Iain Banks - Walking on Glass

Anyway, what did it matter now? It might all be over soon; all the worrying and waiting and empty desiring. He was opposite the pub now; he would turn the corner on to the short length of Maygood Street, and there would be Half Moon Crescent.

The name fascinated him.

He made a symbol of it:

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Half. Moon. Crescent.

Drunk!

He sat on a park bench in the small triangular piece of ground which was called Islington Green. Mr Sharpe sat by his side; they were both drinking from large bottles of cider. Mr Sharpe was smoking a cigarette. Steven felt quite drunk.

"I mean," Mr Sharpe said, stabbing at the air with his cigarette, "they don't "ave to stay where they fackin" well are, do they? "Course they don't... do they?" Steven shook his head in case Mr Sharpe was really asking him a question. Most of the questions seemed to be rhetorical, though. He couldn't remember what Mr Sharpe was talking about now. Was it the Jews? The Blacks? Scroungers?

Mr Sharpe was a small man of about fifty-five. He was going bald and his eyes looked yellow in the grey-pink skin of his face, which was lined with grey stubble. He wore a big old coat and working boots. He had approached Grout in the pub he had gone to, the Nag's Head. Steven usually avoided pub drunks, and it was fairly obvious Mr Sharpe was the resident PD in the Nag's Head that lunchtime, but Steven was quite drunk himself, and apart from Mr Sharpe seeming to be encouragingly worried about conspiracies -Grout hadn't entirely given up the idea of finding a fellow exile and cooperating to escape together - Mr Sharpe had also displayed what appeared to be genuine good-heartedness when Steven told him it was his birthday. A few small tears had come to his eyes, in fact, when Mr Sharpe shook his hand for a long time and wished him many happy returns several times in a loud voice.

Steven had bought most of the drinks from then on, as Mr Sharpe wasn't working and didn't have very much money, but Steven didn't mind. He showed Mr Sharpe all the money he had, explaining that he had been paid off that day.

"The cans," Mr Sharpe had said, spitting inadvertently, "the fackin" cans; I bet it was them unions, wasn't it?"

Grout hadn't been sure about that, but he told Mr Sharpe he wasn't sorry anyway. He did say he couldn't spend all the money, of course, he had to keep some by for his rent and food and things, and he had to wait for his unemployment money. Mr Sharpe said he was quite right, but to watch out; there were plenty of smart jewboys and big black muggers around; the jewboys would swindle it off you and the niggers would slit your throat as soon as look at you.

After the pub shut at three, they went over to the Green with a couple of bottles of stout they had bought to carry out. Steven had bought Mr Sharpe a packet of cigarettes, too, and some matches. "You're a gent, Steve, that's what you are; a gent," Mr Sharpe had said, and Steven felt almost as good as when the policeman had called him "sir'. He sniffed, eyes tingling.

They drank the bottles of stout, then Mr Sharpe said why didn't they nip over to the off-licence in Marks and Sparks on Chapel Market and get a couple of bottles of cider? It was cheap. In fact, if Steve would lend him the money; a fiver, say... no, make it a tenner, seeing as he felt generous and Steve was a real pal... he'd get the drink himself, seeing as Steve had been so generous in the pub and all. He'd pay him back next Wednesday, when his Giro came through.

Steven thought this sounded fair, and so he gave Mr Sharpe two ten pound notes. "Have twenty," he said. Mr Sharpe was taken aback and said again what a gent Steven was. He went off to the shop and got four bottles of cider and a canon of cigarettes.

Although he felt drunk, Steven didn't feel all morose like he usually did when he'd had a lot to drink; he felt quite happy, sitting on the bench under the trees of Islington Green with the traffic rushing harmlessly by all around. It was nice to have somebody to talk to, somebody you felt was on your side, who didn't laugh at you or show contempt for you, who felt sympathy for the way you were treated but not pity for who or what you were; somebody who wished you happy birthday. He didn't mind that Mr Sharpe was doing all the talking.

