Agnes Owens Read online

  ‘But there’s nae point in tellin’ ye anything. Ye’re too thick.’

  ‘I’m learnin’,’ he said and added quickly, ‘so if I accidently pushed you aff it wid still be manslaughter.’

  I gave him a long look. You can never trust anyone. ‘That wid be a bloody miracle.’

  Eventually the whistle blew. I was dying for the break, but I wasn’t keen to see McCluskie again.

  * * *

  He wasn’t in the hut when I came in and I was hopeful he had chucked it. Then he arrived along with McCafferty. Conversation ceased. McCafferty brought out his flask of soup unaware of the silence. McCluskie brought out a paper bag from his pocket and produced a flattened pie. He looked as miserable as hell. Joe Duffy unfolded the newspaper and said straightaway, ‘Fancy, here’s a chap that got eight years for murderin’ his wife. Ye’d have thought he wid have got aff. Just shows some folks are lucky and some folks are no’.’

  McCafferty munched on oblivious to the nudges and winks. He said to McCluskie, ‘Are ye gettin’ the hing o’ things noo?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ answered McCluskie. His eyes were bleak.

  ‘That’s the game,’ said McCafferty. He looked around us trustingly.

  ‘The lads here will show ye the ropes. They’re no’ a bad lot. That right Fitty?’

  Fitty looked in the other direction. ‘Depends,’ he said.

  ‘On whit?’ said McCafferty. It was beginning to dawn on him that all was not light and happiness.

  ‘Depends if we feel like it,’ said Big Joe.

  McCafferty’s face went sour. ‘Listen you lot. I don’t want any trouble. McCluskie has had a bad break.’

  ‘So did Muncie, if ye ask me,’ said Randy Smith.

  Suddenly McCluskie arose and stood stiff with fists clenched.

  ‘Ye can stick yer job, Harry. There’s a lot better men in the stir than whit’s in here, and as for you –’ I looked up startled to see that he was addressing me. ‘I can see ye don’t want tae know me, though I wis good enough for ye when I wis gettin’ ye free drink at one time.’

  His point of view left me speechless. Then I said, ‘For years ye widny even say hullo to me, an’ as for yer free drink. It wis lethal. Ye nearly killed me wi’ it.’

  ‘Naw, it wis Muncie he killed,’ interrupted Fitty. ‘You were lucky. You got away.’ There was unroarious laughter.

  ‘Harry,’ pleaded McCluskie, ‘pay me aff and let me oot o’ here. If ye pay me aff the auld wife will get broo money. Dae us that favour.’

  McCafferty shrugged. ‘Away hame and I’ll send yer cards on. I’ll say ye wereny fit for the buildin’.’

  McCluskie nodded. He gave us a long stare. Now we looked at our feet. He looked around as if he had forgotten something. There was only his empty paper bag. He crumpled it and put it in the bucket as though he was obliged to leave the place tidy. Then he left.

  Somebody said, ‘That’s got rid o’ that bugger anyway. He should never have started.’

  McCafferty said, ‘Ye canny tell wi’ folk. Some are no’ cut oot for the buildin’.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Big Joe, ‘he wis mair suited for a distillery.’

  ‘Mind ye,’ said McCafferty, ‘I never held Muncie against him.’

  ‘Muncie wis nae loss tae onybody,’ said Fitty Peters. ‘He deserved it.’

  I looked out of the hut door. I could still see McCluskie in the distance and I couldn’t help thinking we never gave him much of a chance. After all it was only manslaughter, not murder, and nobody had given a damn about Muncie anyway.

  Christmas Day in the Paxton

  It was Christmas Day, a Saturday. The streets were covered in ice and nothing was moving except me. There was not a soul, a dog or even a bus in sight and worst of all I suspected the pubs would be closed. I headed in the direction of the Paxton with my mother’s Christmas message ringing in my ears.

  ‘Where’s yer Christmas present ye ask? Well, where’s mine? Every year it’s the same. Not a sausage dae I get aff ye. No’ even an extra pound an’ a’ the neighbours showin’ aff their presents. Well, I’m sick o’ it –’

  ‘And a merry Christmas to you!’ I had shouted as I walked out.

  I stood outside the Paxton. My pessimism was justified. It was shuttered and bare, but there was a drone of voices from somewhere. I went round the back and there was Baldy Patterson and Big Mick swaying over a prone figure on the gravel. Baldy was waving an open bottle of wine about as he studied the object. It was Paddy McDonald. He was blue, but breathing.

