Sobre a Deficiência Visual

How Late It Was, How Late

James Kelman

excerpt

Blind Man - Colin Self, 2008
 

And then his fucking eyes as well, there was something wrong with them, like if it had still been daylight and he was reading a book he would have had double-vision or something, his mind going back to a time he was reading all kinds of things, weird things, black magic stuff and crazy religious experiences and the writing started to get thick, each letter just filled out till there was nay space between it and the next yin: no doubt just coincidental but at the time man he was fucking strung out with other sort of stuff so he took it extremely personal, extremely personal man ye know what I’m talking about. Then his head was so itchy. The bed was probably bogging, that auld fucking blanket, what a smell christ, unclean! unclean! If he could have got a hair-wash; that was what he was wanting. But it was his eyes, that was the main fucking problem like he had gone blind but the black had stopped him appreciating the fact. But it felt like morning. He tried some manoeuvres. But naw, he couldnay see a thing. Nothing. Fuck all. He did some more manoeuvres. Still nothing. But at the back of his brain he had this funny sort of recollection, like what was happening was something he had known for a while, he just hadnay registered the fact, as if it was some kind of bad dream running side-by-side with his life. He tried more manoeuvres, his hand up to his face. Both hands. Moving them around. Then he scratched his cheek. Just at the bone beneath where his right eye should have been, then closing the eye and putting his finger on the lid, then opening it and closing it and for fuck sake man nothing, he couldnay see nothing. He studied roundabout, looking for chinks of light, to where the screw would be watching, the flash of the eye maybe; but nothing. He reached his hand ower the bunk and felt about the floor and found something, a shoe; he lifted it to in front of his face. He fucking smelled it man it was fucking ponging, but he couldnay see it; whose fucking shoes were they they werenay fucking his, that was a certainty. He was definitely blind but. Fucking weird. Wild. It didnay feel like a nightmare either, that’s the funny thing. Even psychologically. In fact it felt okay, an initial wee flurry of excitement but no what ye would call panic-stations. Like it was just a new predicament. Christ it was even making him smile, shaking his head at the very idea, imagining himself telling people; making Helen laugh; she would be annoyed as fuck but she would still find it funny, eventually, once they had made it up, the stupit fucking row they had had, total misunderstanding man but it was fine now, it would be fine, once she saw him.

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, feeling 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.

Then the voice whispered: Know what I’m talking about ya fucking bampot? Ye go outside that door nice and easy and ye dont come back, ye just fucking vamoose, ye get to fuck, ye do a fucking disappearing trick, alright?

Ye’re an incorrigible, said the other yin, and this time ye went too far. But still ye landed lucky, so thank yer lucky stars.

You better believe it, muttered the nasty bastard.

I need to speak to a third party. I’m no being cheeky.

…

Somebody chuckled.

Another yin said: Give the guy his due, he knows his rights and regulations.

Eh? Heh doughball, somebody’s talking to you.

A hand clamped Sammy on the shoulder. I want to see a third party, he said, even yer quack, I want to report this dysfunction man I’m suffering a sightloss, and it’s in both eyes, I need to see a quack.

Fucking quack ya cunt, fucking Donald Duck, it’s a hospital you’ll be needing.

Aye, that’s all very well, said Sammy, and I’m no meaning to be cheeky. But I need to speak to somebody I mean ye cannay leave me like this. I’ve no got a fucking coin. Get us a quack so he can see how I am now to how I was afore you and yer fucking plainclothes rottweilers got a fucking grip of me. I’m still in fucking pain man know what I mean I want a fucking X-ray, my ribs are fuckt man come on! Get us an eye-specialist!

A sigh then a shuffling of feet; a door shutting.

…

Heh come on, ye cannay just knock fuck out a guy till he winds up blind, this is a free country. Eh! Hullo? Hullo? Heh what about a smoke? Any of ye got a fag! Eh? Hullo? Ah fuck off.

Somebody sniggering in the background.

Fuck off I says.

They did fuck off. An hour later maybe longer a couple of them came back and stripped off his belt and laces again. They forgot to ask for his gold chain. Here, he said, taking it out his pocket. There was times it was best going by the book. Sammy was wanting to wake up in the morning. He sniffed and kept alert, listening for whatever. Half an hour later they were marching him back to the cell. It was all matter-of-fact. But no sooner inside than he banged his leg on the edge of the bunk frame. He lay down but the mattress was thin as fuck, it was just sagging and useless, even worse than the last yin. Once he was sure they had went he got up, took the pillow and stretched out on the floor. Real relief except for the smell, like a pish-house.

He didnay even know what day it was. Jesus. The big mouth man he always had to blab. If that was him for another night

Jesus christ. She would be really worried now. He aye had to blab. How come he aye had to blab! Just stupit. Stupit. She would be worrying. Doesnay matter the situation, how it was, that was past tense, she would worry. Cause he had nay place to go and she knew it. Ye’re talking from whenever it was the now back to last Friday morning man that’s how long it was; four maybe five days, including the Saturday. Fucking Saturday! Saturday was a blank. A blank. Jesus christ, fucking terrible. So for all she knew something bad might have happened. Aye something bad has happened hen! yer man, yer boyfriend, he’s being held for assault, drunk and disorderly. And at this moment in time he’s lying in the fucking poky, blind as a fucking bat.

If they telt her that she would come immediately. She would take him by the hand

Would she fuck. Helen man, enough said.

