James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

Wonder when it’ll finish! said Fat Stanley.

Oanny waited a short time before answering. D’you mean the poker?

I was just wondering.

Oanny nodded.

Maybe we should’ve asked one of the guys on the door.

Oanny shrugged. They’ll no know. It’s poker Stanley, it finishes when it finishes — it’s no like the club; big James and them I mean you’re talking about dough, it could go on for hours!

That right?

Aye, fuck. Course. Oanny sniffed and he said, See when they told yous they were shutting, could yous no’ve asked if we could wait on a wee bit?

Aye. . Fat Stanley nodded. Right enough. .

They wouldnt’ve let us, muttered Victor.

Only one way of finding out.

Well you should’ve fucking asked then!

I’m no blaming you, said Oanny.

Aye I fucking know you’re no! Hh! Victor shook his head and cleared his throat, spat onto the pavement.

Touchy bastard, grunted Oanny.

What d’you mean touchy bastard? Victor glared at him. Then he strolled to the edge of the pavement and looked for a moment at the sky. The rain had eased a little. He glared back at Oanny and shook his head again.

What’s up with you? asked Oanny.

Victor spat into the gutter.

What’s up with that cunt? said Oanny to Fat Stanley and he dragged deeply on the cigarette and blew the smoke harshly out the corner of his mouth.

Victor was staring at him. Oanny returned the stare. Then Victor said, You’re an old man.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Victor shook his head.

Eh? What’s that fucking supposed to mean, I’m an old man?

Ah! Victor turned away from him.

Eh? said Oanny to Fat Stanley.

Never bother, muttered Fat Stanley.

I dont even know what he’s fucking talking about!

Never bother.

Aye but I dont even know what he’s fucking talking about Stanley, know what I mean!

Fat Stanley shrugged slightly. Victor was exhaling smoke, gazing in the direction away from the car park. For some minutes neither of the three spoke. Eventually Victor returned into the doorway, taking up a position close to the front.

Minutes after they had finished the cigarettes the glass door opened again, and the two younger doormen appeared and they could be heard quite distinctly, saying cheerio to somebody else — the oldest doorman probably. Then one of them noticed Oanny, Fat Stanley and Victor and he whispered something and the other one looked over. The pair continued along towards the car park and one of them laughed.

No point asking them anything! muttered Oanny. He stared after them. You wonder how they ever get a fucking job like that dont you. .

The three of them continued sheltering in the doorway. It was Fat Stanley who broke the silence. He said: Is that the rain off?

Oanny made no answer.

Still fucking drizzling, muttered Victor.

What time does that café in the Central Station open?

Soon. How?

Aw nothing. I was just wondering. . Fat Stanley shrugged.

You any money?

Nah — couple of coppers just.

Victor nodded.

Enough for a tea, I suppose. Fat Stanley glanced at him: You skint?

Aye.

Fat Stanley glanced at Oanny but Oanny was gazing off out the doorway and seemed not to notice. And he said to Victor, Naw I was just wondering about maybe taking a wee walk or something, just to pass the time, stretch the legs and that. .?

Victor nodded very slightly.

Then Oanny moved suddenly. I’m away, he said.

What?

I’m away home.

How d’you mean?

Ach! Oanny shook his head. This is fucking murder! He sidled past Fat Stanley, out onto the pavement. Yous two waiting on?

Victor looked at him.

Are yous?

How what’re you doing? asked Fat Stanley.

I told you, I’m going home. It’s a long hike and I might as well start now.

Aye but Oanny I mean. .

Oanny shrugged. What’s the fucking difference, he said. Either we win or we get fucking beat. Wait here and we’ll wait forever.

Aye but what about Alec and that?

Oanny shook his head and he walked off, away from the direction of the car park, his shoulders hunched up and rounded. The other two watched him go, their heads poking out from the doorway.

This man for fuck sake it was terrible seeing him walk down the edge of the pavement. If he’d wanted litter we would’ve given him it. The trouble is we didn’t know it at the time. So all we could do was watch his progress and infer. And even under normal circumstances this is never satisfactory: it has to be readily understood the types of difficulty we laboured under. Then that rolling manoeuvre he performed while nearing the points of reference. It all looked to be going so fucking straightforward. How can you blame us? You can’t, you can’t fucking blame us.

About half an hour before he died Mr Millar woke up, aware that he might start seeing things from out the different shapes in the bedroom, especially all these clothes hanging on the pegs on the door, their suddenly being transformed into ghastly kinds of bodies, perhaps hovering in mid air. It was not a good feeling; and having reflected on it for quite a few minutes he began dragging himself up onto his elbows to peer about the place. And his wrists felt really strange, as if they were bloodless or something, bereft of blood maybe, no blood at all to course through the veins. For a wee while he became convinced he was losing his sanity altogether, but no, it was not that, not that precisely; what it was, he saw another possibility, and it was to do with crossing the edge into a sort of madness he had to describe as ‘proper’ — a proper madness. And as soon as he recognized the distinction he began to feel better, definitely. Then came the crashing of a big lorry, articulated by the sound of it. Yes, it always had been a liability this, living right on top of such a busy bloody road. He was resting on his elbows still, considering all of it, how it had been so noisy, at all hours of the day and night. Terrible. He felt like shouting on the wife to come ben so’s he could tell her about it, about how he felt about it, but he was feeling far too tired and he had to lie back down.

By one of those all-time flukes I landed head of the queue at the doctor’s surgery. Somebody nudged me on the elbow eventually and pointed to the wee green light above the door. I laid down the magazine and walked across. The doctor opened it and said, You first this morning?

Yes sir, I says.

Yes sir! It was really incredible I could have said such a thing; I dont think I’ve called anybody sir in years. But the doctor took it in his stride, as if it was normal procedure; he ushered me inside, waiting to shut the door behind me. Then he walked side by side with me, leaving me at the patient’s chair while he continued on round the desk to sit on his own one. He was quite a worried looking wee guy and it occurred to me he probably liked the drink too much. His face scarlet and his hair was prematurely white. He had on a white dustcoat, the kind hospital orderlies usually wear, but underneath it he was wearing an expensive three-piece suit. He sat watching me and frowned.

What’s up? I says.

Aw nothing, nothing at all. Fancy a coffee?

Aye, ta, that’d be great. I sniffed and looked at the carpet while he rose to fill an electric kettle across at the sink. When he noticed me glance over he nodded. Aye, he says, this job, it’s worse than you think. He grinned suddenly, he reached to plug in the kettle, then returned to the chair. I was reading that yin of Kafka’s last night, ‘The Country Doctor’ — you read it?