Did you miss your bus? asked the first.
Did you miss your bus! laughed the second.
And the third bloke just stared. Frank stared back at him. Was he the leader after all? Perhaps he was the one he would have to go for first, boot him in the balls and then face the other pair. Fucking bastards. Because if they thought he was going to give them the watch just like that then they had another think coming. Bastards. One thing he was never was a coward. Bastards, he was never fucking a coward. He flexed his fingers then closed them over his kneecaps again, and he sighed, his shoulders drooping a bit. He stared over the path. It was as if they were aspects of the same person. That was what really was the dangerous thing.
The second bloke was speaking; he was saying, I dont think he even goes on public transport, this yin, I think he’s a car-owner.
A car-owner! Frank grinned. I’m actually a train-owner! A train-owner! That was really funny. One of his better witticisms. A train-owner. Ha ha. Frank smiled. He would have to watch himself though, such comments, so unfunny as to approach the borderline.
What borderline? One of irrationality perhaps. A nonsensicality. A plain whimsy. Whimsy. There was a bird whistling in a tree nearby. D d d dooie. D d d dooie. Wee fucking bird, its own wee fucking heart and soul. D d d dooie. What was it looking for? It was looking for a mate. A wee female. A wee chookie. Aw the sin. My my my. My my my. And yet it was quite upsetting. It brought tears to the eye. If Frank could just heave a brick at the tree so it would get to fuck away out of this, this vale of misery. God. I need a drink, said Frank to the first bloke. He gestured at the bottle: D’you mind?
The man handed him the bottle.
The second looked at him, biding his time, waiting to see the outcome.
And the third bloke put his hands into his trouser pockets and strolled across the path, down to the small fence at the burn, where he leant his elbows.
The noise of the water, the current not being too strong, a gush more than anything, a continuous gushing sound, and quite reassuring. This freshness as well, it was good. The whole scene in fact, was very peaceful, very very peaceful; a deep tranquillity. Not yet 10 o’clock in the morning but so incredibly calm.
There was no label on the bottle. Francis frowned at this. What happened to the label? he asked.
It fell off.
Is it hair lacquer or something?
Hair lacquer! laughed the second bloke.
It looks like it to me, replied Francis.
You dont have to fucking drink it you know!
Francis nodded; he studied the bottle. The liquid looked fine — as much as it was possible to tell from looking; but what was there could be told about a drink by looking at the outside of its bottle? He couldnt even tell what colour it was, although the actual glass was dark brownish. He raised the neck of the bottle, tilted his head and tasted a mouthfuclass="underline" Christ it was fiery stuff! He shook his head at the two blokes, he seemed to be frowning but he wasnt. WWhhh! Fucking hot stuff this! he said.
Aye.
Francis had another go. Really fiery but warming, a good drink. He wiped his mouth and returned the bottle. Ta, he said.
I told you it was the mccoy, said the second bloke.
Did you?
Aye.
Mm. It’s fucking hot, I’ll say that!
Know what we call it?
Naw.
Sherry vindaloo!
Francis smiled. That was a good yin, sherry vindaloo. He’d remember it.
The first bloke nodded and repeated it: Sherry vindaloo.
The second bloke laughed and swigged some, he walked to hand it to the third who did a slightly peculiar thing, it was a full examination; he studied the bottle all round before taking a sip which must have finished it because the next thing he was leaning over the fence and dropping the bottle into the burn. Francis glanced at the first bloke but didnt say anything. Then he shivered. It was still quite cold. High time that sun put in an appearance, else all would be lost! Francis grinned. The world was really a predictable place to live in. Augustine was right but wasnt right though obviously he wasnt wrong. He was a good strong man. If Francis had been like him he would have been quite happy.
The first bloke was looking at him. You’ll do for me, he said.
What was that?
I said you’ll do for me.
Francis nodded. Thanks. As long as you didnt take offence about that comment.
Och naw, fuck.
Francis nodded. And thanks for the drink.
Ye kidding? It’s just a drink.
Aye well. .
The bloke shrugged. That’s how we were wanting to get a few bob, so’s we could get a refill.
Mm, aye.
See your watch, we could get no bad for it.
Frank nodded. There was no chance, no fucking chance. Down by the fence the second bloke was gazing at him and he shifted on his seat immediately so that when he was looking straight ahead he was looking away from the three men. He didnt want to see them at the moment. There was something about them that was frightening. He was recognizing in himself fear. He was scared, he was frightened; it was the three men who were frightening him, something in them together that was making him scared, the sum of the parts, it was an evil force. If he just stared straight ahead. If he stayed calm. He was on a bench in the park and it was 10 a.m. There was a jogger somewhere. All it needed was somebody to touch him perhaps. If that happened he would die. His heart would stop beating. If that happened he would die and revelation. But if he just got up. If he was to just get up off of the bench and start walking slowly and deliberately along in the opposite direction, to from where they had come. That would be fine if he could just do that. But he couldnt, he couldnt do it; his hands gripped his kneecaps, the knuckles pure white. Did he want to die? What had his life been like? Had it been worth living? His boyhood, what like was his boyhood? had that been okay? It hadnt been too bad he hadnt been too bad, he’d just been okay normal, normal, the same as anybody else. He’d just fallen into bad ways. But he wasnt evil. Nobody could call him evil. He was not evil. He was just an ordinary person who was on hard times who was not doing as well as he used to and who would be getting better soon once things picked up, he would be fine again and able to be just the same, he was all right, he was fine, it was just to be staring ahead.
A History
When from out of the evening the quiet reached such a pitch I had to unlock the door and wander abroad. At this time the waves ceased pounding the rocks and the wind entered its period of abeyance. Along the shore I travelled very casually indeed, examining this, that and the other, frequently stooping to raise a boulder. That absurd and unrealized dream from childhood, that beneath certain boulders. .
I was going south to south east, towards the third promontory. It was where I could take my ease at times such as this. A fine huddle of rocks and stone. There were three little caverns and one larger one, a cave; this cave would presently be dry. It always afforded a good shelter. From it I could gaze out on the sea. I withdrew my articles from my coat pocket, a collection of shells. Even now I retained the habit, as though some among them would prove of value eventually. I leaned close to the entrance of the cave and chipped them out in a handful, not hearing any splash due to the roaring of the waves. Yet there too had been a striped crab shell of a sort I was unfamiliar with, about five inches in diameter. I kept an assortment of items at home to which this crab shell might have proved a fair addition. In all probability, however, the stripes had simply been a result of the sea’s turmoil. Or perhaps it had been wedged in between two rocks for several centuries. I doubted my motives for having thrown it away. But I had no history to consider. None whatsoever. I had that small collection of things and too the cottage itself, its furnishings and fittings, certain obvious domestic objects. But be that as it may not one of these goods was a history of mine. My own history was not in that cottage. If it could be trapped anywhere it would not be there. I felt that the existence of a dead body would alter things. Previous to this I had come upon a dead body so I did have some knowledge. It had been a poor thing, a drowned man of middle age, a seaman or fisherman. I made the trip to the village to convey the information then returned to the cottage to await their arrival. I had carried the body into there and placed it on the floor to safeguard against its being carried back out on the tide. The face was bearded, no boots on the feet though a sock remained on the left foot. A man in the sea with his wits about him, ridding himself of the boots to assist the possibility of survival. He would have had a family and everyday responsibilities whether to them or to his shipmates; that amazing urge to survive which is itself doomed. He would have been dead in twenty minutes, maybe less. If I had been God I would have allowed him to survive for twenty hours.