Ross Raisin - Waterline

Shepherd’s pie and a spoon of boiled vegetables. The set-up is different here — it’s a bigger place, and there are small round tables to sit at, but he manages to find one where he’s on his own. He recognizes one or two of the faces. The beans guy is here, sat over the way at a full table, laying it off to some poor ancient scaffer about something or other.

The Hallelujahs wait until everybody has got food, then they fix out plates for themselves and sit down inamongst the tramps. Mick stares down at his plate, eating quickly, but nobody comes. Afterwards he gets a sleeping bag and finds a space, then sits against the wall next to it, making sure he doesn’t catch eyes with anybody. Some of the scaffers stand together in dirty clusters, talking. Others keep with themselves, avoiding the groups, like he is doing. No. As long as he remains outside of it, eating the food just and accepting the shelter for now, and no talking to any scaffers or any Hallelujahs, then he will stay afloat. Only if he accepts that he is part of this, that he belongs here, will he be done for. Because if he does that, then there’ll be no control over it, and he may as well throw in the towel. Game over.

A dribbly day, but no too cold. He takes a free paper from a stall he passes, to lay down on the bench. Irrational, maybe, no the sensible man’s choice, but he goes the trek to his usual spot. The night’s church is in the other direction but it doesn’t matter, better anyway to use up the day by walking. He is sat staring at the power station when a young lad, looks like a student, comes and sits in next to him. It isn’t long before he turns and starts talking. Mick keeps quiet, hoping he’ll get the message. He doesn’t. Incredible sight, he is saying, wet day, and all this. Go bloody sit inside well if it’s too wet for you. He has started fiddling about in his rucksack.

‘Would you like a muffin?’

Mick ignores him.

‘It’s okay. It’s spare.’ He is holding his muffin out to him. ‘Well, I’ll just leave it here in case you change your mind.’

The boy stays sitting there. He keeps looking over, Mick can see him doing it out the corner of his eye. After a while, he turns toward the lad, the muffin still there on the bench between them.

‘I’ve ate already. I’d take a pound but, get myself a cup of tea.’

The boy obvious isn’t too sure about this and he delays a moment, nay doubt thinking — how do I know he isn’t going straight the offie with this? Which is exactly where he intends going with it, but the lad is by now getting out his wallet, and he hands him £1.50.

He uses the money smartly. £1.29 buys him a decent-size bottle of Polish lager and he saves the rest to call ahead to the church. It runs out after about five seconds, but the guy rings him back.

The journey is much more pleasurable with a drink inside him. No bevvied, but warmer, more relaxed. In such a state it is easier to ignore all the rub-ye-ups bustling past and eyeballing him along the pavement. Away home to their evenings of curry dinner and telly watching, argle-bargling with the wife. Plenty of scaffers about too: alone in doorways; stood in wee groups; blocking the thoroughfares selling their magazines. He is coming into a more posh area. There are wine drinkers inside a giant café window, flower stalls, well-to-do clothes shops. This one that he passes. A naked mannequin in the window, bald and bare, with the one hand on her hip. The sudden temptation to run in and steal her. Run off down the street with the baldy woman tucked under the arm. How far would he get? How many yards down the pavement before the heavy mob catch up, huckling him down some back alley to put the boot on? No that there are many back alleys this part of town. Nay chance. It’s all boulevards and butchers round here, they Italian ones with cured meats hanging in the display above the olive oils and the giant cheese wheels.

It is a Catholic church this night, and the space is a side room off the church building itself, the walls above the sleeping mats covered with ornate lanterns and candles, lifelike statues of nuns holding crosses and looking out with serious faces at the scaffers. There are less staying than the previous two nights, but still one or two of the regulars, they ones that know they’re onto a good thing and have got themselves in with the bricks. He ignores them, managing to keep to himself. Eats his food. Drinks his tea. There is a prayer session after dinner, but the Hallelujahs don’t force it. Quite a few take part though, going through with the Bead Rattler, who has been walking about the place in his robes and his rings, for a wee patter with the Big Man. Hard to know how they’re asking him for anything.

He rolls out his mat and his bag and gets lying down. How quick you get used to things. Settle into a rhythm.

In the morning after breakfast, one of the Hallelujahs, a woman, approaches him.

‘Sleep okay?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

She stands by the tea table while Mick is fixing up his tea and his orange juice. How is it people are always wanting to put the nose in and can’t leave him be?

‘It’s Mick, isn’t it? I haven’t met you before. My name’s Jenny.’

‘Pleased to meet ye, Jenny,’ and he starts to turn and get leaving back to his place at the table.

‘I was wondering — have you had a chance to use the daytime centre at all?’

‘I have, aye, thanks.’

‘Oh, right. Good. And you know we have caseworkers too, who can help you with accessing services.’ The beans guy is arrived at the table making a tea, listening, a wee smile on him.

‘Thanks, Jenny, I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘Right, okay.’ She smiles and starts to move off. ‘Have a nice day, Mick.’

Oh, aye, it’s going to be a belter: away down the boulevard for a new suit, then off to a restaurant with the baldy woman for Guinness and oysters.

‘How’s it going?’ Beans is looking at him, still the wee grin. The red woolly hat pulled right down to his eyes.

‘Good.’

‘Ye from Glasgow, well?’

No use kidding on now he’s been rumbled.

‘I am.’

‘Whereabout?’

‘Clydebank.’

‘That where ye were born?’

‘Aye, Clydebank.’

He gives a wide smile. One side of his top lip is chappit and bleeding. ‘I’m from Paisley.’ He holds out a giant purple hand. ‘Keith. Ye’re no a religious case, eh?’

‘No.’

Beans turns his eyes for an instant up to the roofbeams. There is a large dark gouge in the stubble under his chin. ‘Thank Christ for that, then. Enough of them about, no think?’

‘The Hallelujahs.’

He lets out a loud lunatic laugh, which makes Jenny and the woman she’s with look round a moment. ‘Aye, the Hallelujahs, you said it, pal, fucking right.’

He is still chuckling with himself as Mick gets leaving.

Where do they go to? There’s aye the ones that are sat in the doorways and selling the magazines, but what about the rest of them, where do they go? The women? You never see the women. The nights at the churches, there’s been quite a few of them put up. They get a separate room, or if it’s one of the smaller places they get a plastic barricade wheeled up in between to keep the men off them. The tollie tugboat is on the approach, docking up with its cargo of shite. He watches it turn around on the water, coiling slowly into the wharf. No great mystery but. It’s pretty obvious where most of them go, the men anyway, the male scaffers. They ones that aren’t sat next to a carry-out cup, tapping pedestrians for the price of a bottle, are down the broo office signing on. See but how is he any different? Sponging off the Christians for food and orange juice. Fucksake he eats more than anybody there!