James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

Aye.

Ronnie shook his head: I mean I’ve got to laugh at yous cunts. All talk. All fucking talk.

McInnes was looking at him. Ronnie looked back at him. McInnes said, This is you out of order again.

What?

This is you fucking out of order, again.

What d’you mean?

The way you go on. . McInnes shook his head and stared at the floor.

Ronnie stared at him.

Aye, God sake, the way you go on!

What! Ronnie’s face screwed into a glare.

Leave it.

Leave it?

McInnes looked at him then looked away. Jimmy Peters was looking away too. Ronnie sniffed and glanced at the dog, it was asleep, poor big fucking beast, sound asleep. Greyhounds were short-haired. The top of its head was really smooth. He reached to stroke it, it didnt feel like hair at all, more like a kind of material. He took a long draw on the cigarette, ground it out beneath his shoe on the floor.

Jimmy Peters said, I see the Celts’re going to sign that Thomson?

Ronnie nodded.

No a bad player.

Aye.

No Celtic class, muttered McInnes.

It needed a feed as well, it was probably starving. That was another thing about greyhound owners, how they were really tight, they treated their dogs like racing machines, no sentiment. The guy he had bought it from probably never fed it because he knew he was selling it, so it was probably fucking starving.

That movie. .

Ronnie frowned slightly, then nodded. What time does it start? he asked.

Jimmy Peters smiled. Naw, he said, I’m talking about that one that was on last night — fucking brilliant, did you see it?

Nah.

Were you out? asked McInnes.

What?

I was just asking if you were out, last night; you were no in here?

Naw.

McInnes nodded. Oh by the way, he said, that fucking Hammurabi won again!

What! You’re kidding?

7 to 1.

For Christ sake!

7 to 1. . McInnes smiled, shaking his head. They’re sending it to Royal Ascot.

Many’s that it’s won? Jimmy Peters asked.

Four.

Four on the trot, added Ronnie.

Jimmy Peters grinned. Pity you couldnt’ve bought a horse!

Ronnie looked at him.

Imagine coming in here with it! Peters laughed: Imagine the faces!

For fuck sake! Ronnie began chuckling.

McInnes was smiling.

A pint and a barrel of oats! cried Peters. Heh barman, a pint and a barrel of oats!

The three of them were laughing now. Gradually they stopped. Ronnie began stroking behind the dog’s ears and it opened its eyes for a moment, made a movement in its mouth as if it was thirsty. It would be thirsty. When had it last had a drink? Ronnie hadnt given it one. And the guy he’d bought it from, probably he hadnt either. The truth of the matter is Ronnie was feeling bad. He probably shouldnt’ve bought the dog, if he wasnt going to look after it properly. It just wasnt fair. The lassies would help right enough. They were good, they helped. They would take it for walks. Babs would just — she wouldnt bother, she would be okay. He was just fucking, it was him, he was daft, stupid, coming home with a greyhound, it was out of order. Jimmy was talking. Ronnie nodded, acknowledging something; he didnt know what the fuck it was he was acknowledging but he was fucking acknowledging something! He smiled, he raised the pint to his lips and swallowed beer. Jimmy pushed the tobacco pouch towards him and he rolled himself a smoke. It was time to leave. He struck a match, lighting his own before offering the light to Jimmy; then he finished off the beer and wiped his mouth quickly. Okay, he said, lifting the leash. And he got to his feet.

You off? asked Jimmy Peters.

Aye.

I’ll be heading that way myself, said McInnes, glancing towards the clock.

See you the morrow, said Jimmy.

Aye. . Ronnie gave a slight tug on the leash and the dog rose from the floor. And he left the pub quickly, in case McInnes came along the road with him. They both lived in the same street. He didnt want McInnes to know, that he wasnt going home just now. He wasnt going to go home just now, definitely not. He wasnt feeling right for it. That was it in a nutshell. What was that thing about Hamlet? Like a king. Something. Ronnie just felt fucking, he felt lousy. He hadnt been feeling as lousy as this before. Last night for instance he had been feeling good. He had made the phonecall and he knew he was the only one who had made any inquiries. And eighty quid as well; it was about exactly what he had saved up, almost the total sum. Everything just seemed spot on. And the guy himself seemed okay. If it was possible to trust a doggie-man! Ronnie grinned. They couldnt all be fucking rogues. Surely to fuck!

Heh Ronnie!

It was McInnes out from the pub and waving to him and coming along after him. Ronnie waved back and continued, and on round the next corner and he started walking fast, and then round the next corner, and away.

He liked McInnes, he wasnt fucking, it wasnt as if he was trying to avoid him, especially; he just didnt want to fucking speak to anybody, not anybody. Nobody. Fucking nobody. He didnt want to speak to any cunt at all. And not McInnes, a good pal, he didnt want to speak to the likes of him at all. And not fucking Babs either. Babs least of all. And the weans, he didnt want to speak to them, not to even see them, he couldnt face them; he actually couldnt face them. He couldnt face them, the wife and weans, that was it, in a fucking nutshell.

*

It was fucking really terrible. The truth of the matter is he was feeling really terrible. How the fuck was he feeling as terrible as this? And there was the big dog! So fucking placid. That was it about these animals, how placid they were and then when you see them at the track they’re so fucking fierce, so fierce looking; fangs bared and fucking drooling, drooling at the mouth and ready to fucking — bite, kill, kill the hare except its a bundle of stupid fucking rags. Imagine being as easy conned as that! Letting yourself get lulled into it, racing round and round and fucking round just to catch this stupid fucking bundle of rags. It made you feel sorry for it. Dogs and all the rest of the animals. And people of course, they were no different — they seemed different but they werent; they seemed as if they were different but they werent; they really fucking werent, they just thought they were, it made you smile. Because there they were, running round and round trying to fucking catch it, a crock of gold, and did they ever catch it, did they fuck. The boy was like that, off to London; and what would happen to him, fuck all, nothing. He would just wind up getting a job somewhere and it would be fucking awful, and maybe he would just stay in London or else he’d come back. And if he stayed in London that’d be that and he probably’d hardly ever see them again. It was fucking strange. And Ronnie actually felt like doing himself in. It was a feeling he’d had, creeping up on him. He was actually feeling like doing himself in. What a thing. What a fucking thing. It was because he felt like a, well, because he felt like he’d fucking let them down, he’d let them down, it was because he felt like he’d let them all down, the whole lot, the lassies and Babs and the boy. Jesus, he’d really fucking let them down. What did he do it. What did he do it. What was the thing. There was water at the edges of his mouth, and he wiped it off along his left forefinger and it made him feel better. The dog still walking there, that courageous picture. Because it was going into the fucking unknown! That dog! Getting led by him and not knowing where in the name of fuck it’s going. Stupid. And the fucking power, letting itself get led. It was funny how human beings came first, and even one of these wee weans in the park could walk up and take over the lead, and the dog would just let it probably, just let it, itself be led.