Walking Wounded

by William McIlvanney

  The big man sighed and shook his head and took his time. His face looked as if it had just come off a whetstone. The cheek-bones were sharp, the mouth was taut. The eyes were preoccupied with their own thoughts. His pallor suggested a plant kept out of the light. Prison, the barman thought.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ the big man said. ‘Fine day. I’ll have.’ It seemed a momentous choice. ‘A pint of heavy.’

  He watched the barman pull it. Paying, he took a small wad of singles from his pocket and fingered them deliberately. He studied his change carefully. Then he retreated inside himself.

  Making sure the patch of bar in front of him was clean, he spread his Daily Record on it and started to read, the sports pages first. His beer seemed to be for moistening his lips.

  Before turning back to the television, the barman checked the pub in his quick but careful way. The afternoon was boringly in place. Old Dave and Sal were over to his left, beside the Space Invader. As usual, they were staring past each other. Dave was nursing half-an-inch of beer and Sal had only the lemon left from her gin and tonic, her thin lips working against each other endlessly, crocheting silence. That should be them till they went home for their tea. At the other end of the bar, Barney, the retired schoolteacher, was doing The Times crossword. Did he ever finish it? In the light from the window his half-pint looked as stale as cold tea.

  The only other person in the pub was someone the barman didn’t like. He had started to come in lately. Denim-dressed, he looked nasty-hard, a broad pitted face framed in long black hair. He was a fidgety drinker, one of those who keep looking over both shoulders as if they know somebody must be trying to take a liberty and they’re determined to catch him at it. Just now, standing at the bar, he kept glancing along at the big man and seemed annoyed to get no reaction. His eyes were a demonstration looking for a place to happen. He took his pint like a penance.

  The television was showing some kind of afternoon chat-show, two men talking who made the pub seem interesting. Each question sounded boring until you heard the answer and that made you want another question very quick. The barman was relieved to see Old Dave come towards the bar as if he was walking across America. It would be good if he made it before he died.

  ‘Yes, Dave,’ the barman said to encourage his progress. ‘Another drink? What is this? Your anniversary?’

  The barman noticed the big man had the paper open at page three. He knew what the man was seeing, having studied her this morning, a dark-haired girl called Minette with breasts like two separate states. But the big man wasn’t looking at her so much as he was reading her, like a long novel. Then he flicked over to the front page, glanced, sipped his beer till it was an inch down the glass and went to the lavatory.

  ‘Same again,’ Dave said, having arrived. ‘Tae hell wi’ it. Ye’re only young once.’

  The barman laughed and turned his back on him. He had to cut more lemon. He had to find one of the lemons the pub had started getting in specially for Sal. After brief puzzlement, he did. He cut it carefully. He filled out gin, found ice, added the lemon. He turned back, put the drink on the counter, pulled a pint. As he laid the pint beside the gin and opened the tonic, pouring it, he noticed something in among the activity that bothered him. He suddenly realised what it was. The big man’s pint-dish held nothing but traces of froth.

  The barman was about to speak to the hard-faced man in denim when the big man walked back from the lavatory to the bar. His arrival froze the barman. The big man made to touch his paper, paused. He looked at his empty pint.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the barman. ‘Ah had a pint there.’

  The moment crackled like an electrical storm. Even Old Dave got the message. His purse hung in his hand. He stared at the counter. The barman was wincing.

  ‘That’s right,’ the man in denim said. ‘Ye had a pint. But Ah drank it.’

  The silence prolonged itself like an empty street with a man at either end of it. The barman knew that nobody else could interfere.

  ‘Sorry?’ the big man said.

  ‘Ye had a pint, right enough. But Ah felt like it. So Ah drank it. That’s the dinky-dory.’

  So that was the story. The big man stared and lowered his eyes, looked up and smiled. It wasn’t convincing. Nonchalant surrender never is. But he was doing his best to make it look as if it was.

  ‘Oh, look,’ he said. ‘What does it matter? Ah can afford another one. Forget it.’

  The barman was grateful but contemptuous. He didn’t want trouble but he wouldn’t have liked to go to sleep in the big man’s head. And when the big man spoke again, he could hardly believe it.

  ‘Look. If you need a drink, let me buy you another one. Come on. Give the man a pint of heavy.’

