James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

Ronnie was walking quickly now, the greyhound trotting to remain abreast of him.

It was maybe good to change speed like this so it kept more alert, especially with it being so tired — and hungry. The thing must have been starving. That was him walking it since fucking what? 10 o’clock in the morning for fuck sake! Poor bastard. Of all the owners to get it gets him. Ach well. The tea in the oven. Babs would have switched it off now and she’d be wondering what the hell, how come he had got money; because she would just assume he was in the pub and in the process of getting totally paralytic. And a drink of water, it hadnt even had a drink of water. For fuck sake. It was actually worrying; it was more than just, it was more than just thinking it was thirsty it was actually thinking it might be getting bad because of it, the dog might actually become ill or something, because of the lack of water; it was possible. What he could do was just throw it in the fucking Clyde! then it’d get bags of water! That old joke about falling into the river, you didnt drown, you died of diphtheria. It was true but you couldnt see into it. Ronnie minded well as a boy when he used to hang over the side and see if he could see any fish, and he couldnt see anything it was so cloudy, so fucking mawkit. Christ! And yet that smell, it was a great smell, and fresh and what else could it be but the sea air, the smell of the sea. Yes. A fucking tang, it was the sea. It was fucking — Jesus, it was fucking great; it was just fucking great. And these other smells working in the leather-works across in Partick, making football bladders and stuff like that. What a fucking job; that twice-daily journey six days a week and the rain pelting down, and the wind biting your ears going across in the ferry; walking up the steps at the other side and then the cobbles, that terrible monotony, the wooden fence, spar after spar. The good bit about it was the race, every cunt racing each other but kidding on they were just walking fast. Maybe they were walking fast. Maybe he was the only person racing. Not at all. Everybody was at it, seeing who’d be first to reach Dumbarton Road. And anybody who ran was fucking cheating! Comical! Ronnie laughed, shook his head. It was just so fucking comical. Stupid. The greyhound was looking at him and it had tugged the leash. It was going to do another shite. The guy must have fed it after all otherwise there would’ve been nothing more to come out. Poor bastard. It wasnt much of a shite right enough. Big Dan ; it was squeezing out this wee skinny shite. Maybe he would give it another name. He could call it whatever he liked. Shitey ! He could call it Shitey . But that wouldnt be allowed, unless he changed its spelling. Iteysh . Something like that. Or Keech ! Outside of Glasgow nobody knew what the fuck it meant. Big Keechy . Ronnie shook his head, transferred the leash to his other hand and brought out the cigarette packet and matches. There were only two left. It was unbelievable how they went. Two before going into the pub; three in it; then this was the second since leaving. Which makes seven. He must’ve smoked another one somewhere else.

The dog was sitting at the gutter, staring down in the direction of the river. It was wondering what was happening. And Babs as well. And the lassies maybe; them thinking he was in the boozer.

The pier was derelict around here, it was a pity. At one time the steamers pulled in on their way down the Firth. And boats went to America, £5 for the one-way trip. When was that? That was fucking years ago. The turn of the century.

Ronnie peered through the fence; he tied the leash round a spike and rubbed his hands together. The wind coming down the Clyde; he moved his shoulders into a hunch. The cigarette packet and matches were back in his pocket again. He was going to save them for later. He didnt need a smoke just now. It was just habit. But he did need another pish. And he would have to wait a minute because there was a couple walking past, man and a woman with the arms linked. And the way they stared at the greyhound it was as if they thought it was there by itself. Ronnie stared after them and there was something in the way they walked that made him think they were wanting to look back but were doing their best not to. It was funny the way people were, how they acted, always so fucking self conscious and embarrassed about things. All they had to say was, Is this dog yours? And he would’ve said, Aye. And that would’ve fucking been it, end of story.

But people didnt do things like that. They didnt do things as simple as that. They had to do it in a devious sort of — they had to be devious, that was it, they just had to be fucking devious. That was it, that was human nature, they just had to be fucking devious. Even the boy — eighteen years of age and just as devious as the rest of them. All he had to do was tell them and that would’ve been that. But no; what he does is fuck off and then gives a phonecall from a fucking motorway cafe. And Babs is up to fucking high doh worrying about it. Unbelievable. Just like a fucking wee wean. Eighteen years of age! Ronnie had been his father at that age. Eighteen! Fuck sake. It’s no that young. It’s young, but no that young. Eighteen. Christ Almighty.

It was getting dark. What time was it? When he was in the pub it was 7. It was after that. Nearer 8, when he left. Probably it was 9, it’d be 9 now. And they’d think he would be really paralytic. It could even be after 9.

Heh Ronnie!

Christ! McInnes! McInnes had come after him. McInnes. Where was he? He wasnt here at all. It hadnt been a shout. But it was like a shout. As if somebody had shouted on him. An apparition. A fucking ghost! The docks was a creepy place but, deserted and fucking derelict. And this pier, how you could see the actual particles of coaldust lapping in on the surface of the water, onto the steps for fuck sake, if you wanted to commit suicide you’d choose a better place, you wouldnt want to fucking choke, if you wanted to fucking choke you’d do something else altogether, a bottle of fucking pills maybe.

What did he buy it for? He shouldnt’ve bought it.

Ach well. It was too late. He had it and that was that. Poor old bastard. Maybe he wouldnt race it at all, maybe he would just keep it as a pet, and fuck them. Bastards.

Here was somebody else coming. Another couple.

That was funny how the shout had happened, it sounding like a shout, from inside the head. And it was McInnes; it was his voice. It wasnt Babs for instance, if you’d expected that, because maybe to do with telepathy, her thinking he was about to do himself in or somefuckingthing and so trying to reach out to him, the way twins are supposed to.

She would maybe be worrying about him now. Would she? Aye, she would be, she would be worrying about him because he hadnt phoned. Fuck sake, of course she would; what was the fucking point of fucking, trying to fucking keep it away, of course she’d be fucking worrying about him. On top of the boy; on top of the boy she would now be worrying about him. And the lassies, they’d know something was up because they’d see the way she was looking; if they were watching the telly, they’d see she wasnt really seeing what was on, her attention would be fucking, it would be nowhere near it, wondering if the phone was going to ring; and the boy as well, if he was okay — London for fuck sake, what could happen down there, things were bad down there, weans on the street, having to sell themselves to get by, the things that were happening down there, down in London, to young lassies and boys, it wasnt fucking fair, it was just fucking terrible, it was so fucking terrible, it was just so fucking terrible you couldnt fucking man you fucking Jesus Christ trying to think about that it was Christ it was so fucking terrible, it was so bad. Ronnie had the cigarette packet in his hand and he opened it and took out one; when he was smoking he returned it and the book of matches to his pocket. He inhaled twice without exhaling, let it all out in a gasp. He leaned his shoulder against the fence, inhaled again, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils. He would just tell Babs something or other, what the fuck he didnt know, it didnt fucking matter; what did it matter, it didnt fucking matter.