James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

He sat up, cross-legged with his right hand ready to wield the Sporting Life . He waited patiently, staring down at the edge of the bed.

Bastards. Okay, come on then. Come on then you creepy little bastards. Me and this paper. Come on you bastards.

He sat there waiting. He thought he heard the crawler fall back but lacked the courage to look. Perhaps they had started crawling up the legs at the opposite side of the bed, the ones behind him? Jesus Christ! He could feel their presence. He felt them there right behind his back. Then suddenly he relaxed. His mouth gaped open as the tension and strain eased from his limbs and body. He breathed in and then out, swivelled his head around. Nothing! Nothing at all.

He looked down over the bed and saw a mouse go hurtling across the floor towards the cooker and the pantry. No grub there anyway! Ha ha ha you bastard, nothing there.

God. Oh God. A shape under the candlewick bedspread moved steadily in his direction. He stared glassy-eyed for about ten seconds then screamed. He flew off the bed, picked up the carry-out, cigarettes and matches and bolted into the lobby slamming the door behind him. He leaned against the wall gasping and spluttering saliva down his chin. The Sporting Life ? Must have dropped it in the rush. He looked about the place then noticed the container of blue paraffin. He grabbed it up and smiled slyly. He opened the kitchen door gently and slowly sprinkled the paraffin over towards the floor at the bed then lit a match and carefully threw it. The carpet burst into flames.

‘Ha you little bastards!’ he screamed. ‘Ha ha now you bunch of bastards!’ Then he locked himself into the toilet.

The firemen found him there half an hour later after breaking the door in. He stood with one foot in the pan and the other balanced on the seat. He appeared to have been plunging each one in alternately and pulling the plug every so often. He punched his chest when they told him that everything in the kitchen was destroyed.

Tommy had lain awake for almost ten minutes before the alarm finally shattered the early Sunday morning peace. He switched it off and jumped out of bed immediately, dressing in seconds. He opened the bedroom door, padded along the lobby into the kitchenette. A plate of cornflakes lay beside a bottle of milk and bowl of sugar from which he poured and sprinkled.

When he had finished eating the door creaked open and his mother blinked around it: ‘Are you up?’ she asked.

‘Aye mum. Had my cornflakes.’ He could not see her eyes.

‘Washed yet?’

‘Aye mum, it’s a smashing day outside.’

‘Well you better watch yourself. There’s an orange somewhere.’

‘Aye mum.’

‘It’s yes.’

He nodded and stood up, screeching the chair backwards.

‘Sshh. .’ whispered his mother, ‘you’ll waken your dad.’

‘Sorry,’ whispered Tommy. ‘See you later mum.’

‘At eight?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said, stooping to pick up the canvas paper-bag.

‘John’s always in at eight for something to eat,’ said his mother.

‘Okay!’ He swung the bag onto his shoulder the way his brother did.

‘Don’t say okay,’ said his mother frowning a little, eyes open now, becoming accustomed to the morning light.

‘Sorry mum.’

‘Alright. You better go now. Cheerio!’

‘Cheerio!’ he called as she disappeared into the dark curtain-drawn bedroom.

Immediately her head reappeared around the door: ‘SHH!’

‘What’s going on,’ grunted a hoarse voice from the depth.

‘Sorry mum!’ Tommy could hear his father coughing as the bedroom door closed. He washed his face before quietly opening the outside door. He stepped out onto the landing and kicked over an empty milk-bottle but managed to snatch it up before the echo had died away. A dog barked somewhere. Hurrying downstairs not daring to whistle he jumped the last half flight of steps then halted, hardly breathing, wondering if he could have wakened the neighbours by the smack of his sandshoes on the solid concrete.

Out the close he clattered down the remaining steps to the pavement, not caring how much noise he made now that he was out in the open. Crossing the road he leaned against the spiked wooden fence looking far across the valley. So clear. He could see the Old Kilpatricks and that Old Camel’s Hump linking them with the Campsies. He whistled as loudly as he could with two fingers, laughing as the echoes pierced across the burn and over to Southdeen. He turned and waved the paper-bag round and round over his head; then he began trotting along the road, swinging it at every passing lamp-post. He kept forgetting the time and day. It was so bright. He felt so good.

At the top of Bellsyde Hill he slowed down and stared at the view. What hills away over there? The Renfrews maybe. Or it could still be the Old Kilpatricks? Rather than use the tarred pathway he ran downhill across the grass embankment. He had seen nobody since leaving the house more than ten minutes ago. A truck nearly killed him as he came dashing out onto Drumchapel Road from the blind-spot exit.

The truck jammed to a halt and the driver peered out the window. ‘Wee bastard!’ he roared. ‘You daft wee bastard!’

But Tommy never stopped running. He flew on down Garscadden Road and up through the goods’ entrance into Drumchapel Railway Station. The paper-hut stood by itself on the adjacent waste ground, parked beside it were a couple of cars. Half a dozen bicycles were propped against the wooden hut walls. He pushed open the door. The thick blue air made his eyes smart. The place was crowded. It seemed as if everybody was shouting, swearing and joking. Tommy joined at the end of the queue of boys waiting to receive their papers. The boy standing in front of him was a man with a beard. Tommy gazed at him. Behind the wide counter three men assisted by two youths were distributing the Sunday newspapers. The big man and the thin man were laughing uproariously at something the crew-cut man was saying. Some of the boys were also grinning and it was obviously very funny.

Each boy’s bag was being packed tight with newspapers and one large boy had so many that he needed two bags. When Tommy’s turn came he stepped forwards and cried: ‘Six run!’

‘Six run?’ repeated the crew-cut man gaping at him.

‘Aye!’

‘Where’s MacKenzie?’

‘He’s away camping. I’m his wee brother.’

‘What’s that?’ called the thin man.

‘Says he’s MacKenzie’s wee brother,’ said the crew-cut man over his shoulder.

‘Hell of a wee!’ frowned the big man.

‘What age are you kid?’ asked the crew-cut man.

‘Twelve and a half. I’ve been round with my brother before. Three times.’

‘Ach he’ll be okay,’ said the crew-cut man when the big man’s eyes widened.

‘MacKenzie be back next Sunday?’ asked the thin man.

‘Aye,’ replied Tommy. ‘He’s only away for a week. He’s down at Arran with the B.B.’

The thin man nodded to the other two.

‘Aye okay,’ agreed the big man.

‘Right then Wee MacKenzie, pass me your bag!’ The crew-cut man began packing in Post, Express and Mail ; as he worked he called out to the two youths who collected other newspapers from the shelves which ran along the length of the wall behind them. When the bag was filled and all the newspapers in order the man bumped the bag down twice on the counter and told Tommy to listen. ‘Right son,’ he said, ‘they’re all in order.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘ Post, Express, Mail . That’s easy to remember eh? Then People, World, Pictorial, Reynolds and Empire . Okay?’

Tommy hesitated and the crew-cut man repeated it. Tommy nodded and he continued: ‘ Telegraph, Observer and Times . You got that?’