Not so very long ago aho
you walked away, from me,
and after all we’ve ever meant,
you decided to be free
Ach she would rant and rave. Or else say nothing. She was good at saying nothing. When she did get angry her voice got high and it annoyed her to fuck. For some reason she didnay like high voices, no even on women. She wasnay that much weer than him but she would have preferred being weer, she aye said she was too big, she had the habit of walking with a stoop. Sammy aye telt her to straighten up. That annoyed her, but sometimes in a lovey-dovey way. If he was skint and he telt her stuff like that she was liable to take him out for a drink. No quite. But sometimes she did. Once or twice. Then she got double-depressed. She would go silent, just sitting there, glowering. He wouldnay even notice she was glowering, no at first. He would be talking to her natural; then it would dawn on him she had took the huff about something. Look dont blame me ye’re a woman, he used to say, it’s no my fucking fault. Sometimes he sang her that Kristofferson number:

She aint afraid to be a woman
nor ashamed to be a friend
That really wound her up! But at least it got her to talk. Better getting a mouthful than nothing at all man silences, know what I’m saying; Sammy couldnay handle silences, no with her. Any other cunt aye but no her. He was too insecure. More than a year since he first started going out with her but he had only lived with her about six or eight months. It had taken her the rest of the time to make up her mind. She wasnay a woman that jumped into things. Too fucking experienced; three weans she had into the bargain. Christ she would crack up! Auld Helen… Nay luck at all neither she had, she aye chose bingers; she said it herself. How do I aye end up with somebody like you? I knew it would happen! That’s what she’d say. I telt ye! As if any cunt could tell ye that, that ye were gony wind up blind. Mind you she had telt him, more or less, she telt him on Friday morning, things would go bad, that was what she telt him. Fuck it man.

Terrible depressions she got too, her downers could last for days. Ye felt ye had to keep an eye on her. Sammy liked lying with the side of his face on her tits, snuggling in, her nipple poking him in the eye, soft, wrist between her legs, his hand cupping her hole, shielding it from danger, especially when she had come, needing to protect her and all that stuff.

Sammy smiled, lying there on the floor. But it wasnay a cheery smile. He didnay feel cheery. He felt fucking grim, that was what he felt. Nay wonder she would crack up. Lifted by the sodjers. On the bevy and lifted by the sodjers. Well it was her own fault. She shouldnay have threatened him. That’s one thing ye shouldnay do, threaten a cunt, no unless ye’re gony back it up. Course maybe she had backed it up. He didnay fucking know. He wouldnay know either, no till he got home. Ah fuck it, if she wanted to call it a day then fair enough man all she had to do was tell him, tell him straight. He wasnay gony stay somewhere he wasnay wanted. Ye kidding! Sammy was well used to packing the bags. Bastards. Now here he was blind, fucking blind. Imagine going blind. Christ. What a turn-up for the books that was.

He shifted his head and felt the pillow damp on his face. He hadnay been greeting, just water must have been running out. Or else pus. Maybe it was fucking pus. Maybe it was fucking yellow fucking mucus pus or something, rancid fucking liquid shit running out his body, out his eyes. Maybe it was the thing that gave ye sight, now he didnay have sight the thing had turned into pus, and here it was getting discharged, excess body baggage. Or else blood. Maybe his nose was bleeding. Or his ears. His fucking ears were roaring, maybe it was melted fucking wax! Jesus christ there was that many things.

He got up and poked about with his feet. Still blind; he had forgot what it meant.

He put his hands out and groped his way to the end wall and leant against it. He needed to think. He had to get clear on what happened. The sodjers hadnay been too interested, no till they read the form-book. Even then; interested but nothing special. They probably took him for a boozebag alky bastard nowadays and that was that, end of story. Fine, it suited him. The longer it went on but the longer it went on

Ye couldnay count on things. That was the problem. Other things aye turned up, they had a habit of doing that, turning round and fucking ye, when ye least expected it.

He had to get clear. Back to front and inside out.

Okay.

So what happened was he was out earning. Right, fine. And the Leg was with him. He didnay need the Leg with him but there he was and that was that; so okay, three leather jackets. They got shot of the stuff within an hour and split the dough. Sammy went home to show the face. She needed to know he was alright. As if he wouldnay have been but there ye are. That was how the fight started in the first place. Well no quite. Ye can be too honest man, know what I’m talking about, it doesnay always pay, no with women. He should have telt her fuck all.

Fair enough but he just wanted her to know he was okay. So he went home to show the face. Except when he got there she was gone. And the kitchen was a fucking pigsty like she had fuckt off as soon as she was up and dressed. Which is fair enough cause she didnay finish work till late and sometimes wasnay home till after two in the morning. So if she just got off her mark then she was fucking entitled. Fuck the housework. With him no working anyway I mean, what does it matter, Sammy was happy doing that sort of stuff. Plus the fact it was her house, it’s no as if he had any claim for being there, except her, so he needed to be pulling his weight and all that. At least that was the way he looked at it. So when he got home on Friday dinnertime he just stuck on the music. Loud, the way he liked it. Then he set about the tidying. But once he had finished the money burnt a hole in his pocket, he couldnay settle; he tried to read a book, he shoved on the telly; he just couldnay concentrate. Plus he was starving. But cause he had done all that tidying he didnay want to fucking mess it back up again so he wasnay gony cook fuck all. So he just went back out, thinking in terms of a pie and a pint. Across the river and along the road, up the main drag and round to the Cross, and along and up by Argyle Street where he found the Leg and they went on a spree,

they taught me to smo-oke and dri-ink whiskee.
So on and so forth.

