Greyhound for Breakfast (26 page)

Across at the rearmost table Jimmy Peters and McInnes were sitting on their own. Ronnie arrived and put his pint down, tucked the leash beneath his right shoe heel, and he nodded towards the
bar: According to that yin there’s going to be all sorts of complaints about the dog.

That right? said Jimmy Peters.

Too wild or somefuckingthing! Ronnie grinned and sipped at the beer. You want to have seen it in the park as well, with all the wee weans! Ronnie grinned: I mean they were fucking poking it and
everything and all it did was look at them, it didnt even notice.

The other two nodded.

I mean I’ve been with it all day and it’s fucking . . . Ronnie stopped and shook his head, he grinned. He brought out his fags and gave one to each: It’s just won its first
race!

Fucking must’ve! chuckled Jimmy Peters, taking the cigarette and looking at it.

But it didnt stretch to a pint! added McInnes.

Ronnie nodded. It was a wee race!

You’ve cheered up since this afternoon.

Me?

Me! said McInnes.

Well . . . Ronnie sniffed.

You were like a fucking bear with a sore head, said Jimmy Peters.

After a moment Ronnie nodded.

You were!

Aye well no wonder man I came in for a pint and I got a fucking row!

Jimmy Peters chuckled.

McInnes said, Naw you didnt.

Aye I did. Ronnie smiled. I mean I fucking expected it right enough, the slagging.

It wasnt a slagging.

Aye it was.

McInnes pursed his lips.

Let’s face it, said Ronnie, it was a slagging.

Eh . . . began Jimmy Peters. Ronnie looked at him and he shrugged.

Mind you, said Ronnie, I was expecting a wee bit of interest, just a wee bit.

Och come on, muttered McInnes.

Well, replied Ronnie, just a wee bit would’ve been fucking something; better than nothing. But naw; fuck all, just the four of yous trying to take the piss out me.

We werent trying to take the fucking piss out you! Jimmy Peters replied.

You were.

We fucking werent!

Aye you fucking were Jimmy – the two of yous were in it just as much as McColl and Kelly.

Jimmy Peters stared at him then looked away. But McInnes sniffed and leaned closer to Ronnie, and he said: I’ll tell you something man you better screw the fucking nut cause the way
it’s going you’re going to wind up bad news, bad news. I’m no fucking kidding ye either.

What?

McInnes sat back and grunted, That’s all I’m saying.

What’re you meaning but?

McInnes shook his head.

Eh?

I’m no saying anything more Ronnie; you fucking know what I’m meaning.

Ronnie continued to gaze at him, then he frowned at Jimmy Peters and reached for the beer, sipped at it and put it down, lifted it again and sipped some more, gulping it down this time. He
inhaled on the cigarette and stared towards the clock. And his hand lowered onto the head of the greyhound, and he grasped its ears.

Dont take it personally for God sake, said McInnes.

Naw.

Jimmy Peters said, It’s just you’re fucking, you’re under pressure and that. The young yin, have you heard from him? the boy.

Ronnie shrugged. Then he said, Look, you dont really think I went out and bought the dog because of that, the boy, because he’s away; eh?

Naw, Christ.

Cause I’ve been wanting a dog for ages. Fuck sake.

Jimmy Peters nodded.

And I’m no the only one – Kelly, he’s fucking been on about it more than me. Eh?

Aye.

Ronnie shook his head: I mean I’ve got to laugh at yous cunts. All talk. All fucking talk.

McInnes was looking at him. Ronnie looked back at him. McInnes said, This is you out of order again.

What?

This is you fucking out of order, again.

What d’you mean?

The way you go on . . . McInnes shook his head and stared at the floor.

Ronnie stared at him.

Aye, God sake, the way you go on!

What! Ronnie’s face screwed into a glare.

Leave it.

Leave it?

McInnes looked at him then looked away. Jimmy Peters was looking away too. Ronnie sniffed and glanced at the dog, it was asleep, poor big fucking beast, sound asleep. Greyhounds were
short-haired. The top of its head was really smooth. He reached to stroke it, it didnt feel like hair at all, more like a kind of material. He took a long draw on the cigarette, ground it out
beneath his shoe on the floor.

Jimmy Peters said, I see the Celts’re going to sign that Thomson?

Ronnie nodded.

No a bad player.

Aye.

No Celtic class, muttered McInnes.

