Dirt Road (32 page)

He had heard of catfish but just really the name. It was a good-sized solid fish. Did it look like a cat? He lifted it up in his fingers. It was quite stiff, ye could hold it and just eat it. He took the first bite. And it was tasty, jees, a real mouthful. He used the fork to get some of the relish: onions were in it and a liquidy kind of stuff. He coughed and swallowed a mouthful of water. Usually he liked it peppery. It was chopped-up red chillies. He tried some of the relish on his finger. Very hot, but tasty. He was eating everything.
Even the lettuce. Lettuce was good; he liked it. He never used to. Now he did.

Another customer at the foodstall, a wee man. Him and the guy that worked there were chatting, laughing together. Probably they knew each other and were speaking in Spanish. Hot dog cat fish. Ha ha ha. Maybe laughing at Murdo. A dollar tip. So what? Ha ha. He was enjoying the food. He ate the lot, wiped his fingers and sat an extra five minutes sipping the water then was onto his feet again. He kept the napkins and stuffed the rubbish into a bin which was about overflowing. It was getting cold. Not cold so much as cool. He had other clothes in the rucksack, if it got like cold as in really really cold where ye were shivering and not able to get warm. This was just cool. Not really cold at all. He pulled on the rucksack, gripped the accordeon-case handle, then was walking again. Where? Where was he going? He walked a while, not thinking about stuff, or not seeming to think about stuff; maybe he was but not registering what it was; just like whatever, a mix of stuff. His mind did that like one thing to another, just leaping about, stupid. Because where was he going? Maybe there was someplace. Where? He would see it when he got there! His feet would lead him. People said that, Oh my feet led me. Ye closed yer eyes: Right feet, on ye go, then they tripped up and ye fell on yer face.

Later he laid down the accordeon-case and cupped his hands, blew into them. He stood for a while. The streets were quiet, very very. He was by the entrance to a venue now closed for the night. He felt like he had been walking for hours. Had he ever stopped? Yes, to eat a fish. He sat on a bench and ate a fish. His hands were still greasy.

He just had to keep walking. It was important. Why? Just because. Because what? Something would happen. What? Something. Definitely.

One thing was the toilet: he hadnt been since Baton Rouge. Whatever they called it here, washroom, restroom. But if ye couldnt find one? What did ye do if ye couldnt find one? An actual lavatory.
Ye couldnt take a chance and just do it someplace because if ye got caught, like the cops or somebody just seeing ye and shooting ye down in cold blood.

He lifted the accordeon-case and continued walking.

But if ye couldnt find one and didnt have a choice like if ye were bursting and really needed to go, like really really, ye were desperate, then ye had to, because ye had no choice ye had no choice.

The next street corner. He would get to there. Then the one after that, he would just walk to there, jeesoh. Could he do another one?

Probably there werent any toilets. He had the festival street map in the rucksack but was wary of taking it out to read. Nobody was walking. If anybody came along and saw ye with a map they would know ye were a stranger and that wasnt good, that was risky.

Maybe turning back was best.

Where was he?

Ha ha.

That happened; ye turned a corner then another and another and ye wound up lost. But it wasnt good to stand still.

Ye dont do anything standing still. Ye have to walk. Murdo did, just forwards, but then maybe not, maybe best just

What? Thinking about it first. Was it best to go back? Where to, the bus station! Ha ha.

That was the trouble, he wasnt thinking, he wasnt thinking at all he was just like – whatever, just whatever, walking, walking and walking.

Whereabouts? Where was he?

Ye aye hoped ye were on a square so ye turned a corner and followed a straight line backwards or forwards and then ye would be out but what if the streets went at an angle so then ye went wherever, north instead of west. Angle lines are straight. Even the line of a circle! When is a circle not a circle? Please sir infinity. Please sir three right sides, a point a point a point.

Maybe he was lost. Was he lost? Maybe he was. Not lost but just away from everything. Not everything, just everything that is like

He walked closely by the wall of a building where the light was a little better.

A block farther on the pavement became more shadowy; this building of an older type with ordinary doorways and in one was an edge of something

like a body

like wrapped in a blanket, a body.