That was for him but no for the sodjers. It was him needed it, the story. Once it was there and solid in that fucking nut of his then fine, it was alright; a stick of dynamite man that was what they would fucking need. Other stuff he could let slip, it didnay matter. Know what I’m saying, once the solid stuff was in there, he could let slip other stuff.

So okay.

And then he’s woke up down the lane and he’s wearing these stupit trainer shoes. The day afore yesterday. Or the day afore that. Sunday.

How did he know it was Sunday? He just fucking knew man that’s how. Know what a sixth sense is? That’s what I’m talking about.

The difficult thing was the Saturday. The Saturday was blank. It was Friday dinnertime he went for the bevy. And it was Sunday morning he woke up. So that was the problem. There was a missing gap. A whole day. Plus he met Charlie. That was the fucking

Charlie! Where the hell had he met Charlie? Jesus christ man flies in the ointment everywhere! Never mind but it was alright. There was nothing there, nothing he couldnay handle. The story was fucking rock-solid man watertight. They were yapping away about all sorts. In a boozer roundabout the Candleriggs. Somewhere. Doesnay fucking matter. Charlie on the ginger beer and lime cause he had chucked the sauce. True. Auld Charlie, he had chucked the sauce.

So what the fuck were they yapping about? Ach all sorts, all sorts. Charlie was still doing the business. He hadnay changed that much. Just he was keeping the head down. So he said anyway though ye couldnay always tell with the cunt; the kind of guy that sat with ye for an hour and at the wind-up he’s said fuck all.

There was definitely a change in him but. Once upon a time ye were feart to have a drink with him. This habit he had of eariwigging other people’s conversations; strangers! know what I’m talking about; if they were saying something he didnay like he jumped right in and telt them it was a load of shite. It wouldnay matter the strength of the opposition. Ye could be sitting in a pub stuffed full of blue-noses, or else tims, it didnay matter, it just didnay matter, he never saw the danger; whereas you did, that was all ye saw. But there was the bold Charlie, into the needling games, winding them all up. Where’s yer fucking evidence? That was his patter. Ye’ve said something, so where’s yer fucking evidence? Ya fucking bampot if ye want to fucking say something then back it up man know what I mean!

Heh Charlie, you’d be going: Heh Charlie! screw the nut for fuck sake…lighten up man come on…

He wouldnay fucking hear ye. And you’d be watching them all; these faces, their eyes, staring at him, staring at you, dead eyes, no into debate at all, just watching, watching and fucking waiting. And you’d be thinking, Ah well fuck it man here we go, here we go… And Charlie talking loud

cause that was the way he done it: loud! he always fucking done it loud. That was probably his weapon. He done it that way so other cunts would hear, other cunts in the pub, so it would all be isolated, right out there and in the open, so if anybody wanted to move they would have to do it right there, in the full glare:

Ye want to talk politics? Eh? Ye want to talk politics? Then let’s fucking talk politics and nayn of this fucking primary-school crap man fucking bullshit come on, let’s fucking talk politics, real politics I mean ye’re a fucking adult int ye a fucking mature fucking adult human being.

Jesus christ man. Then what happened is things got too much for him. He choked on it; he was so raging angry and fucking upset and fucking frustrated. He would just fucking storm out, right out the door.

And you’d be left there like a fucking dumpling. You’d be standing there. A fucking dumpling man I’m telling ye.

The last thing to do was talk. Ye just had to take it easy. And get to fuck man get to fuck, dont swallow down yer drink, nay time, nay fucking time man where’s that door cause you’re fucking heading man know what I’m talking about you’re heading, or else ye’re no alive. And dont look at nay cunt. Keep yer eyes down. Straight out that fucking door.

Crazy. That was afore he chucked the sauce: I’ve changed Sammy, he says, I’ve quietened down.

What have ye went religious?

Charlie just laughed. The patter was good but. His mother and fayther was still alive and that was great to hear. These things from yer childhood, ye expect them to be gone and lost forever. The last time they had met was the Boxing Day three years ago at the Carnival. Sammy was there with his boy. Charlie had two and one lassie. Sammy had just came back from England and wasnay sure what the plans were, if he was gony stay home or what. They arranged to meet for a pint a couple of days later. But Charlie didnay turn up. So what. What does it fucking matter. He wasnay about to remind the guy. He was aye heavy involved in things. And he hadnay changed. So okay.

Fuck it.

Ye fall by the wayside.

Fuck it. Sammy had nay regrets. Ye try to work things out. When ye go wrong; ye get yourself the gether; ye give it another go; ye hope it works out. But if it doesnay it fucking doesnay. What can ye do. Same auld fucking process. It can be damaging for the nut but that’s the fucking problem. Plus the physical side of things man the disintegrating process, ye have to face up to it, ye dont need the fucking sodjers to give yer body a battering, ye perform the job yerself.

Sammy crawled up onto the bunk, kicked off the shoes, drifted into the usual half world; no quite the self-abasement and all that shite but close. This had to be the worst yet man nay danger; he had never been this bad; surely to fuck.

Bullshit. How many times had he said it, these very words, how many times! Crap. Obvious crap too so shut yer fucking mouth, just shut yer fucking mouth.

