Greyhound for Breakfast by James Kelman Page B

visitor returned slowly to where
he had been sitting and he returned the briefcase and hat to where they had been lying, and he sat down carefully. Shortly afterwards he was aware of a muffled conversation coming from somewhere to
his rear but he was not able to look round to see. A voice called: ‘It’s Benson’s visitor!’ and gave an abrupt laugh.
    He stared at the floor for a long time. Gradually he wanted to see what was happening around him and he raised his head. But Benson stared at him. Benson glowered. ‘Who are you?’ he
groaned.
    His visitor smiled weakly.
    ‘I don’t know you.’
    His visitor inclined his head and stared at the floor beneath the bed.
    ‘Is he visiting me? I don’t know him from Adam!’
    Footsteps approached. He estimated at least two people.
    ‘I don’t know him. Who is he?’ cried Benson. ‘Who are you?’
    ‘Not so good today, is he?’ said his visitor. Two nurses were looking at him and he smiled faintly at them. His heart thumped. Then the nurses looked at the patient with concern and
one of them said:
    ‘He’s your visitor.’
    His visitor nodded his head but without daring to look at him.
    But Benson cried, ‘I don’t know him from Adam. Why is he sitting at my bed?’
    The older nurse smiled down on him. ‘Come now,’ she said, ‘you mustn’t embarrass your visitor.’
    ‘He’s your visitor!’ smiled the younger nurse.
    ‘Who is he?’ groaned Benson, attempting to raise himself up by the elbows as though for a fuller look at him. But the older nurse snapped:
    ‘Come along now lie down!’
    The patient lay back down immediately and stared sideways away from both his visitor and the two nurses, the younger of whom glanced at her colleague and then said to Benson’s visitor,
‘Who are you?’ And she smiled as though to soften matters.
    Benson’s visitor jumped. Somebody else had arrived suddenly. It was the Sister.
    ‘Benson’s visitor . . .’ began the younger nurse.
    ‘Of course it’s Benson’s visitor,’ she said, ‘What’s going on here?’
    ‘Who is he?’ murmured Benson.
    ‘Oh you know fine well,’ replied the Sister.
    ‘Who are you . . .’ Benson murmured.
    His visitor smiled at the Sister. He wondered whether the other visitor and any of the patients were listening. He thought he should say something. He cleared his throat but was not able to
speak. At last he managed: ‘Not so good . . .’
    The Sister was speaking in a low unhurried voice to the two nurses who responded as to a direct command, but none noticed Benson’s gasp, and his eyelids closed.
    The older nurse said to his visitor, ‘You better go now, visiting’s over.’
    He nodded and gripped his hat and briefcase, got off the chair and walked from the ward without glancing back. Out along the lengthy corridor the younger nurse appeared from behind a pillar.
‘Are you a relative?’ she asked.
    ‘You must have a record,’ he said.
    ‘Come along now you won’t be on it. You won’t be there.’ She shook her head at him.
    A wave of nausea hit him and he wanted down onto the floor, down onto the floor until it passed. Somebody was holding him by the arm. It was the other nurse, and behind her stood the other
patient with a worried frown on his forehead. His hat and briefcase were leaving him, the hat having fallen perhaps but the briefcase from out of his hand. And the younger nurse steadied him.
‘Come along now,’ she was saying.
    The older nurse smiled. ‘That’s the ticket,’ she said.

Governor of the Situation
    I hate this part of the city – the stench of poverty, violence, decay, death; the things you usually discern in suchlike places. I dont mind admitting I despise the poor
with an intensity that surprises my superiors. But they concede to me on most matters. I am the acknowledged governor of the situation. I’m in my early thirties. Hardly an ounce of spare
flesh hangs on me – I’m always on the go – nervous energy – because my