Ross Raisin - Waterline

The fruit machine is ringing and a spew of coins clatters into the collect tray. The lad has struck it lucky. You can see by his face how pleased he is, the money falling out from the machine for quite a long while. Good for you, pal. Mick gives him a grin as he comes past on his way to the bar with the coins cupped in his hands, a wee smile from Craig too, glancing down a moment from the television. It’s his own face, if anything, not his mother’s. They’ve similar features. It gets more noticeable the older he is. Even a few grey hairs showing already. That’ll be another thing he can hold against him.

He stays looking at the boy for a moment before turning back to the wall. Rats. That was one thing that never changed. As a wean, his da would take him into the yard sometimes when a ship was due for its trials, and they’d stand together in a big crowd of boys and yardmen as the ship got fumigated, waiting for the moment when hundreds of rats started pouring down the mooring ropes, and then the popcorn-popping sound as everyone got batting them with their shovels.

Desmond is walking over.

He stands over the table, a great bear blocking out the television.

‘Mick. It’s good to see you.’

‘And yourself, Desmond. How’s it going?’

‘No bad, aye, no bad. Quiet, like, but what can ye do, eh?’ He claps a giant hand onto Craig’s shoulder. ‘Robbie still here as well, is he?’

‘He is. And the Highlanders. They’re off the morrow but, any luck.’

‘Aye, well, good of them to stay this long, I suppose. Alan been putting the mix in?’

‘No, he’s been fine, to be fair. Lynn’s been cooking for us all, so there’s no complaints really. Look, Des, I wanted to say thanks again for the other day. It —’

‘Aw, Mick, serious, it’s no a problem. Ye’re very welcome. And it’s no like I’m mobbed with custom, know?’ He looks round toward the bar. ‘I’m sure Pat coped with himself for a few hours.’ He chuckles, taking the hand off Craig’s shoulder, and looks down at the table. ‘Another drink, boys?’

Craig shakes his head.

‘No, we’re alright, thanks,’ Mick says.

‘Okay, well, yous two take care. I’d best go see what state this bar’s in.’

His massive arse is moving away to the bar. They look up to the television as the Rangers game comes on. There’s an early goal. He doesn’t recognize the scorer. Maybe he should try and persuade Craig to stay for another drink. Force something out of him, at least. How’s he getting on up in Yoker, for one thing; is the job working out? Apart from the bits and pieces that Robbie’s told him, he honestly wouldn’t know. Does he have a girlfriend even? The thought of asking him something like that. Excuse me, son, but I was wondering just if ye’re seeing anybody the now, and how does she get on with these thundery mood swings of yours? Probably he wouldn’t be like that with her though. See she would understand him; she would make time and listen to him.

Desmond is talking to the new barmaid, showing her something at the till. After a moment they move along the bar and he pulls down a couple of whisky bottles from the gantry, unscrews the pourer off the fuller one and starts marrying them together, shaking out the last few drops from the empty. Then back onto the rack. He leaves her to get doing the rest of the bottles while he goes over by the till, carefully patting the comb-over, and observes her. The thought occurs to him then, minding the hand on Craig’s shoulder, that possibly Desmond knows more what’s going on with him than he does. If this is his hideout, where he comes to get away from the house, from him, he might well have talked a little to Des. Even if no how he’s feeling, then maybe at least some of the other stuff, like how’s his flat and his job, and is his boss a bastard and all that type of thing.

‘I’m off home, Da.’

Craig stands up, pulling his jacket on.

‘Okay, son, I’ll come with ye.’

It is dark, walking back. The streetlamps are on, and there aren’t as many people about as earlier, though there’s still a queue in the chip shop. They turn off the high street, through an alleyway, and past a group of bevvied-up young lads playing football in the dim light of a back court. It could have gone worse, he tells himself. They got through it without any explosions, at least. That’s something. Give it time, is the best thing. Let him be alone with himself for a while, no having to deal with people in his face the whole day. He’s a solitary kind of a person, anyway, so he’ll figure himself out if he’s left to it. They come past the bus stop at the end of the road and as they get near the house he can see the lights are off downstairs, so Robbie and Jenna must be away to bed.

Even as he opens the front door, it doesn’t really hit him that she isn’t going to be there. There’s no thudding realization whacking him over the head or anything like that, it’s more a feeling like she’s out, like it’s bingo night or something. He goes into the kitchen and gets himself a glass of water while Craig goes up to the bathroom. The Highlanders have tidied away all the cans and the bottles into separate carriers, he notices. He drinks his water and waits until he can hear Craig coming down the stair. They pass in the corridor.

‘Night,’ Craig says, going into the living room.

‘Night, son. See you in the morning.’

He hasn’t slept in the bed any of these last nights. All the bedding is now pulled onto the floor, against the wall, with Robbie’s old camping mat underneath for him to lie on. He’s been sleeping better there. No perfect, but it’s better. It still takes a few hours each night, trying to block out the sound of Fred fucking Flintstone through the wall, until he gets drifting off. And when he does, he sleeps in short, deep spurts, waking often, and usually from the most pure vivid dreams. She is there in most of these, even if it’s just for a walk-on: crossing the road as he’s waiting in a car stopped at the lights, or sat near to him at the bus stop eating a sausage roll. More often though, the dreams are about her, or the two of them together. He had one, she was in the kitchen getting tea ready, some keech on the mini TV in the background, and she’s chatting away to herself as he comes in and gets himself a beer out the fridge. Then when she sees him she starts straight away apologizing, saying she’s no had time to fix out a proper tea and so it’s ham and eggs and he’s genuine bemused, laughing, because what’s wrong with ham and eggs — that’s a great bloody tea.

It is colder the night and he’s got the windows closed. Still the odd noise from outside: a front door shutting; a car speeding toward the river. He pulls the covers in close over him, and starts to feel quite snug there on the floor, and maybe it’s the beer he drank but it isn’t long before he has started gradually, comfortably, to drop off.

He is in the bed and she’s lying next to him, facing away, snoring. He can’t sleep, it’s that loud. The noise increases steadily to a peak, and stops with a jolt; a moment of peace and silence as she lies there breathing heavily, and then it begins again. He props himself up on his elbow and looks over at her. The flesh of her neck bunched against her chin. He gives her a shunt with his elbow and lies quickly down again. Silence. A few moments’ respite, and then it gets up again. He gives another nudge and she grunts to a stop. He closes his eyes and pretends he’s asleep. She mumbles some nonsense a few seconds and goes quiet. After a while he feels himself starting to fall to sleep, the eyes slowly closing, but then she’s at it again. He gives a real shunt this time, and turns quick over onto his other side. There is a chuckle. ‘I know what ye’re up to. Pack it in, eh.’ He kids on he’s asleep, but he can’t keep it up and soon he’s chuckling too.