  The barman felt as if he was pouring out the big man’s blood but he did it. It was his job to keep the peace. The man in denim lifted the pint, winked at the barman.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said to the big man, smiling at him. ‘Your good health. You obviously value it.’

  He hadn’t managed his first mouthful before the side of the big man’s clenched right hand had hit the base of the glass like a demolition-ball. There was a splintered scream among the shards of exploding glass and the volleying beer.

  Not unused to fast violence, the barman was stunned. The big man picked up his paper. He laid the price of a pint on the counter and nodded to the barman.

  ‘If he’s lookin’ for me,’ he said, ‘the name’s Rafferty. Cheerio. Nice shop you run.’

  He went out. Lifting a dish-towel, the barman hurried round the counter and gave it to the man in denim. While he held his face together with it and the cloth saturated instantly with blood and he kept moaning, the barman found his first coherent reaction to the situation.

  ‘You’re barred,’ he said.

  8

  In the steps of Spartacus

  Benny Mullen had dogs. It wasn’t that he deliberately kept dogs or bought them or reared them. They were a periodic manifestation in his life, like acne in teenagers. Every so often he developed a dog.

  Perhaps the condition wasn’t unrelated to the fact that he had become a widower in his early thirties. His wife, Noreen, had encouraged him to acknowledge the helpless compassion that was hidden at the centre of his nature and he still felt it, like internal lesions. Maybe dogs could sniff it out. He certainly couldn’t explain their affinity for him. They seemed to attach themselves to him from time to time without warning.

  One night when he came out of the pictures feeling particularly aggressive (it had been a Clint Eastwood film), he got on a bus with the one-dimensional purpose of coming home. But by the time he stepped off the bus, he realised he had a dog. He thought maybe it had been waiting in the darkness near the bus-stop. The first time he had been aware of it was when it was padding unconcernedly beside him. He stopped. It stopped. He walked on. It walked on. It might have been trained to obey him.

  It was a smooth-haired fox terrier. It stayed with him for some time, long enough to eat two corners of the hearth-rug that Noreen hadn’t liked much anyway (she had been threatening to get a new one before she died) and the leg of a kitchen chair, as well as quite a lot of more pedestrian fare. And it was gone as suddenly as it had come.

  It ran away one evening in pursuit of a big mongrel bitch. The last Benny saw of it, it seemed to be closing the gap at the corner of the street. But maybe it didn’t catch up until much later. It may have been so far away by the time it caught up with the bitch that the obvious thing was to follow somebody else home. It may have done that. It was that kind of dog.

  Benny took its absence philosophically. For a week or so after that, he would rise at odd intervals of an evening and go outside. Moving around vaguely, he would call ‘Billy Boy’ (a name he had chosen for his own sectarian purposes and to which the dog seemed to answer as well as any other) or whistle absent-mindedly now and again. That dog didn’t turn up but others did from time to time.

  That was why when Fin Barclay wal
ked into ‘The Akimbo Arms’ with the Greyhound, Benny felt justified in regarding himself as an expert on dogs.

  You didn’t have to be an expert to realise that it wasn’t Mick the Miller Fin had on the leash. ‘Bisto’ (as Fin proudly announced – ‘but that’s no’ its racin’ name’) was a kind of off-purple in colour, slightly hairy to be convincing as a greyhound and too skinny to be convincing as anything else.

  ‘What’s its racin’ name?’ Gus McPhater said, contemplating Bisto over his pint of McEwan’s while the dog wagged its tail placatively. ‘Paraplegic?’

  ‘Whoever knitted that,’ Benny said, ‘is colour-blind for starters.’

  ‘And must’ve lost the pattern,’ Gus said.

  ‘That dog’s got splay feet,’ Benny said.

  Fin patted Bisto’s head and looked at Gus pleadingly, willing him to say something nice. Gus wasn’t an insensitive man.

  ‘Mind you, it’s nicer than yon dog old Jock Murray had,’ he said. ‘The wan everybody just called “Scabby”. That was a really ugly dog.’

  Benny Mullen rose solemnly and walked round Bisto while the dog danced nervously, trying to keep its eyes on him. He felt its haunches and then pursed his lips. He made a couple of mystic passes down its forelegs. He stood up straight and stared at it. Fin was silent, awaiting the decision.

  ‘You was robbed,’ Benny said.

  ‘I like it,’ Fin said, ‘I like it,’ repetitively buffing up his dream of owning a greyhound. Benny’s breath was clouding it.

