How Late It Was How Late Read online

  Now he was chuckling away to himself. How the hell was it happening to him! It’s no as if he was earmarked for glory!

  Even in practical terms, once the nonsense passed, he started thinking about it; this was a new stage in life, a development. A new epoch! He needed to see Helen. He really needed to see her man if he could just see her, talk to her; just tell her the score. A fucking new beginning, that was what it was! He got out of bed and onto his feet and there was hardly a stumble. The auld life was definitely ower now man it was finished, fucking finished. He groped his way around, kicking forward with his feet, and he reached the wall. He got down on his knees to feel the floor, cold but firm, cold but firm. The palms of his hands flat on it; he had this sensation of being somewhere else in the world and a music started in his head, a real real music, it was hypnotic, these instruments beating out the tumatumatumti tumatumatumti tum, tum; tum, ti tum; tum, tum; tum, ti tum, tumatumatumti tumatumatumti byong; byong byong byong byong byong; byong, byong byong, byong, byong byong. He was down now and rolled onto his back, lying there smiling, then with his face screwed up; shooting pains. He turned slow; getting onto his front, trying to ease it; the small of his back; shifting his hips a wee bit: then the pain was easing out, down into the right buttock, travelling down a bit more till it stopped, trapped: he moved his hips another couple of inches, and the pain travelled on, right the way down into his ankles and out through his toes, the space between the nails and the flesh; out, the pain travelling right the way out, and he felt good, really, it was fucking good, this kind of control over yer body when it was sore, how ye survive, how ye survive. And a whole crash of thoughts. With one weird wee image to finish it all off: if this was permanent he wouldnay be able to see himself ever again. Christ that was wild. And he wouldnay see cunts looking at him. Wild right enough. What did it matter but what did it matter; cunts looking at ye. Who gives a fuck. Just sometimes they bore their way in, some of them do anyway; they seem able to give ye a look that’s more than a look: it’s like when ye’re a wean at school and there’s this auld woman teacher who takes it serious even when you and the wee muckers are having a laugh and cracking jokes behind her back and suddenly she looks straight at ye and ye can tell she knows the score, she knows it’s happening. Exactly. And it’s only you. The rest dont notice. You see her and she sees you. Naybody else. Probably it’s their turn next week. The now it’s you she’s copped. You. The jokes dont sound funny any longer. The auld bastard, she’s fucked ye man. With one look. That’s how easy you are. And ye see the truth then about yerself. Ye see how ye’re fixed forever. Stupid wee fucking arsehole. Laughing with the rest because ye’re feart no to, feart to stand out from the crowd; ye’re just a wee fucking coward, trying to take the piss out an auld woman man pathetic, fucking pathetic.

  Ah!

  Fuck it but we’re all weans at some time or another. What’s the point in blaming yerself for other people’s problems. Ye’ve got to get by; and ye’ll no get by if ye carry on like a halfwit.

  It was just Sammy feeling sorry for himself, plus being fucking physically fucking battered for christ sake it’s straightforward.

  Sometimes ye wonder, ye wonder.

  Then this ringing in his ear. Two sounds, both in the left; the ordinary blood sound high up but this other one lower down, a fucking siren, wailing. Then it stopped and he was left with the blood. Then that was getting more high pitched. It was like a fucking scream christ

  The hand propelled him forwards. He went with it. And this voice saying, Dont worry yerself. Whoever it was he was a sarcastic bastard. Who gives a fuck. Sammy couldnay care less. Then he heard them laughing. Still he didnay care. Why the fuck should he. He wanted to tell them straight: Fuck you bastards I dont actually give a fuck, yez can laugh from here to fucking Mayday.

  The hand shoved him this time, it gripped his shoulder and sent him flying and he banged into a chair and went sideiways trying to avoid it in some stupit way considering he had already hit the fucking thing and he landed on some cunt’s feet and whoever it was let out a yelp; then a laugh.

  He’s assaulting us again! Fucking nerve of this guy!

  Drunk and incapable, said another yin, he cannay admit it like a man but, says he’s lost his fucking eyesight somewhere!

  Anybody find an eyesight! There’s a guy here looking for an eyesight!

  This was followed by ha haz all round. Everything’s tactics and these were auld yins. So so what. Sammy was in a warm place and he knew there was a change for the better. How did he know there was a change for the better? Ye can aye tell, that’s how. Ye develop a second sight with these bastards. They maybe thought they had went too far with him.

  Sit down.

  Sammy stood where he was.

  Ye’re alright, sit down.

  Fuck it, Sammy moved his hand about and touched a chair, he felt round it and sat down, gripping the sides in case some funny cunt felt like giving it a kick. Something was pressed into his hand. It was a chain. His chain; gold, Helen had gave him it as a birthday present last October. There was some kind of symbolic thing about it, he couldnay mind but, what it was, what it meant. He fingered for the catch and opened it, put it round his neck and heard more laughter like they had conned him or something so he took it back and fingered it again to make sure it was his. But how could ye tell, ye couldnay. More laughter. Fuck it man he stuck it in his pocket, then felt for the fly on his trousers to make sure he wasnay hanging out.

