Heh Ronnie!
It was McInnes out from the pub and waving to him and coming along after him. Ronnie waved back and continued, and on round the next corner and he started walking fast, and then round the next corner, and away.
He liked McInnes, he wasnt fucking, it wasnt as if he was trying to avoid him, especially; he just didnt want to fucking speak to anybody, not anybody. Nobody. Fucking nobody. He didnt want to speak to any cunt at all. And not McInnes, a good pal, he didnt want to speak to the likes of him at all. And not fucking Babs either. Babs least of all. And the weans, he didnt want to speak to them, not to even see them, he couldnt face them; he actually couldnt face them. He couldnt face them, the wife and weans, that was it, in a fucking nutshell.
*
It was fucking really terrible. The truth of the matter is he was feeling really terrible. How the fuck was he feeling as terrible as this? And there was the big dog! So fucking placid. That was it about these animals, how placid they were and then when you see them at the track they’re so fucking fierce, so fierce looking; fangs bared and fucking drooling, drooling at the mouth and ready to fucking — bite, kill, kill the hare except its a bundle of stupid fucking rags. Imagine being as easy conned as that! Letting yourself get lulled into it, racing round and round and fucking round just to catch this stupid fucking bundle of rags. It made you feel sorry for it. Dogs and all the rest of the animals. And people of course, they were no different — they seemed different but they werent; they seemed as if they were different but they werent; they really fucking werent, they just thought they were, it made you smile. Because there they were, running round and round trying to fucking catch it, a crock of gold, and did they ever catch it, did they fuck. The boy was like that, off to London; and what would happen to him, fuck all, nothing. He would just wind up getting a job somewhere and it would be fucking awful, and maybe he would just stay in London or else he’d come back. And if he stayed in London that’d be that and he probably’d hardly ever see them again. It was fucking strange. And Ronnie actually felt like doing himself in. It was a feeling he’d had, creeping up on him. He was actually feeling like doing himself in. What a thing. What a fucking thing. It was because he felt like a, well, because he felt like he’d fucking let them down, he’d let them down, it was because he felt like he’d let them all down, the whole lot, the lassies and Babs and the boy. Jesus, he’d really fucking let them down. What did he do it. What did he do it. What was the thing. There was water at the edges of his mouth, and he wiped it off along his left forefinger and it made him feel better. The dog still walking there, that courageous picture. Because it was going into the fucking unknown! That dog! Getting led by him and not knowing where in the name of fuck it’s going. Stupid. And the fucking power, letting itself get led. It was funny how human beings came first, and even one of these wee weans in the park could walk up and take over the lead, and the dog would just let it probably, just let it, itself be led.
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.