He lay on his side staring into fuck knows what, lines or something, bright kind of lines shooting everywhere. They seemed dim but they would have been bright, otherwise he wouldnay have seen them. Fucking bunk man it was fucking hollow, he was lying on the fucking bare spring and it was killing him man his fucking shoulder, jesus christ; he turned onto his front. Dots he was seeing. They were like sparks. That’s cause the so-called pillow was a sheet of fucking tissue paper. So the oxygen wasnay reaching his brain; no properly. He started getting one of these weird feelings like he was gony start levitating, drifting up to the ceiling. Maybe he was already! He gripped the sides of the bunk, seeing himself floating right up and out a window, feet first then his legs, keeping going, body next, trying to cling on at the shoulders, jamming his elbows in at the bars but nay good, getting sucked on and slipping right out, drifting up, passing the telegraph-wires, up past the roofs of the buildings, all the stars glittering, seeing the city below, up past the Red Road flats. That story about the guy doing time and he keeps going on these mind-trips, John Barleycorn or somebody. Who the fuck wrote it? Jack London? Sammy shut his eyelids tight. He felt bad now, so fucking bad, these things filling yer head man fucking filling yer head, terrible, fucking terrible, if Helen chucked him now he really was fuckt, right out the game, he would be as well parking the head in a gas oven. All he could do

all he could do

There wasnay much he could do, there wasnay really much he could do at all. No the now anyway. Nayn of it was down to him. It would be soon enough but no the fucking now. So fuck it, get on with yer life. Sammy had turned back onto his side, he wished he could fall asleep. But the trouble with sleep is ye cannay just fucking

ye cannay command it to happen, it just does. Sleep. Fucking amazing so it is. There ye are all wrapped up in yer own body, snug as fuck. Ye lie there like there’s nothing else exists in the world. Ye dont fucking want anything else to exist. That’s how ye need to get away from it; cause if ye dont get away from it then ye willnay cope; the only fucking way to cope is by disappearing for six or seven hours out every twenty-four. That’s how ye survive, nay other fucking way. This guy he palled about with once, he crawled into a corner so he could die. Sammy met him skippering down Paddington. He hung about near a boozer Sammy used, putting the bite on cunts that walked past. One day Sammy was doing a bit of shifting for a female that lodged in the same house as himself. Struggling along the road with a big fucking bundle of her suitcases and fucking poly bags man a million of the fuckers! So the guy I’m talking about, he came up and gave Sammy a hand. So one thing and another, Sammy wound up taking the guy for a drink – no just once but a few times; now and again, depending how he was fixed. The thing is but the guy didnay like drinking in pubs. He just wasnay a pub drinker. Ye meet guys like that. Even if they’re holding a few quid, they still prefer hitting the off sales. That was this guy, a real outdoor fucking person. Then one night him and Sammy split for a couple of bottles of scud and they went round the corner, just off the Edgeware Road, round to the side of the social works’ office and into the wee park. They found a seat. Then roundabout dusk the guy got up and fuckt off, he went away by himself to find a quiet place, and he must just have stretched out. Sammy thought he had went for a piss. Later on when he was going up the road he decided to take a walk round the square to see if he could see him; he found him lying close in between the bushes and the palings; it was like he had wedged himself there.

And his face was fucking horrible! Christ ye couldnay forget something like that. Mind you Sammy had seen a few guys snuffed it afore the quacks got to them, and their faces were usually like that. Ye’re supposed to be at peace when ye die but are ye fuck man ye’re fucking staring death in the face and it’s fucking horrible man you better believe it, death, know what I’m saying. Fucking con. Same with the maw, when she snuffed it: Sammy was inside at the time and they didnay let him out for the funeral. So he missed the peaceful slumber and all that. His sister wrote to him and telt him all about it. What a fucking wind up! But every cunt seems to fall for it, that was what Sammy couldnay understand. His maw! Peaceful slumber! Fuck sake man she would have went kicking and fucking booting and screaming. No way would she have looked like that. Everytime ye saw that peaceful slumber look it just meant they’d been got at by the fucking medical authorities or else the quacks. Then that wee black guy there’s another yin christ the cell two down from Sammy the last time he was in. Supposed to have died with a heart attack; twenty-seven years of age; the cunts suffocated him, they sat on top of him then bounced up and down, big fucking screws, bouncing up and down on him, a heart attack, these bastards man know what I’m saying, him with his wee fucking headset, that’s all he done, listened to his fucking music, ye heard it sometimes, it fucking hypnotised ye, tumatumatumti tumatumatumti. Stretched out with that peaceful smile. Fucking lying bastards. Know what I mean. Fuck sake. It’s all the lies man that’s what gets ye.

They arenay things to think about. Alright when ye’re outside but no when ye’re in. Ye can think of them outside but no inside, no when ye’re actually inside. Cause it drives ye nuts. It drives ye fucking nuts. Ye see them, ye see them walking about. What ye do, ye get on with yer stuff, yer exercises, the survival operations, the auld dynamic tension, ye get stuck into that, ye look after the body, look after the body, build up the fucking body, dont despair but ask for more, dont despair but ask for more, ye batter on, ye push ahead, that’s what ye do; Sammy could have done with a wee headset himself, a bit of music

blowing everytime you shut your mouth,
blowing from the back room heading south
Auld Dylan. Sammy hadnay heard that yin for years. Where do they come from eh! where do they come from. Yer fucking brains man they live a life of their own, ye’ve got nay fucking control, nayn at all. Thank christ for that.

