James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

He wiped the bench dry enough to sit down, thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and hunched his shoulders, his chin coming down onto his chest. It was cold now and it hadnt been earlier, unless he just wasnt feeling it earlier. And he started shivering immediately, as if the thought had induced it. This was the worst yet. No question about it. If care wasnt taken things would degenerate even further. If that was possible. But of course it was possible. Anything was possible. Everything was possible. Every last thing in the world. A man in a training suit was approaching at a jog, a fastish sort of jog. The noise of his breathing, audible from a long way off. Frank stared at him, not caring in the slightest when it became obvious the jogger had noticed and was now a wee bit self-conscious in his run, as if his elbows were rotating in an unnatural manner. It was something to smile about. Joggers were always supposed to be so self-absorbed but here it seemed like they were just the same as the rut, the common rut, of whom Francis was definitely one. But then as he passed by the bench the jogger muttered something which ended in an ‘sk’ sound, perhaps ‘brisk’. Could he have said something like ‘brisk’? Brisk this morning. That was a fair probability, in reference to the weather. Autumn. The path by the side of the burn was deep in slimy leaves, decaying leaves, approaching that physical state where they were set to be reclaimed by the earth, unless perhaps along came the midgie men and they shovelled it all up and dumped it into the midgie motor then on to the rubbish dump where they would sprinkle aboard paraffin and so on and so forth till the day of judgement. And where was the jogger! Vanished. Without breaking stride he must have carried straight on and up the slow winding incline towards the bridge, where to vanish was the only outcome, leaving Francis alone with his thoughts.

These thoughts of Francis’s were diabolical.

The sound of laughter. Laughter! Muffled, yes, but still, laughter. Could this be the case!! Truly? Or was it a form of eternal high jinks!!

Hearty stuff as well. Three blokes coming along the path from the same direction the jogger had appeared from. They noticed Francis. O yes, they soon spotted him. They couldnt miss him. It was not possible. If they had wanted to miss him they couldnt have. And they were taking stock of him and how the situation was in toto. They were going to get money off of him, off of. One of them had strolled on a little bit ahead; he was wearing a coat that must have belonged to somebody else altogether, it was really outlandish. Francis shook his head. The bloke halted at the bench and looked at him:

You got twenty pence there jim, for the busfare home?

Francis was frowning at the bloke’s outfit. Sorry, he said, but that’s some coat you’re wearing!

What?

Francis smiled.

Funny man.

Sorry, I’m no being sarcastic.

A funny man! he called to his two companions. He’s cracking funnies about my coat!

Surely no! said this one who was holding a bottle by its neck.

Aye.

That’s cheeky! He swigged from the bottle and handed it on to the third man. Then he added: Maybe he likes its style!

The first bloke nodded, he smiled briefly.

And he wants to buy it! Heh, maybe he wants to buy it! Eh, d’you want to buy it?

Frank coughed and cleared his throat, and he stared at the grass by his shoes, sparish clumps of it amid the muddiness, many feets have stood and so on. He raised his head and gazed at the second man; he was dangerous as well, every bit as dangerous. He noticed his pulse slowing now. Definitely, slowing. Therefore it must have been galloping. That’s what Francis’s pulse does, it gallops. Other cunts’s pulses they just fucking stroll along at a safe distance from one’s death’s possibility. What was he on about now! Old Francis here! His death’s possibility! Death: and/or its possibility. Was he about to get a stroke? Perhaps. He shook his head and smiled, then glanced at the first bloke who was gazing at him, and said: I didnt mean you to take it badly.

What?

Your coat. Frank shrugged, his hands still in his pockets. My comment. . he shrugged again.

Your comment?

Aye, I didnt mean you to take it badly.

I never took it badly.

Frank nodded.

The second bloke laughed suddenly. Heh by the way, he said, when you come to think about it, the guy’s right, your fucking coat, eh! Fucking comic cuts! Look at it!

And then he turned and sat down heavily, right next to him on the bench; and he stared straight into his eyes. Somebody whose body was saturated with alcohol. He was literally smelling. Literally actually smelling. Just like Francis right enough, he was smelling as well. Birds of a feather flock together. And what do they do when they are together? A word for booze ending in ‘er’. Frank smiled, shaking his head. I’m skint, he said, I’m out the game. No point looking for dough off of me.

Off of. There it had come out again. It was peculiar the way such things happened.

The two blokes were watching him. So was the third. This third was holding the bottle now. And a sorry sight he was too, this third fellow, a poor looking cratur. His trousers were somebody else’s; and that was for fucking definite. My my my. Frank shook his head and he called: Eh look, I’m no being sarcastic but that pair of trousers you’re wearing I mean for God sake surely you could do a wee bit better, eh?

He glanced at the other two: Eh? surely yous could do a wee bit better than that?

What you talking about? asked the first bloke.

Your mate’s trousers, they’re fucking falling to bits. I mean look at his arse, his arse is fucking poking out!

And so it was, you could see part of the man’s shirt tail poking out! Frank shook his head, but didnt smile. He gestured at the trousers.

He is a funny man right enough! said the second bloke.

Instead of answering him the first bloke just watched Frank, not showing much emotion at all, just in a very sort of cold manner, passionless. If he had been unsure of his ground at any time he was definitely not unsure now. It was him that was dangerous. Of the trio, it was him. Best just to humour him. Frank muttered, I’m skint. He shrugged and gazed over the path towards the burn.

You’re skint.

Frank continued gazing over the path.

It’s just a couple of bob we’re looking for.

Sorry, I really am skint but.

The second bloke leaned closer and said: Snout?

Frank shook his head.

You’ve got no snout! The bloke didnt believe him. He just didnt believe him. He turned and gave an exaggerated look to his mates. It was as if he was just not able to believe it possible. Frank was taken aback. It was actually irritating. It really was. He was frowning at the fellow, then quickly he checked what the other one was doing. You never know, he might have been sneaking up behind him at the back of the bloody bench! It was downright fucking nonsensical. And yet it was the sort of incident you could credit. You were sitting down in an attempt to recover a certain inner equilibrium when suddenly there appear certain forces, seemingly arbitrary forces, as if they had been called up by a positive evil. Perhaps Augustine was right after all? Before he left the Manicheans.

Twenty pence just, said the first.

Frank shook his head. He glanced at the bloke. Look, I’m telling you the truth, I’m skint.

You’ve got a watch.

What — you kidding! Frank stared at him for a moment; then he sniffed and cleared his throat, gazed back over the path.

He has got a watch, said the second bloke.

And now the third stepped across to the bench, and he handed the bottle to the first. Frank had his hands out of his pockets and placed them onto his kneecaps, gripping them, his knuckles showing white.