  ‘If ye got that dog for nothin’,’ Benny said, ‘ye should ask for yer money back. You was robbed.’

  The dog had started to attract the attention of others in the bar. Big Harry the barman was leaning over the counter to get a better view. As usual, his face was as happy as a death-mask.

  ‘No dogs allowed in the bar, Fin,’ he said. ‘But you’re in the clear wi’ that.’

  There was general laughter. Gus and Benny looked at each other. Kind people called Fin naïve. Unkind people didn’t. But he was their friend. Something would have to be done.

  Early the following evening Benny and Fin and Bisto were approaching a tenement in an old part of the town. Bisto, seeming to recognise the area, was straining at the leash. Fin was letting himself be pulled along.

  ‘This the one?’ Benny said.

  ‘He’s a nice man,’ Fin said.

  ‘Uh-huh. He’s that nice maybe this time he’ll sell ye a motor wi’ no wheels.’

  The flat was on the first floor. Benny ignored the bell, preferring the primitive authority of a triple knock on the door. It was opened by a small middle-aged woman who, like the room that was visible behind her at the end of the short hallway, shone with cleanness.

  ‘Hullo, son. Bisto.’

  The dog had a small fit of happiness. As the woman calmed Bisto down with the laying on of hands, she looked up enquiringly. Fin said nothing.

  ‘Missus,’ Benny said. ‘Don’t be alarmed. It’s yer man we’re here to see. Ah’d like a word with him.’

  The woman looked as alarmed as a grandmother at a sewing-bee.

  ‘Certainly, boys,’ she said. ‘Come in and sit yerselves down. Ah’m just making Davie’s tea. He should be about five minutes. He’s workin’ a wee bit late the night. Would yese like somethin’ yerselves?’

  ‘We’ve had wur tea,’ Benny said.

  ‘Well,’ Fin was saying.

  ‘Some extra sausage here, son. Would ye like a piece on sausage?’

  ‘That would be lovely, Mrs Brunton.’

  ‘What about you, sir?’

  ‘No thank you, m’dear,’ Benny said, keeping things on a strictly business footing.

  He watched with some distaste as Fin enjoyed his sandwich and a cup of tea. They didn’t have long to wait.

  Davie Brunton wasn’t any taller than his wife. Benny, bulking big in the armchair, watched him.

  ‘Hullo, hullo,’ the small man said to everybody and crossed and unselfconsciously kissed his wife on the cheek. He wrestled briefly with Bisto. ‘That you eatin’ ma tea?’

  Fin was beginning to explain how he came to be eating the sandwich when Davie Brunton ruffled his hair and told him not to be daft.

  ‘With ye in a minute, boys,’ he said. ‘Just gi’e the face a wash.’ He went through to the kitchen. ‘Something good the night, Betty?’

  ‘It’s yer steak and sausage.’

  ‘Ah married a wee genius.’

  He came back through, stripped to his vest and towelling himself.

  ‘Well, boys, what can Ah do ye for? You’re no’ havin’ problems with the animal, are ye, son?’

  ‘Ah think the problem’s yours, sir,’ Benny said.

  Davie Brunton’s eyes widened. He thoughtfully finished drying his arms and his hands. He threw the towel on a chair.

  ‘Come again,’ he said.

  ‘It’s just like this,’ Benny said. ‘You will give that boy his money back or you will have to perform.’

  Davie Brunton nodded.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he said. He crossed the living-room and closed the door. ‘Well, we’ll just perform right now. On yer feet.’

  Benny seemed to have forgotten his script. He saw the instant ignition into anger in the small man’s eyes. He noticed the ominous bulge of his biceps. He looked at his wife. She was laying the table.

  ‘Now wait a minute, sir,’ Benny said. ‘Let’s not be hasty here. We’re here to talk.’

  ‘Naw,’ Davie Brunton said. ‘You’re here tae listen. Get your fat arse out that chair or shut yer mouth.’

  ‘Davie!’

  ‘Ah’m all right, Betty. You come into a man’s house an’ threaten ‘im? Are you a Martian? Silence. Ah’ll tell you when to leave.’

  He turned to Fin.

  ‘Ah’m sorry, Mr Brunton –’

  ‘Not your problem, son. Ah know what happened here. Ah was weaned on to solids quite a while ago. You happy wi’ the dog, son?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Then you keep the dog.’

