Greyhound for Breakfast (11 page)

Benson had been a member of the ward longer than anyone else. His visitor accompanied the wheelchair that transported him there. Although the nurse had observed him following she said nothing,
merely indicated a large placard pinned to the wall. The placard gave the visiting times. Benson’s visitor stared at it for a long while, until the sound of the creaking wheelchair had died
away. He missed the subsequent Sunday because of it. It was a feeling he had not cared for.

This afternoon Benson lay snoring fitfully but peacefully. His visitor stared at the slack mouth and the way the chin drooped. When the bell rang Benson’s eyes opened. The gaze settled on
his visitor who hastily looked down at the floor. Benson’s head began to move back and forth against the piled pillows as though to alleviate an itch. His eyes remained on his visitor for a
period, then they closed. His visitor’s sigh was quite audible. After a moment he stooped to lift his hat and shabby briefcase from where they had been lying. Across the way an older nurse
arranged flowers in a vase. She did not notice his approach. He moved to the right side of her at the precise second she moved to the left. He hesitated and she turned swiftly and strode along and
out of the ward. There were no other people about except patients and they all seemed to be sleeping. Then another visitor appeared in the doorway. Benson’s visitor returned slowly to where
he had been sitting and he returned the briefcase and hat to where they had been lying, and he sat down carefully. Shortly afterwards he was aware of a muffled conversation coming from somewhere to
his rear but he was not able to look round to see. A voice called: ‘It’s Benson’s visitor!’ and gave an abrupt laugh.

He stared at the floor for a long time. Gradually he wanted to see what was happening around him and he raised his head. But Benson stared at him. Benson glowered. ‘Who are you?’ he
groaned.

His visitor smiled weakly.

‘I don’t know you.’

His visitor inclined his head and stared at the floor beneath the bed.

‘Is he visiting me? I don’t know him from Adam!’

Footsteps approached. He estimated at least two people.

‘I don’t know him. Who is he?’ cried Benson. ‘Who are you?’

‘Not so good today, is he?’ said his visitor. Two nurses were looking at him and he smiled faintly at them. His heart thumped. Then the nurses looked at the patient with concern and
one of them said:

‘He’s your visitor.’

His visitor nodded his head but without daring to look at him.

But Benson cried, ‘I don’t know him from Adam. Why is he sitting at my bed?’

The older nurse smiled down on him. ‘Come now,’ she said, ‘you mustn’t embarrass your visitor.’

‘He’s your visitor!’ smiled the younger nurse.

‘Who is he?’ groaned Benson, attempting to raise himself up by the elbows as though for a fuller look at him. But the older nurse snapped:

‘Come along now lie down!’

The patient lay back down immediately and stared sideways away from both his visitor and the two nurses, the younger of whom glanced at her colleague and then said to Benson’s visitor,
‘Who are you?’ And she smiled as though to soften matters.

Benson’s visitor jumped. Somebody else had arrived suddenly. It was the Sister.

‘Benson’s visitor . . .’ began the younger nurse.

‘Of course it’s Benson’s visitor,’ she said, ‘What’s going on here?’

‘Who is he?’ murmured Benson.

‘Oh you know fine well,’ replied the Sister.

‘Who are you . . .’ Benson murmured.

His visitor smiled at the Sister. He wondered whether the other visitor and any of the patients were listening. He thought he should say something. He cleared his throat but was not able to
speak. At last he managed: ‘Not so good . . .’

The Sister was speaking in a low unhurried voice to the two nurses who responded as to a direct command, but none noticed Benson’s gasp, and his eyelids closed.

The older nurse said to his visitor, ‘You better go now, visiting’s over.’

He nodded and gripped his hat and briefcase, got off the chair and walked from the ward without glancing back. Out along the lengthy corridor the younger nurse appeared from behind a pillar.
‘Are you a relative?’ she asked.

‘You must have a record,’ he said.

‘Come along now you won’t be on it. You won’t be there.’ She shook her head at him.

A wave of nausea hit him and he wanted down onto the floor, down onto the floor until it passed. Somebody was holding him by the arm. It was the other nurse, and behind her stood the other
patient with a worried frown on his forehead. His hat and briefcase were leaving him, the hat having fallen perhaps but the briefcase from out of his hand. And the younger nurse steadied him.
‘Come along now,’ she was saying.

