Agnes Owens (11 page)

He ordered two whiskies and placed one before me, saying solemnly, ‘My name is Patrick Grant McDonald, but you can call me Paddy.'

From then my social life began.

I saw McCluskie once or twice in the Paxton after that, but I looked through him. He didn't bother me. He looked through me. I told Paddy McDonald that McCluskie was in the habit of stealing money from his mother. After that I never saw him in the Paxton again. Maybe Paddy had influence. Anyway I became one of the regulars and forgot about McCluskie. Then last year he hit the headlines. Apparently he was running round with some crazy gang out of the district and he was selling Muncie, the nightwatchman of Paterson's Sawmills, bottles of undiluted whisky. Muncie watered this down and sold the stuff at a nice profit. The gang always drank in his hut before they went out on the rampage. One night a fight broke out. Muncie must have interfered. He finished up with his skull smashed on a paving stone. McCluskie was charged. It could have happened to anyone but I was glad because I figured he had it coming. Now he was out it seemed a bit of an anti-climax. Then I thought, why bother about McCluskie? He was nothing to me now one way or another.

At least that was what I thought until I got Big Joe along the road to the site on Monday morning.

‘I hear there's gaun tae be a new start,' he informed me. That wasn't worth a reply. There were always new starts on a Monday.

‘Did ye hear whit I said?' he repeated.

‘Aye – so what?'

‘I'll tell ye so what. It's McCluskie that's the new start. Him that did auld Muncie in.'

‘How did he manage that?' I asked. ‘He's never worked on the sites.'

‘Well, ye know McCafferty always has a soft spot for jailbirds since his son-in-law did time for ripping copper off an electric cable and putting the lights oot all over oor world. He was a pushover for McCluskie.'

‘Whit can he dae on the buildin'?' My mind was trying to cope with this set of circumstances.

‘Anybody can dae general labourin'. It's better than hard labourin'.' He went into convulsions at his joke.

‘Ye're no' funny. I don't want tae work beside that murderin' bastard.'

‘I didny know ye were carryin' a cross for Muncie. I heard he was very fond o' wee lassies.'

‘In this place everybody gets a name for somethin',' I said angrily.

As I said before I didn't give a damn about Muncie but it had taken me seven years to get over McCluskie. Now I might be back to where I started. I retreated into silence as we pushed on.

Sure enough, when we got into the hut there was McCluskie sitting in the corner. I looked him over furtively. He had changed a lot. He used to be beefy and red-faced. Now he was lean and pale. He gave me no sign of recognition. His eyes were on his feet. The squad were doing the usual Monday morning routine of grumbles about hangovers and giving highly coloured versions of their weekend, and kicking empty cans from Friday afternoon's booze-up. I took no part in this. I was too busy watching McCluskie. He rose to his feet and said, ‘I'm new at this game fellas,' then laughed – a pitiful attempt at a laugh anyway. ‘I don't know whit I'm supposed tae dae, so if ye could gie me a clue like –'

For a minute nobody said anything. Then Fitty Peters, who is always on the ball, started to sing ‘Jailer Bring Me Water'.

As everybody is always ready for a laugh, especially on a Monday which is a very nervous day; we all joined in. McCluskie turned pink.

He sat down, scratched his head and joined in as well. Then everybody went silent. He was left singing ‘My throat is kind of dry' on his own. In an offhand way I noticed that his gear was worse than mine. He had been charged in the summer and still had the open season gear. The thin stylish jacket, the coffee-coloured strides, the suede shoes, topped off with a yellow tee-shirt. All great for the beach but weird on a building site. I didn't feel like laughing any more, but he wasn't going to get any sympathy from me so I hurriedly gathered up my tools and left for the weary load ahead. Some folk had it coming to them and that was all there was to it.

‘Is that the fella that murdered auld Muncie?' the apprentice asked me in a reverent tone.

‘It wis manslaughter – no' murder.'

The apprentice sickened me. He had seen nothing, done nothing and was always a goody.

‘Whit's the difference?' he asked.

‘Well, the difference is, if I take this brick hammer an' smash it ower yer heid, that would be murder. On the other haun', if I accidently push ye aff the scaffolding when we get up, that's manslaughter.'

‘Oh,' he replied.

‘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.

I
t 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.

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.'