go out and blag a bunnet.

  So:

  what was he gony do and how come he wasnay able to plan it out? Cause that stupit fucking quack had annoyed him. But nay point getting excited. Everything’s tactics and these were auld yins, like the man said, he shouldnay have fell for it. Ach well fuck it, sometimes ye just liked going for them. The way Sammy saw it was this: every time ye got to them ye shortened their life, it brought them that bit nearer the heart attack, know what I’m saying, ye were doing them in. So okay. The rain was getting worse; he stepped out from the doorway and it was bouncing off the bridge of his nose.

  Mona died last week

  she fell on the train line

  What was he gony do? Ach he knew what he was gony do.

  Mona died last week

  she fell on a train line.

  Sammy had a bad ear for song lyrics, he never remembered the bastards properly. Being honest he wasnay a great brain, he wasnay what ye would call a thinker. No really. He stopped walking. He should have stayed in the doorway.

  Footsteps. Hullo, he said. Nay answer. Probably a ghost and they cannay talk.

  Sammy was gony go to Glasgow Airport and stowaway on a flight to Luckenbach Texas to team up with Willie and Waylon and the boys. Aye ye’re no fucking kidding man fuck England he was going to Luckenbach.

  Where am I the now by the way?

  Where am I the now by the way. Fucking story of Sammy’s life. Ye see a brick fell on his head. That was actually true for fuck sake except it was a boulder. It was intentional as well. Three guys held him down and this other yin stood up above him, just holding it steady, taking aim. Like playing bools. Ye stared up seeing this big fucking jaggy boulder. Then ye didnay see it and wallop. The bridge of the nose. Since that day he’s never been the same. There’s another song. Life’s full of songs. Maybe god’s a singer.

  When Samuels went blind

  A smell of beer. It was a dream. Even yer nose plays tricks on ye!

  Ye couldnay trust nay cunt but.

  One guy he could trust

  nah he couldnay. Everybody blabbed. The world was made up of blabbers. Blabbers and spooks and fucking grasses. That was it about life man there was nay cunt ye could trust. Not a solitary single bastard that ye could tell yer tale of woe to. So ye just blundered about the place bumping into walls and fucking lampposts and innocent members of the community out for a fucking stroll. Auld Helen man

  gone but not forgotten.

  gone but not forgotten

  Sammy didnay even know if that was a song. One thing he did know

  naw he didnay, he didnay even know that.

  Mind you it was times like these when a pal made all the difference. He gave up pals years ago but maybe it was time for a rethink. Drinking buddies werenay good enough. Loose tongues, ye just got fuckt. The likes of the Leg, he wasnay what ye’d call a mate; no really, he was alright but basically that was what he was, a drinking buddy. Sammy hadnay wanted him along that Friday morning, he was just doing the guy a favour, weighing him in with a pay. He wasnay a bad cunt. A trier. Plus he had the kind of appearance that attracted attention. One look at him and ye wanted another look. That extra ten seconds; every wee bit helps with these security fuckers. The poor auld Leg but he wouldnay have known what hit him, I’m talking about when the sodjers got a fucking grip of him man it would be the talk of Glancy’s. Never mind. Ye come to think about it and Sammy couldnay mind the last pal he had; maybe Joe Sharkey the last time in London. One thing if he did head back down the road, he was gony screw the nut, go and stay somewhere quiet; he wouldnay go north and he wouldnay go east. And he wouldnay go fucking south either, he would go west. He didnay know nay cunt out there. Fucking wild west. He didnay even know the names of the places – fucking Dagenham or something, Hounslow man Southall; even the names were different, hams and lows and alls. Glasgow was too close, that was the problem, it was too wee. Everybody was in the fucking grubber as well man know what I’m saying, it’s tough at the top.

  If he could turn a couple of quid on these dress shirts. Cause there was another wee deal he could maybe push through. He just needed that bit of dough up front. The dress shirts would give him it. Except if the sodjers had blagged them, dirty bastards. There again but Tam would be wary now as well. The sodjers would have been to see him. Probably Tam was a grass anyway. And the Leg. In fact they were all fucking grasses. Even good auld Charlie; he was the fucking obvious one.