  ‘Better get him aff the ice. He’ll die o’ exposure,’ I said.

  ‘That’s jist whit I wis sayin’,’ replied Baldy as he splashed me with the wine.

  ‘I’d rather have that doon ma throat,’ I told him.

  He handed me the bottle. It was great how they managed this so early. But when it came to the wine they could always work the miracle.

  ‘How long has he been lyin’ here?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe a’ night. We jist came alang tae see if the place wis open.’

  ‘There’s nothin’ open the day except the hotels.’

  ‘We don’t fancy the hotels,’ said Big Mick.

  I wasn’t surprised. Unshaven, bloodshot and filthy, they were not exactly the hotel type.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Baldy, ‘the Paxton is supposed tae open at twelve.’

  I took heart at the words but I knew he wouldn’t have a clue about anything, even that it was Christmas Day. Paddy twitched in his sleep.

  ‘Whit are ye gaun tae dae aboot him? He’ll get pneumonia.’

  ‘He’s no’ ma responsibility,’ said Big Mick.

  ‘Nor mine,’ said Baldy, but to prove he had Paddy’s welfare at heart he gave him a kick saying, ‘Get up ya stupid bastard!’

  Paddy merely turned on his side. I was dying to get away but it was difficult to leave a potential corpse, especially at this time of the year.

  ‘Can ye no’ drag him up tae his hoose?’ though I knew this was beyond their capabilities.

  ‘Better leave him for the polis,’ said Big Mick. ‘They’ll take care o’ him.’

  ‘The polis will never see him roon’ here.’ I tried to haul him up but he was as limp as a bundle of rags. They both watched me with indifference.

  ‘Ye’re wastin’ yer time. When the Paxton opens we’ll drag him in an’ let Flossie take care o’ him.’

  I let Paddy go and he slithered down the wall. Baldy handed round the bottle and we studied the problem. Mick finished the wine and rolled the bottle along the ground.

  ‘Keep the place tidy,’ said Baldy. He flung it in the bushes.

  Conversation petered out. Sullenly we regarded Paddy. For the sake of doing something I took his pulse. It was faint but flickering. Anyway his breath steamed the air. What bloody luck to walk into this set-up. I leaned against the wall and folded my arms. I was beginning to freeze.

  Finally Mick said, ‘Whit’s the time?’

  ‘Time we wir away. Ye might as well face facts. The Paxton is no’ gaun tae open the day. It’s Christmas.’

  Baldy was amazed. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Aye. Good King Wenceslas an’ a’ that.’

  ‘An’ whit did ye get frae Santa then?’ asked Mick with a bronchial laugh.

  ‘A bottle o’ wine,’ said Baldy promptly, ‘an’ guess who Santa is?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Mick.

  I said nothing. They were getting on my nerves.

  ‘Paddy here. He wis lyin’ on the ground wi’ a bottle stickin’ oot his pocket for his auld mate.’

  ‘Christ, ye’d rob the deid,’ I said.

  ‘He bloody well looks deid,’ said Baldy giving Paddy another kick.

  ‘Listen!’ said Mick. ‘There’s somebody in there.’

  We listened. We could hear the noise of dishes being clattered.

  ‘An’ look,’ said Baldy, ‘the light’s on.’

  Sure enough there was a beam of light from the back window.
<
br />   We all ran round to the front. The door was still shut. We banged it with our feet. Eventually the door opened and Flossie peered out. His face was all screwed up.

  ‘For God’s sake, can ye no’ wait?’

  ‘How much longer?’ I asked. ‘Paddy McDonald is lyin’ roon’ the back an’ he looks as if he’s gaun tae kick the bucket any minute.’

  ‘Well he can kick it ootside. He’s no’ gaun tae mess up things in here.’ He slammed the door in our faces.

  ‘That’s fuckin’ marvellous,’ said Big Mick.

  ‘Ach, I’m away,’ said Baldy. ‘I think I’ve got a bottle planked somewhere in the Drive.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake! How did ye no’ mention that sooner?’ said Big Mick.

  They stumbled off without a backward glance.

  I thought I had better see to Paddy. It was a surprise to find he had managed an upright position. His arms were stretched against the wall as if he was holding it up. He began to thump it.

  ‘Haud on Paddy. It’s gaun tae open soon.’

  He tried to speak, but his teeth just chattered. I led him round to the front.