  He crossed to the sideboard, opened a drawer, took something out. He came back to Fin.

  ‘Here. There’s your money back.’

  ‘No, no, Mr Brunton. Ah couldn’t –’

  ‘It’s yours, son. But you give a penny of it to that big man an’ Ah’ll take it out yer hide. That’s a promise, son. Fin? That’s what ye said it was, right? Ah like you, Fin. That’s why ye’ve got the dog. You come back anytime. On yer own. An’, Fin, son. That’s a good dog ye’ve got. A tenement’s no place for a grew, that’s why Ah got rid of it.’ He was stroking Bisto. ‘Ah know, son. Ah know ye’re fast. You’ll show them. An’ you.’ He nodded at Benny. ‘You ever see me in the street, you imitate auld Bisto here. Have it away on yer toes.’

  He smiled suddenly, released the dog.

  ‘Okay, gentlemen. The door’s this way.’

  By the time news of the meeting with Davie Brunton reached Gus McPhater, it had become the story of how effectively he had dispelled any doubts about Bisto’s quality. His eloquence, it seemed, had been utterly convincing. Gus decided to put his claims to the test. The test was Mickey Andrews, the nearest thing Graithnock had to an Encyclopaedia Britannica of dogs.

  In a big field near the Bringan, while a high wind thrashed the trees, rough measurements were made. Bisto was held by Benny Mullen. In the distance Fin Barclay hallooed. Bisto was released. Mickey pressed his stop-watch on release, pressed his stop-watch on arrival. The process was repeated eight times without comment from Mickey, while the others argued unavailingly for an interim report. After the eighth run, Mickey spoke.

  ‘Your dog,’ he said, ‘is fast.

  Your dog is very, very fast.’ The dancing merriment of the others was surveyed bemusedly by Mickey, as if he were an adult at a children’s party. When he spoke again, he killed the laughter suddenly, like someone bursting their balloon.

  ‘Behave yerselves,’ he said. ‘Ye think fast is everythin’?’

  ‘Wh
at else is there like?’ Benny said.

  ‘What about trappin’?’ Mickey said. ‘An’ cornerin’? An’ no’ turnin’ the heid. How often has this dog run before? An’ where?’

  Nobody knew.

  ‘Still,’ Benny said. ‘It’s maybe worth a try. Ah’ve got an idea.’

  The others waited.

  ‘Unfold yer plan, wee guru,’ Gus said.

  ‘Ye wouldny imagine,’ Mickey said, studying Bisto, ‘there could be another grew like him in Ayrshire. But there is. Auld Bisto’s got a double or as near as dammit. Dick Raymond’s dog. Nell’s Joy. Nell’s Joy? Nell must be a masochist. If ye strapped a lighted match to yon dug’s nose, it couldny run fast enough to put it oot. Ye followin’ so far?’

  ‘Ah’m with ye, captain,’ Gus said. ‘Over an’ out. But we don’t want to run it wi’ a name like Nell’s Joy. What kinda name is that?’

  ‘What difference does it make? As long as ye get the price on it.’

  ‘We want oor own name for it.’

  ‘Call it what ye like in yer heid.’

  ‘Aye, right enough,’ Gus said. ‘As long as we know what its real name is.’

  ‘So will Ah go an’ see Dick Raymond?’

  There were noddings all round. Fin Barclay was ecstatic and his joy transferred to Bisto, who seemed already to have developed an inordinate affection for Fin.

  ‘Sh!’ Gus said. ‘We don’t go at this like a cock at a grozet.’

  ‘A grozet?’ Fin asked.

  ‘A gooseberry, Fin,’ Gus said. ‘A gooseberry. Ye see, names matter. Ask any boy called Marmaduke if they don’t. The ancients used to believe names had magic in them. They imparted a quality to the thing named.’

  ‘Ah like Bisto,’ Fin said.

  ‘Ah quite like Bisto as a flavourin’ for ma mince as well, Fin. But it’s not a name for our dog.’

  Fin was delighted by the use of ‘our’.

  ‘This isn’t just a dog, ye see. It’s a wee chariot of dreams. When it runs at Thornbank, it’ll be carryin’ more than a hap wi’ a number on its back. It’ll be carryin’ the hope of a better future for all of us. It needs a name that fits it.’