The hand gripping his shoulder. A grunt: Come on you. That way they get ye. They walked him out the cell, and along and back into the office. They chucked him his stuff and went about their business like he wasnay there, a mere formality, a dod of shite. He fumbled the belt round the trousers but then they were back. He had hardly got the thing through the fucking loops. I need a sit down for these shoelaces, he said.

They werenay talking to him so he groped for a chair. Okay, he said, just till I lace them.

He heard them in the background; it was Wednesday afternoon. Quite good news. Except was it this week or next week, the way Sammy’s head was it might have been anything. Fucking tired as well man he had this urgent need to lie down and rest, that was all he wanted. Even just finding a floor. If he could just fucking lie down. There was a ringing in his ears and the body was still aching and fucking sore. They were gony let him go the now and he wasnay ready. A wee bit more time man that was what he needed, just to adjust. The fucking toes as well, they were nipping; these shoes, bloody terrible, the wee pinky toes felt like they had lumps on them, like snailbacks or something. He flexed his feet; so cramped, fucking hell it was like they were about three sizes too wee for him.

And it was always them, these bastards, always at their convenience, every single last bit of time, it was always them that chose it; ye never had any fucking choices. Everything ye fucking did in life it was always them, fucking them, them them them, like greedy weans thrashing about looking for the tit. Right now, said one of them, come on.

The hand on his shoulder my fuck it would have been nice, it would have been nice, know what I’m saying, dirty bastards, Sammy would have fucking loved it; get yer fucking hand off my fucking shoulder ya bastard ye just dont fucking touch me

Come on you

Coming…

Somebody had him by the elbow and there was more of them roundabout. Okay, he said. They led him to the door. All the clacking and muttering. He closed his eyes. It was alright. Everything was alright. They were walking him into space and his legs were keeping up, his feet, it was all fine it was just like clomp clomp clomp went his feet that was fine, into space, clomp clomp for fuck sake. Dont fucking drag me, he said, ye’re dragging me dont fucking drag me ye’re fucking dragging me, I cannay see for christ sake know what I’m talking about.

Give us peace, muttered one of them.

Ye’re forcing me forward but what’re ye forcing me forward for!

This guy doesnay want to leave!

Here!

Sammy felt the draught from the door; it was opened for him and he moved forwards alone. The door shut behind him. There was the steps. He poked his foot forwards to the right and to the left jesus christ man that’s fine, to the right and to the left, okay, fucking doing it ye’re doing it; okay; down the steps sideways and turning right, his hands along the wall, step by step, reminding ye of that patacake game ye play when ye’re a wean, slapping yer hands on top of each other then speeding it up. Sammy wasnay going very fast at all, he was going quite slow really, being honest, it was slow, slow work; slap, slap, slap, slap, slap; okay but cause he was moving, he wasnay standing still and that was fine cause that was all ye needed, even the auld toad or whatever it is, that slow thing, it gets there man it gets there and beats the thingwy, the fast yin, the hare, it was okay, ye just took it easy and contented yerself

along to the corner and then the sudden blast of wind for christ sake like he had got jailed in the spring and let out in the middle of winter. It was warm when they took him in! That was what he remembered anyway, warm, the warm. Maybe it wasnay him they lifted! Maybe it was some other cunt! Maybe it wasnay him, him here

Jesus christ that was a mental thing to think, he had to watch it, really, he had to watch it, the auld bloody thingwy, the brainbox, okay, ye just move

Okay.

Jesus christ.

Patacake patacake; patacake patacake. My fucking christ. That was what ye did but patacake patacake, ye kept going, ye kept going. It was gony turn fine in a minute. It was all gony disappear. In a puff of smoke. Ye want a happy ending. I’ll give ye one. So okay, ye’ve had this bad time. Ye’ve been blind. Ye’ve lost yer sight for a few days and it’s been bad. Ye’ve coped but ye’ve fucking coped

I mean that was something about Sammy, yer man, know what I’m saying, a lot of cunts would have done their box. But he hadnay. He had survived it. He was sane. It had been bad. But now it was over. And here he was and he was out and away and he was free. The nightmare was over. So how come he still couldnay see fuck all?

I mean

Jesus christ.

Okay. Okay. For fuck sake.

Take it easy. It’s okay man ye take it easy. Big breaths. Take it easy. Ye get on top of the problem, know what I’m talking about, that’s what ye do, that is it, that’s the whack. Ye look around and ye see if it’s this way or that way or what the fuck, so it gets worked out.

Sammy had stopped walking. In fact he seemed no to have been walking for a long time. He was leaning against a wall. He was. The wall was round the corner from the polis station. It might even have been the polis station, the other side of the fucking building.

It was fine but, it was alright, ye just took it easy. So ye take it easy. Fuck sake man come on. The present situation, the one he was in right now, that was what he was to examine; nay mind wanderings, this isnay the poky this is yer fucking napper man this is yer head that’s where the nothing is, so okay, ye just examine it.

And ye dont get into other stuff. It’s right now it’s happening, no last week and no next week.

Fair enough, he knew this street well.

A fag would be good man he was gasping for a smoke; these bastards

So: he was round the corner from the polis station. They were probably hanging out a window watching him at this very minute. That was all he needed, they’d spit big gobs at him. But alright, nay bother. The bold Sammy. Nay bother.

