Greyhound for Breakfast (22 page)

Peter returned home shortly after closing time with a carry-out. The room was cold and bleak. He shuddered as he stooped to light the gas-fire. Not an enjoyable evening, the
pub had been packed and he had only stayed through a combination of laziness and utter boredom. Of course that red-haired girl had stared at him over her partner’s right shoulder for a while.
Probably the landlord paid her a retainer to ensnare young and old men into staying and buying his lousy flat beer.

He sprawled on the comfy old leather armchair, kicked off his shoes and leaned to switch on the electric kettle. He had the beginnings of a headache or something. He would only be able to face a
smoke after a coffee. Maybe he should have followed the red-haired girl home. Could have been genuine. Yes. Could have been.

He absentmindedly lit a cigarette but coughed so badly on the first drag that he stubbed it out, carefully, making sure it could be smoked again. Hell of a bad habit smoking. Causes cancer,
bronchitis and several other diseases of the lungs, heart and throat. Drink too of course. Liver trouble. Plus your bladder. And alcoholism. And what about the gut you get if you bevy too much
beer! Gambling as well. Good God Almighty! Some women say they’d rather be married to an alcoholic than a gambler. A fact. The nerves get it. Watch a gambler’s hands, how they keep
twitching all the time whenever he makes a bet. Hear his heart thump as they race well inside the final furlong. An alky sometimes will tell you he is trapped, no way out, but a gambler! He says he
does not gamble. Yes.

The kettle was boiling. Peter reached down to switch if off. He picked out a can of Guinness from the brown paper carrier bag. Hell with the coffee, he had the taste now. Pity none of the lads
had been in earlier. Maybe have chipped in for a good sized carry-out, made a bit of a night of it, invited a couple of women back.

He peeled the stopper from the top of the can and took a long slug. Bitter! Sometimes Guinness could taste hell of a bitter. Should have bought some lager instead. No, not lager, too bloody
gassy. And even worse for the liver so they say. Better off with a few cans of pale ale. Still, save money with the Guinness. Never drink too much cause of the taste.

He rose and went through to the toilet. As he began urinating he lurched forward but managed to support himself by clutching onto the pipe leading to the cistern. He pissed over his left sock.
It felt warm and surprisingly pleasant.

As he returned to his armchair he accidentally kicked over the can of Guinness and had to open a new one. He lit a cigarette and then noticed the one he had begun earlier. He smiled up at the
ceiling but then he started in surprise. Scratching? What is this scratching? The mouse? Oh no. Surely not? That bastard is dead. Killed a week ago with a rolled up
Sporting Life
. The
bastard. Definitely a scratching. Under the bed in the recess. Must have been two of them.

Peter lay back on the chair with his eyes closed, nursing the cold tin of beer. The scratching began once more. God, to be deaf. He slowly opened his eyes and placed the beer up onto the
mantelpiece. He grinned malevolently. This bastard shall join his comrade.
Sporting Life!
Call to arms. Consider yourself conscripted once again.

He dropped down to his knees on the floor and blinked into the shadows beneath the bed. His heart jumped. A strange harsh taste hit the roof of his mouth. He gulped. He bounded back into the
chair and stretched his feet out onto the coffee table.

Jesus Christ Almighty. How many? How many? How many more? He leaned over, tucking his trouser bottoms into his socks like a cyclist then knelt back down on the floor. He watched hypnotized as
half a dozen mice went scuttling and leapfrogging around the wall and far leg of the bed. His flesh crawled. His scalp itched. The blood thundered and thumped through his heart and into his
temples. Perhaps the hebee jebees were upon him. Maybe the shaking pink elephants would attack next. On five pints and a half a can of Guinness? No. Surely not.

Again Peter returned to the chair where he lit a cigarette. He noticed one still smouldering on the ashtray with quite a lot to be smoked. Whose? The other stubbed-out unsmoked fag lay beside
it. He broke it into two pieces and played with the loose strands of tobacco, then lay back, smoking peacefully for a few minutes. He moved his head nearer the edge of the chair and glanced over,
and watched the tiny mice cavort in circles roundabout the front side of the bed. He started counting them. He stopped at seven and began a recount. He stopped again. Ten? A dozen? How many?
Christ! How many in a litter? Could it be a new litter? He ran a clammy hand through his hair. His scalp felt oily and was almost unbearably itchy. Perhaps if . . . What?