  Hullo eh can ye tell me if I’m near the flats yet?

  …

  Nah, Charlie wasnay a grass, that was just being stupit. Maybe he could phone him. They would have him bugged but it didnay matter. He could send the boy up with a note, leave it with Charlie’s missis. It would just mean he would know about Sammy – the boy, it meant he would know he was blind. So what? Fucking tell them, the weans, tell them everything, the truth.

  He upturned the jacket collar about his ears. The trouble was

  And now a good samaritan appeared. Naw he didnay. It was imagination.

  Then of course one of these fine days the heavy squad from the housing depot would appear and turf him off the premises. Well if they did Sammy would set up the barricades.

  He pushed ahead. The wind felt familiar. It was a Scottish wind. Scottish winds fuck ye. They do in yer ears. Then there was yer poor auld fucking flappers man yer feet, they were fucking swimming; even his wrists, for some reason they were sore. Fucking bracelets man these dirty bampot bastards, desperate; nay fucking need. He kicked off the pavement; the junction. But dead quiet. Kids went flying past him, their shoes splashing. He waited a minute; still quiet. He walked, his hands at his sides like he was marching. He was marching; just he wasnay doing it fast. The last few steps he went slow, nudging with his foot to find the kerb; then he was up and beautiful smells. Cooking. It smelled like a baker shop. Warm and tasty. A bridie and beans. Bread and butter and a pot of tea for one. So it wasnay the junction afore the walkway cause there was nay bakeries about there.

  So he was somewhere else.

  His foot went into soft stuff. Dog shit. Human shit. And a hill seemed to have started for christ sake he seemed to be walking up a hill. What the fuck hill was it? A fucking hill man! Now his hand brushed wet stuff, like leaves or something. A hedge.

  His head was lowered, the shoulders hunched. The way he was walking wasnay good for the posture. Stooped. He was thirty-eight. By the time he got home he would be forty-one and a half. And what would happen if he reached the top of this fucking hill and had to come down the other side! So there ye are, fucking humpty dumpty.

  That wa
s something he would never be able to do again: run. Fucking hell, even with cunts chasing him. He would just have to use the stick. He could whirl it round his head. They wouldnay get near him that way. See that stick! He was never gony leave the house without it. Never. Even if the fucking sodjers grabbed him; he would just tell them man no fucking way, no without the stick, he wasnay going to nay fucking poky unless they let him take the stick. It was an extension of himself. That was what the quack said. So there’s yer evidence, put together by a genuine doctor, a genuine dyed-in-the-wool fucking upper-class bampot bastard.

  Assuming he was no gony be dead, what would he be doing a year from now? Maybe it would all be worked out; he would have it under control; the other senses all tuned up to fever pitch; appearing on the telly to give demonstrations of how to hear through walls man think positive, that’s what ye do. Somebody was walking beside him. He stopped suddenly. Nothing. He carried on. The somebody went with him. So he stopped again; again suddenly. The somebody stopped beside him. Sammy sniffed. He was gony say something but at the same time he didnay, cause there would be nay cunt there. Even if there was they wouldnay say fuck all. If he could just stop breathing and listen but he was peching too much from the climb. He had to cut out that smoking. This was two days without man it was a head start. The trouble is he had tobacco lying in the house. If it hadnay been there he would have definitely chucked it. Nay fucking problem. But now what he would do, he would chuck it the day he left Glasgow, at the exact same moment, when the bus pulled out Buchanan Street Station, he would chip the last fag out the window. Fuck ye.

  Helen had never been to England. Hard to believe somebody that was an adult had never been to England, no even on a visit. But there ye are man that’s fucking Helen for ye. A fucking individualist all the way. Dumfries was far enough she said.

  Nay point panicking.

  Seriously but he was all washed up here so he had to leave; a speedy exit. Watch out for the dark. The sodjers gave the warning for Charlie but it wasnay Charlie it was Sammy, that was who they were warning. Well fuck me man it was an offer he couldnay refuse. There was nothing here for him anyway. Even afore last week’s debacle he was all washed up. He just hadnay admitted it. No to himself. Nay wonder she got angry. Jesus christ man nay wonder, nay fucking wonder!