So, if this is where he was standing

Jesus christ. Come on to fuck. Okay, he pushed away from the wall but no too far no too far. The patacake games. But just with the right hand; he forced his left into his trouser pocket, then took it out again cause he needed it, he needed it for balance, he wasnay feeling that hot and just in the off chance he got dizzy; he needed it, free, so… At least he couldnay see cunts looking at him. Cause they would be. They would think he was pissed. They would. That was what they would think. People were like that, that was what they thought, the worst, the world’s worst – about ye, if they wanted to think something about ye well that was what they thought man the worst. Okay, so that was alright. He stopped. He sighed. He folded his arms. Cause his shoulders were aching and he needed a wee rest. Just a wee yin. Jesus christ a fag, he was gasping. Inside he hadn’t been gasping but now he was. He was.

But how many crossings to the main road? How many wee streets before the big one! It was laughable, no knowing. There were all these things ye think ye’ve committed to memory but have ye! have ye fuck. He needed to ask somebody but how the hell do ye know somebody’s coming when ye cannay see them and there’s a lot of noise about, traffic and fucking the wind man, fuck sake that fucking wind, hell of a breezy.

A big loud noise like a lorry passing. A few came this way, heading up to the motorway for the long haul south or across the east coast. One time he got a lift straight to Dundee. Some fucking luck. Till he got there right enough, then he found out there was fuck all jobs man, the cunt that telt him had been spinning a fanny, the usual shit. Christ sake but a smoke would be good. If he had had enough for ten fags he could have went into a shop and bought them, then explained the situation, and miracles do happen, the shop assistant might have lent him the taxi-fare home out the till. Or if there was a phone and he could get in touch with Helen. But she didnay have a fucking phone so that was that even if he had had a ten-pence coin man he would still have been fuckt. Unless she was at the pub working. He could phone her there.

Fuck sake man. He shivered. He was still here, where he had been standing since he had stopped. He couldnay even mind stopping but he had. Cause here he was, he was against the wall, the shoulder against it, just standing there at a standstill, he had come to a standstill. Well nay fucking wonder man nay fucking wonder.

Ach it was hopeless. That was what ye felt. These bastards. What can ye do but. Except start again so he started again. That was what he did he started again. It’s a game but so it is man life, fucking life I’m talking about, that’s all ye can do man start again, turn ower a new leaf, a fresh start, another yin, ye just plough on, ye plough on, ye just fucking plough on, that’s what ye do, that was what Sammy did, what else was there I mean fuck all, know what I’m saying, fuck all. Mind you it was a bit of a disaster, ye had to own up. A stick would have been useful. A stick would have been ideal, fucking ideal.

Sammy had stopped, he turned to the tenement wall and leaned his forehead against it feeling the grit, the brick, he scraped his head along it an inch or two then back till he got that sore feeling. The thing is he was going naywhere, naywhere. So he needed to clear the brains, to think; think, he needed to fucking think. It was just a new problem. He had to cope with it, that’s all, that was all it was. Every day was a fucking problem. And this was a new yin. So ye thought it out and then ye coped. That was what a problem was, a thing ye thought out and then coped with, and ye pushed ahead; green fields round every corner, sunshine and blue skies, streets lined with apple trees and kids playing in the grass, the good auld authorities and the headman up there in his wee central office, good auld god with the white beard and the white robe, sitting there watching ye from above, the gentle wee smile, leading the children on. That was fair enough. It was just the now. It was this minute here. That was all; once ye got through it ye were past it. A half hour ago he was in the polis office, an hour from now and he would be in the house, a cup of tea and the toes in front of the fire, maybe a basin of hot water; Helen fussing about worrying – she’s got the day off; she’s just glad to see ye cause here ye are

His chin too he had a hell of a stubble, he hadnay shaved since Friday morning.

Deep breaths. A car going by, it sounded like a taxi.

Wild. Fucking wild.

He brought his shoulder away from the wall but then he banged against it, lurched right into it and stumbled for christ sake, he righted himself and got his hands flat against it. This was really weird. Like sometimes how ye’re smoking a bit of dope and ye keep coming in and out of thoughts, or else the same thought with fractured spaces and before ye get to a space there’s a big noisy build-up like yer head’s gony explode and ye hold yer eyes shut, tight shut, the face all tensed up, teeth clenched, cause ye know these bastards too they’re fucking there man these bastards they fucking hate ye telling ye they fucking hate ye man they want to see ye done in, that’s what they’re looking for

So okay, what ye’re doing ye’re moving off, the same direction ye’re facing. Ye stumbled that way and ye’re still facing the same way, there’s no bones about it that’s just how it is man ye arenay going back the way so dont even think it it’s just a nonsense

How do ye walk. Well ye put one foot in front of the other and fall very slowly, very slowly, just that one foot and then the next yin, just very slowly, ye catch up with yerself, that’s the boy. Ye get going. Dry, a dry wall, that was good it could have been lashing down man that rain cause that was usually what it did it lashed, it lashed down on ye.

Patacakes.

Any songs? He could have done with a song. Sammy was the kind of guy, usually his head was full of them, songs

just fucking ill man and needing help, what kind of help; the fare for a taxi, a bus. A couple of fags. A stick. A stick would show people the situation. A white stick wasnay necessary. Just any stick. He could feel his way with it, hit in front of where he was walking. See a stick! a fucking bastarn stick, that would make all the difference.

Funny how the sodjers released him, when ye think about it. Nay point in thinking about it. Except see when ye did, know what I’m saying, it was funny.

