Ross Raisin - Waterline

In a moment, Beans kneels up. He gets scrabbling feet first under the bush, thorns pulling at his coat and revealing his back, pale and mealy as a white pudding. His head appears over the top of the bush. ‘Come on, I’ll show ye.’

They go at an angle from the path, through the weeds and the undergrowth, until Beans stops beside some wire netting. An orange sign on it he can’t read in the dark. Some kind of a tunnel underneath the road. Beans peels the wiring back and squeezes himself in behind, the wire springing back to its original position. ‘Come on.’ He steps forward. An old trainer shoe by his feet.

He gets in behind the wiring and it is dark. A smell of stagnant water. Beans is dragging a piece of matting along the ground. ‘Here, lie down.’ Bits of rock poking at him, their two backs pressed together, shuffling; warm but, where they are touching. The echoing sound of traffic above their heads and the matting no big enough for both their bodies, part of his leg and his arm sticking out and pressing into stones, rubble. The drink but, it is keeping him outside of it, no fully aware, helping him fall to sleep.

Light. The head pounding. His throat dry, chappit, and his legs and his body senseless, except for a jabbing in the small of his back where Beans’s elbow is sticking into him. He tries to go back to sleep, but it is too cold and he can’t, so he sits up and looks about him. On one side, through the wire, weeds and trees; a glimpse of the dark straining river. There are bits of wood and breezeblocks in the gloom of the tunnel. Dark water pooled into a stank, a Sprite bottle floating on top. On the other side, more wiring, and past it, a construction site — a great hole in the ground, scaffolding, a mini JCB. Beans is sat up now too. Silent. They stay the both of them like that, sitting, for quite a while, and he wonders if maybe Beans is hungover, that’s how he’s no talking. But he keeps quiet and to himself into the morning, as they go and sit out on the veranda, cold, shivering, until eventually Beans gets up just, no a word, and leaves.

There is a key ring in one of the coat pockets. London , it says on it. A pair of palace guardsmen with their daftie hats on. He turns it about in his fingers. No key. Course not. Why would there be? There must have been once but. Or at least somebody’s bought it that had one. A car owner. House owner. Seems unlikely Beans knows a person like that. More likely the coat’s been lifted. Nay fucking chance he’s taking it off though. He is shaking with the cold now. A bit of a wind and a spray coming off the river. An agity feeling is building, uncertain if Beans is going to bring any drink back this time. He can’t bring himself to think about how it will be if he doesn’t. A whole day and a night to get through in the cold, time not moving on, clotting around him. He finds a few loose pieces of chinex in the other pocket, puts one in his mouth and chews away.

It is dark when Beans returns. Another half-loaf with him. No beers but. Mick doesn’t say anything, and they get eating the bread. He’s still in the same mood, Beans, keeping cloyed up, and Mick starts feeling an irritation build inside him that he is behaving like this. He doesn’t say anything though. He lets it stay there, choking any words he might get saying, watching Beans chuck the empty loaf packet out onto the water. Sleep is impossible the night. The temperature feels like it’s dipped even further. The only warmth, Beans’s back sweating against his. He wants to get up and walk away somewhere, just walk, but he can’t, he can’t move.

Afternoon. The dull anxiety waiting for if there’s beer or if there’s no beer. There is. A big plastic bottle of superlager. Beans in a good mood too. They get stuck in and numbness starts to flood through him. A distant laugh, which he realizes is Beans. How is he getting it? He’d said the money was gone. He can’t be bothered maundering on it but — so what, just drink, just fucking drink it down. He starts laughing. He’s like a wee bird. That’s what he is. A wee chick, a wee sparrow chick staying put in the nest all day while Beans goes back and forth, getting him food and drink, coming back onto the veranda and regurgitating it up for him. Every day. How many? How many days? Fuck knows, and he is laughing again. He turns round and Beans is laughing too, anybody’s guess what at. Strange how the time goes. There it is, stretching out in front of you — only the river, boats, the sound of traffic, and the thought mob raring to stick the boot on.

Beans’s voice up the path, coming back, talking to himself. The heart starts going, in anticipation, or panic, or habit just, fuck knows. He turns round and looks through the bush, and Beans is there with another man. Panic tightens through him. They are crawling under the bush. ‘See here’s the guy I’m telling ye about.’ The man is nodding at him, sitting himself down on the veranda. He is younger, the hair closely cut, his sweater and his jeans pretty clean-looking. A bottle of superlager is being passed between Beans and the guy, who takes a long pull, gulping twice. Then they pass it to him. The two of them talking. ‘They’re taking all the old spots, is the problem.’ He is English. ‘Come over for the building jobs and all that but then they get here and they’ve already filled all the fucking jobs, so they’re out on their arse but they can’t afford the fucking fare home.’ Beans laughs with him, passing the drink. Then the guy sees the swan and he’s off down the banking. A big stick suddenly in his hand and he is laughing, poking it at the nest. The swan is hissing and it’s looking like she’s going to up and stiffen him any minute, until Beans gets in there first. He jumps on the guy’s back and the pair of them start tummelling about in the wet scrub by the nest. Beans on top now, pounding him. Seconds later the guy gets scrabbling up onto the banking and he’s away under the bush. ‘Fuck are you doing? It’s a joke, Jesus, it’s a fucking joke.’

He opens his eyes. Daylight. He is outside, and he is freezing. Beans is sat staring out, eating. Mick sits up and he gets handed a sandwich out of a carrier.

He looks at it a moment. ‘There’s a bite mark in this.’

Beans turns, frowning. ‘Aye, so what?’

‘Just, mean, there’s more teeth marks in it than you’ve got teeth,’ he grins, and Beans creases over, knotting himself.

Later, and Beans is stood above him, giving him these wee kicks in the thigh. ‘Come on. We need to go the messages. I told ye.’

Onto the road, the pavements. Odd. Like he’s there but he’s in fact no there. They are looking at him, but from somewhere else, another consciousness, another world. Like being bevvied. Operating in your own space and everybody else fogging up around the edges of it. No that he’s drunk but. The soreness all over his body is sure enough sign of that. ‘This is the best time. Ye have to wait the last minute, when the fella’s there with his gun, stickering all the stuff up.’ True enough, there he is. Fridges. Shopping trolleys. ‘Discreet, right. We need to be discreet.’ But Mick is started laughing. Discreet! No likely. They look like a pair of cartoon characters, stalking behind tailing the guy as he is going about putting on the stickers. Into the baking aisle. The comforting smell of it. A wean stood staring while his maw chooses between the brown breads. He doesn’t know what to make of the pair of them, his mouth in a wee study, slightly open, then he’s darting off with his mammy, holding the hand. Beans has a stick of bread, and a piled handful of tinned salmon — Reduced to clear .

Outside, in the car park at the back of the building, there is a gap through to where the warehouse bit is. The shutters are closed but up against them there is a stack of red plastic crates. ‘Here.’ Beans passes him a couple. They are shallow but long and wide, and they have to hold them with arms stretched out, leaving quickly away down the road, taking up half the pavement between them.