Even the Dogs

it to just please be quiet.

And there’s Mike and Danny in the benefits office, waiting to sort out Danny’s giro so they could split it. Mike sitting there telling him all what’s what. Going Them two you met yesterday, Spider and Scots Malky, you’re best off steering well clear, they’re both a bit mental and everyone’s scared of them. Even the busies like. They’re all right so long as you keep your distance although you’ve probably learned your lesson now anyway but all I’m saying is next time we’re there or we see them you want to stand clear la, you know what I’m saying?

Saying all this with his hand over his mouth, learning over to mutter and spit in Danny’s ear, his eyes scanning the room the whole time.

Because of the cameras, Danny boy. Can’t be too careful la. Cameras everywhere and you never know who they’re looking for. They can see what you’re saying if you’re not careful, that’s why you’re best off talking behind your hand, they’ve got lip-readers and special software and that, it’s like all automatic and everything and they’re keeping a record of it all. Trust me Danny boy, I know what I’m talking about, they’re keeping a record of it all. Danny nodding, and saying nothing, and wiping the spit from his ear.

There’s a camera in here, even now, peering down at the sealed doors, while we sit and stand and lie on the cold stone floor and wait for the morning to come. For his comfort and security these images are being recorded.

Mike still talking and spitting into Danny’s ear while they wait for the giro.

They’ll be putting tags on us next la, they’ll be strapping tags with listening devices on them round our ankles and then there’ll be nowhere to hide, you know what I’m saying? Like them chips they put in dogs’ necks, you know, like, what’s her name, Einstein, she’s probably got one without you even knowing, they’ll be using that to track you and no doubt.

And then Danny’s number being called, and Danny up at the little window and talking through the hole in the glass. Name, date of birth, national insurance number. Address, previous address, place of birth. Always the same. Don’t matter who it is, the police or the doctors or the benefits, they’ve all got forms to fill and they all want to know the same thing. And none of them ever happy with you saying I don’t know.

But what does it say on your birth certificate?

I don’t know. I don’t know.

Like they can’t hear you and they keep going on, looking at the computer screen like the answers might just pop up at them. Asking you the same questions all over again: What does it say on your records? Where were you born? What are your parents’ names?

Jesus. You’d think they’d have training about that sort of thing.

Like what the French call it la. The little death.

And then what happens is sometimes there’s not even a room to wait in is there. Sometimes it’s just a long corridor with a line of chairs leading all the way down it, with people in suits like swishing up and down and making out they’re not looking at you or trying to guess what your business is. What your problem is.

Like at the courts. All these different courts spread through the building, and you find your way through the maze by following the trail of grey metal chairs against the walls. Another place where we know how to sit and wait. Don’t we all. Been there enough.

Like Heather. This is a long time ago now. A lifetime ago.

Sitting outside the Family Court or whatever they called it then. Waiting to be called in, a bag of clothes tucked under the chair. Books. Toys. A long row of chairs and no one else waiting. Could have stood up and left and it wouldn’t have made no difference. Could still be waiting there now and it would have been just the same. Sort of feels like she is still waiting there now.

The door behind her opening and closing and a clerk or someone coming out with an armful of papers and her shoes clicking away down the corridor. Ignoring Heather because who was she anyway.

Dressed as smartly as she could but she still looked out of place. She wanted to, most days, it was sort of the point, all the jewellery and the tattoos and the layers of torn-up clothes, but that day she’d known it would have helped if she’d just looked sort of normal and standard and capable. Capable being what they were talking about in there.

The doors opening and closing. The sunlight in the foyer at the end of the dark corridor. Felt like a schoolgirl outside the headteacher’s office, swinging her legs. The metal chair cold against her skin. Her hair sticking to her forehead where she’d tried to wet her fringe down over the tattoo. Because she’d known that wouldn’t help, the tattoo.

Her hair all hot down the back of her neck, and she lifts a handful up away from her head, hoping for a breeze to blow down the corridor and cool her skin. But there’s nothing. No movement, no sound, and so she opens her hand and lets her hair fall and every time she does this again for the rest of her life she’ll be back in this moment, this waiting in the long corridor for a door to open and her name to be called. She’s waiting there now, her hair still falling from her hand against her hot red neck.

I can wait, she says.

Don’t mind me. I’ve got time on my hands.

We’ve all got time on our hands, now.

But if he could have just shouted. If he could have got to a phone. And if Penny could have barked and howled and hurled herself against the door.

And look at him now.

All these gaps. All this waiting. All these things coming back into view.

Like Robert, all the waiting he did. Waiting for Yvonne to get in touch after all, to say Come on, Robert, it’s been a while now, shall we have another go.

Must have known she never would.

But if she found him in that state. If anyone found him in that state. It had been too long. He wasn’t waiting any more. But how old would Laura be now, he kept thinking, then. All those years. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Asking questions all over again and maybe she’d come and find him one day. But if she found him in that state.