Meanwhile the carry-out arrived, such as it was, and it was being guarded jealously; even so but it was finished in what seemed like a matter of moments and everybody began looking at each other as if secretly laying the blame on certain members of the company for drinking more than their fair share. I wasnt involved; I had taken some of the drink but without overdoing it. I was more concerned with retaining the portion of space. And with a bit of luck I would manage to snatch a couple of hours’ kip. A guy got up on the floor with a guitar; and then a lassie joined him and everything was fine and going good till they started on these songs with choruses and we were all to join in; Farewell to the Trusty Rover and so on. What made it hopeless was the way if you werent joining in you felt it was being noted. The only ones okay were couples, it being assumed as valid that your attention could be total elsewhere so long as it was being concentrated on your partner. But not too much later a couple of folk began smoking dope and passing the joints about, then out came the plates of grub — grated carrots and turnips and cabbage, with wee dods of cheese and onion. And that was fine because although the quantities werent up to scratch the actual health-factor made you feel satisfied.
Then one by one people were getting up from the floor, making the move to a new room, a few having a laugh and trying to get everybody to do one of these snake-dances where you hold the person’s waist to the front and somebody holds yours to the back. I had grabbed my stuff immediately and without making it too obvious was keeping into the wall and bypassing folk, heading out of the room and onto the landing where the vanguard had made it already, glancing at each other for signs of where to go, whom to follow, whether it was best to say fuck it and just shoot off in the offchance you would get to the correct room under your own steam. I waited a couple of seconds, not looking at anybody, then strode to the staircase and went on up to the next landing. There were scuffling noises behind but I didnt look back. I didnt mind at all if people were following me; I just didnt want to give the impression I knew where the fuck I was going, cause I didnt, I was just bashing on, hoping for the best. In situations like this the proper method of action often seems to trigger itself off on you without any deliberate thinking beforehand and sometimes I really go for it, setting all the conditions and so on. I wasnt wrong. On the next landing the door on the far side seemed familiar; it was the bathroom. I had been in using it earlier. It was a good bathroom, very spacious; to an L-shape design and I have the feeling it had been used as a small bedroom in years gone by. When I closed and snibbed the door I could hear the sounds of a couple of folk outside on the landing, as if they had been following me and had now realized it was a wild goose chase. Obviously I was a bit sorry for whoever it was but in a sense this was it about claiming your portion of space and I was only fitting in with the conventional wisdom of the place.
I sat down on the toilet and began thinking about the whole carry on, in particular the woman who had recited the poetry; but that other woman kept butting in, her who wanted to know if I was John Myatt. I always find it really irritating when something like that happens. Another thing: it was so long since I had slept with a woman. Aye, gradually that was creeping up on me as well, and I dont know but sometimes you can enter terrible fits of depression for no apparent reason. And this other kind of daydream was beginning to butt in: there I was bashing my way into room after room and then by a fluke I would find myself in this wee closet where the elderly owner would be raking about in his moneyboxes. Aw christ, I dont know, I began opening the bathroom door and was walking downstairs in this really slow slow step by step by step way, with noises of folk coming from somewhere, and muffled laughter as well. And just at that moment came an explosion in my head and I knew there was a change in me, a change in me for keeps. Something had happened and my life had altered in a way that might never have appeared significant to an onlooker, but as far as I was concerned, having to live this life, I knew it could never hope to be the same again, and I started to smile.
An old story
She’d been going about in this depressed state for ages so I should’ve known something was up. But I didnt. You dont always see what’s in front of your nose. I’ve been sitting about the house that long. You wind up in a daze. You dont see things properly, even with the weans, the weans especially. There again but she’s no a wean. No now. She’s a young woman. Ach, I dont want to tell this story.
But you cant say that. Obviously the story has to get told.
Mm, aye, I know what you mean.
Fine then.
Mmm.
Okay, so about your story. .
Aye.
It concerns a lassie, right? And she’s in this depressed state, because of her boyfriend probably — eh?
I dont want to tell it.
But you’ve got to tell it. You’ve got to tell it. Unless. . if it’s no really a story at all.
Oh aye christ it’s a story, dont worry about that.
dear o dear
A Hunter
Peter returned home shortly after closing time with a carry-out. The room was cold and bleak. He shuddered as he stooped to light the gas-fire. Not an enjoyable evening, the pub had been packed and he had only stayed through a combination of laziness and utter boredom. Of course that red-haired girl had stared at him over her partner’s right shoulder for a while. Probably the landlord paid her a retainer to ensnare young and old men into staying and buying his lousy flat beer.
He sprawled on the comfy old leather armchair, kicked off his shoes and leaned to switch on the electric kettle. He had the beginnings of a headache or something. He would only be able to face a smoke after a coffee. Maybe he should have followed the red-haired girl home. Could have been genuine. Yes. Could have been.
He absentmindedly lit a cigarette but coughed so badly on the first drag that he stubbed it out, carefully, making sure it could be smoked again. Hell of a bad habit smoking. Causes cancer, bronchitis and several other diseases of the lungs, heart and throat. Drink too of course. Liver trouble. Plus your bladder. And alcoholism. And what about the gut you get if you bevy too much beer! Gambling as well. Good God Almighty! Some women say they’d rather be married to an alcoholic than a gambler. A fact. The nerves get it. Watch a gambler’s hands, how they keep twitching all the time whenever he makes a bet. Hear his heart thump as they race well inside the final furlong. An alky sometimes will tell you he is trapped, no way out, but a gambler! He says he does not gamble. Yes.
The kettle was boiling. Peter reached down to switch if off. He picked out a can of Guinness from the brown paper carrier bag. Hell with the coffee, he had the taste now. Pity none of the lads had been in earlier. Maybe have chipped in for a good sized carry-out, made a bit of a night of it, invited a couple of women back.
He peeled the stopper from the top of the can and took a long slug. Bitter! Sometimes Guinness could taste hell of a bitter. Should have bought some lager instead. No, not lager, too bloody gassy. And even worse for the liver so they say. Better off with a few cans of pale ale. Still, save money with the Guinness. Never drink too much cause of the taste.
He rose and went through to the toilet. As he began urinating he lurched forward but managed to support himself by clutching onto the pipe leading to the cistern. He pissed over his left sock. It felt warm and surprisingly pleasant.