  ‘Ma feet,’ he moaned. ‘I canny feel them.’

  ‘Maybe ye’ve been up in the Yukon an’ got the frostbite. C’mon, ye’ll be a’ right once we get inside. It’s gaun tae open soon.’

  By the time we reached the entrance Flossie was unlocking the door. Paddy tried hard to resurrect himself but Flossie said, ‘He’s no’ gettin’ in here in that condition.’

  I pushed past him, dragging Paddy along with me, and placed him on a chair.

  ‘Get us two haufs quick, before I have tae call an ambulance.’

  The word ‘ambulance’ knocked the argument out of Flossie. He served us rapidly.

  ‘Get this hauf doon ye!’ I ordered Paddy. He did as he was told then gave a long quiver and relaxed.

  ‘Thanks son,’ he said.

  I didn’t like the look of him. His eyelids and lips were purple. I looked around for a bit of distraction but the bar was empty. Doubtless folk would be celebrating in the comfort of their homes with the turkey and plumduff. My mother didn’t go in for that sort of thing. Though maybe she would stretch a point when I got back and produce a steak pie and jelly. This effort would be rounded off with a box of five cigars. To hell with Christmas.

  Paddy began to fumble in his pocket but he gave it up and fell asleep with his head on the table. I shook him to make sure he was only sleeping. He looked at me with a blind stare. Then the sight returned. He said, ‘I don’t feel sae good. The worst I’ve ever felt.’

  The blind stare came on again. He slumped forward. Flossie looked over with suspicion. I straightened Paddy against the chair but he lolled about like a rag doll. I approached the bar. ‘Right Flossie, get an ambulance.’

  Flossie was outraged. ‘Whit dae ye think this is – a surgery?’

  ‘If ye don’t get one ye might have tae attend an inquest.’

  Flossie was convinced. He darted through to the ’phone. I checked with Paddy again. He had gone back to the fumbling stage.

  ‘Whit are ye lookin’ for?’

  He gestured for me to be quiet. Finally he produced two crumpled pound notes.

  ‘Buy yersel a drink.’

  The notes were greasy and torn. I pushed them back. ‘Haud on tae them Paddy.’

  ‘Naw, naw. I want ye tae have a drink.’

  To save any argument I shoved them in my pocket and got two whiskies with my own respectable pound note. Gradually Paddy began to look a bit better. His face was now pallid instead of ashen.

  ‘How long were ye lyin’ ootside anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe since last night.’

  ‘Good God man, it’s a miracle you’re no’ deid!’

  ‘I’m a hard man tae kill, but I think –’

  Whatever he thought I don’t know for his eyes went glassy again.

  ‘Did ye ’phone the ambulance?’ I shouted to Flossie. He was talking to a couple of fellas who had just arrived.

  ‘Aye,’ Flossie hissed over, ‘but keep yer voice doon. We don’t want customers tae think they’re in a morgue. We want tae keep the place a bit cheery like.’

  ‘Somethin’ wrang wi’ Paddy?’ asked one of the fellas, ‘Or is he jist stoned?’

  ‘Stoned cold is mair like it. Actually he’s a sick man.’

  I said to Flossie, ‘Maybe ye could show a bit o’ Christmas spirit an’ gie Paddy a drink before he withdraws his custom.’

  The fellas nodded in agreement. Flossie looked pained but put two small glasses on the counter. I swallowed mine and placed the other one before Paddy. He tried to lift it to his mouth but it smashed on to the floor. I wished the ambulance would hurry. Then he spoke as if we had just met. ‘Pleased tae see ye Mac. I thought we had fell oot.’

  ‘I widny fall oot wi’ you.’

  ‘Aye ye did. Mind ye thought I wis a polis informer?’ He attempted a laugh. ‘I widny even inform them the time o’ day.’

  He went quiet again. I could hear the distant whine of an ambulance. Again he came out of his reverie. ‘I don’t want it tae get around, but I hivny been feelin’ well lately. Ye see, ma hoose wis burnt doon the other night. A’ ma pigeons are deid. Maybe the cat as well.’

  I looked away in case he was going to cry, but he carried on dry-eyed. ‘Ye don’t happen tae know o’ anybody who takes in ludgers? I widny be any bother.’

  I had to smile. ‘Afraid not Paddy.’

  ‘Of course,’ he took a deep breath, ‘I can always go tae the Drive wi’ Baldy an’ the team. Though they’re no’ really ma type.’