He returned to the toilet, shutting the kitchen door on the way. He turned on the tap of the wash-hand basin and washed his head in the ice-cold water. Much better. Much much better. He paused
in the lobby and pulled on his old heavy boots leaving his trouser bottoms inside his socks. To battle! To battle with the bastards! Onward! The glorious struggle.

From the cool of the lobby into the now-warm kitchen. He gazed at the floor beneath the bed and then at his armchair and quickly he jumped onto the bed and lay across it with his head over the
side looking under. They appeared to be playing hide-and-seek. He crawled to the corner where the action was in progress and peered down. He could make out their shapes in the shadows here quite
easily. One now seemed to be crawling up the leg of the bed with its back against the wall for support. Jesus! Oh Jesus.

He sat up, cross-legged with his right hand ready to wield the
Sporting Life
. He waited patiently, staring down at the edge of the bed.

Bastards. Okay, come on then. Come on then you creepy little bastards. Me and this paper. Come on you bastards.

He sat there waiting. He thought he heard the crawler fall back but lacked the courage to look. Perhaps they had started crawling up the legs at the opposite side of the bed, the ones behind
him? Jesus Christ! He could feel their presence. He felt them there right behind his back. Then suddenly he relaxed. His mouth gaped open as the tension and strain eased from his limbs and body. He
breathed in and then out, swivelled his head around. Nothing! Nothing at all.

He looked down over the bed and saw a mouse go hurtling across the floor towards the cooker and the pantry. No grub there anyway! Ha ha ha you bastard, nothing there.

God. Oh God. A shape under the candlewick bedspread moved steadily in his direction. He stared glassy-eyed for about ten seconds then screamed. He flew off the bed, picked up the carry-out,
cigarettes and matches and bolted into the lobby slamming the door behind him. He leaned against the wall gasping and spluttering saliva down his chin. The
Sporting Life
? Must have dropped
it in the rush. He looked about the place then noticed the container of blue paraffin. He grabbed it up and smiled slyly. He opened the kitchen door gently and slowly sprinkled the paraffin over
towards the floor at the bed then lit a match and carefully threw it. The carpet burst into flames.

‘Ha you little bastards!’ he screamed. ‘Ha ha now you bunch of bastards!’ Then he locked himself into the toilet.

The firemen found him there half an hour later after breaking the door in. He stood with one foot in the pan and the other balanced on the seat. He appeared to have been plunging each one in
alternately and pulling the plug every so often. He punched his chest when they told him that everything in the kitchen was destroyed.

Tommy had lain awake for almost ten minutes before the alarm finally shattered the early Sunday morning peace. He switched it off and jumped out of bed immediately, dressing in
seconds. He opened the bedroom door, padded along the lobby into the kitchenette. A plate of cornflakes lay beside a bottle of milk and bowl of sugar from which he poured and sprinkled.

When he had finished eating the door creaked open and his mother blinked around it: ‘Are you up?’ she asked.

‘Aye mum. Had my cornflakes.’ He could not see her eyes.

‘Washed yet?’

‘Aye mum, it’s a smashing day outside.’

‘Well you better watch yourself. There’s an orange somewhere.’

‘Aye mum.’

‘It’s yes.’

He nodded and stood up, screeching the chair backwards.

‘Sshh . . .’ whispered his mother, ‘you’ll waken your dad.’

‘Sorry,’ whispered Tommy. ‘See you later mum.’

‘At eight?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said, stooping to pick up the canvas paper-bag.

‘John’s always in at eight for something to eat,’ said his mother.

‘Okay!’ He swung the bag onto his shoulder the way his brother did.

‘Don’t say okay,’ said his mother frowning a little, eyes open now, becoming accustomed to the morning light.

‘Sorry mum.’

‘Alright. You better go now. Cheerio!’

‘Cheerio!’ he called as she disappeared into the dark curtain-drawn bedroom.

Immediately her head reappeared around the door: ‘SHH!’

‘What’s going on,’ grunted a hoarse voice from the depth.

‘Sorry mum!’ Tommy could hear his father coughing as the bedroom door closed. He washed his face before quietly opening the outside door. He stepped out onto the landing and kicked
over an empty milk-bottle but managed to snatch it up before the echo had died away. A dog barked somewhere. Hurrying downstairs not daring to whistle he jumped the last half flight of steps then
halted, hardly breathing, wondering if he could have wakened the neighbours by the smack of his sandshoes on the solid concrete.

