Ronnie held the dog on a short lead so it had to walk on the edge of the pavement next to the gutter. At a close near the corner of the street two women he knew were standing chatting. They paused, watching his approach. Hullo, he said. When they peered at the greyhound and back to him he grinned and raised his eyebrows; and he shrugged, continuing along and into the pub.
The barman stared while pouring the pint of heavy but made no comment. He took the money and returned the change, moved to serve somebody else. Ronnie gazed after him for a moment then lifted the pint and led the dog to where four mates of his were sitting playing Shoot Pontoon. He sat on a vacant chair, bending to tuck the leash beneath his right shoe. He swallowed about a quarter of the beer in the first go and then sighed. I needed that, he said, leaning sideways a litte, to grasp the dog’s ears; he patted its head. He maneuvered his chair so he could watch two hands of cards being played. The game continued in silence. Soon the greyhound yawned and settled onto the floor, its big tongue lolloping out its mouth. Ronnie smiled and shook his head. He swallowed another large draft of the heavy beer.
Then Mclnnes cleared his throat. You looking after it for somebody? he asked without taking his gaze from the thirteen cards he was holding and sorting through. Ronnie did not reply. The other three were smiling; they were also sorting through their cards. He carried on watching the game until it ended and the cards were being shuffled for the next. And he yawned; but the yawn was a false one and he sniffed and glanced towards the bar. Jimmy Peters had taken a tobacco pouch from his pocket and started rolling a fag. Ronnie gestured at it. Jimmy passed him the pouch and he rolled one for himself. He was beginning to feel a bit annoyed but it was fucking pointless. He stuck the finished roll-up in his mouth and reached for a box of matches lying at the side of the table. Heh Ronnie, said Kelly, did you get it for a present?
What?
I’m saying did you get it for a present, the dog—a lot of owners and that, once their dogs have finished racing, they give them away as presents—supposed to make rare pets.
Aye. Ronnie nodded, inhaled on the cigarette.
I’m serious.
Aye, said Tarn McColl, I heard that as well. Easy oasy kind of beasts, they get on good with weans.
Ronnie nodded. This is a good conversation, he said.
Well! Tarn McColl grinned: You’re no trying to tell us it’s a fucking racer are you! McColl chuckled and shook his head: With withers like that!
Withers like that! What you talking about withers like that! Ronnie smiled: What do you know about fucking withers ya cunt!
The others laughed.
My auld man used to keep dogs.
Aye fucking chihuahuas!
Are you telling us you’ve bought it? asked Kelly.
Ronnie did not reply.
Are you?
Ronnie dragged on the cigarette, having to squeeze the end of it so he could get a proper draw. He exhaled the smoke away from where the greyhound was lying. Jimmy Peters was looking at him. Ronnie looked back. After a moment Jimmy Peters said, I mean are you actually going to race it?
Naw Jimmy I’m just going to take it for walks.
The other three laughed loudly. Ronnie shook his head at Peters. Then he gazed at the dog; he inhaled on the cigarette, but it had stopped burning.
Does Babs know yet? asked Mclnnes.
What?
Babs, does she know yet?
What about?
God sake Ronnie!
Ronnie reached for the box of matches again and he struck one, got the roll-up burning once more. He blew out the flame and replied, I’ve just no seen her since breakfast.
Tarn McColl grinned. You’re mad ya cunt, fucking mad.
How much was it? asked Kelly. Or are we no allowed to ask!
Ronnie lifted his beer and sipped at it.
Did it cost much?
Fuck sake, muttered Ronnie.
You no going to tell us? asked Kelly.
Ronnie shrugged. Eighty notes.
Eighty notes!
Ronnie looked at him.
Jimmy Peters had shifted roundabout on his seat and he leaned down and ruffled behind the dog’s ears, making a funny face at it. The dog looked back at him. He said to Ronnie, Aye it’s a pally big animal.
Ronnie nodded. Then he noticed Kelly’s facial expression and he frowned.
Naw, replied Kelly, grinning. I was just thinking there—somebody asking what its form was: oh it’s pally! a pally big dog! Fuck speed but it likes getting petted!
That’s a good joke, said Ronnie.
The other four laughed.
