Ross Raisin - Waterline

One week, Mick has a bruise on the side of his face where, Keith tells them, he was kicked sitting outside the underground station. It has clearly caused him some distress, and she and Martin are growing concerned, especially given the experience of their previous accommodation, that the connection might break before their places become available. For the next couple of weeks, however, they remain where they are, and when the time does come to move them on there is not in the end too much difficulty getting them into the van, and inside the hostel.

Once there, both men become somewhat agitated, and it is not possible to complete the induction that night. It is agreed that the forms can be completed the following day, to give a clear night for the men to settle, and orientate themselves in their new surroundings.

It is a good result, and they leave the hostel relieved, walking quietly together back to the van.

He sits now on the edge of the bed, torpid, brainless. He was awake most of the night, listening, and has slept through the morning. Everything in the room is white: the walls and floor, the curtains, the wardrobe, even the bedside table, which is pushed now up against the door. It’s like a hospital. A mental institution. He is hungry, but he’s no even thinking about food the now because he isn’t moving, he is not leaving this room; his eyeballs staying alert on the locked door in front of him.

At the end of the room there is another door, and through it, a small bathroom. En suite, bloody believe that? There’s even towels and toiletries inside. A few times he gets up for a pish, but otherwise he stays on the bed. The room is silent. No sounds through the thick door, or the double-glazed window which looks out onto a road. Cars queuing. Shops. A sign on the second floor of the building opposite — Mumtaz Carpets .

Earlier the morning, somebody came for him. Renuka, she said through the door. He had missed his appointment with her. It is very important they speak before the end of the day. He presses his head into the pillow; keeps quiet. The heart careering for a long while after she’s gone.

Sudden moments of clarity keep interrupting him, in which he knows what he is going to do: he’s going to wait it out until dark and give Beans a knock, tell him he’s for the off and going back to the pitch. But he doesn’t know what room Beans is in. He doesn’t know where they are either, for that matter — Mumtaz Carpets the only clue. And then all his energy for the escape idea will disappear immediately, the brain dreiching over again. He has the thought a couple of times, until, as if accepting defeat, he takes off his jacket and goes to sleep.

He doesn’t wake until late the afternoon. The small clock on the bedside table, its wire stretched taut along the wall to the door, is the only decoration apart from a mirror and a plywood TV stand at the end of the bed. He stares a long while at the clock, then at the imaginary television. What now, well? He needs a drink, but the possibility of taking out his bits of smash and going on the hunt for an offie — it’s too much of an adventure. Even in the silence, the locked door with the furniture pushed against it, he feels exposed. Defenceless. As if at any moment that door is going to open and some terrible calamity awaits him. He gets up and goes to the door hook for his jacket, puts it back on and immediately feels more at ease, a snail with his shell returned.

A chapping on the door and he opens his eyes.

‘Mick.’

He hunkers down pretending to be asleep, suddenly feart she is able to see through the peephole.

‘Mick, it’s really important we have our meeting. Mick. We need to get your claims put in, or we won’t be able to hold your place for you.’

He can see the shadows of her feet under the door. They stay there a minute or two, then she goes away.

She is back again the next morning though. From the sound of the shoe squeaks she is not alone this time, and she knocks more fiercely, her voice sterner.

‘I’m going to have to unlock it if you don’t respond.’

He sits up, breathing heavily. A few seconds later he can hear the key in the lock, and the door starts shifting and butting against the bedside table.

‘Mick, you’re going to have to stop obstructing this door.’

He gets up slowly, and pulls the table aside. The door opening, and he stands there stupidly in front of her. She is alone. Small, Asian. Annoyed.

They go through the empty corridor, and into another room on the same floor. She is his key worker, she tells him. She motions him to sit down at the desk and then she starts laying it off about his licence agreement and how he has to begin cooperating. He sits there silently trying to listen, or at least act like he’s listening. When she is finished, they go out of the room for a tour of the other floors, him keeping the head lowered as they come past other people and she gets showing him inside all these doors he needs to know about: the canteen, the day room, the computer room. Through the window to the art room, a line of wonky clay pots humped on a window ledge.

She leaves him back at his room, and arranges a time for their next meeting. When she’s gone, he gets warily down the staircase and through the reception, out of the hostel. On the busy road outside, he finds a minimarket and uses up what he has on a loaf of bread, a packet of ham and a four-pack.

Beans finds him the next day. He bangs on the door, calling his name; Mick squinting through the peephole at the giant, scarred bawface. He opens the door, half expecting the familiar grin — ‘Breakfast?’ — but instead Beans just walks straight in and sits on the bed.

‘How’s it going?’ He is looking out the window. ‘Decent view, that.’

‘Okay. Yourself?’

‘Fine. Fine. Only this cunt in the door next me, plays his stereo the whole time. Quiet in here but.’ He looks about the room, then up at Mick. ‘Been the canteen?’

‘No.’

‘Come on, well, let’s go.’

He hesitates a moment but Beans is already out the door, summoning him away.

He stays close as they go down a floor and into the canteen. A few people milling about. Hard to tell which of them are the homeless. One or two obvious candidates but. A pale, thin girl talking to an older woman; a ramshackle beardie man in a wild assortment of clothing. They go up the glass counter and tell the guy what they’re wanting. Both of them take the full works: scrambled eggs, sausage, fried tatties and beans, then they get sat at one of the small round tables, away from where the other people are clustered together.

‘Who pays for this, well?’

Beans grins. ‘You do, pal, so get beasted in.’

They don’t talk as they eat. A murmur of quiet patter in the room. The pale girl comes past their table and looks at them, but he puts the head down, ignores her. Strange, but he feels easier with Beans. He keeps the world away, somehow. Mick looks over at him, eating and scratching away at his face and neck, something he keeps doing the whole time they are sat there. He’s still got the woolly hat on, pulled down over his ears. No the less, it’s visible enough that one of them is a write-off, the lobe dark and shrivelled into a wee currant.

Beans finishes his plate quickly, clattering the knife and fork down.

‘How ye finding it, then?’

He shrugs. ‘Okay. I’ve no really left the room.’

Beans nods. ‘I know, I know. Seems — well, it’s pretty comfy, eh? Still got to keep the edge but. Don’t trust anybody.’ And as he is saying it, he gets glaring past Mick’s shoulder at two young men who are going up the counter.

‘That’s him.’

‘Who?’