The older nurse smiled. ‘That’s the ticket,’ she said.

I hate this part of the city – the stench of poverty, violence, decay, death; the things you usually discern in suchlike places. I dont mind admitting I despise the poor
with an intensity that surprises my superiors. But they concede to me on most matters. I am the acknowledged governor of the situation. I’m in my early thirties. Hardly an ounce of spare
flesh hangs on me – I’m always on the go – nervous energy – because my appetite is truly gargantuan. For all that, I’ve heard it said on more than one occasion that my
legs are like hollow pins.

Oanny was getting pushed by some cunt, right on the shoulder, pushing him. Cut it out, he grunted then opened his eyes. Fat Stanley was grinning down at him. Alec’s done
the business, he was saying, Come on! Wake up!

The chemmy had finished right enough, the chairs been shifted back from the big horseshoe table and everybody stood about the place chatting. Across at the empty fireplace Alec was in company
with a couple of people. Oanny closed his eyes again but opened them immediately. Fat Stanley had said he would be back in a minute and was making his way towards the serving hatch in the snacks
area, walking in that funny way he had, as if wanting not to be seen but knowing he was going to get found out. He paused to say something to Alec and then to Victor – Victor with the fag
dangling from the corner of his mouth, on the fringes of the company as usual and trying hard to look lackadaisical about everything, but anybody who knew him could tell his nerves were just as
shot to fuck as ever.

The smell of soup.

Last orders had already been given in to Ellen and some of the guys were sitting with their bowls, dipping in slices of unbuttered bread, slurping quickly in case the saturated bits fell onto
the table top. The place was full of tables. The horseshoe one where the chemmy was played but a great many weer ones too, and not all of them were circular. In the snacks area two huge bench-type
tables stood side by side and about forty or more bodies could have sat roundabout in comfort. Not a single table was covered. They all looked ancient. Initials, slogans and dates and stuff had
been knifed into them, grime was embedded in the carvings. If you dug in a fingernail it would bring out thick lengths of it. An in-joke circulated: if you were described as ‘definitely
hungry’ it meant you had been spotted eating a chunk of bread after it had fallen onto the top of the table.

Oanny was raking about in the pockets of his coat and jacket. Glancing beneath the table he saw a can of lager. It was open. He lifted it and gave it a shake, then swallowed the dregs without
checking to see if it had been used as a makeshift ashtray. He shuddered and smacked his lips, wiped the corners of his mouth with his hand, began searching through his pockets again. It attracted
Victor’s attention and he signalled he was needing a smoke. Victor frowned and kidded on he did not understand but then he drew a few steps over to him and muttered, You’ve fucking got
some.

Naw I’ve no.

Aye you have.

Oanny resumed the search. He discovered a crushed packet in the hip pocket of his trousers. It was an unusual place to have put it. He shrugged and smiled briefly, flourishing the packet for
Victor’s benefit, but Victor just looked away and returned to the empty fireplace. Ah fuck you too, grunted Oanny, taking out a cigarette. He had to straighten it before getting it
alight.

Eventually the other three arrived back at the table together. When he gestured at the packet they each helped himself to a cigarette – even Fat Stanley although he was supposed to have
stopped. Nobody spoke. Oanny sniffed through one nostril and made a display of peering at the ex-railway clock on the wall which had not ticked for years.

A sound came from Fat Stanley. And he seemed to be making a great effort not to smile. That way he puffed on the fag without inhaling. What a waste. Imagine giving your last fag to a cunt like
him! Typical.

It dawned on Oanny: some kind of conspiracy was on the go. Alec had started smiling but not at anybody in particular. Fucking carry on. Oanny shook his head and grunted unintelligibly.

What’s up with you? asked Alec.

What’s up with me? Nothing up with me.

Glad to hear it . . . A moment later Alec began to footer with the tip of his cigarette, showing great concentration, whistling under his breath. And Victor had turned his head away. Christ!
Oanny shook his head again and said:

Okay. How much?

What?

Fine, aye, you’ve made me ask.

Ask what? said Alec. What you talking about?

Aw forget it, forget it.

Naw, I thought you said how much or something . . . Alec’s forehead creased. Fat Stanley was now openly grinning. And Alec added: How much for what?