Ronnie nodded. On you go, he said, nothing like a good fucking joke. He dragged on the roll-up but it had stopped burning once again. He shoved it into the ticket pocket inside his jacket then lifted his pint and drank down all that was left of the beer. The others were grinning at him.
Fuck yous! he said and reached for the leash.
Mclnnes chuckled: Sit on your arse Ronnie for fuck sake!
Fuck off.
Can you no take a joke? said Jimmy Peters.
A joke! That’s fucking beyond a joke.
Kelly laughed.
Aye, said Ronnie, on ye go ya fucking stupid bastard.
Kelly stopped laughing.
Heh you! said Mclnnes to Ronnie.
Ah well no fucking wonder!
Kelly was still looking at him. Ronnie looked back.
Mclnnes said, You’re fucking out of order Ronnie.
I’m out of order!
Aye.
Me? Ronnie was tapping himself vigorously on the chest.
Aye, replied Mclnnes.
It was just a joke, said Jimmy Peters.
A joke? That was fucking beyond a joke. Ronnie shook his head at him; he withdrew the dowp from his inside ticket pocket and reached for the box of matches again; but he put it back untouched, returned the dowp to the ticket pocket, lifted the empty beer glass and studied it for a moment. He sniffed and returned it to the table.
The others resumed the game of Shoot Pontoon.
And after two or three minutes Tarn McColl said, Heh Ronnie did you see that movie on the telly last night.
Naw.
We were just talking about it before you came in.
Mm. Ronnie made a show of listening to what McColl was saying, it was some sort of shite about cops and robbers that was beyond even talking about. Ronnie shook his head. It was unbelievable. He stared at the cards on the table then he stared in the direction of the bar, a few young guys were over at the jukebox.
Jimmy Peters was saying something to him now. What was it about, it was about fucking the football, going to the football. Ronnie squinted at him: What?
Three each, said Jimmy, what a game! Did you see it?
Ronnie shook his head. He glanced at the shelf in beneath the table, the four pint glasses there, dribbles of beer in each. It was fucking beyond belief.
That last goal! said Jimmy.
Ronnie nodded. He clapped the dog’s head, grasped its ears, tugging at them till at last it shook his hand away. He sniffed and muttered,
I’ll tell yous mob something: see if this fucking dog doesnt get me the holiday money I’ll eat it for my fucking breakfast.
The others smiled briefly. And Kelly said, So you are going to race it?
Ronnie shrugged. He didnt feel like talking. It was time to leave. He felt like leaving. It would be good to be able to leave; right now. He reached to clap the dog, smoothed along its muzzle.
Heh Ronnie, said Mclnnes. Where you going to keep it?
Ronnie wrapped the leash round his hand and he nodded slightly, lifted the box of matches.
No in the house? grinned Tarn McColl.
There was a silence.
You’re fucking mad!
Whereabouts in the house? asked Jimmy Peters.
Ronnie struck the match and tilted his head while getting the rollup burning; he exhaled smoke: The boy’s room, he said. Just meantime. He’s no here the now. He’s away with a couple of his mates. Down to London … He sniffed and dragged on the dowp again.
The others had been sorting the cards out after a new deal.
We never knew he was going, said Ronnie, no till the last minute.
One of his mates got a phone call or something so they had to move fast.
Move fast? said Mclnnes.
It was a job they were after. They had to move fast. Otherwise they wouldnt fucking get it.
Aw aye.
Ronnie shrugged.
Kelly glanced at the greyhound and said, What you going to call it? You got something fixed?
Eh … I dont know. The guy I got it off says it’s up to me. The way it works, most of them’s got two names, one for the kennel and one for when it races.
Kelly nodded. Has it definitely raced Ronnie I mean I’m no being cheeky?
Aye Christ it’s qualified at Ashfield and it’s won three out of ten at Carfin.
Honest?
Aye, fuck sake.
What’d they call it?
Ronnie sniffed. Big Dan.
Big Dan? Tarn McColl was grinning.
What’s up with that ya cunt ye they’ve got to call it something! Ronnie shook his head, and he glanced at Kelly: You heard of it?
Eh naw, no really.
Ronnie nodded.
I’ve never been to Carfin but; never I mean—have you?
Naw.
You sure it’s won there? asked Jimmy Peters.
Aye Christ he showed me, the guy; it’s down in black and white.