It needed a feed as well, it was probably starving. That was another thing about greyhound owners, how they were really tight, they treated their dogs like racing machines, no sentiment. The guy
he had bought it from probably never fed it because he knew he was selling it, so it was probably fucking starving.

That movie . . .

Ronnie frowned slightly, then nodded. What time does it start? he asked.

Jimmy Peters smiled. Naw, he said, I’m talking about that one that was on last night – fucking brilliant, did you see it?

Nah.

Were you out? asked McInnes.

What?

I was just asking if you were out, last night; you were no in here?

Naw.

McInnes nodded. Oh by the way, he said, that fucking
Hammurabi
won again!

What! You’re kidding?

7 to 1.

For Christ sake!

7 to 1 . . . McInnes smiled, shaking his head. They’re sending it to Royal Ascot.

Many’s that it’s won? Jimmy Peters asked.

Four.

Four on the trot, added Ronnie.

Jimmy Peters grinned. Pity you couldnt’ve bought a horse!

Ronnie looked at him.

Imagine coming in here with it! Peters laughed: Imagine the faces!

For fuck sake! Ronnie began chuckling.

McInnes was smiling.

A pint and a barrel of oats! cried Peters. Heh barman, a pint and a barrel of oats!

The three of them were laughing now. Gradually they stopped. Ronnie began stroking behind the dog’s ears and it opened its eyes for a moment, made a movement in its mouth as if it was
thirsty. It would be thirsty. When had it last had a drink? Ronnie hadnt given it one. And the guy he’d bought it from, probably he hadnt either. The truth of the matter is Ronnie was feeling
bad. He probably shouldnt’ve bought the dog, if he wasnt going to look after it properly. It just wasnt fair. The lassies would help right enough. They were good, they helped. They would take
it for walks. Babs would just – she wouldnt bother, she would be okay. He was just fucking, it was him, he was daft, stupid, coming home with a greyhound, it was out of order. Jimmy was
talking. Ronnie nodded, acknowledging something; he didnt know what the fuck it was he was acknowledging but he was fucking acknowledging something! He smiled, he raised the pint to his lips and
swallowed beer. Jimmy pushed the tobacco pouch towards him and he rolled himself a smoke. It was time to leave. He struck a match, lighting his own before offering the light to Jimmy; then he
finished off the beer and wiped his mouth quickly. Okay, he said, lifting the leash. And he got to his feet.

You off? asked Jimmy Peters.

Aye.

I’ll be heading that way myself, said McInnes, glancing towards the clock.

See you the morrow, said Jimmy.

Aye . . . Ronnie gave a slight tug on the leash and the dog rose from the floor. And he left the pub quickly, in case McInnes came along the road with him. They both lived in the same street. He
didnt want McInnes to know, that he wasnt going home just now. He wasnt going to go home just now, definitely not. He wasnt feeling right for it. That was it in a nutshell. What was that thing
about Hamlet? Like a king. Something. Ronnie just felt fucking, he felt lousy. He hadnt been feeling as lousy as this before. Last night for instance he had been feeling good. He had made the
phonecall and he knew he was the only one who had made any inquiries. And eighty quid as well; it was about exactly what he had saved up, almost the total sum. Everything just seemed spot on. And
the guy himself seemed okay. If it was possible to trust a doggie-man! Ronnie grinned. They couldnt all be fucking rogues. Surely to fuck!

Heh Ronnie!

It was McInnes out from the pub and waving to him and coming along after him. Ronnie waved back and continued, and on round the next corner and he started walking fast, and then round the next
corner, and away.

He liked McInnes, he wasnt fucking, it wasnt as if he was trying to avoid him, especially; he just didnt want to fucking speak to anybody, not anybody. Nobody. Fucking nobody. He didnt want to
speak to any cunt at all. And not McInnes, a good pal, he didnt want to speak to the likes of him at all. And not fucking Babs either. Babs least of all. And the weans, he didnt want to speak to
them, not to even see them, he couldnt face them; he actually couldnt face them. He couldnt face them, the wife and weans, that was it, in a fucking nutshell.