  He lost the thread of things and closed his eyes. The ambulance men entered. ‘Did somebody send for us?’

  Paddy heard this. Painfully he stood up and said with a touch of his old wrath, ‘It wisny for me I hope!’

  I nodded to them and jerked my head towards Paddy. Flossie stopped polishing his glasses and looked over, no doubt sensing a commotion, but there was very little for at that point Paddy crashed back on to the floor and lay like a log. An ambulance man knelt down beside him and felt his pulse. He didn’t have to say anything. It was plain he was gone. The other one asked me, ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘Jist an acquaintance.’

  ‘Bloody shame,’ said a fella at the bar.

  ‘He wisny actually a regular,’ Flossie explained as though anyone gave a damn, ‘only a derelict that came in noo an’ again –’

  ‘Shut up!’ I said.

  The ambulance men ignored all this and placed Paddy on a stretcher, then carried him away.

  ‘Did ye know him well?’ asked the fella at the bar.

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘Here, have a hauf,’ said the other one.

  ‘No thanks, but thanks all the same, I’m away hame.’

  ‘Back already?’ asked my mother.

  ‘Aye, everything is deid this morning.’ This was unintentional.

  ‘By the way, I tried tae get ye somethin’ for yer Christmas believe it or no’, but everythin’ wis shut, so here’s two pounds. Buy yersel a present.’

  Her face went red. ‘Thanks,’ she said stiffly, then ‘I didny mean whit I said earlier on. I know ye didny have much money.’ She looked at the notes. ‘They’re awfy dirty right enough. Did ye find them?’

  ‘Naw, they’re mine. Very legitimate, but I’ll take them back if ye don’t want them.’

  She laughed. ‘I wis only jokin’.’ Then she kissed me timidly on the cheek.

  ‘Nane o’ that stuff,’ I said. ‘Away an’ get the dinner ready.’

  She went into the kitchenette. ‘Happy Christmas!’ I called after her. Then I thought of Paddy lying in the morgue, and his burntout bothy, his dead pigeons and possibly the cat. I was lucky. I still had five cigars.

  The Aftermath

  I suppose it was bound to happen some time. The Arabs say ‘it is written’ and for me it was written.

  All the week after Christma
s I was in a foul mood. It was a long holiday for the building-site worker. My money was gone by Boxing Day. I faced the New Year without a penny in my pocket and Paddy McDonald’s death lay heavy like a lump of indigestion. I never went to his funeral or knew of any who did and I never saw the team from the Drive, nor wanted to. Anyway, the dead are taken care of. I have my problems.

  After being out of circulation for three days I tapped my mother for a pound. This would lessen my chances for a loan at Hogmanay but I had given up caring about the future. With the money I headed for the Paxton and ran into Paddy’s hard-boiled nephew, Murdo.

  ‘How’s it gaun?’ I asked, noting he had a fair bevvy in him. He looked at me with the speculation of the boozer who wonders whether to pick a fight or be friendly. He chose the latter.

  ‘Terrible aboot Paddy,’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ I thought I had better not say too much in case I got the rap for Paddy’s death. Murdo’s temperament was inclined to blame folk for events. It could be society in general or anybody who was handy. He was a great one for causes and Paddy’s would be the latest. Still, I felt bound to add something. ‘Big funeral wis it?’

  ‘Naebody there except me an’ the undertaker.’

  Quickly I said, ‘I couldny manage masel. I’ve been in bed a’ week wi’ the flu.’

  He thought over this remark, and accepted it.

  ‘I know ye wid have come if ye could. Paddy wis fond o’ ye.’ He laid his arm, weighing like a ton, on my shoulders.

  ‘Gie that man a double,’ he said to Flossie. ‘He’s one o’ the best.’

  ‘Here’s tae Paddy, an’ wha’s like him!’ was the toast. Solemnly we clinked our glasses.

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Flossie, ‘there’s three pound chalked against him on the board. I don’t suppose ye want to keep his memory pure an’ pay it?’

  I admired Flossie’s guts, though maybe it was just stupidity.

  Murdo glowered. ‘Of all the mean bastards –’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Flossie hurriedly, ‘I wis jist sayin’.’

  I changed the subject. ‘Wis there enough money tae bury him then?’

  ‘Oh sure. A man like Paddy doesny need a fancy grave wi’ a heidstane. He had as good a coffin as anybody. It wid jist be a wee bit hard tae find the exact spot he wis buried.’