It was. A tuft of hair poking out. A man's head. Jeesoh. A man's head; a man asleep, African-American, snoozing, but ye couldnt hear him, ye couldnt hear his breath.

Murdo had stepped aside along by the edge of the kerb, turning the next corner and walking fast, faster, just in case of whatever, guys sneaking up and jumping ye, and on into another street, wee and narrow. Dark and like pitch black even; and not a sound. He was not worried; definitely not worried but just like where was he going where was he going! Jeesoh. Having to take the chance but this was for a pee, he could pee, jees, it was so so dark. He stepped in at the side of where it was, set down the accordeon-case, stepped a little way off and urinated wherever wherever, into the street just, hoping, hoping, doing it as fast as fast made possible, just like – oh God…

Then grabbing the accordeon-case he was quickly walking walking yes thank God, thank God, thank you God, keeping to the outside edge of the kerb and away from the wall.

He glanced into doorways and spaces where a body could hide or even just sit to keep out the road like if ye had to if it was raining, just to shelter.

Way along he saw two figures. The cops here had guns and holsters, sticks and handcuffs and that other thing they had that reminded ye of a ball and chain for knocking off people's heads. That spiked ball thing like dangling at the end of a chain; they used them back in the olden days, knights in armour, and swung
them round and round then crash, knocking the head off yer shoulders. The cops here were tough and killed people. Dont ever make jokes. Then a voice, somebody shouting at somebody, farther along the street. Then an actual person across the street. Somebody, Jesus Christ, Murdo walked fast on. Leaning against the wall or just a shadow maybe a shadow. Creepy. Dont stop. Along another street and onto a wider street there was grass. And a certain building. Grass and a certain building. And there the public telephone he tried to use earlier. It was, it was the same public telephone. The grass was the same grass square. On the other side of there was the catfish foodstall now with the shutters drawn, and the benches, and the road that took ye back to the main festival area. Thank God.

He walked round the other side where there was a little bit more light, and a bench. But two people were there already. He kept going; farther along there was one empty. It was. He set down the accordeon-case and the rucksack at one end of it, he sat down.

Later his head was full of stuff, but away in the distance someplace and ye had to grapple to discover what it was. Spots of light down the end of a tunnel. Then ye were at the end and nothing except feeling kind of cold, yer body. He shouldnt have been cold but he was and his teeth did the rapid shiver-click he used to get as a boy, trembling out the bath and Mum wrapping the towel round ye: dih dih dih dih dih dih dih, dih dih dih dih dih dih dih, oh Mummy Mummy Mummy. Are ye cold? I'm freezing I'm freezing I'm freezing.

Not freezing, but cold. He opened his rucksack and brought out his other top, took off his jacket and pulled it over the one he was already wearing then put the jacket back on. He had spare socks. Yes he did. He could put them on too. Maybe later. He sat a moment, then extracted the belt from his jeans and tied it through the handle of the accordeon-case and the rucksack to connect round his wrist, so if anybody tried to snatch them it would alert him. He could even doze off and be safe, although he didnt want
to; risky stuff. First thing in the morning he would phone home. If they were back. Of course they were back. They were back right now. They never would have stayed overnight. Then the letter. Dad would have read it! They all would know. He says he will phone, thank God. Then it would be Dad, Oh why hasnt he phoned, he said he would phone.

Ye said ye would phone and ye didnt! Yes Dad but if ye dont have yer own and there arent any landlines that work.

He tried to phone and the damn bloody thing didnt work. It wasnt his fault. How could it be? If it didnt work it didnt work, people couldnt bloody use it, they couldnt use it. Jeesoh. Jees, jees. Ye said ye would phone. Yes but. Yes but.

He folded his arms in tightly, hunching in his shoulders, bent forwards, elbows resting on his thighs, rocking back and forwards a little bit but stopping that and just hunching in and hunching in, the heat in, keeping the heat in like trapping it, trapping yer heat, oh mammy daddy mammy daddy mammy daddy, then shoving his hands in his pockets, leaning forwards.

Later again he was awake so he must have dozed; definitely. He looked to the sky. Probably about whatever. Who knows. Three o'clock maybe.

The bottle of water. He unscrewed the lid and sipped.

