Free Waiting by Philip Salom Page A

before closing so thank you again and goodbye Angus. At the front door Sue puts out her hand and Jasmin steps in close and kisses him fully on the mouth then turns immediately, and they walk to the car, get in, slam the doors and drive away, all within half a minute. Angus is still standing there five minutes later.

The Sheriff
    Outside the hostel – the stage, and the cast, and the Sheriff is right into it.
    Do it like this, fuck ya! shouts The Sheriff, then quieter and scarier: Do it like I say, mate…
    He is the Director.
    Backing away from him, his steps unsteady, is the much younger man addressed as mate, but no one has seen him before. In his black pants and brown shirt he looks bigger, and fit, but he’s not arguing or not any more. The Sheriff has dusted him once, but gets him down and punches him twice in the face. The Sheriff doesn’t wait for any finer points of analysis, intruders don’t qualify. There is no argument in his nickname. And this bloke, who walked into the corridor and never for a second thought there would be anyone waiting, knows that now. The Sheriff is a man who hits hard and then shouts, and only then threatens.
    So, whatdayado? advises The Sheriff. You walk slowly to the front door, if there’s no one out here, and you knock, but if we are out here you very politely, from the pavement you got it, the pavement, you ask for one of us by name and say what ya here for. If ya come as far as having to knock, you just fucken well wait. What ya don’t do is walk in like it it’s some fucken hostel…
    The man glares at him
    It is a hostel. I was looking for…
    His fist like a gun. The Sheriff shuts him down with a mimed shot between the eyes.
    Ya not listnun. This is not a fucken hostel it’s my fucken home, ya got it. I live here. If you want to visit you visit my home like anyone else’s bloody home, you stop and call out or you knock and wait. If I catch ya doin anything else I’ll show you why they locked me in Pentridge for fourteen fucken years, mate, do you understand? People like me aren’t scared of weak fucken people like you, mate, people like me aren’t scared of any fucker who breathes air, mate. As you found out ya weakaspiss shithead I’m older and smaller than you but I can kick the shit out of ya in two seconds, I’m the hardest cunt you ever will see, mate, and if you come here again and don’t treat this house like my home you’ll be many teeth less and a few fucken bones crookeder. Mark my fucken words.
    His favourite expression that, mark my words, especially with fucken included, and his favourite way of using it is after a knuckle sandwich. What a day, what a great (fucken) day, he hasn’t had the pleasure of punching some guy’s lights out for yonks. He’ll be losing his touch if he doesn’t keep in training. Have to hand in his badge. Like fuck.
    Now mate, he says, all sweet and tolerable. Who were you lookin for?
    He steps aside and lets the dusted-off man walk into the house. The Sheriff pulls a neatly rolled ciggie from behind his ear, and lights it. No wussy lighters, no, he lights up with a match and he draws in the unfresh air, the air of his own personal space.
    When the man comes out a few minutes later he walks onto the pavement before saying:
    Mate, you’ve got anger-management issues, you need to see someone!
    The Sheriff is so flabbergasted he can only shake his head and then, unexpectedly, he laughs and laughs, as the man skedaddles down the street. And The Sheriff is not a man who laughs very often.
    They don’t know if The Sheriff has ever held down a job, but suspect not; it isn’t easy to imagine him doing another man’s trivial work, or accepting anything less than punching rights. He is not the desk or office kind. In matters of law he’s more the documentary type, not the planning sort. Real-life action. No Monday to Friday for him, and now he’s