Greyhound for Breakfast (2 page)

The man handed him the bottle.

The second looked at him, biding his time, waiting to see the outcome.

And the third bloke put his hands into his trouser pockets and strolled across the path, down to the small fence at the burn, where he leant his elbows.

The noise of the water, the current not being too strong, a gush more than anything, a continuous gushing sound, and quite reassuring. This freshness as well, it was good. The whole scene in
fact, was very peaceful, very very peaceful; a deep tranquillity. Not yet 10 o’clock in the morning but so incredibly calm.

There was no label on the bottle. Francis frowned at this. What happened to the label? he asked.

It fell off.

Is it hair lacquer or something?

Hair lacquer! laughed the second bloke.

It looks like it to me, replied Francis.

You dont have to fucking drink it you know!

Francis nodded; he studied the bottle. The liquid looked fine – as much as it was possible to tell from looking; but what was there could be told about a drink by looking at the outside of
its bottle? He couldnt even tell what colour it was, although the actual glass was dark brownish. He raised the neck of the bottle, tilted his head and tasted a mouthful: Christ it was fiery stuff!
He shook his head at the two blokes, he seemed to be frowning but he wasnt. WWhhh! Fucking hot stuff this! he said.

Aye.

Francis had another go. Really fiery but warming, a good drink. He wiped his mouth and returned the bottle. Ta, he said.

I told you it was the mccoy, said the second bloke.

Did you?

Aye.

Mm. It’s fucking hot, I’ll say that!

Know what we call it?

Naw.

Sherry vindaloo!

Francis smiled. That was a good yin, sherry vindaloo. He’d remember it.

The first bloke nodded and repeated it: Sherry vindaloo.

The second bloke laughed and swigged some, he walked to hand it to the third who did a slightly peculiar thing, it was a full examination; he studied the bottle all round before taking a sip
which must have finished it because the next thing he was leaning over the fence and dropping the bottle into the burn. Francis glanced at the first bloke but didnt say anything. Then he shivered.
It was still quite cold. High time that sun put in an appearance, else all would be lost! Francis grinned. The world was really a predictable place to live in. Augustine was right but wasnt right
though obviously he wasnt wrong. He was a good strong man. If Francis had been like him he would have been quite happy.

The first bloke was looking at him. You’ll do for me, he said.

What was that?

I said you’ll do for me.

Francis nodded. Thanks. As long as you didnt take offence about that comment.

Och naw, fuck.

Francis nodded. And thanks for the drink.

Ye kidding? It’s just a drink.

Aye well . . .

The bloke shrugged. That’s how we were wanting to get a few bob, so’s we could get a refill.

Mm, aye.

See your watch, we could get no bad for it.

Frank nodded. There was no chance, no fucking chance. Down by the fence the second bloke was gazing at him and he shifted on his seat immediately so that when he was looking straight ahead he
was looking away from the three men. He didnt want to see them at the moment. There was something about them that was frightening. He was recognizing in himself fear. He was scared, he was
frightened; it was the three men who were frightening him, something in them together that was making him scared, the sum of the parts, it was an evil force. If he just stared straight ahead. If he
stayed calm. He was on a bench in the park and it was 10 a.m. There was a jogger somewhere. All it needed was somebody to touch him perhaps. If that happened he would die. His heart would stop
beating. If that happened he would die and revelation. But if he just got up. If he was to just get up off of the bench and start walking slowly and deliberately along in the opposite direction, to
from where they had come. That would be fine if he could just do that. But he couldnt, he couldnt do it; his hands gripped his kneecaps, the knuckles pure white. Did he want to die? What had his
life been like? Had it been worth living? His boyhood, what like was his boyhood? had that been okay? It hadnt been too bad he hadnt been too bad, he’d just been okay normal, normal, the same
as anybody else. He’d just fallen into bad ways. But he wasnt evil. Nobody could call him evil. He was not evil. He was just an ordinary person who was on hard times who was not doing as well
as he used to and who would be getting better soon once things picked up, he would be fine again and able to be just the same, he was all right, he was fine, it was just to be staring ahead.