  Fine if he could get a taxi, a taxi would have done the business. Get rid of all that can-ye-help-me crap fucking bullshit. Sammy wanted to vanish. Jesus christ he wanted to vanish, he really did. He once read a story about a guy that vanished. But it was unbelievable. So fuck it.

  He could vamoose but if he wanted to. Who was gony stop him? He could go back to the flats and pack his stuff and just saddle up and move em out. A blind man hits London. He would get off at Victoria. It was aye a great feeling that when ye left the bus. All the Glasgow accents disappear. As soon as ye step down onto the ground; everybody merges into the scenery, no looking at one another. And then ye’re anonymous. That was the fucking crack man know what I’m talking about getting anonymous, that was what it was all about, getting fucking anonymous; nay cunt giving ye hassle.

  Except ye have the next move to make. Where d’ye go from Victoria? Ye start with the walk to the tube station. Ye maybe stop in for a breakfast and a read of the paper. If it was him he would head north. Get to Seven Sisters. He lived there afore and quite liked it. Maybe somebody would remember him. Did he want to be remembered. Naw. Paddington, that’s another place. He could go to Paddington. Except that fucking Edgeware Road and Praed Street man a bad crossing for blind people. Fuck Paddington. Plus all these beggar cunts trying to tap ye. If ye were like Sammy ye wound up taking them for a fucking pint man. Wild. Ah fuck London. Maybe he would go somewhere else all the gether. Luckenbach Texas.

  Shut yer fucking mouth.

  The seaside! One of these quaint auld sleepy English places with a big long stretch of seashore where collie dogs go in paddling with their owners, auld women with smart brown shoes, the long promenade with benches every few metres. He would be safe there. Even safer on the sand. So safe ye could leave the stick at the side of the promenade steps. Then go for a long walk; down by the tide, the waves rippling in, take off the shoes and relax, stick the socks in the pocket, roll up the trousers and just hit through the surf, splish splash, wee tangles of seaweed round yer toes. He could get a wee room somewhere and it would be okay. Every cunt was rich there so he would be exceptional circumstances. They would give him his own fucking DSS office. What ye wanting the day Mister Samuels? Eh a plate of eggs and bacon would be nice, maybe a wee round of toast, long on the butter and long on the fucking marmalade know what I’m talking about ya fucking halfwit. And while we’re on the subject what about a four-legged friend, a fucking guide-dog.

  See when ye come to think about it he didnay really like Scotland. It was his country, okay, but that didnay mean ye had to like it. And when it rained here it fucking pissed on ye man there’s a difference. Sammy had never been lucky here. Never. Whereas, whereas, down at the seaside, down at the seaside

  Ye see these men and women with their collie dogs. The one thing ye know is that dog’s a pal; when ye see them the gether, that’s the one thing ye know immediately.

  There was that feeling again, some cunt walking beside him. Naybody would walk beside him at the seaside.

  Even Margate. That fisherman’s pub just round the corner from the site. All done up in fisherman style. The locals treated ye fine. Plus the guvnor’s wife man christ almighty some bit of stuff she was she used to give ye the come on and ye didnay hardly know if ye could believe yer eyes it was that fucking blatant. Some bit of stuff. Dangerous but. A dangerous woman. It was a great wee pub. Only snag was the wee boy. The woman’s husband, the guvnor, he was fucking crazy about his wee boy. And if ye were in the bar ye had to watch the wee cunt do his shadow-boxing or playing pool and all that, doing his fucking crossword puzzles or space-invaders, whatever he done ye had to watch and nod yer head like he was showing great promise and one of these days he was gony hit the big time it was a racing certainty. Mind you the guvnor gave ye tick. English pubs werenay bad for tick. No like fucking Glasgow man they take the hatchet out from under the counter: What’s that ye said! A tenner till Friday!

  That was auld Morris behind the bar in Glancy’s. The crabbitest cunt ye could hope to meet. Imagine hiring him to work in a boozer.

