Ross Raisin - Waterline

Renuka is giving him a pitying look and it seems at that moment like she’s about to put her hand on his. He withdraws it, gets it under the table.

‘He knows he didn’t act right, Da. Neither of you did. When I was staying with him, he said that. But then when you didn’t come back, it — he — it was too much for him, I think.’

‘Yous two come to blows?’

Robbie gives a wee smile. ‘You might say that.’

There is obviously more but Robbie has cloyed up, gazing out the damp window.

‘Either of you go another cup of tea?’

Robbie shakes his head. ‘No. Thanks. I think we should call it a day for now, okay?’

‘Right.’

They all stand up.

‘Where ye staying?’

‘I’m in a hotel in King’s Cross. My flight’s booked for next week. I can’t leave them any longer.’

Renuka stays in the main room as he steps with Robbie to the door.

‘I am glad to see you, you know,’ Robbie says, and moves to put his arms about him. Mick comes forward uneasily. It is awkward and odd, being touched, and he stiffens up immediately. He can feel Robbie’s chin on his shoulder. After a few seconds, they pull back, and Mick is about to say that he is sorry but he stops himself. He worries how he smells.

‘I’ll call round again tomorrow, okay? You should get a phone.’

He comes early the next afternoon. They sit on the tiny settee drinking coffee with the television on in the background. There is too much that needs saying to be able to say a lot, so they keep fairly quiet. He does anyway. Robbie is more conversational, if that’s the word for it — more an interrogation, which it seems at times he’s trying to hold himself back from but he can’t; all these questions that he needs answers for. Why didn’t he tell anybody he was leaving? Why did he go to London? What happened at the hotel? Why did he write the letter and then not make contact again, even when he was homeless?

If there were straight answers that he could give, then it would be easier. Why did he go to London? Why did he do any of it? Christ knows. He needs to be fair but, to be open, so he attempts to tell him at least some of what he’s asking, even if he is light on the details.

Later on they try again going for a pint. They give a bye to the bearpit up the way, and walk a while longer in the other direction until they come to a decent-looking place next to a private gardens that is white with a covering of untouched snow. His giro is come and he’s able to get the round in. Robbie of course is quick enough asking him how he’s living, so he tells him. Whatever he thinks about it, he keeps it to himself. A few others in. A couple of old English boys in ties and blazers. There are things that Robbie wants to tell him: how it’s been, all this time without knowing where he was. He was staying with Craig at first, he says, but then it got too much and he rented a temporary place for himself. Eventually he had to go back to Australia. His job. The family. Mick is wanting to ask him about Jenna and Damien, but he can’t bring himself to. Before he returned, Robbie tells him, he went down to Newcastle, wondering if maybe that’s where he’d went. Trying to dig out anybody he might have worked with; persuading landlords and bookies to let him put up these posters that the charity had printed. The rare time he did find anybody that minded him — how he had to explain the whole story to them about what had happened.

He doesn’t want to hear any of this but he knows he has to let him say it. He certainly doesn’t ask who it was Robbie found that used to know him. The thought of his mugshot up in a string of pub lobbies, there for every bevvy-merchant to have a gawp at — it’s no exactly something he wants to get thinking about.

That evening, when they come back from the pub, he overhears Robbie in the kitchen, talking on his mobile phone. The tap is on while he washes up the plates from their curry carry-out, and Mick is through in the main room with the television on, but he can hear well enough.

‘. . he’s got this flat, he’s. . Yeh, I know, I know, but I want to. . No, it’s fine. . No, he’s on benefits.’

The tap is turned off then and Robbie is saying goodbye. He turns the television up louder. Afterward, when Robbie has left, he wonders if he had meant him to hear.

The following morning, Robbie comes round with a new telephone in a cardboard box. As they get opening it, Robbie says that he’s spoke to Alan. He wants to come down and see him. Mick keeps quiet and concentrates on the box as he is told this.

‘Don’t worry. I told him it’s too soon. He can wait, but you’re going to have to see him sometime, with all he’s done.’

‘Aye, I know,’ he says, even though there’s absolutely nay fucking chance in hell he’s ever going to let that meeting happen. ‘And Craig?’

‘I’ve spoken to him, yes.’

‘Doesn’t want to see me, eh?’

‘He’s relieved we’ve found you, Da.’

‘Right.’

‘He is.’ He puts down a handful of phone entrails. ‘He’s going to find it difficult that you don’t want to be in Glasgow, like I said.’

They get on with taking wires and parts out of the box, arranging them on the floor, and they let the subject go quiet. One thing’s for sure: these telephone manufacturers don’t like making life simple. Even the phone isn’t a phone yet: it’s in blocks of plastic that need fitting together. Robbie gets reading through the instructions leaflet, and Mick is started on screwing the handset together, when the buzzer goes. He gets up and answers it. Beans. For a split second he considers telling him it’s no a good time, but then the great cargo of guilt that he’s carrying everywhere is straight away weighing upon him, and he changes his mind.

This is the first he’s seen him in a while. A nervousness builds as he waits for him to come up the lift that he won’t be sober, that his clothes will be clatty. He has told Robbie that there is a guy he’s known, who helped him when he was on the street, but the most he’s said when Robbie’s asked what like he is, is that he’s from Paisley and he’s something of a queer ticket.

Beans is puzzled at first that there is somebody else in the flat.

‘This is my son, Robbie.’

‘Yer son? Oh, right. How’s it going?’ He puts a hand out, and Robbie shakes it. ‘Keith. Ye come to stay?’

Robbie glances over at Mick, understanding then that Beans obvious isn’t up to speed with the situation.

‘I’m here visiting for the next couple of days. I’m stopped in a hotel in King’s Cross.’

Beans is giving him a quizzical look.

‘Where ye from? You an islander?’

Robbie grins. ‘Naw. Govan.’

Beans doesn’t look convinced. ‘That’s a strange accent ye’ve got. I’m no being rude.’

Mick stands in the kitchen doorway, observing the pair of them.

‘No, don’t worry, my wife tells me the same. I’ve been living in Australia for ten years, that’s how I sound like this.’

Beans laughs. ‘I knew it. I knew there was something strange about you. What’s all this?’ He has spotted the dismembered phone next to its box and is going toward it. ‘See me, I’m good with telephones.’

He gets immediately trying to put the thing together. With no little success either. Making Robbie see him over the different coloured wires and screwdriver heads, demonstrating how it’s done. Robbie is clear intrigued by the guy. Right from the kick-off there is an easiness between them, which in fact shouldn’t be too surprising: he’s pretty straight down the line like that, Robbie, takes people as he finds them.

The phone is fixed out in no time. Robbie gives it a call off his mobile phone to check it works. It does. He is connected. He is attainable 24/7 and nay excuses. Robbie notices then that he has a message from Jenna and he goes in the kitchen to make them a cup of tea and get reading it.