A car whooshed by. Maybe if he found the subway station. There was one roundabout. He could tell the folk on the desk he had a blind pass and he had got rolled; some bastard had rolled him man the fucking lot. And maybe they’d escort him down and shove him on the train. Even then but the subway was nay fucking good, it didnay go near where he stayed.

Ah fuck it.

But how did he look did he look like a drunk? He hadnay shaved for days man ye kidding, he had nay fucking chance.

So it was awkward. Okay, but no a nightmare. It wasnay. It was just a thing happening to him. He would get by on it. He knew his strengths. One thing about Sammy he knew his strengths. That was cause he knew his weaknesses. Fucking bullshit. Naw but he felt he could get by on it. Like it was an interesting set of problems he was now having to face at this interesting stage in his life when to be honest sometimes he felt totally fuckt by it all, the fucking thingwy, how it was neverending, neverfuckingending, ye plough on. Sammy had a boy too, imagine that, he would never see him again, unless he got it back again man the auld sight. But maybe he didnay want it back. Once he had time to work it out, the minuses and the pluses, cause there was definitely pluses, there had to be; what sort of pluses; some, there had to be some – at least he wouldnay be doing next week what he was doing last week; at least he wouldnay be doing next week what he was doing last week

Here, where was he? Here. Okay. One little wee tiny toty smoke. That was fucking all man that was the lot, what he wanted, nothing else, just a fucking smoke

Okay.

He grunted aloud for some reason. It was close to a laugh but it wasnay. Fuck it, the best thing was stop some cunt and ask for help. If it was a woman he might even knock it off! she could be into sightless persons! Naw but seriously, it was just how ye looked, if ye looked alright, if ye looked alright ye were fine – if not then ye would frighten them away, if ye didnay look alright man, they would steer clear. They would be steering clear anyway. As soon as they spotted him, yer man, they would keep well out his road. Nay danger. That was a fucking racing certainty. No unless he met some cunt that knew the score. Somebody else that was blind. They would help. He heard a couple of cars passing.

Weird. Fucking weird. Weird wild and wonderful.

But there was something in what was happening. There was. Sammy felt it. It was that way when something isnay right, know what I’m talking about, ye get a hunch; ye know it, ye just know it. That was how Sammy felt. It was a hunch. What was it christ it was something? He once read a story about that, some poor cunt that worked as a minor official for some government department and he beavered away all hours but everybody thought he was a dumpling, everybody he knew, they all thought he was a dumpling, poor bastard, that was what he was, a fucking dumpling.

Hey, excuse me! Excuse me. Look eh sorry to bother ye; I’m blind and I’ve lost my wallet, I was robbed.

…

Sorry to bother ye. It’s just I dont know where I am, I was round the road there and two young guys hit me, at the bank, the hole-in-the-wall machine, I was drawing money

…

Hullo? Hullo? Ye there? Hullo?

My god. There was somebody there. There was definitely somebody there. They were away now but they had been there, definitely, if they werenay now, they had been.

Unless they just werenay talking. Maybe suspicious. He started speaking in a calm voice. If ye’re there, he said, sorry for bumping into ye, it’s just I’m blind. Somebody took my wallet, with all my documents. I’m blind. Sorry. I just… Hullo? Ye there?

…

Hullo?

Fucking hell. There was people passing. He heard them. He was fucking blind man he wasnay deaf. He wanted to grab them and tell them, fucking tell them and he turned about, he had lost the wall, he moved for it with his hands out but he had lost it he had lost the bastard and his foot struck something hard and he went to the left and the same foot skited off something and down he went and all he could do was lie there, just lie, no knowing nothing, what to do, nothing. A motor whooshed past, hell of a loud and near. He moved to the right to touch the kerb but couldnay find it. He reached the other way, the left, his hand out but he couldnay find it, the kerb, he reached further. Then stopped. More traffic. Help, he said. He was on the road. Surely no. Surely he wasnay on the fucking road man he couldnay be; Help, he said. Fuck sake man he couldnay be. Mutter mutter. Voices. He got onto his knees then up, keeping as tight in the movements as possible, so he would be standing where he had been lying, his arms held out, he shouted: Help! Help!

Mutter mutter.

Help! Get me off the road! Help!

…

He kicked about with his right foot to get the kerb. Help! I’m blind I’m bloody blind, I cannay see. Help!

He says he’s blind.

Get us on the pavement help!

Ye’re on the pavement.

This hand from nowhere gripping him by the forearm and another hand up near his shoulder, and a voice: Ye alright?

Aye… Sammy heard his own voice, it was croaking.

Silence for a minute then somebody said, He’s alright. Then more silence.

And Sammy said: Where am I?

…

Whereabouts is this? Anybody there? Eh? Ye there? Hullo! Ye there? Hullo! Hullo! Ye there?

The name of fuck! Then loud muttering. People talking.

Hullo?

He couldnay hear them properly. Where am I? he said. Hullo? I’m blind. Gony help me?

…

Gony help me! Eh? Hullo? Jesus christ. Hullo? I’m blind. Hullo. Where am I? Hullo? I’m bloody blind please help me if ye just bloody tell me where the hell I am for fuck sake hullo? I’m lost.

What’s up? what is it?

What?

Are ye alright?

I dont know where I am. I’m blind, I’ve lost my stick. Where is this?

Davis Street.

Davis Street?

Just at the corner of Napier Street.

Right.

Ye’re outside the post office.

…

What’s wrong?

