The Burn by James Kelman Page B

him. Yeh man hey, Robertson was grinning, he was fucking grinning. Ace in the hole and three of them showing. Well well well.
    Come ower here! he shouted again.
    He wasnt kidding. Yeh. Peter licked his lips. He glanced sideways, the body there and still prone; Robertson seemed not to have noticed it yet. He glanced back at him and discovered his feet
moving, dragging him across the road. Who was moving his fucking feet. He wasnt, it had to be someone in the prime position.
    The gaffer was staring at him.
    I’m sorry, said Peter.
    It doesni matter about fucking sorry man you shouldni have left the job.
    I had to go a place.
    You had to go a place . . . mmhh; is that what you want on record?
    Aye.
    The gaffer grinned: You’ve been fun out and that’s that.
    As long as you put it on record.
    Ah Peter Peter, so that’s you at last, fucking out the door. It’s taken a while, but we knew we’d get ye.
    You did.
    We did, aye, true, true true true, aye, we knew you’d err. So, you better collect the tab frae the office this afternoon.
    Peter gazed at him, he smiled. Collect my tab?
    Yes, you’re finished, all fucking washed up, a jellyfish on the beach, you’re done, you’re in the process of evaporating. The gaffer chuckled. Your services, for what
they’re worth, are no longer in demand by the fathers of the city.
    That’s excellent news. I can retire and grow exotic plants out my window boxes.
    You can do whatever the fuck you like son.
    Ah, the son, I see. But Guiseppe you’re forgetting, as a free man, an ordinary civilian, I can kick fuck out you and it’ll no be a dismissable offence against company property.
    Jovial, very jovial. And obviously if that’s your wish then I’m the man, I’m game, know what I mean, game, anywhere you like Peter it’s nomination time.
    The two of them stared at each other. Here we have a straightforward hierarchy. Joe Robertson the gaffer and Peter the sweeper.
    Fuck you and your services, muttered Peter and thereby lost the war. This was the job gone. Or was it, maybe it was just a battle: Look, said Peter, I’ve no even been the place yet I was
just bloody going, I’ve no even got there.
    You were just bloody going!
    Aye.
    You’ve been off the job an hour.
    An hour? Who fucking telt ye that?
    Never you mind.
    There’s a guy lying ower there man he’s out the game.
    So what?
    I just bloody saved his life!
    Robertson grinned and shook his head: Is that a fact!
    That means I’ve just to leave him there?
    Your job’s taking care of the streets, he’s on the fucking pavement.
    Mmhh, I see.
    It was on the streets, past tense.
    Aw for fuck sake man look I’m sorry! And that was as far as he was going with this charade, no more, no more.
    It doesni fucking matter about sorry, it’s too late.
    It’ll no happen again yr honour . . . Peter attempted a smile, a moment later he watched the gaffer leave, his bowly swagger, taking a smoke from his pocket and lighting it as he went.
Death. The latest legislation. Death. Death death death. Death. Capital d e a
    He continued to watch the gaffer until he turned the corner of Moir Street.
    Well there were other kinds of work. They were needing sellers of a variety of stuff at primary-school gates. That was a wheeze. Why didnt he get in on that. My god, it was the coming thing.
Then with a bit of luck he could branch out on his own and from there who knows, the whole of the world was available. Peter cracked himself on the back of the skull with such venomous force Aouch
that he nearly knocked it off Aouch he staggered a pace, dropped his brush and clutched his head. O for fuck sake christ almighty but it was sore. He recovered, stopped to retrieve the brush.
    It was bloody sore but christ that was stupid, bloody stupid thing to do, fucking eedjit – next thing he would be cutting bits out his body with a sharp pointed knife, self-mutiliation,
that other saviour of the working classes. O christ but the head was still nipping! My