Whereabouts? asked Kelly.
Whereabouts? Ronnie squinted at him.
Where’s it written down?
The fucking Record.
Aw.
Kelly said, You talking about the results like? On the page?
Ronnie looked at him without saying anything in reply. He lifted his empty beer glass and swirled the drop at the bottom about, put the glass to his mouth and attempted to drink, but the drop got lost somewhere along the way. He said, Plus I saw its form figures and that on a racecard.
Kelly nodded.
Both Mclnnes and McColl and now Jimmy Peters were looking at him. Ronnie said, In the name of fuck! What yous looking at!
Aye, well, muttered Mclnnes, Your boy’s fucked off to England and you’ve went out and bought a dog.
What?
There was no further comment. Ronnie shook his head and added, For fuck sake I’ve been wanting to buy a dog for years.
Aye, well it’s a wee bit funny how it’s only the now you’ve managed it.
What?
Your boy goes off to England and you go out and buy a dog … Mclnnes stared at Ronnie.
Who was it you bought it off? asked Kelly.
What?
Who was it you bought it off?
Away and fuck yourself, muttered Ronnie and he stood to his feet and jerked at the leash, the greyhound getting quickly up off the floor; and he walked it straight out the pub, not looking back.
Once through the park gates he let more slack into the lead before continuing on up the slope, the big dog now trotting quite freely. But the exercise he was giving it just now wasnt necessary. He was only doing it because he needed time to think. Babs would not be pleased. That was an understatement. It was something he had managed to avoid thinking about. And he was right not to have. If he had he would probably never have bought it. It was a case of first things first, buy the dog and then start worrying.
It stopped for a piss. Ronnie could have done with one himself but he would have got arrested. When they resumed he watched it, its shoulders hunched, keeping to the grass verge, sniffing occasionally and looking to be taking an interest in everything that was going on. It was quite a clever beast, the way it paid attention to things. And as well the way it moved, he was appreciating that; definitely an athlete—sleek was the word he was looking for. It described the dog to a tee. Sleek. That way it gave a genuine impression of energy, real energy—power and strength, and speed of course. The thing was every inch a racer.
Leaving the path he crossed the wide expanse of grass, heading down by the bowling greens. It was late spring/early summer, getting on to the middle of May, still a bit cold when the sky clouded; but just now it was fine, the sun shining. More than half of the bowling rinks were occupied. Ronnie paused by the big hedge, peering over, and recognizing a few faces. But he was not going to go in. He wasnt in the mood for more slagging. Sometimes you got sick of it, you werent able to fucking, just to cope with it, it was difficult. You felt as if you’d had enough of it.
Beyond the bowling greens lay the flowerbeds. A lot of prams and pushchairs were in the vicinity, and on the benches women mainly, with the wee toddlers staggering about here and there, looking as if they were going to fall and bang their heads on the paving. But they were always okay; it was fucking amazing. He took the leash in to have more control of the dog but it seemed not to notice anything, not to be in the least nervous, even when one of the toddlers made a lunge at it.
Along by the pond he spotted a bench where a middle-aged guy was seated alone in the center, a folded newspaper and a plastic bag of messages beside him. He had a bunnet on his head, a fawn trenchcoat, a scarf; probably the same clothes he would have been wearing in January.
Ronnie sat down, he sighed. He was aware of a tension easing out of his shoulders and he deliberately made them droop so he could relax even more, feeling a sort of twinge at the top of his spine which made him shiver. He glanced at the middle-aged man and nodded. Nice day, eh?
The man’s head twitched in agreement.
Ronnie brought the cigarette dowp out from his inside ticket pocket and he gestured with it. You got a light at all? he asked.
Dont smoke. I chucked it ten year ago.
Aw. Wise man.
The middle-aged guy nodded at the pond: I mind the day it was chokablok with boats—big yins; yachts and all kinds.
Ronnie looked at him.
Beauties. You’d be lucky to get sailing at all unless you were up early!
What?
Now it’s paddleboats for weans. Pathetic, bloody pathetic.