  Things landed on his lap. The lone-star belt and shoelaces.

  Nothing else happened. It was like they had lost interest. A while went by. There was a lot of toing and froing and funny kind of whooshing sounds. Now he heard voices, one was kind of posh, English. Then more whooshing sounds and something came near to his head. And doors opened and closed. It felt like a big office he was in with occasional whirring noises like from some sort of speaking device. And always too there was the sound of a computer keyboard tap tapping away; and muttering, people muttering. He strained to hear what they were saying but his ears were definitely out and he got a sudden feeling he was gony fall off the fucking chair man he seemed about to keel ower and he had to cling on, concentrating hard to stop it happening, he was dizzy, he was gony faint, he was gony fucking jesus christ almighty

  a test, he remembered this test, a long time ago, it was in London, it was for a job, he had to sit it; him and another ten thousand and 96 guys, all stuck in a long corridor; people looking at them; stupit fucking questions; general knowledge shite; all bullshit man the whole fucking deal; and this arsehole in a sharp suit walking up and down, the mediator or something, there to see ye didnay cheat, giving ye piercing glances and all that ye felt like setting about the cunt. Fucking bampot he was. And all these stupit questions. But ye felt there was some key they had to crack yer answers, and then the whole of yer life would be there, all laid bare, all yer dirty wee secrets; and them studying them when ye were away home, logging the info into the central bank.

  These bastards. Ye want to fucking

  what does it matter. Who gives a fuck. Life’s a dawdle if ye give it a chance. Ye do yer crime ye take yer time. Somebody was passing. Sammy turned his head in that direction: Heh ye got a fag mate?

  A fag got put into his hand. The auld pyschology. The one place they acted like people was when they were in their own wee office going about their own wee bits of business, wage-earners, time-servers, waiting for the fucking tea-break. A lighter snapped. Sammy had the fag in his mouth; he had to hold it at the end at the same time. The lighter snapped again and he felt the flame suddenly and jerked away from it:

  Sorry, he said. The lighter snapped and he moved his fingers till he felt the flame and he kept sucking till eventually he sucked tobacco smoke, and it was in his nostrils and up at his eyes at the same time. Cheers mate, he said but spluttered.

  An ashtray at yer feet…

  Sammy was still spluttering, and the tobacco went right to his brain. He inhaled again, fe
eling better. Fuck them all; he settled back.

  And time went on. And he was sitting there in this blank sort of void, the mind going in different directions. No all nice either, no by any manner of means, cause he hadnay led the best of lives. No the worst but no the best. He had aye been a bit stupit. And there’s nay cunt to blame for that except yerself. Ye aye come back to that same thing. Nay point blaming the sodjers if you’ve ladled into them in the first place; fuck sake man ye cannay blame them for giving ye a doing. Sammy could throw a punch, he was quite a solid guy, and his knuckles were still sore, so was his right foot, so who are ye gony blame? know what I’m talking about it was him woke up down the lane. It was him fucking landed down the lane in the first place man how the fuck he got there I dont know. But naybody dragged him into the boozer and naybody filled his neck with booze, he did it himself; it was under his own control. He wasnay a fucking eedjit aw the gether; just he acted that way, sometimes, when he felt like it.

  Nay stewards’ enquiries but fuck it.

  Auld Helen as well.

  She would be doubly annoyed. She would really fuck off this time. That would be that. Him back in the poky. That would be him man fuckt, know what I mean, ye want the mentality for how come he ladled into the sodjers then ye’ve got it, it’s all there, fucking Custer’s last stand.

  Auld Helen man fuck sake.

  Folk take a battering but, they do; they get born and they get brought up and they get fuckt. That’s the story; the cot to the fucking funeral pyre.

  Fascinating-facts and Tales-from-the-poky. That one about the Samurai warriors, back in the olden days; their master gets done in by a rival – both of them are aristocrats, Shishkos or Shenkos; whatever ye fucking call them – and the Samurai plot revenge on the baddies. So the leader and his son and the entire squad all split up for a year and go around leading vagabond lives, drinking and screwing and all that till the other guy and his team of baddies all get lulled into a false sense of security, they think the goody Samurai have fell by the wayside and there’s fuck all to worry about. And then, when everything’s fine and the timing’s right, the Samurai warriors regroup. And back they come to wreak revenge, a whole year later. They do the cunts in. Fucking straightforward. But then, after they’ve done them in, they turn round and fucking do themselves in, they commit hara-kiri. Because once their master’s dead, the auld fucking Shishko man, once he’s dead, and the goody Samurai have had the revenge, then that’s them, they’re fuckt, they’ve done their duty and the game’s a bogie, capisto, their life’s finished, end of story, they’ve got to go to the debowelling games, they stick the blade in their guts and start cutting lumps out.