Out the close he clattered down the remaining steps to the pavement, not caring how much noise he made now that he was out in the open. Crossing the road he leaned against the spiked wooden
fence looking far across the valley. So clear. He could see the Old Kilpatricks and that Old Camel’s Hump linking them with the Campsies. He whistled as loudly as he could with two fingers,
laughing as the echoes pierced across the burn and over to Southdeen. He turned and waved the paper-bag round and round over his head; then he began trotting along the road, swinging it at every
passing lamp-post. He kept forgetting the time and day. It was so bright. He felt so good.

At the top of Bellsyde Hill he slowed down and stared at the view. What hills away over there? The Renfrews maybe. Or it could still be the Old Kilpatricks? Rather than use the tarred pathway he
ran downhill across the grass embankment. He had seen nobody since leaving the house more than ten minutes ago. A truck nearly killed him as he came dashing out onto Drumchapel Road from the
blind-spot exit.

The truck jammed to a halt and the driver peered out the window. ‘Wee bastard!’ he roared. ‘You daft wee bastard!’

But Tommy never stopped running. He flew on down Garscadden Road and up through the goods’ entrance into Drumchapel Railway Station. The paper-hut stood by itself on the adjacent waste
ground, parked beside it were a couple of cars. Half a dozen bicycles were propped against the wooden hut walls. He pushed open the door. The thick blue air made his eyes smart. The place was
crowded. It seemed as if everybody was shouting, swearing and joking. Tommy joined at the end of the queue of boys waiting to receive their papers. The boy standing in front of him was a man with a
beard. Tommy gazed at him. Behind the wide counter three men assisted by two youths were distributing the Sunday newspapers. The big man and the thin man were laughing uproariously at something the
crew-cut man was saying. Some of the boys were also grinning and it was obviously very funny.

Each boy’s bag was being packed tight with newspapers and one large boy had so many that he needed two bags. When Tommy’s turn came he stepped forwards and cried: ‘Six
run!’

‘Six run?’ repeated the crew-cut man gaping at him.

‘Aye!’

‘Where’s MacKenzie?’

‘He’s away camping. I’m his wee brother.’

‘What’s that?’ called the thin man.

‘Says he’s MacKenzie’s wee brother,’ said the crew-cut man over his shoulder.

‘Hell of a wee!’ frowned the big man.

‘What age are you kid?’ asked the crew-cut man.

‘Twelve and a half. I’ve been round with my brother before. Three times.’

‘Ach he’ll be okay,’ said the crew-cut man when the big man’s eyes widened.

‘MacKenzie be back next Sunday?’ asked the thin man.

‘Aye,’ replied Tommy. ‘He’s only away for a week. He’s down at Arran with the B.B.’

The thin man nodded to the other two.

‘Aye okay,’ agreed the big man.

‘Right then Wee MacKenzie, pass me your bag!’ The crew-cut man began packing in
Post, Express
and
Mail
; as he worked he called out to the two youths who collected
other newspapers from the shelves which ran along the length of the wall behind them. When the bag was filled and all the newspapers in order the man bumped the bag down twice on the counter and
told Tommy to listen. ‘Right son,’ he said, ‘they’re all in order.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘
Post, Express, Mail
. That’s easy to remember eh?
Then
People, World, Pictorial, Reynolds
and
Empire
. Okay?’

Tommy hesitated and the crew-cut man repeated it. Tommy nodded and he continued: ‘
Telegraph, Observer
and
Times
. You got that?’

‘Aye.’

‘Right kid, then off you go, and we close at two remember.’

‘At two?’

‘Aye, two. Remember!’

‘But John’s always home before eleven.’

‘Aye that’s John kid.’ The crew-cut man grinned. ‘Anyhow, take it away.’ He pushed the bag along the counter and Tommy walked after it. One of the youths held the
strap out and he ducked his right arm and head through. The youth helped him to manoeuvre it to the edge of the counter and then he looked down at him rather worriedly.

‘Okay son?’ he asked.

Tommy nodded and straining he heaved it off from the counter. The bag of papers plummeted to the floor like a boulder, carrying him with it. Everybody in the hut roared with laughter as he lay
there unable to extricate himself. Eventually the thin man cried, ‘Give him a hand!’