Aye … Ronnie looked away. It was models he was talking about. His attention was attracted to a couple of boys who were fooling about on one, a paddleboat, right away out, rocking the thing from side to side until it looked like the water would go over the top. Their laughter was loud; it was yells more than anything, really noisy. Fucking terrible. Ronnie grunted and shook his head, glanced at the middle-aged man. And then he said, Look at them. Pair of bloody eedjits. They’re going to wind up capsizing the thing—look at them! Christ Almighty!
The middle-aged man was staring off in the other direction altogether.
And the dog had started tugging at the leash. It was behind the bench and moving about, and now doing a shite, straining and doing a shite. Ronnie smiled and shook his head. Life just continued, it was fucking crazy how it went. He faced the front again, seeing the two boys, laughing and rocking the boat, one of them trying to paddle at the same time. But there were stacks of broken glass at the bottom of the pond, that was what they failed to realize. It wasnt just him being totally out of order and losing his temper with them. If one of them fell in he could really hurt himself, he could cut himself quite badly, that was what happened, something fucking silly, turning into something serious. Weans! He shook his head and glanced at the middle-aged guy. Weans! he said, Bloody awful!
The man nodded slightly and sniffed.
I’ve got three of them, said Ronnie, smiling: A boy and two lassies.
Mm.
Ronnie looked at him for a few moments, seeing something in his face that made him think he probably didnt know what he was talking about, that he didnt understand because he didnt have any kids of his own. They’re a fucking problem at times, he said, weans. Bloody awful! He grinned and then sighed and after a brief look at the greyhound he got up and tugged on the leash, headed off towards the exit. And the middle-aged man hadnt even acknowledged him. A moaning-faced old bastard he had been anyway. It was funny how some folk ended up like that. All fucking screwed up and tight and not able to open out with people. Chucked smoking ten years ago. No wonder he was so fucking badtempered! Ronnie had tried to chuck it twice and each time it was Babs told him he’d be as well starting again because he was making every cunt’s life a misery! But if he had succeeded she would have been delighted. She only said it to give him the excuse for starting again, because she thought he was suffering. And she was right! He was fucking suffering! No half! And yet, there again, he could have put up with it; he was putting up with it. Maybe she should just have kept her mouth shut, if she had kept her mouth shut and let him fucking get on with it, if she had just let him get on with it then maybe he would have fucking knocked it off, he might’ve chucked it. But what was the point of making excuses? He was good at that. That was one thing he was always good at, making fucking excuses, he was smashing at that.
It was half past four. He saw the time through the window of a shop.
He had bypassed his own street and kept on towards the Cross. The traffic was heavy; lines of buses at the terminus. People who still had jobs. He led the greyhound on across the road and down by the newish housing development. The dog was probably getting quite tired now.
He had it back on a short lead, it was walking where he wanted it to. It was a nice big thing. He liked it. There was something about it; it made him feel a bit sorry as well, a kind of courage in the way it walked, its head quite high. He was not scared to face Babs. Even though she had this habit of always being right!
It was just that he wanted to have things clear in his head first. So that he would have an answer; that’s all. She was too good at arguing, Babs, too good at arguing. She was liable to make him totally speechless. This is because she was always right. She just had the knack of finding that one thing, that one thing he could never get the answer for. That one thing, it always seemed to be there. But the only way he ever found the fucking thing was once it came up, once she brought it up or it came out, sometimes it just came out, while the argument was happening, and that was him, stuck for words.
He had arrived at the pier. It was derelict. He stood by the railing peering through the spikes. The ferryboat went from here to Partick. Old memories right enough! Ronnie smiled. Although they werent all good. Fuck sake. They werent all good at all. And then these other memories. And the smells. And the journey twice a day six days a week. These smells but of the river, and the rubbish lapping at the side of the steps down, and at low tide the steps all greasy and slippery, the moss and the rest of it. Did folk fall in? It always looked like that. It always looked as if folk would fall in. Fucking dangerous—especially for auld people with walking sticks. Even just the rain, that made the steps slippery.
The greyhound was looking at him. It had tugged on the leash to make him notice. A big whitish dog with a lot of black markings. Now standing squarely, like a middleweight boxer; and its long thin tail curling down to between its hind legs. So placid. It was strange. Sometimes when you saw them at the track—especially after the race—they were fierce, really fierce; going for each other, fangs bared inside the wire muzzles. Even just now, seeing its shoulders and that barrel chest, the power there, so palpable, the power, it could have stepped right out the fucking jungle. And its walk, that sort of pad pad pad—athletic wasnt the word.