  A true story that. According to the guy that telt it to Sammy. Mind you he once telt it to a woman and it annoyed her to fuck, she thought it was a load of bullshit, she thought he was trying to confuse her, some weird way of getting off with her, getting her mixed up between their story and his christ how fucking crazy can ye get; women. It wasnay Helen by the way, the woman, but it might have been, might as well have been know what I’m saying. Funny how ye tell people a story to make a point and ye fail, ye fail, a total disaster. Not only do ye no make yer point it winds up the exact fucking opposite man, the exact fucking opposite. That isnay a misunderstanding it’s a total

  whatever. Mind you the woman was maybe right cause Sammy had added in a wee bit of his own when he telt it to her, he knocked it from a book he had read about this army officer and his wife; and they did the same, the debowelling games; duty and love all gets mixed up the gether. So she was probably right, he probably was trying to get off with her. But so what? So fucking what? Males and females. Ye do yer wee dances christ almighty where’s the harm. Plus some folk, they’re never happy unless they’re giving ye a sharp fucking talking to. Especially women, or else upper class bastards. Ye dont mind it so much if ye fucking know them man but no if they’re fucking strangers, ye’re just talking to them in a pub or something, know what I mean, fair enough with the wife or the girlfriend, yer fucking grannie or something, but some of these other cunts man they think they know, they think they know and they fucking dont.

  So fuck it.

  His back, it was sore. The spine especially; down there at the bottom, roundabout the lower ribs. He had to stand up. He stood up. He stepped half a pace to the left, then worked his hands in where it was hurting, massaging in with the tips of his fingers. His right foot kicked against something metal, solid.

  Sit down. Samuels: sit down.

  I need to stretch my legs.

  Just sit on yer arse.

  Can I no even get standing up?

  Thirty seconds.

  Thanks.

  That’s twenty of them.

  Twenty’s enough, said Sammy and he reached to feel for the chair and sat down. Fuck them. He rubbed at the base of his spine then sat forwards, hands clasped on his knees. He had a lot to consider. When ye come to think about it. And that’s what he had no been doing: thinking. He had just been

  who knows, who knows; his brains were all ower the place.

  All the auld ways of living, as if they’ll go on forever. Then ye wake up and find yerself fuckt, all gone man, that’s that. So okay, ye have to accept it; what else can ye do, there’s fuck all, everything’s fixed and settled as far as that’s concerned, it’s happened, past tense. So now it’s down to you.

  Sammy felt like another smoke. He should have nipped the one that guy gave him instead of doing it all in. He couldnay even remember finishing it. The ashtray was beside his chair. He reached down to see if there was anything left to smoke, but couldnay find it – the ashtray I’m talking about, some cunt must have swiped it.

  A hubbub started somewhere near but it was like there was a partition separating it from him. He wasnay sure if it was cause of the racket going on in his ears. Then too there was this radio playing pop music, droning on and on, oomba oomba oomba, didi oomba oomba oomba, didi oomba oomba oomba, the kind Sammy’s boy would have listened to – perfect for 15-year-auld kids except it was these adult sodjers. He wondered what station he was in. He hadnay been up to taking notes on the drive. But it was probably Hardie Street. Who cares. Naybody would have gave him a sensible answer if he had asked. Ye cannay make contact with them; all ye would have got was sarcasm and wee in-jokes. It wasnay just in the poky that happened I mean Sammy once went to work in a factory for ten minutes, down in England, and that’s the way it was. It would have took a ten stretch to know what they were all giggling about.

  Fuck it man these things were ower, long ago. And that was what Helen couldnay grasp.

  He was hell of a weary but; drained, ye know. He was due to be mind you; the battering he had took. Plus sometimes ye just feel like drawing the curtains. Getting the blankets ower the head. That was the way Sammy felt. It wasnay the first doing he had had and sure as fuck it wouldnay be the last.

  Noise. A chair drawn up next to him. Somebody said: Right Samuels ye’re a lucky man, we’re gony let ye go, and with your record that’s something.

  Who am I talking to?

  Dont be cheeky else ye’ll end up in real bother. With your form they’ll throw away the key. We hadnay realised we had a personality on the premises.

  Och dont give us it, I got liftit and now I’m fucking blind.

  A hand gripped his left wrist from nowhere then a whisper: Just listen to the man: ye can go, that’s what he’s telling ye, so just thank yer lucky stars and get to fuck because see if it was up to me…

  The pressure increased. Sammy had strong wrists and he flexed the left to take the pressure; his fore and upper arm trembled with the strain. His ribs started hurting. It was a strong cunt he was up against. Eventually the pressure relaxed and the hand vanished. Sammy breathed shallow, controlling it, just controlling it, except the ribs man the ribs, but controlling it, controlling it. Give them nothing man fucking nothing, nothing.