James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

Aye but. .

You can take a bus back down the road.

Brian nodded, then started to speak, but Gordon held up his right hand and said, The fare’s taken care of.

Aw aye, aye. . Brian sniffed. I wasnt meaning that.

They continued walking in silence for a time. Eventually Brian turned to say, This getting the giro across the counter, I wish to God I could get into it myself!

Aye well dont. Garbage so it is, you’re better biting your nails. All it means is you’re skint for the weekend. Fucking murder.

Still.

No stills about it.

Brian nodded, smiled. He had his cigarette packet out. There were two left. He gave one to Gordon and returned the packet to his jerkin pocket and took a half-smoked dowp from behind his right ear. And he struck a match against the grey sandstone tenement wall adjacent, shielding the flame in his cupped hands. I hate this smoking in the open air, he muttered while exhaling and chipping the dud match. . Know how?

Gordon shrugged as they walked on.

The fucking wind, it smokes your fucking fags! Brian shook his head. Know what I mean, sometimes you’re walking man and you’ve only had a couple of drags and the fucking thing’s burnt right down to the tip.

Aye, said Gordon, glancing to the other side of the road.

The pub was at the corner of the next street along from the post office. Gordon and the barman knew each other. While the two were chatting quietly together Brian turned side on, gazing at the blank television screen, then at a big coloured poster on the wall nearby; a woman tennis player, standing scratching her bum, her skirt raised almost to her waist and not wearing any pants underneath. After a moment he looked away.

The barman was giving Gordon the change, and the two pints of lager were on the counter. Gordon lifted one and handed the other to Brian then led the way to one of the empty tables. Once the first mouthful had been drunk Gordon said, So — no signs of a job I take it?

Nah, no yet — yourself?

Gordon shrugged.

Right enough, went on Brian, the wife’s knocked it off, a wee part-time shot, nothing startling.

Good but.

In a boozer, said Brian. She helps out at dinnertime. Pub grub and that; it’s a place up the town; hell of a busy with office workers and the rest of it. The manager says he’ll take her full-time as soon as there’s a vacancy.

Aw good, good.

Aye. Brian nodded, he took another mouthful of the lager. Thanks for this, he said.

Gordon frowned. Dont be daft. . He raised his own glass and drank from it. Then he tore the cellophane off the packet and withdrew two fags, and he chuckled: Heh Brian, mind the times we used to have in that fucking paper factory! Eh? No kidding ye man I dont think I’ve had a decent laugh since I dropped them the resignation.

That’s one way of putting it!

They both laughed loudly. Gordon said, Hurry up and swallow it down; we’ll have another yin.

Naw, ta. I better get down the road. It’s the wean; quarter past twelve on the dot, without fail, every day of the week. I’ve got to be there.

Gordon glanced at the gantry clock. You’ve still got time for one more.

Nah. . Brian sniffed.

Well a half pint then. Or a wee yin? a goldie — eh? I’m having one myself.

You twisting my arm!

Naw.

Alright then. Brian grinned.

Gordon chuckled. For an awful minute I thought you were losing your touch! Eh what you want water or something? lemonade?

The former.

The former! Gordon raised his eyebrows as he got up from the chair, and he did a sort of rapid tap-dance shuffle across to the bar.

He came back with two 1/4 gills of whisky and a jug of water. And he returned to the bar, to collect two half pints of lager. When he placed them on the table he said, Just remember me in your will old chap.

Aw Christ Gordon, thanks.

Ah! Gordon’s face screwed up and his teeth clenched, he inhaled sharply, making a rasping noise. He poured a drop of water into his whisky and pushed Brian the jug. Brian added a measure into his own whisky. They drank simultaneously, following it up with quick sips of the lager. Gordon wiped his mouth with the cuff of his coat sleeve, glancing round the interior of the bar. Then he said, So how’s the horses treating you these days?

Well to be honest, I’ve no been getting too involved.

I know the feeling!

Aw naw, naw, it’s no that. I just get fucking scunnered with it.

I dont blame you. These last couple of weeks! No kidding ye Brian see last Thursday? I’m standing there, got a right few quid going onto the last favourite. Inside the final furlong and it’s three lengths clear; then this big fucking fifty-to-one shot comes and beats it on the post. Eh? Game’s as bent as fuck man I’m no kidding ye, it’s no real.

Brian was nodding. I know, I know — and see what gets me, the faces; you walk in the door and you see the faces, always the fucking same. . Brian shook his head and he reached for his whisky, paused before drinking: Telling ye Gordon sometimes if I’m going to put a line on I just fucking take a walk, I get off my mark, away to another betting shop altogether. Then I go somewhere else, afterwards. . Brian had paused. He shook his head and studied his fag for a moment, before stubbing it out in an ashtray.

Gordon muttered, Hh! Then he glanced to the side and added, A slash, I’ll need to go for a slash.

Brian was footering with the cigarette packet when he returned. He said, I’ve only got the one left Gordon. He shrugged and took the one out, crumpled the packet and placed it in the ashtray. He struck a match down the side of his chair but it did not ignite: he scraped it along the floor. Gordon had a cigarette of his own, and he had his lighter out, but took a light from Brian’s match instead; as he exhaled he said: Something just occurred to me there.

He sniffed and leaned forwards, his arms folded, resting the elbows on the table: I might be able to put a bit of business your way.

What?

Naw, it’s just eh. . He cleared his throat and drank lager, inhaled on the fag. He glanced sideways, lowered his voice while speaking: Big ears Brian. Big ears and big fucking mouths. Know what I mean?

Brian nodded.

See what I was thinking. . Gordon stopped and shook his head.

Brian nodded again.

Naw, it’s just. . Gordon frowned then smiled, tapped himself on the chest. The boy here — you know what like it is Brian, I can hardly get walking. Sometimes I’ve just got to fucking step out the door and the busies are there waiting; wanting to know where I’m going what I’m doing. Murder man I’m no fucking kidding ye. Anything up and round they come at all hours, chapping the door and waking the weans — mental so it is, the wife goes off her head about it. And no wonder, I mean. . Naw Brian I’m no kidding ye, the way they carry on, it’s just no fucking real.

Aye.

A lot of difficulties as well man because of it, you with me?

Brian nodded.

Naw, said Gordon. He sniffed and frowned a moment, dragged on the cigarette; screwing his face up before blowing out the smoke. Take the other night, just as a for instance; we got a wee turn, a wee turn. Trouble is it should’ve been a fucking lot better than that. Gordon sat back on the chair. He sat forwards again and leaned closer to the other: I mean somebody like yourself Brian, you could’ve done a nice bit of business, a nice bit of business. And no sweat. None. I’m no kidding ye.

Brian nodded.

Gordon sniffed and continued: See what it was man we’ve got a load — okay? And we’ve got to get fucking shot of the stuff at the double, at the double Brian, no fucking hanging about — you with me? So what happens? Hh! Cut-price fucking discount store — What Every Woman Wants man I’m no kidding ye, mental. Whereas, whereas, if we’ve got time. If we’ve got time Brian, I mean, if we’ve got time to fucking hang about then Christ, Christ sake. I mean a couple of days — that’s all! A couple of fucking days!