"You take the likes of my old boss, right?" Mr Sharpe was saying, drawing smoky patterns with the cigarette he held between his fingers. "Good bloke, good bloke, you know; strict but fair; wouldn't stand for any nonsense or people turning up late or anyfink, but straight, know what I mean? In the textile trade "e was; "ad to mix with a lot of Jews. Didn't like it, of course, but that's business, innit? "E went bust last year, didn't "e? "Ad to lay me an" the rest of the lads off, see? Recession, it was, basically, but also the fackin" unions. "E used to give them short shrift, I can tell you; wouldn't "ave them in the place, an" quite right too, say I, but "e reckoned they'd got at "im be'ind "is back, like, an "e's a smart bloke, right? Anyway, it was the recession what really did it, "e said, and "e said "e was really choked "e "ad to let us go on account of "ow we'd all stood be'ind "im. An" we did; when "e explained to us what was "appenin" a couple of years ago, we didn't take no pay rise, did we? We even took a pay cut last year, that was "ow much we was prepared to look after our jobs, see? Not like these fackin" union cans; we was responsible, we was. Yeah, "e was really choked, Mr Inglis was. That was "is name, was'n" it? 'Inglis by name and English by birth, and proud of it', "e would say." Mr Sharpe laughed.

Steven took his blue safety helmet off and wiped his brow. He would have to go for a pee soon. It was lucky there were toilets at one end of the Green. "Yeah, "e's a good bloke, that Mr Inglis. An" you know wot "e told me? "E told me "e didn't even make a profit the last five years . These fackin" Troskyists, they talk about bosses an" that, but they don't know nuffink, do they? I know, "cos one of my nephews; "e's a Troskyist, isn't "e? Little can; I nearly knocked "is bleedin" teeth out last time I saw "im; only tryin" to tell me I was one of them racialists, wasn't "e? I said, 'Lissen, son,' I said 'I've worked with blacks an" I've even made friends with some of them, which is prob'ly more than you've ever done, an" I quite liked some of "em; they was Jamaicans - not these little Pakkie cans -and they was okay, some of them, but that don't alter the fact there's too many of them over "ere, an" that don't make me your racialist, now, does it?' Little can. That's wot I told "im. Straight, I did." Mr Sharpe nodded aggressively, reliving the confrontation.

Steven was toying with the leather sweatband of the hard hat.

He was hot. It was probably safe to take the hat off; there was no scaffolding nearby. He put the hat down on the bench, between him and Mr Sharpe, who went on,

"Where was I? Oh, yeah; Mr Inglis, "e said "e "adn't made a profit for five years , but people think just because "e rides round in a Rolls-Royce, people fink "e's bleedin" rich, don't they? They don't know, see, that it don't even belong to "im; it's "is company's. Even "is "ouse isn't "is; it's "is wife's, innit? "E'd just as soon drive a Mini, but people in the trade wouldn't take "im seriously, would they? Specially them jewboys."

Steven shook his head, thinking this seemed to be required. He wasn't all that happy about this mention of a Rolls-Royce. He considered telling Mr Sharpe about the dangers of disembowel-lings by Rolls-Royce mascots, but he thought he'd better not.

"But I'm glad to say," Mr Sharpe said, smiling, lighting another cigarette, "e's managed to get back on "is feet again. I "appened to see "im the other day when I was looking for a job; "e's got a new place up in Islington Park Street making dresses an" all an" repairing machines. "Course, the place is full of these little wog wimmin, but, like Mr Inglis says, "e'd love to "ave whites working for "im but people've got lazy, "aven't they? "E can't find white wimmin to work for them wages, an" why? Cos the fackin" money they're gettin" from the government an" from workin" on the side's too much, that's why. Mr Inglis, "e'd love to take me an" the lads back on for the machines, but the fackin" unions they've priced us all out of a job, "aven't they? Mr Inglis can't afford to take on more than a couple of experienced blokes an" all the rest are these YOPs or wotever they're called; you know, them young kids wot the government pays you to train, an" that."