He should have brought a blanket, he was quite shivery. Aunt Maureen's big towel. He brought a wee one instead. He was shivery and it was cold, it was, jees like jees jees jees, really. Getting up and stamping his feet was what he felt like doing but he didnt, he just sat there tighter in, in, not wanting to move at all because even the slightest most minute fraction would take the heat from his body. Socks could be gloves. Socks and towels for warmth for warm, heat warming, body warming, and extra socks and yer teeth drrrrrrr drrrrrrr drrrrrrr drrrrrrr, that was ringing not shivering ringing ringing, ring ring, ring ring

Oh hullo Dad.

It was just round and round and round, things things things and
whatever the tunes would be then they would be that, whatever they were, tunes shivery and doh doh doh, doh.

A mental sort of a doze. What like was it? Horrible. That was him, for however long he had no idea except cutting off consciousness if ye can say that, something dark and switched off.

Except when he woke it was the real nightmare, this guy staring at him; some madman. A bloody madman. Just a fucking scary scary madman staring at him on the side of the bench farthest away just sitting there, less than two feet away oh Jesus Christ scary scary scary, he was scary, he was scary scary, just like a real real scary guy. That is the truth. Murdo kept looking at him. The one thing maybe was holding his gaze. Not looking away. But straight into his eyes just looking. Because then what could he do? Nothing, not with Murdo looking straight straight at him,

and while he did he was pulling the belt out through the accordeon-case handle and the rucksack straps, then coiling it into a rucksack compartment, and rising to his feet still looking at the guy, and now off the bench he backed away, gripping the accordeon-case and rucksack in either hand, and he set off walking in a kind of curve so like if the guy tried anything Murdo would see him. Beyond the foodstall he crossed over the street, round a corner and crossed another one and round another one but then was on a main street and he kept along this.

Murdo didnt feel like a coward. So what if he was? Guys had knives. Some of them did, hidden in the blankets like if they were homeless and sleeping rough, they were ready to fight. So if somebody went to get them they would leap out with the knife and stick it right into them. Ye couldnay blame them either. Things happened. In Glasgow ye had them begging on the street, they sat on the pavement even if it was raining; ye saw their trousers soaked. Some from foreign countries. They didnt have any money. Nothing. How even did they get to Scotland? It was incredible. A lassie he knew put a £5 note into one of their paper cups. Murdo didnt see it himself, a guy told him. They were up in Glasgow and were
just like walking down the street and she saw a beggar and she went and put in a £5 note. A beggar. A fiver. That was lassies. No guy ever would give a fiver. It was just like incredible.

It was safe now. He still had his money. He counted it. The guy couldnt have robbed him. But if the dollar notes had slipped out his pocket? While he was hunched up dozing?

Imagine they had! What would he have done? He would have had to go back. He would have had to. So if the guy was still there? Okay. It didnt matter because it was the money so he would have had to go. What choice? None. To get his money, if that was it, he would have gone, he would have had to.

Anyway, it didnt matter.

A sandwich and a carton of hot tea! If he could find a 24/7 store. Maybe a garage; garages had shops. One foodvan he passed was advertising OPEN ALL NIGHT but it was closed. An all-night foodvan that closed during the night.

Although it was morning. Nearly. The quality of light. That smell of dampness. A fresh morning. How near was the sea?

Tonight was the gig. Amazing to think. Because he was here. Dad would be sleeping or else awake worrying. But that was that.

More people around; early workers, morning strollers, a couple with dogs. Maybe somebody the same as him, nowhere to go and just walking about. Homeless people. Murdo was one.

Then an amazing foodsmell, a wee café-style restaurant open for business bloody hell it was just oh man what a smell, just this beautiful foodsmell like aroma through a wee kind of alleyway and music coming from inside, a lone voice singing; a French guy and a French song; just him and the guitar jeesoh, bloody beautiful. What was he doing! Everything and nothing. Murdo stopped about thirty yards from the café entrance, listening. Food in the song too – le plat de fricassée. Just beautiful that nice nice guitar. What was he doing! Hardly any damn thing at all! How do ye get that? How do ye just make it like that? How is it people can do that? They just like do it, they do the song, they sit and they have the guitar like they just