Free Agnes Owens by Agnes Owens Page B

case.
    â€˜Because you are my friend.’
    This guy definitely had the knack of making a fella feel selfconscious. To change the subject I said, ‘You remind me o’ somebody.’
    He considered then replied, ‘I understand. I remind you of Jesus Christ,’ without as much as a smile. I was convinced, definitely a nut case.
    He went on, ‘In Germany many people say I look like Christ. I have been asked to take this part in the Passion Play, but I refused because I do not like to pretend.’
    He offered me his last sandwich. I declined. My appetite was gone. I was not certain, but the sandwich could be a test. He shrugged and ate it.
    â€˜My friend,’ he said, ‘I would willingly buy another whisky, but I have only a little money, just enough to buy a ticket on a ship to return home.’
    That figures, I thought. ‘Don’t worry, I’m gaun for the bus anyway.’
    â€˜Good, I must get the bus also.’
    It all loomed up. Back home to the auld wife with Max. She would love him. He would have my bed and I would have the couch. Quickly I ordered a carry-out, leaving the barman wipingcrumbs off the counter with a pained expression on his face. When we were seated on the bus I handed him a can of beer. The old dames in front gave us cold stares. He didn’t notice. I didn’t care. For me it was always the done thing. The booze had no effect on him. My head was feeling swimmy but I was resigned. The big fella was coming home. I was not going to be the one who turned him away.
    Again he read me for he said, ‘I have a room to go to this evening. As you call it, a bed breakfast place.’
    With relief I said, ‘That will cost you plenty. Ye can always get a kip, I mean a bed, in ma hoose. Ma mother is a great person. She will put anybody up for the night.’ I took care to look away as I said this.
    â€˜This woman is also good. She does not charge much money, because she explained I must stay in the kitchen since I might upset the guests.’
    I was indignant. ‘Jesus Christ!’ I blushed at the expression. ‘That’s terrible. How could ye upset the guests?’
    â€˜My hair is very long as you see. Sometimes it is upsetting to others. In Germany when people drink too much they wish to cut my hair off. For this reason I did not go out at night.’
    I was disappointed at this gutless attitude so I forgot to look away.
    â€˜You may think,’ he explained as though I had said so, ‘that I was afraid, but I do not believe in violence. Many times in the past I gave my parents much sorrow. Once I was a drug addict.’ At least I had guessed that correctly. ‘But with their love they helped to cure me so I keep my hair long that I will remember my disgrace. It is my penance.’
    He looked at me intently. ‘In your face I see the scars of violence. Perhaps that is your penance.’
    I said nothing. He was wrong. I liked my scars. They were status for me. The bus drew in at the terminus. We got off. Everybody rushed away, maybe glad to escape from his loud, open conversation, and we were left alone. In a last attempt todo the right thing I said, ‘Are ye sure ye’ll not meet me later? We could have a drink the gither.’
    He placed a hand on my shoulder, ‘This would not be wise. For you my presence would cause violence because you are my friend, but give me your address so that I can send you my book.’
    I wrote my address down on the back of my bus ticket. He placed it carefully in a wee book.
    â€˜How can ye be so sure of everything?’ I asked. ‘I mean that ye’ll even get it published.’
    â€˜I am sure,’ he replied with his awful certainty. He tucked his hair neatly inside his polo-neck jumper, shook my hand then walked away.
    I looked after him wishing I could be as sure of everything. I turned the corner to head for home, kip, then tea and the boozer. Outside my close