Ross Raisin - Waterline

How can you attack things full pelt when it’s enough already just getting through the day-by-days? The way things have been, even the most wee things feel like an achievement, like he’s winning. Shaving. Going the messages. Putting a blind up. They’re effort enough as it is that the idea of getting those done and then saying — right, well, that’s they sorted, now let’s crack on for that warehouse job I’ve been passed over for five times already — it saps all the energy from him.

It’s one of the things Renuka talks to him about when he sees her next. He takes a bus to meet her in a cafe for a chat about how he’s getting on. She tells him he is at a contemplative stage of his Cycle of Change. A good thing, apparently. Important that he acts on it. Crucial. The next stage looming all the time over him. Does he feel ready? Almost, he tells her, his stomach dropping through his arse onto the bits of lasagne on the floor by his feet. Almost.

It is afternoon and him and Beans are sat in the flat watching television. Beans hasn’t spoke in a while, and he is staring now at the adverts, scratching the backs of his hands, his eyes bloodshot, unreadable.

‘Ye crabbit, eh?’

Beans ignores him.

‘Hey, you,’ Mick grins, digging him in the leg. ‘Ye crabbit or something?’

He stands up suddenly. ‘This is keech, let’s go the pub, eh?’

‘Sure. Okay.’

The nearest pub is a walk. Beans seems to know well enough where he’s headed, and they walk on past the high street, down a couple of quiet residentials.

‘I’m on the bell,’ Beans says when they arrive, going up to the bar while Mick gets sat at a corner table. The place is quiet. A couple of men playing pool in a small room on the far side, and four regulars on barstools who eye Beans silently as he counts the smash in his hands and asks the barman what the pool table takes.

Mick watches as he goes and puts his coin on the table, the pool players exchanging glances as he does it.

They drink quietly for a bit, Mick staring at the slumped backs of the regulars and the tattered silver Christmas decorations drooping off the gantry. After a bit, he turns toward Beans.

‘Know that dog ye were talking about — Walter — when was it ye had him?’

‘Jesus, cannae mind.’

Mick takes a drink.

‘What was it recent, like?’

‘Eh?’

‘The dog, was it a long while ago or was it recent?’

‘Christ, a long while.’ He stretches his neck round to look behind him. ‘Fucksake, they no done yet?’

One of the pool players is walking back to the room with a couple of pints.

‘What happened to him?’

‘Copped his whack, didn’t he.’

‘Sorry, I didnae mean —’

‘Fine. Fine. He was old, he’d done his stretch. I was in this place anyway, I had to give him up, they wouldnae allow dogs.’ He turns round again. ‘See that? Fucking kidding me?’ He pushes his chair back and gets marching toward the pool room, where the two men are racking up for a new game. Mick sits watching, as if through a haze, a dream, the two men standing close together with their pool cues propped on the floor, Beans shouting, he can’t make out what over the Christmas pop music. This song, he minds the video, the English comedian and the blonde lassie, what was her name? A line of angled heads at the bar, and Beans bent over the pool table, scattering the balls. Kim Wilde. That’s her. Whatever happened to Kim Wilde? Beans away now out the pub doors. The barstool men slowly turning to look at him instead. . the Christmas tree, have a happy holiday. Everyone dancing merrily . . no these fuckers, serious, look at them. Jesus. He stands up. Gets gone.

Beans is already off down the pavement.

‘Hey, wait up. Wait up a moment.’

But he’s away. On the march. A cloud of breath above his head. Mick hurries behind, calling out, all the way to the high street. A bus pulling up — Beans makes a run toward it and hops on.

For the next couple of weeks Beans is even more unpredictable with his visits. He comes round twice, briefly, without any announcement, but then over Christmas he is there almost every day. They buy a chicken. Sprouts, tatties, superlager. They fix up a proper feast for Christmas day and fall asleep blootered in front of the television.

He makes Renuka a tea while she sits at the table and looks about the room.

‘It looks good in here,’ she says when he comes through with the mugs.

‘Better, eh? Keith has been helping me get the place fixed out.’

‘Good. Actually, that’s something I was hoping to ask you about. Keith’s key worker wanted to know if he’s been round at all. His depression has been quite bad of late, and he’s been absent from the hostel a few times. How has he seemed to you?’

‘Fine, fine. Normal. He’s been a great help, being honest.’ He decides no to tell her about the business in the pub.

‘Okay, good, I’ll let Robin know.’ She clasps her hands around her mug. ‘So, you said last time that you’d been thinking about us being in touch with Missing People. Have you given any more thought to it?’

He takes a drink of tea and rests the mug on the table.

‘Ye might say that, aye.’

He is there early, even with the traffic. Time enough for a wee settler before he arrives. It is a big place, pretty empty the now in the quiet after lunchtime. One of these bright-lit chain affairs, low leather settees around low tables. He gets sat on one of the few normal table and chairs, near the middle of the room, facing the entrance. A couple of business types in suits are stood at the bar, drinking lagers and talking loudly. Mick takes a sip of his half. His giro isn’t due until tomorrow, and he’s spent almost the last of his money on new shoes and trousers. He didn’t consider it. The thought then of Robbie having to buy the drinks. Alarm starting to race through him again and it’s a few minutes before he can get it under control.

He continues to drink slowly. A pure battle no to neck the thing but he manages to keep nursing it, while the businessmen move onto the spirits and the bar staff have a short argument what music to put on, and so he isn’t anywhere near as well on as he’d want to be when, early himself, Robbie walks in.

He hasn’t seen him. He’s gone straight to the bar, standing in next to the businessmen and saying something to the barmaid. Mick stays sat. He looks the other way, toward a television screen with no sound because all you can hear is the music that is playing over the speakers. He cannot move; his whole body is turned to mince. On the screen there is a wee video of footballers on a training field and the rolling news underneath — the big story from the English League One is that the Carlisle United manager is for the chop and another guy is lined up already for the hot seat. He turns around. Robbie is coming toward him. A pint in his hand, approaching the table.

‘Robbie.’ He tries to get standing up but he is rooted.

Robbie stands on the other side of the table, looking at him. His face — he sits down and Mick cannot look at it so he fixes his gaze on his hands instead, resting flat on the table. How steady they are, his son’s hands.

‘How are ye, Rob?’

He knots his own hands together around his pint, and they look like an ale jug, one of they old-fashioned type of ale jugs. A stupit thought to have the now. Stupit. Will he no speak? Is he going to sit there without speaking for the whole duration, however long that will be, the duration, perhaps a fucking lifetime? Mick glances up at him. He is greeting. No bucketfuls, but his face is tightened and the eyes are welled up, and Mick has to look away — will Rafael Nadal overcome his knee injury in time for the Australian Open? At the moment, his chances aren’t looking too rosy.