Read Online The Busconductor Hines by James Kelman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Kelman
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ya fucking bastard, if it makes it any better, the whole worldâs crumbling about my ears, the wife and the 38 weans are leaving, the building wherein I dwell is falling to fucking bits and I never emigrated to Australia when I should have; and that fucking doctor of mine, baldy cunt that he is, heâs an unabashed card-carrying member of the C.B. bastarn I. I mean what fucking more dâyou want?
The newspaper rustled.
Hines swivelled on the seat, to stretch along it, his boots resting on top of the framework of the one in front. Then he roared: Fuck off.
What dâyou expect? shouted Reilly.
What do I expect! fucking farce: last time Iâll ever be caught afuckingpologising.
That was never an apology.
Course it was.
Was it fuck.
It was fuck.
Shite.
Come off it man I mean whatâre you wanting at all? a hands and knees game! Away and give us peace ya Fenian bastard ye.
Leave politics out of it.
Hines sat upright, grinning: Okay ya cunt come on, read me a titbit on world exploifuckingtation from your bastarn
Star
; I think I can take it.
Reilly shifted on his seat so that the newspaper lay onto the cabin door.
Are matters up or down, thatâs what I want to know.
Up.
Ah, so questionsâre being rasied in the House are they!
Right, centre and right of centre.
Christ Reilly your patterâs improving right enough; there may yet be hope.
Shut up ya cunt. Heh â did you notice that Inspector at the 2nd terminus there? 8 minutes sharp I left and he didnt bat a fucking eyelid. What dâyou make of it? point for discussion?
Could be. A strange kettle of parsnips.
Exactly what I thought.
Maybe he was asleep standing up.
He was puffing a pipe.
Did the witness see the actual smoke?
No your honour.
Then heâd definitely given up the ghost and who can blame him! Imagine having to creep about at ungodly intervals just to check up on drivers leaving termini.
With blobs of snow dripping down your collar. And big fucking buses screeching past every 10 minutes. Eh, what a shitey job that must be!
Hines laughed. He got up to change the destination screen. Itâs your turn to buy the chips by the way.
Naw itâs no.
Aye it is â my memoryâs no that fucking bad.
It must be.
You kidding?
Naw, fuck, Iâm serious.
Serious? what dâyou mean serious!
I mean I fucking bought them the last time. No mind? that spreadover we were on?
Hines shook his head. Everythingâs a fucking blur these days. No kidding you Willie Iâm going to write to Any bastarn Questions about it. Outraged of Tunbridge fucking Drumchapel: how in the name of christ is a body to keep track of time when the worldâs crumbling about his fucking ears.
Reilly laughed as he folded away the newspaper. Iâm starving as well, he said, think Iâll get a fish-supper.
Aw christ naw, the poor auld cashbag.
Midway through the 2nd part of the shift an Inspector rapped the door. It was a different Inspector and they were at a different terminus. Reilly had left the cabin to go down the aisle checking for dropped coins beneath the seats. He muttered, O fuck, while returning to open the doors. Hello Inspector.
Youâre no due here for another 11 minutes driver Iâll have to book you.
From the rear seat Hines cleared his throat. Glancing at him the Inspector turned to Reilly: Does your conductor always sit with his feet on seats? When Reilly didnt answer he continued: 11 minutes, how did you manage it?
To be honest with you I never knew we were sharp till we got here. We only lifted a half dozen punters since Union Street.
The Inspector snorted. And he brought a pencil out from where it had been wedged behind his ear and beneath his hat; he flicked through the pages of his notebook then looked at Reilly.
Reilly, William, 6214.
Hines coughed. The Inspector stared at him. I told you before son get your bloody feet off that seat â people have got to sit there for your
The newspaper rustled.
Hines swivelled on the seat, to stretch along it, his boots resting on top of the framework of the one in front. Then he roared: Fuck off.
What dâyou expect? shouted Reilly.
What do I expect! fucking farce: last time Iâll ever be caught afuckingpologising.
That was never an apology.
Course it was.
Was it fuck.
It was fuck.
Shite.
Come off it man I mean whatâre you wanting at all? a hands and knees game! Away and give us peace ya Fenian bastard ye.
Leave politics out of it.
Hines sat upright, grinning: Okay ya cunt come on, read me a titbit on world exploifuckingtation from your bastarn
Star
; I think I can take it.
Reilly shifted on his seat so that the newspaper lay onto the cabin door.
Are matters up or down, thatâs what I want to know.
Up.
Ah, so questionsâre being rasied in the House are they!
Right, centre and right of centre.
Christ Reilly your patterâs improving right enough; there may yet be hope.
Shut up ya cunt. Heh â did you notice that Inspector at the 2nd terminus there? 8 minutes sharp I left and he didnt bat a fucking eyelid. What dâyou make of it? point for discussion?
Could be. A strange kettle of parsnips.
Exactly what I thought.
Maybe he was asleep standing up.
He was puffing a pipe.
Did the witness see the actual smoke?
No your honour.
Then heâd definitely given up the ghost and who can blame him! Imagine having to creep about at ungodly intervals just to check up on drivers leaving termini.
With blobs of snow dripping down your collar. And big fucking buses screeching past every 10 minutes. Eh, what a shitey job that must be!
Hines laughed. He got up to change the destination screen. Itâs your turn to buy the chips by the way.
Naw itâs no.
Aye it is â my memoryâs no that fucking bad.
It must be.
You kidding?
Naw, fuck, Iâm serious.
Serious? what dâyou mean serious!
I mean I fucking bought them the last time. No mind? that spreadover we were on?
Hines shook his head. Everythingâs a fucking blur these days. No kidding you Willie Iâm going to write to Any bastarn Questions about it. Outraged of Tunbridge fucking Drumchapel: how in the name of christ is a body to keep track of time when the worldâs crumbling about his fucking ears.
Reilly laughed as he folded away the newspaper. Iâm starving as well, he said, think Iâll get a fish-supper.
Aw christ naw, the poor auld cashbag.
Midway through the 2nd part of the shift an Inspector rapped the door. It was a different Inspector and they were at a different terminus. Reilly had left the cabin to go down the aisle checking for dropped coins beneath the seats. He muttered, O fuck, while returning to open the doors. Hello Inspector.
Youâre no due here for another 11 minutes driver Iâll have to book you.
From the rear seat Hines cleared his throat. Glancing at him the Inspector turned to Reilly: Does your conductor always sit with his feet on seats? When Reilly didnt answer he continued: 11 minutes, how did you manage it?
To be honest with you I never knew we were sharp till we got here. We only lifted a half dozen punters since Union Street.
The Inspector snorted. And he brought a pencil out from where it had been wedged behind his ear and beneath his hat; he flicked through the pages of his notebook then looked at Reilly.
Reilly, William, 6214.
Hines coughed. The Inspector stared at him. I told you before son get your bloody feet off that seat â people have got to sit there for your
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