*

It was fucking really terrible. The truth of the matter is he was feeling really terrible. How the fuck was he feeling as terrible as this? And there was the big dog! So fucking
placid. That was it about these animals, how placid they were and then when you see them at the track they’re so fucking fierce, so fierce looking; fangs bared and fucking drooling, drooling
at the mouth and ready to fucking – bite, kill, kill the hare except its a bundle of stupid fucking rags. Imagine being as easy conned as that! Letting yourself get lulled into it, racing
round and round and fucking round just to catch this stupid fucking bundle of rags. It made you feel sorry for it. Dogs and all the rest of the animals. And people of course, they were no different
– they seemed different but they werent; they seemed as if they were different but they werent; they really fucking werent, they just thought they were, it made you smile. Because there they
were, running round and round trying to fucking catch it, a crock of gold, and did they ever catch it, did they fuck. The boy was like that, off to London; and what would happen to him, fuck all,
nothing. He would just wind up getting a job somewhere and it would be fucking awful, and maybe he would just stay in London or else he’d come back. And if he stayed in London that’d be
that and he probably’d hardly ever see them again. It was fucking strange. And Ronnie actually felt like doing himself in. It was a feeling he’d had, creeping up on him. He was actually
feeling like doing himself in. What a thing. What a fucking thing. It was because he felt like a, well, because he felt like he’d fucking let them down, he’d let them down, it was
because he felt like he’d let them all down, the whole lot, the lassies and Babs and the boy. Jesus, he’d really fucking let them down. What did he do it. What did he do it. What was
the thing. There was water at the edges of his mouth, and he wiped it off along his left forefinger and it made him feel better. The dog still walking there, that courageous picture. Because it was
going into the fucking unknown! That dog! Getting led by him and not knowing where in the name of fuck it’s going. Stupid. And the fucking power, letting itself get led. It was funny how
human beings came first, and even one of these wee weans in the park could walk up and take over the lead, and the dog would just let it probably, just let it, itself be led.

Ronnie was walking quickly now, the greyhound trotting to remain abreast of him.

It was maybe good to change speed like this so it kept more alert, especially with it being so tired – and hungry. The thing must have been starving. That was him walking it since fucking
what? 10 o’clock in the morning for fuck sake! Poor bastard. Of all the owners to get it gets him. Ach well. The tea in the oven. Babs would have switched it off now and she’d be
wondering what the hell, how come he had got money; because she would just assume he was in the pub and in the process of getting totally paralytic. And a drink of water, it hadnt even had a drink
of water. For fuck sake. It was actually worrying; it was more than just, it was more than just thinking it was thirsty it was actually thinking it might be getting bad because of it, the dog might
actually become ill or something, because of the lack of water; it was possible. What he could do was just throw it in the fucking Clyde! then it’d get bags of water! That old joke about
falling into the river, you didnt drown, you died of diphtheria. It was true but you couldnt see into it. Ronnie minded well as a boy when he used to hang over the side and see if he could see any
fish, and he couldnt see anything it was so cloudy, so fucking mawkit. Christ! And yet that smell, it was a great smell, and fresh and what else could it be but the sea air, the smell of the sea.
Yes. A fucking tang, it was the sea. It was fucking – Jesus, it was fucking great; it was just fucking great. And these other smells working in the leather-works across in Partick, making
football bladders and stuff like that. What a fucking job; that twice-daily journey six days a week and the rain pelting down, and the wind biting your ears going across in the ferry; walking up
the steps at the other side and then the cobbles, that terrible monotony, the wooden fence, spar after spar. The good bit about it was the race, every cunt racing each other but kidding on they
were just walking fast. Maybe they were walking fast. Maybe he was the only person racing. Not at all. Everybody was at it, seeing who’d be first to reach Dumbarton Road. And anybody who ran
was fucking cheating! Comical! Ronnie laughed, shook his head. It was just so fucking comical. Stupid. The greyhound was looking at him and it had tugged the leash. It was going to do another
shite. The guy must have fed it after all otherwise there would’ve been nothing more to come out. Poor bastard. It wasnt much of a shite right enough.
Big Dan
; it was squeezing out
this wee skinny shite. Maybe he would give it another name. He could call it whatever he liked.
Shitey
! He could call it
Shitey
. But that wouldnt be allowed, unless he changed its
spelling.
Iteysh
. Something like that. Or
Keech
! Outside of Glasgow nobody knew what the fuck it meant.
Big Keechy
. Ronnie shook his head, transferred the leash to his
other hand and brought out the cigarette packet and matches. There were only two left. It was unbelievable how they went. Two before going into the pub; three in it; then this was the second since
leaving. Which makes seven. He must’ve smoked another one somewhere else.