Oanny glared at him. The doggie in the fucking window! He dragged deeply on his cigarette and shifted on his chair, staring in the direction of the serving hatch in the snacks area. Any of yous
got a drink left? he muttered.

You’ve done it all! replied Victor.

Aw aye, aye, I’ve done it all, on my tod, aye, I swallowed the whole fucking lot.

Near enough.

Oanny turned and he stared at Victor.

Naw, said Alec, if you hadnt fallen asleep you’d have seen for yourself.

Thanks.

Alec’s right, murmured Victor.

Is he? Aw good. Good for Alec. I’m glad to hear it. Who’s fucking talking to you anyway? It’s Alec I’m talking to, no fucking you. Alright? Oanny frowned across at Alec:
All I asked was how much we lifted.

Fair enough. And all I’m asking is how much you put in the kitty?

What? Oanny sat back in the chair. How much had he put in the kitty? He stopped himself searching his pockets again. How much had he put in the kitty? In the kitty? How much? What kind of a
fucking question was that? He glanced sideways at Alec. It could not be a real question. Surely no. He scowled and made as though to say something but his attention was diverted by Fat Stanley who
had begun wheezing in that way he had.

Eh? asked Alec.

Oanny looked at him and grinned. Fuck off!

The other three laughed loudly. But it subsided soon and Alec lifted the crushed cigarette packet and attempted to get it standing upright. He tried again, watched by the other three. He began
smiling. Fat Stanley was also smiling. Oanny snorted: I was beginning to think you’d lost your touch!

Were you! Alec grinned.

Can you blame me? I mean when was the last time you got us a turn?

Fuck the last time Oanny this is this time.

Aw aye, I know.

Victor nodded. You want to have seen it Oanny we cleaned the fucking school.

What?

Magic by the way. I’ve no seen anything like it for ages.

Every hand he was getting, continued Fat Stanley. Naturals all the time. Must’ve done near a 10-timer!

Eight just, said Alec.

Jesus! Oanny shook his head, smiled.

Two hundred and twenty . . . Alec sniffed, inhaled and exhaled smoke.

Ho! Ya beauty! Oanny slapped the palms of his hands together, his eyebrows raised. But before anything further was said a minor disturbance broke out at the serving hatch. Somebody was bawling
about soup. A drunk. Ellen had reached through from the kitchen, placing four bowls on the counter. That soup’s already ordered! she was shouting and then she slammed down the hatch. The
drunk still stood there staring at the bowls of soup then staring at the folk sitting nearest him. One of them was Tommy Rollo, the guy who managed the place and dealt the cards. Away home son, he
said.

Naw, said the drunk. It’s no fucking right so it’s no. I was wanting soup and she wouldnt give me it and then . . . He waved his hand at the four bowls, just as Fat Stanley and
Victor appeared at his elbow.

Pardon me, said Fat Stanley while he lifted two of the bowls and passed them to Victor, lifted the other two for himself. The pair of them returned the way they had come.

It’s no fucking right, muttered the drunk.

Mind your language, said Tommy Rollo.

The kitchen door opened and Ellen came out, pulling on her coat over her shoulders.

Heh missis, said the drunk, a bowl of soup eh?

Away and get your bloody wife to make it. What do you think I’m just here to cater to the likes of you! Ellen glared.

He looked at her. Aw hen, he said, no need for that.

She shook her head.

Look son, called Tommy Rollo, we’re no in the mood. Ellen stops when the cards stop. You should know that by now.

A few of the men at the two bench-type tables muttered their agreement. Ellen had walked to sit down on the chair next to Rollo and he poured her a glass of gin from a half bottle of
Gordon’s. The drunk waited a moment then walked in a purposeful stride to the exit. As soon as he had gone an elderly man in a khaki-coloured trenchcoat cried: That was telling him Ellen!

She ignored him. She sipped at the gin, snapped open her handbag and got a tipped cigarette out, gave herself a light.

*

The rain was no longer falling when they came downstairs and out through the close onto the pavement but the ground was still wet and there were many puddles around. Considering
the time of night the city was busy. But it was a Friday and young folk were heading home from the dancing or whatever. Few taxis were available and almost everybody seemed to be heading in the
direction of George Square. From here the all-night buses departed hourly.