Ronnie felt in his pockets for a loose match but there was none. He hadnt a light! He smiled. But one of the obvious factors was money. It cost a fortune to keep a dog. And you had to look after it properly otherwise what was the fucking point? you’d be as well keeping a stupid wee pet, a poodle or something. Stew twice a day was what the guy had advised, unless of course it was running that night. If that was the case you gave it nothing, not till after the event, not unless you were wanting it to lose. In which case you fed it five minutes before the fucking off
There were other things he would have to find out about. Although some of it he would really only find out at the actual track, when he was along there giving it a time trial on Sunday afternoons. He was looking forward to that, it would be quite good. And he would be keeping his ears open and his mouth shut. Maybe get to know a couple of folk, and they would keep him straight at the beginning. Which was one of the reasons he had been hoping that bastard Kelly would’ve got involved. Kelly knew guys who were into different things and as well as that he used to like going over to the track. Between the two of them they could start fìnding out the right ways of working it. There was a lot more to the game than fucking exercise. Kelly was a bastard.
Ronnie paused. He had been walking a wee while, as far as the town hall. He crossed at the zebra crossing, making for Copland Road. His tea would be ready right at this minute and Babs would be wondering. But it was still too early; he was not prepared enough. And his fucking feet were beginning to feel sore. And if he felt like that what about the dog? A sitdown would have been nice. He did have the cash for one more pint; also over and above that he had enough for 10 smokes. Not buying the packet earlier had been intentional, for obvious reasons: he would maybe only have had 2 or 3 left by this time, plus if he had crashed them in the boozer for fuck sake he would’ve had fuck all, maybe just the same roll-up dowp! Now, if he watched himself, he could buy the 10 and even put one aside to wake up with the morrow morning, when Babs got the Family Allowance money—the giro wasnt due till next Wednesday.
The leash was jerking. The dog knew how to get his attention alright!
It was across the road: a guy walking three greyhounds at once, two from one fist and one from the other—them all looking well-groomed, taken care of. Sleek. Ronnie nodded. He called over: Nice day!
Aye!
As long as the rain keeps off!
Aye! When the man made to continue on Ronnie called:
You getting a turn?
The man shrugged. He indicated the dog walking alone: This yin goes the morrow night!
I’ll keep my fingers crossed!
The man nodded.
Whereabouts? Ashfield?
But the other guy made no reply to this; instead he continued on with the three dogs without glancing back over to Ronnie. Ronnie shook his head but he grinned briefly. Typical dog owner! They were notorious for it. And any information they did give out had to be treated with caution; in fact you were probably better just to consider it as useless, as not worth bothering about.
He went into a wee shop and bought the 10 fags and a book of matches and he was puffing when he appeared on the pavement. Farther along there was another guy with a dog, an elderly man—he looked like an old age pensioner. That was another thing about this, how it could keep you active and fit, and still involved.
At one time this district had two greyhound stadia to itself. Ronnie had been well acquainted with the last that closed down. The White City. It had been a licensed track and he used to go quite regularly, even as a boy; him and his pals used to have this way of skipping in down by the dummy railway. It had been great, evenings like this, the sun shining and the rest of it. The other track was the Albion, a flapping gaff. Ronnie had been too young for that one but the old-timers yapped about it still, how it was the best of the lot and all that sort of shite.
He just wasnt ready to go home yet, not yet, not quite; he would be soon. At least it wasnt raining; if it had been raining it would’ve been terrible, even for the sake of the dog just. Kelly was a disappointment. So was the other three. But it was hopeless dwelling on that; you had to do things for yourself in this life; nobody was going to do it for you. It was him that had bought the dog, and he would have to fucking take care of it, just take care of it, it was down to him. The lassies would give him a hand; they would like being able to take it out for walks and the rest of it. They wouldnt think he was daft, it was Babs just, she would think he was daft. Other people would think he was daft as well. Was he daft? Maybe he was daft; he was always fucking—what was he?
