Ross Raisin - Waterline

‘Okay, folks, looks like we’re on the move, so mind the doors, please, and we’ll be off.’

The train starts moving and he tries to think. Where is he going? Out of nowhere he laughs. He can’t help it. It’s actually funny, the situation. A few scunnery wee looks across the way. Probably they think it’s something the driver said — Christ, what kind of headcase must that make him look? Serious but, what is he going to do? A good question, a good one, but still he can’t drum up the effort to get thinking about it, and he is falling asleep by the time the train is slowing into the next station, mind the doors doors closing mind the doors please.

It is a decision of sorts, but one it doesn’t seem he has made himself. A default. The easiest thing to do with no other brainwaves at the door; because even if No Breakfast is a crabbit bastard — which he is — he’s a familiar crabbit bastard, and that feels easier the now than making the effort to think up anything else.

He isn’t there though. Nobody is about. The Back in 10 minutes notice is up, so he goes back out and to the Costcutter for a sausage roll and a can of lager, and sits on a low wall under the bridge, sheltered from this Baltic wind that has got up.

When he comes back the sign is gone, but on chapping the door it is another man that opens.

‘I’m, eh, sorry, I’m wanting a room. I was staying here a couple of months back.’

‘Okay, sir, come this way.’

Here’s a change, well.

He follows him up to the top floor. There are two rooms either side of the stairhead, and the guy opens one of them and lets him in. There is a television, he notices as he gets handing him the money.

‘Okay?’ He is younger than No Breakfast. A brother maybe.

‘Fine, thanks.’

He must have been fair knackered, because when he wakes up the gloaming has came and went outside the window, and it is getting on for night. Okay, then. Nay use lying there just, composting on top of the bed, he needs to be up and about, decision-making. Better to keep the brain busy chasing after you, than you the one chasing trying to stop it. He gets up and goes over by the window. A plan needed, well. A decent plan. Firstly into the bag for a tenner from the money envelope, then out to the shop for what he needs.

He buys a pen, an A4 pad, a four-pack and a lamb samosa. Also, a free-ads paper, which, it turns out, isn’t actually free but then what can you expect, this is London, pal. When he gets back in the room he realizes, seeing his bag, that he in fact already has these things — pen, paper — and the empty, aching sensation that the memory of it brings back causes a setback to proceedings, as he leans back against the wall behind the bed and takes a long drink, trying to quiet it down.

First up, the financials. He gets out the money envelope and counts what he’s got, slowly, carefully, the first time, then a couple more times quickly just to be sure, the head of the English queen flashing like a flick book, the expression never changing, fish-lipped and disapproving. £497. Fine. Good. That gives him time. He doesn’t have to rush into the first job he finds; he can make sure he gets the right one, a decent employer, no another bandit out to rob him. He opens another can and gets the TV on. Falls asleep in the chair.

The morning, and his back is sore, but he is straight up and about it, pulling open the paper and getting the jobs circled. There are quite a few minicab jobs, which being honest is probably where he should have tried last time, even though most of them are for registered-owner drivers. One or two but, that say they rent a car.

He begins with a place that looks like it’s based nearby. He goes out and to a phone box to give the number a call. The familiar nervous feeling as he waits, watching his breath come in fits of mist, before a man answers and tells him to come over right now if he’s able.

One thing he’s noticed: the bus stops all have these wee maps in them, which makes it pretty easy finding the place. He is there twenty minutes later. There is a sign along the street and a steamed-up window with a light on.

Inside, a man behind the glass.

‘Hello, I just spoke to somebody about the job.’

‘Oh, right, that you was it?’ He eyes him up and down.

‘Like I say, I’ve plenty experience. I’ve been working private hire in Glasgow more than fifteen years.’

‘Right. Do you have a reference?’

‘Yes. See, I do, but I’ve no got it on me.’

‘I’ll need to have one.’ He keeks down at his newspaper.

‘What I can do, I can call ye with the number when I get home. I can’t mind it off the top my head, is all.’

‘Sure, fine. We’ll hear from you, then,’ and he walks off.

References. That’s him screwed, well. Obviously he isn’t putting a call in to Malcolm. They don’t know he’s here, even. That’s how he came in the first place, christsake, to get away. Still, he has to crack on. He has to be positive. Not everywhere’s going to want a reference — probably there’s one or two need a new start straight away and they’re okay seeing if he shapes up on the job just.

It is the same story at the next place though. Once he gets over there and he sits in a kind of waiting room — it’s a chain place and it’s a bit more proper — they give him an application form to fill out. There is nobody else in the room, so after he’s tried at one or two of the boxes, he slips away. What’s the point handing it in if half the boxes he can’t put anything? Address. Telephone number. References. It is only the back of eleven when he returns, but the day is finished. A quick dot to the shop and he’s back in his room, the television on, a Plan B needed.

Plan B gets the swerve for the afternoon. He needs to gather the energies, build himself up to it again. He stays in front of the television; drinks a couple of cans. This programme about these famous people he’s never heard of, a group of them going round each other’s houses to see who can cook the best meal. Then over to the snooker. The picture is that bad it’s near impossible to make out the colours of the balls, but it doesn’t matter, he isn’t paying too much attention; something comforting about it anyway, the silence, the clock-clunk of the balls and the gravelly patter of the commentators. He’s always been quite fond of the snooker. They used to sit and have it on in the background sometimes, him flicking through the Record and the wife with her head in one of the Barbaras. Occasionally the both of them chuckling at something one of the commentators has said — double kisses and touching balls and all that — probably the same kind of things she’s reading in her book there. The feeling of it is so familiar. He allows it to wash over him, a comfort, a dull, familiar comfort that is eased on by the drink, helping him to drift away just, stop to focus. It isn’t the right thing to be doing. He knows that. But he doesn’t stop himself, finishing off the cans and coasting further away from the here and now of things until the eyes are starting to close, and he falls asleep.

The one that isn’t No Breakfast. He has been banging on the door. He wants his rent money. Mick opens up, rubbing his eyes awake as he goes over to his bag and crouches with his back blocking the guy’s view, no wanting him to see as he takes the notes out of the envelope.

He gets onto the bed. The back is hurting. He’s got to stop falling asleep in that chair. The television is still on but he leaves it, the volume turned down low as he gets under the sheets, the rest of the night to get through now, knowing he won’t sleep.

The man gives him the once-over and says the ad shouldn’t have gone in, they’ve already got somebody hired. A handyman job. There’s a fair number of them in the building and trades listings and it’s sensible thinking, because it’s unlikely any of these places will need a reference and the money is decent, plus it’s paid by the day, no the week. He tries the next one on his sheet: General Handyperson, London W2, 50 hr per week, Mon — Fri, £6.50 per hour, temporary . When he gets there but the guy asks him where he is living and he can’t think quick enough what to say. He starts telling him he’s in a B&B the now but he’ll be looking for somewhere to stay as soon as he starts working. He gets told the same story: they’ve took on a guy already but come back next week in case he doesn’t work out. He tries one more, who tell him on the phone they don’t know about any job, and he decides to call it a day.