Sammy couldnay talk. He felt bad – nervous – really nervous – like he was gony have a fit of shaking, something like that.

What’s up?

Naw just I’m blind ye know I’m eh…eh…is there a pub somewhere roundabout?

Well aye, The Blazer, it’s across the road. Ye want across?

Aye.

Give us yer arm then… The guy took it and waited a wee minute then started and he led Sammy right off the pavement and the way he went it didnay seem in a straight line and ye wondered if he was working his way in and out moving vehicles and hadnay even bothered to wait for the lights to change if there were lights there it was fucking murder no knowing where he was taking ye and ye might kick into the guy’s heels and then yez would both take a tumble; just nay control at all really and ye wanted to take wee toty steps but ye couldnay cause ye had to move ye had to keep going, ye had to do it proper, and Sammy was feart to open his mouth in case the guy lost his concentration or else took the needle and just left him there and fuckt off in the huff man it sounded like it was busy, the junction, it was quite busy, the Napier Street traffic, he could hear it

Up ye go now, said the guy, that’s the pavement.

Sammy reached forwards with his foot. Then he was up.

Alright?

Whhw.

Eh?

Aye…I’m going to the wall.

What?

See the wall, could ye take me to the wall?

The wall?

Just to the side of the pub.

The guy got Sammy by the arm and took him there and Sammy leaned against it. His guts were bad and he was shaking, he felt fucking lousy aw the gether. There had to be other ways cause this was nerve-racking. He was gony stay where he was, he was just gony stay there. Till he had recovered. Till he had got his breath back. Fuck the fucking passers-by. His belly was fucking in knots man telling ye. He was aware of his breathing and tried to get it going shallow, there was a kind of flashing going on in his head and that buzzing in his ear man it was loud ye know it was loud. They must have clobbered him there surely, it wasnay just the usual, it was never as loud as this afore. Unless it went with the blindness. Probably it affected the hearing as well as the sight, whatever it was.

This was the world’s worst. There was nay doubt about that, nothing as bad as this. If he had been in any doubt afore then he wasnay now.

Never. Fucking never. Never as bad as this. It was alright saying ye had to relax, ye had to take it easy, it was alright saying that but ye cannay always manage. No if it was the worst ye had, if it was the worst; cause it was fucking happening and it wasnay a nightmare it was right fucking now, right fucking now so okay, okay, ye still had to relax, ye still had to take it easy, okay, ye had to get it under control, it wasnay a time for cracking up, we’ve all cracked up, we know what fucking cracking up means, this wasnay a time for it, know what I’m saying, this wasnay a time for it, so there’s nay fucking problem ye just let it go, let it go. Sammy had folded his arms, he closed his eyes, he felt like sleeping. Propped there against the wall, he was alright, quite fucking safe really; and he felt tired; he felt like dozing off. And if he stayed like this that was what would happen man he would doze off. [...]

End of the excerpt

About the Author
James Kelman was born in Glasgow in 1946. His books include Not not while the giro, The Busconductor Hines, A Chancer and Greyhound for Breakfast, which won the 1987 Cheltenham Prize. His novel A Disaffection won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and was shortlisted for the Booker Prize. How Late it Was, How Late, won the Booker Prize in 1994. His collection of short stories The Burn, won a Scottish Arts Council book award. James Kelman lives in Glasgow.
Sobre o Autor
James Kelman nasceu em Glasgow em 1946. Os seus livros incluem 'Not not while the giro', 'The Busconductor Hines', 'A Chancer' e 'Greyhound for Breakfast', que ganhou o Prémio Cheltenham em 1987. O seu romance 'A Disaffection' ganhou o Prémio Memorial James Tait Black e foi finalista do Prémio Booker. 'How Late It Was, How Late' ganhou o Booker Prize em 1994. A sua coletânea de contos 'The Burn' ganhou um prémio literário do Scottish Arts Council. James Kelman vive em Glasgow.

About the Book
Sammy awakens in a lane one morning after a two-day drinking binge, and gets into a fight with some plainclothes policemen, called in Glaswegian dialect "sodjers". When he regains consciousness, he finds that he has been beaten severely and, he gradually realises, is completely blind. The plot of the novel follows Sammy as he explores and comes to terms with his new-found disability and the difficulties this brings.
Sammy’s had a bad week – his wallet’s gone, along with his new shoes, he’s been arrested then beaten up by the police and thrown out on the street – and he’s just gone blind. He remembers a row with his girlfriend, but she seems to have disappeared. Things aren’t looking too good for Sammy, and his problems have hardly begun.
Sobre o Livro
Sammy acorda numa rua numa manhã, depois de dois dias de bebedeira, e envolve-se numa luta com alguns polícias à paisana, chamados "sodjers" no dialeto de Glasgow . Quando recupera a consciência, descobre que foi severamente espancado e, pouco a pouco, percebe que está completamente cego. O enredo do romance acompanha Sammy enquanto ele explora e aceita a sua nova deficiência e as dificuldades que ela traz.
Sammy teve uma semana má – a carteira desapareceu-lhe, juntamente com os sapatos novos, foi preso, depois espancado pela polícia e atirado para a rua – e ficou cego. Lembra-se de uma discussão com a namorada, mas ela parece ter desaparecido. As coisas não estão a correr bem para Sammy, e os seus problemas mal começaram.
 

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excerpt of
'How Late it Was, How Late'
by James Kelman
1.st published: March 28, 1994
Vintage Books, London
Booker Prize winner 1994