He could just go home for his tea. No, not yet. He couldnt get it right. He still needed to think things out. Where to keep the dog for instance. The boy’s room. Could he keep it there? Would Babs accept it? Would she fuck. She would just fucking, she would laugh at him. Quite right as well. What did he actually go and buy it for? Stupid. That would be her first question too and he couldnt fucking answer it, her first fucking question, he wouldnt be able to answer it, he wouldnt be able to give a straight answer to it. Thirty-five years of age, soon to be thirty-six, married for nearly nineteen years, a son of eighteen—a fucking granpa he could be.
He needed time to think. He just needed time to think. And what was the fucking time anyway? it must’ve been after six. The tea would just go back in the oven; the tea would go back in the oven.
Ronnie jerked at the dog; he had wound the leash round his knuckles and was clenching his fist as he walked, and he transferred it to his left hand. The same guy served him as at dinnertime but this occasion he did speak; he frowned and he muttered, They’ll no like you bringing it in too much.
What?
The barman nodded, looking up from the pint he was pouring: A lot of folk bring in theirs as well Ronnie, know what I mean? Just ordinary pets I’m talking about—in other words, wee yins!
Dont give us that, replied Ronnie. What about these big fucking alsatians! You’re feart to walk in here sometimes in case you step on a tail and get fucking swallowed.
The barman nodded, smiled slightly.
Ronnie sniffed; he glanced at the greyhound by his feet: He wouldnt hurt a flea.
The barman shrugged. I’m just telling you Ronnie, they’ll complain.
Okay, I hear you … Ronnie sipped at the pint, awaiting his 2 pence change; when the barman passed it to him he dropped it through the slot of the huge bottle of charity money, and he went to the toilet. The dog was quite the thing on the floor when he came back.
He should have come to another pub. That would have been the best idea. He glanced about; a couple of curious stares at the dog. Fuck them all. The dog wouldnt harm a flea. It was just a big—Christ! it was just a big pet.
Across at the rearmost table Jimmy Peters and McInnes were sitting on their own. Ronnie arrived and put his pint down, tucked the leash beneath his right shoe heel, and he nodded towards the bar: According to that yin there’s going to be all sorts of complaints about the dog.
That right? said Jimmy Peters.
Too wild or somefuckingthing! Ronnie grinned and sipped at the beer. You want to have seen it in the park as well, with all the wee weans!
Ronnie grinned: I mean they were fucking poking it and everything and all it did was look at them, it didnt even notice.
The other two nodded.
I mean I’ve been with it all day and it’s fucking… Ronnie stopped and shook his head, he grinned. He brought out his fags and gave one to each: It’s just won its first race!
Fucking must’ve! chuckled Jimmy Peters, taking the cigarette and looking at it.
But it didnt stretch to a pint! added McInnes.
Ronnie nodded. It was a wee race!
You’ve cheered up since this afternoon.
Me?
Me! said McInnes.
Well… Ronnie sniffed.
You were like a fucking bear with a sore head, said Jimmy Peters.
No wonder, I came in for a pint and I got a fucking row!
Jimmy Peters chuckled.
McInnes said, Naw you didnt.
Aye I did, grinned Ronnie. I mean I fucking expected it right enough, the slagging.
It wasnt a slagging.
Aye it was.
McInnes pursed his lips.
Let’s face it, said Ronnie, it was a slagging.
Eh… began Jimmy Peters. Ronnie looked at him and he shrugged.
Mind you, said Ronnie, I was expecting a wee bit of interest, just a wee bit.
Och come on, muttered McInnes.
Well, replied Ronnie, just a wee bit would’ve been fucking something; better than nothing. But naw; fuck all, just the four of yous trying to take the piss out me.
We werent trying to take the fucking piss out you! Jimmy Peters replied.
You were.
We fucking werent!
Aye you fucking were Jimmy—the two of yous were in it just as much as McColl and Kelly.
Jimmy Peters stared at him then looked away. But McInnes sniffed and leaned closer to Ronnie, and he said: I’ll tell you something man you better screw the fucking nut cause the way it’s going you’re going to wind up bad news, bad news. I’m no fucking kidding ye either.
What?
McInnes sat back and grunted, That’s all I’m saying.
What’re you meaning but?
McInnes shook his head.
Eh?
I’m no saying anything more Ronnie; you fucking know what I’m meaning.