  It was raining it was cold

  West Bethelem was no place for a twelve-year-old

  Naw but it was something to do, go up Buchanan Street and find out the score. Sammy just wantit to get on a bus and then get off it. Get on in Glasgow and get off at the seaside. It would be Saturday morning. Saturday morning at half-past eight. The weather would be mild and summery, even in the middle of winter, it wouldnay rain for a fucking month; if it did it would be through the night and ye would be indoors with the little woman, all snug, like a couple of fucking bunny rabbits. He would get off the bus and go in for a face wash and then he would get some breakfast, a plate of cornflakes and bacon and eggs, coffee. Tea maybe, it didnay matter about that. He would have his suitcase, he could just dump it in the left luggage. Then a face wash, then breakfast, bacon and eggs, a round of toast; and coffee, or else tea, it didnay matter, he wasnay fussy. A new pair of shoes.

  Muttering.

  Sammy stopped dead and he turned. If he had had the stick he would have swung it round his head. Whoever ye are get to fuck, he said, I’m fucking warning ye.

  …

  He tried to slow his breathing. Hear what I’m saying, get to fuck. He whispered, Is that you Ally?

  Then he walked. He had to screw the nut. He was acting mad; he had to watch it, get to fuck man head for cover, know what I’m saying, life was too claustrophobic, ye couldnay cope with it. He had to get away. He had to leave here he had to get to the flat and pack, pack his stuff and get to fuck and my god he felt he might no even be able to make it to the next giro. A week next Friday for fuck sake. He would but he would have to. G
et rid of the shirts. Fucking knock-me-down-price; just to get fucking shot of them.

  And whatever, he would be doing his best. If his best wasnay good enough it wasnay his problem.

  This bastard hill for fuck sake where was he he was still going fucking up the way. He wantit to scream really he wanted to bawl, to bawl; but he couldnay he couldnay for christ sake he had to watch himself. At least the rain was back to drizzling. He should have conned that bastard rep into taking him home. This was fucking ridiculous man it was just so fucking ridiculous. His own fault for letting the guy off the hook; the killer-instinct, he just didnay have it. Some things were gony stay the same. He was still the same, he would still be the same; that was the problem. Yet he wasnay! He was fucking different! He wasnay the same at all! He had changed! He really had changed. Surely Helen had seen it! Fucking hell man! Well she would fucking see it; all she needed was a wee bit of faith, a bit of fucking trust in him. Cause he was her man; and if she couldnay have trust in her own man then that was fucking that. That was what the auld guy next door called him; Helen McGilvaray’s man. And he was a fucking stranger too know what I’m saying, a fucking stranger jesus christ and he saw it. And she didnay! Some crack that man know what I’m talking about.

  Down south they would start from scratch. The two of them, they would get a job. She was a certainty; auld Helen for fuck sake she was brilliant behind the bar. Maybe they could land one of these husband and wife team-jobs. Licensees; get their own wee flat up above the pub. The only problem was the form-sheet; these breweries, they were strong on references and that kind of bullshit. Well references could be fucking got, know what I’m talking about, nay problem. Just Helen. Ye couldnay tell her that. Never mind fucking getting the references ye couldnay even fucking talk about getting them. She had her own wee ways the same woman. She thought she was oh so practical, but was she was she fuck; she wasnay, she just thought she was.

  Dreams. When he went south he was going on his tod. These things; ye have to face up to them. She was gone. No even a note. Fucking weird one that, no even a note. Course how would he know if there was a note? Maybe she had left notes all ower the house. She could have painted messages on the fucking wall for all he knew. Ah fuck it man sooner or later, sooner or later. The worst way the sodjers would get a grip of her and let her know the story, and then she would be back, even just to see for herself, how he was doing, if he was coping. Course he was fucking coping. That was what he had been telling her for the past fucking month he had been coping; a changed man; all that past stuff it was finished, ower and done with. And down south he would be treated different too, treated with a bit of thought aforethought thought aforethought thought aforethought he was gonnay keep thinking this thought aforethought thought aforethought the bastard walking beside him man and he wanted to scream but he wasnay gony he just wasnay gony, give them the satisfaction, ye kidding, fucking dirty bastards, I know who ye are.