When from out of the evening the quiet reached such a pitch I had to unlock the door and wander abroad. At this time the waves ceased pounding the rocks and the wind entered
its period of abeyance. Along the shore I travelled very casually indeed, examining this, that and the other, frequently stooping to raise a boulder. That absurd and unrealized dream from
childhood, that beneath certain boulders . . .

I was going south to south east, towards the third promontory. It was where I could take my ease at times such as this. A fine huddle of rocks and stone. There were three little caverns and one
larger one, a cave; this cave would presently be dry. It always afforded a good shelter. From it I could gaze out on the sea. I withdrew my articles from my coat pocket, a collection of shells.
Even now I retained the habit, as though some among them would prove of value eventually. I leaned close to the entrance of the cave and chipped them out in a handful, not hearing any splash due to
the roaring of the waves. Yet there too had been a striped crab shell of a sort I was unfamiliar with, about five inches in diameter. I kept an assortment of items at home to which this crab shell
might have proved a fair addition. In all probability, however, the stripes had simply been a result of the sea’s turmoil. Or perhaps it had been wedged in between two rocks for several
centuries. I doubted my motives for having thrown it away. But I had no history to consider. None whatsoever. I had that small collection of things and too the cottage itself, its furnishings and
fittings, certain obvious domestic objects. But be that as it may not one of these goods was a history of mine. My own history was not in that cottage. If it could be trapped anywhere it would not
be there. I felt that the existence of a dead body would alter things. Previous to this I had come upon a dead body so I did have some knowledge. It had been a poor thing, a drowned man of middle
age, a seaman or fisherman. I made the trip to the village to convey the information then returned to the cottage to await their arrival. I had carried the body into there and placed it on the
floor to safeguard against its being carried back out on the tide. The face was bearded, no boots on the feet though a sock remained on the left foot. A man in the sea with his wits about him,
ridding himself of the boots to assist the possibility of survival. He would have had a family and everyday responsibilities whether to them or to his shipmates; that amazing urge to survive which
is itself doomed. He would have been dead in twenty minutes, maybe less. If I had been God I would have allowed him to survive for twenty hours.

But now here I was. And could it be described as good, this lack of damp, not being chilled to the bone; even a sensation of warmth. All in all I was wishing I had kept a hold of the shells and
that striped one of a crab, and I would then have been very content indeed, simply to remain there in the cave, knowing I would only have to travel such and such a distance back to the cottage.