Ronnie continued to gaze at him, then he frowned at Jimmy Peters and reached for the beer, sipped at it and put it down, lifted it again and sipped some more, gulping it down this time. He inhaled on the cigarette and stared towards the clock. And his hand lowered onto the head of the greyhound, and he grasped its ears.
Dont take it personally for God sake, said McInnes.
Naw.
Jimmy Peters said, It’s just you’re fucking, you’re under pressure and that. The young yin, have you heard from him? the boy.
Ronnie shrugged. Then he said, Look, you dont really think I went out and bought the dog because of that, the boy, because he’s away; eh?
Naw, Christ.
Cause I’ve been wanting a dog for ages. Fuck sake.
Jimmy Peters nodded.
And I’m no the only one—Kelly, he’s fucking been on about it more than me. Eh?
Aye.
Ronnie shook his head: I mean I’ve got to laugh at yous cunts. All talk. All fucking talk.
McInnes was looking at him. Ronnie looked back at him. McInnes said, This is you out of order again.
What?
This is you fucking out of order, again.
What d’you mean?
The way you go on … McInnes shook his head and stared at the floor.
Ronnie stared at him.
Aye, God sake, the way you go on!
What! Ronnie’s face screwed into a glare.
Leave it.
Leave it?
McInnes looked at him then looked away. Jimmy Peters was looking away too. Ronnie sniffed and glanced at the dog, it was asleep, poor big fucking beast, sound asleep. Greyhounds were short-haired. The top of its head was really smooth. He reached to stroke it, it didnt feel like hair at all, more like a kind of material. He took a long draw on the cigarette, ground it out beneath his shoe on the floor.
Jimmy Peters said, I see the Celts’re going to sign that Thomson?
Ronnie nodded.
No a bad player.
Aye.
No Celtic class, muttered McInnes.
It needed a feed as well, it was probably starving. That was another thing about greyhound owners, how they were really tight, they treated their dogs like racing machines, no sentiment. The guy he had bought it from probably never fed it because he knew he was selling it, so it was probably fucking starving.
That movie …
Ronnie frowned slightly, then nodded. What time does it start? he asked.
Jimmy Peters smiled. Naw, he said, I’m talking about that one that was on last night—fucking brilliant, did you see it?
Nah.
Were you out? asked McInnes.
What?
I was just asking if you were out, last night; you were no in here?
Naw.
McInnes nodded. Oh by the way, he said, that fucking Hammurabi won again!
What! You’re kidding?
7 to 1.
For Christ sake!
7 to 1 … McInnes smiled, shaking his head. They’re sending it to Royal Ascot.
Many’s that it’s won? Jimmy Peters asked.
Four.
Four on the trot, added Ronnie.
Jimmy Peters grinned. Pity you couldnt’ve bought a horse!
Ronnie looked at him.
Imagine coming in here with it! Peters laughed: Imagine the faces!
For fuck sake! Ronnie began chuckling.
McInnes was smiling.
A pint and a barrel of oats! cried Peters. Heh barman, a pint and a barrel of oats!
The three of them were laughing now. Gradually they stopped. Ronnie began stroking behind the dog’s ears and it opened its eyes for a moment, made a movement in its mouth as if it was thirsty. It would be thirsty. When had it last had a drink? Ronnie hadnt given it one. And the guy he’d bought it from, probably he hadnt either. The truth of the matter is Ronnie was feeling bad. He probably shouldnt’ve bought the dog, if he wasnt going to look after it properly. It just wasnt fair. The lassies would help right enough. They were good, they helped. They would take it for walks. Babs would just—she wouldnt bother, she would be okay. He was just fucking, it was him, he was daft, stupid, coming home with a greyhound, it was out of order. Jimmy was talking. Ronnie nodded, acknowledging something; he didnt know what the fuck it was he was acknowledging but he was fucking acknowledging something! He smiled, he raised the pint to his lips and swallowed beer. Jimmy pushed the tobacco pouch towards him and he rolled himself a smoke. It was time to leave. He struck a match, lighting his own before offering the light to Jimmy; then he finished off the beer and wiped his mouth quickly. Okay, he said, lifting the leash. And he got to his feet.
You off? asked Jimmy Peters.
Aye.
I’ll be heading that way myself, said McInnes, glancing towards the clock.
See you the morrow, said Jimmy.
