Greyhound for Breakfast

End of a Beginning

Roddy closed the door and bounded upstairs to the kitchen. 7.30 — surely the place would be empty. Open door is a good sign. One empty kitchen! He whistled as he poured the contents of the tin of minced beef into his new saucepan. First Friday night in London and free. Free. Nobody at all. Nobody knows. I know nobody but the silent landlord and his noisy children. Can return at all hours without reproach or guilt. No angry or martyred parent. Not one single solitary person but whom I may meet tonight. Alone and almost in Soho.

He carefully mussed his hair in front of the cracked mirror that balanced on a shelf. Hearing the saucepan begin to sizzle on the black stove he remembered coffee. He turned the gas down low and returned to his room for the large jar of Nescafé.

Such a small room for the money, plus slot electricity. One mouldy Hank Jansen found under mattress next to an ancient sock. Clean sheets and almost clean floor though not enough for bare feet. Dressing table painted flat green with barber’s surplus mirror joined on by unscrew nails. Deep armchair sagging in centre caused by too many overweight bums. Old stiff newspapers with dust and hairs imprinted between pages, found under dark greasy cushion. One grey-green crust of bread discovered wedged between bed-leg and wall. Left wedged.

Lucky to find any place let alone Number 7, Ashdown Ave., Kilburn. Mother would surely take to fellow lodgers. Thick as thieves with silent landlord complete with hanging braces and unshaven chin. Deeply love the rich Sligo tongue and manners. Roddy smiled briefly.

Dear Mother,

Regret to inform you that Mr Murphy’s gangerman would not start me this morning or yesterday morning. Appeared to be in some doubt as to whether I could last a morning.

Your slight of son,

Roddy.

Dear Son,

Please come home. All is forgiven if you mend your ways but if not please come home.

Love

Mother.

He lifted a plate and cup from the table, laid out the butter and the loaf of french bread, and bounded back upstairs to the kitchen. Still empty! He put on a kettle of water to boil, stirred the minced beef. A tin of peas would have been a good idea. When the food was ready he poured it onto the plate and carried the saucepan to rinse under the tap at the sink. Suddenly the door banged open and in lurched a big heavy man carrying a pile of fish and chips wrapped in a mixture of brown paper and newspaper. Roddy called hello but no response. He continued rinsing the saucepan. The man had slumped onto a chair and put the fish and chips down on top of a wooden cupboard.

Why does he come in here to eat? Surely be much more comfortable in his own room? Roddy glanced at him sideways. A red faced man in his late fifties or sixties. Straight to the pub from the building site. One of Murphy’s men? Flannel grey suit with the trouser bottoms stuffed into a pair of wellington boots covered in caked mud. Huge hand shoving the battered fish into his mouth. God! Should be in his room to eat. Unless — unless it is not allowed. God! Should have inquired from the silent landlord! The man will know. Ask him.

But the older man munched on, oblivious to Roddy’s voice.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said again, much louder than before.

‘Whaa. .’ The older man raised his shaggy eyebrows. A large chip teetered between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Can one eat in one’s room?’

‘Ehh?’

‘Is one allowed to?’

The top part of the chip keeled over and landed on the floor but he did not seem to notice as he lowered the remainder carefully into his mouth.

‘Are you allowed to eat in your room?’ cried Roddy.

‘Whaa’ The older man glared as he bent to retrieve the fallen bit of chip, and he nearly toppled over. He glared at Roddy again and started to struggle to his feet. ‘Cheeky. . What you saying!’ he shouted.

‘Nothing, nothing. You’re misunderstanding!’ Roddy began to panic and stepped back the way leaning against the sink.

The older man made a growling sound as he rose from the chair and the cuff of his sleeve seemed to catch the edge of the paper holding the fish and chips and it all capsized onto the floor beside the chair. The man roared in anger. ‘Yaaaa!’ he shouted.

‘What’s wrong?’ cried Roddy. ‘Look, you’ve dropped your dinner!’

The man’s eyes were red and wide and he looked wildly about the kitchen. ‘I’ll fix the bastard!’ he shouted as his gaze settled on a long bread knife at the rear of the cupboard and he grabbed at it.

‘No no!’ screamed Roddy, ‘I simply asked. .’

But the man lumbered towards him, staggering from side to side, the long bread knife held in one hand while the other was raised as if to balance himself.

‘Nooo!’ screamed Roddy with both his arms up aloft and his body bent as far back as it could go across the sink.

The older man lunged with the knife but he struck it into the front of the sink and he staggered and just managed to correct himself. ‘I’ll. .’ he roared, ‘I’ll. .’

‘NO!’ shouted Roddy, twisting himself away.

But the man had steadied himself on the sink and he lunged again with the knife, this time the blade went right into Roddy’s stomach.

‘AAhhh,’ he cried, ‘Ahhh. .’ And he fell back the way.

The older man seemed to totter on because of the force of the strike and then he too fell and lay sprawled on the floor.

Roddy was sitting at an angle with his back to the wall, his eyes open but glazed, one hand held the handle of the knife and the other was on the floor, and the blood was coming out.