What I fucking do is wander about the place, just going here and there. I’ve got my pitches. A few other cunts use them as well. They keep out my road cause I lose my
temper. I’ve got two mates I sometimes meet up with to split for a drink and the rest of it. Their pitches are out the road of mine. One of them’s quiet. That suits me. The other
yin’s a gab. I’m no that bothered. What I do I just nod. If anybody’s skint it’ll be him. He’s fucking hopeless. The quiet yin’s no bad. I quite like the way he
does it. He goes up and stares into their eyes. That’s a bit like me except I’ll say something. Give us a couple of bob. The busfare home. That kind of thing. It doesnt fucking matter.
All they have to do is look at you and they know the score. What I do I just stand waiting at the space by the shops. Sometimes you get them with change in their hands; they’ve no had time to
stick it back into their purses or pockets. Men’s the best. Going up to women’s no so hot because they’ll look scared. The men are scared as well but it’s no sexual and
there’s no the same risks with the polis if you get clocked doing it. Sometimes I feel like saying to them give us your jacket ya bastard. It makes me laugh. I’ve never said it yet. I
dont like the cunts and I get annoyed. Sometimes I think ya bastard ye I’m fucking skint and you’re no. It’s a mistake. It shouldnt fucking matter cause you cant stop it.
There’s this dog started following me. It used to go with that other yin, the quiet cunt. It tagged behind him across in the park one morning and me and the gab told him to fucking dump it
cause it must belong to somebody but he didnt fucking bother, just shrugs. One thing I’m finding but it makes it a wee bit easier getting a turn. But I dont like it following me about. I dont
like that kind of company. I used to have a mate like that as well, followed me about and that and I didnt like it. I used to tell him to fuck off. That’s what I sometimes do with the dog.
Then sometimes they see you doing it and you can see them fucking they dont like it, they dont like it and it makes them scared at the same time. I’d tell them to fuck off as well.
That’s what I feel like doing but what I do I just ignore them. That’s what I do with the dog too, cause it’s best. Anything else is daft, it’s just getting angry and
that’s a mistake. I try no to get angry; it’s just the trouble is I’ve got a temper. That’s what the gab says as well, your trouble he says you’ve got a fucking
temper, you’re better off just taking it easy. But I do take it easy. If they weigh you in then good and if they dont then there’s always the next yin along. And even if you dont get a
turn the whole fucking day then there’s always the other two and usually one of them’s managed to get something. That’s the good thing about it, having mates. What I dont
understand I dont understand how you get a few of the cunts going about in wee teams, maybe four or five to a pitch, one trying for the dough while the rest hang about in the background.
That’s fucking hopeless cause it just puts them off giving you anything and sometimes you can even see them away crossing the street just to keep out the way, as if they’re fucking
scared they’re going to get set about if they dont cough up. It’s stupid as well cause there’s always some cunt sees what you’re up to and next thing the polis is there and
you’re in fucking bother. What I think I think these yins that hang about in the background it’s cause they’re depressed. They’ve had too many knockbacks and they cant
fucking take it so what they do they start hanging about with some cunt that doesnt care and they just take whatever they can get. If it was me I’d just tell them to fuck off; away and fuck
I’d tell them, that’s what I’d say if it was me.

I sit here you know I just sit here wondering what to do and my belly goes and my nerves are really on edge and I dont know what the fuck I’m to do it’s something
to think about I try to think about it while my head is going and sometimes this brings it back but only for a spell then suddenly I’m aware again of the feeling like a knife in the pit of my
guts it’s a worry I get worried about it because I know I should be doing things there are things needing doing I know I know I know it well but cant just bring myself to do them it isnt even
as though there is that something that I can bring myself to do for if that was true it would be there I would be there and not having to worry about it at this stage my muscles go altogether and
there’s aches down the sides of my body they are actual aches and also under my arms at the shoulder my armpits there are aches and I think what I know about early-warning signs the
early-warning signal of the dickey heart it feels like that is what it is the warning about impending strokes and death because also my chest is like that the pains at each side and stretching from
there down the sides of my body as if I’m hunched right over the workbench with a case of snapped digestion the kind that has dissolved from the centre but still is there round the edges and
I try to take myself out of it I think about a hundred and one things all different things different sorts of things the sorts of things you can think about as an average adult human being with an
ordinary job and family the countless things and doing this can ease the aches for a time it can make me feel calm a bit as though things are coming under control due to thinking it all through as
if really I am in control and able to consider things objectively as if I’m going daft or something but this is what it’s like as if just my head’s packed it in and I’m
stranded there with this head full of nothing and with all that sort of dithering it’d make you think about you’ve got it so that sometimes I wish my hands were clamps like the kind
joiners use and I could fasten them onto the sides of my head and then apply the thumbscrews so everything starts squeezing and squeezing

I try not to think about it too much because that doesnt pay you dont have to tell me I know it far too well already then I wouldnt be bothering otherwise I wouldnt be
bothering but just sitting here and not bothering but just with my head all screwed up and not a single idea or thought but just maybe the aches and the pains, that physicality.

I had landed in a position of some authority offering scope for advancement. A storekeeper. I kept records of food for the stores of food I had authority of. The Foodstore was
a fairly large smallroom. I had no assistants. Those in superior positions held little or no authority over me. I was belonging to the few able to match figures on paper with objects on shelves and
was left alone to get on with it.