Aye … Ronnie gave a slight tug on the leash and the dog rose from the floor. And he left the pub quickly, in case McInnes came along the road with him. They both lived in the same street. He didnt want McInnes to know, that he wasnt going home just now. He wasnt going to go home just now, definitely not. He wasnt feeling right for it. That was it in a nutshell. What was that thing about Hamlet? Like a king. Something. Ronnie just felt fucking, he felt lousy. He hadnt been feeling as lousy as this before. Last night for instance he had been feeling good. He had made the phonecall and he knew he was the only one who had made any inquiries. And eighty quid as well; it was about exactly what he had saved up, almost the total sum. Everything just seemed spot on. And the guy himself seemed okay. If it was possible to trust a doggieman! Ronnie grinned. They couldnt all be fucking rogues. Surely to fuck!
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 leatherworks across in Partick, making football bladders and stuff like that. What a fucking job; that twicedaily 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 Keechl Outside of Glasgow nobody knew what the fuck it meant. Big Keech!. 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.
But people didnt do things like that. They didnt do things as simple as that. They had to do it in a devious sort of—they had to be devious, that was it, they just had to be fucking devious. That was it, that was human nature, they just had to be fucking devious. Even the boy—eighteen years of age and just as devious as the rest of them. All he had to do was tell them and that would’ve been that. But no; what he does is fuck off and then gives a phonecall from a fucking motorway cafe. And Babs is up to fucking high doh worrying about it. Unbelievable. Just like a fucking wee wean. Eighteen years of age! Ronnie had been his father at that age. Eighteen! Fuck sake. It’s no that young. It’s young, but no that young. Eighteen. Christ Almighty.
It was getting dark. What time was it? When he was in the pub it was 7. It was after that. Nearer 8, when he left. Probably it was 9, it’d be 9 now. And they’d think he would be really paralytic. It could even be after 9.
Heh Ronnie!
Christ! McInnes! McInnes had come after him. McInnes. Where was he? He wasnt here at all. It hadnt been a shout. But it was like a shout. As if somebody had shouted on him. An apparition. A fucking ghost! The docks was a creepy place but, deserted and fucking derelict. And this pier, how you could see the actual particles of coaldust lapping in on the surface of the water, onto the steps for fuck sake, if you wanted to commit suicide you’d choose a better place, you wouldnt want to fucking choke, if you wanted to fucking choke you’d do something else altogether, a bottle of fucking pills maybe.
What did he buy it for? He shouldnt’ve bought it.
Ach well. It was too late. He had it and that was that. Poor old bastard. Maybe he wouldnt race it at all, maybe he would just keep it as a pet, and fuck them. Bastards.
Here was somebody else coming. Another couple.
That was funny how the shout had happened, it sounding like a shout, from inside the head. And it was McInnes; it was his voice. It wasnt Babs for instance, if you’d expected that, because maybe to do with telepathy, her thinking he was about to do himself in or somefuckingthing and so trying to reach out to him, the way twins are supposed to.
She would maybe be worrying about him now. Would she? Aye, she would be, she would be worrying about him because he hadnt phoned. Fuck sake, of course she would; what was the fucking point of fucking, trying to fucking keep it away, of course she’d be fucking worrying about him. On top of the boy; on top of the boy she would now be worrying about him. And the lassies, they’d know something was up because they’d see the way she was looking; if they were watching the telly, they’d see she wasnt really seeing what was on, her attention would be fucking, it would be nowhere near it, wondering if the phone was going to ring; and the boy as well, if he was okay—London for fuck sake, what could happen down there, things were bad down there, weans on the street, having to sell themselves to get by, the things that were happening down there, down in London, to young lassies and boys, it wasnt fucking fair, it was just fucking terrible, it was so fucking terrible, it was just so fucking terrible you couldnt fucking man you fucking Jesus Christ trying to think about that it was Christ it was so fucking terrible, it was so bad. Ronnie had the cigarette packet in his hand and he opened it and took out one; when he was smoking he returned it and the book of matches to his pocket. He inhaled twice without exhaling, let it all out in a gasp. He leaned his shoulder against the fence, inhaled again, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils. He would just tell Babs something or other, what the fuck he didnt know, it didnt fucking matter; what did it matter, it didnt fucking matter.