Remedy is None by William McIlvanney Page B

difficulty. It must have been a truly difficult thing to achieve. But they had achieved it. They had done it with absolute thoroughness and commendable discretion. All that were left were these innocuous fragments that could be related to no one but himself. What was there here that could indict anyone else? Who was to be blamed for this? Who would pay for it? Who was guilty?
    An accidental answer came in the scuffling of feet in the yard outside. The door opened and closed, and the dim figure of a man stood just inside the lock-up. He was swaying slightly and his breathing was noisy, with a hint of slaver in it. Small sounds of content came from him. ‘Oh, aye,’ he was saying to himself. ‘Aye, aye. Right, then.’ He was carrying a bottle and he crossed towards Charlie. He was almost on top of him when he suddenly halted, seeing him for the first time.
    ‘Hullo, Mick,’ Charlie said.
    Mick blinked and looked at the bottle, as if he thought Charlie had emerged from it.
    ‘Who the hell’s that?’ he asked himself, bending closer. ‘Aw, it’s yerself, Charlie.’
    At once Mick seemed to sober a little, as if he had been douched with cold water. He straightened himself and his eyes came into focus, glinting warily in the gloom.
    ‘Whit are ye doin’ here, Charlie?’ he asked, and his voice had become careful. He put down the bottle of cheap wine beside the van.
    ‘Ah just thought Ah wid look in,’ Charlie said, watching him steadily. He saw Mick’s eyes flick towards the corner where the gas-masks lay. He suddenly understood the open door and the emptiness of one part of that corner. What he was thinking must have registered on his face, for Mick became belligerent.
    ‘Whit’s yer feyther been tellin’ ye?’ His voice crackled with aggression. ‘If it’s aboot the metal aff thae gas-masks, ye’re not on. That wis a’ mine. The lot. Ah stripped them all when yer auld man wis lyin’. He never struck a blow. They’re sold. Ah’ve just been gettin’ rid o’ the rubber there. That’s the last of it, there. The metal’s delivered an’ paid for. Tae me. Nobody’s due anythin’. Not a coorie. Yer feyther had nothin’ tae dae wi’ it.’
    ‘Ye’re a liar,’ Charlie said.
    Mick leaned over, jabbing his finger in Charlie’s face, seconded by the drink.
    ‘Say that again an’ Ah’ll brek yer back. Think because ye’re a college boy, we’ll let ye aff wi’ that? Ah’ll learn ye a lesson right enough. Wan that ye’ll no’ get in yer books.’ Holding up a mace of knuckles, ‘Five-finger exercise. Is that no’ whit they call it?’ He paused, his breath like a blow-torch on Charlie’s face. ‘Now, Ah don’t ken whit John’s been tellin’ ye – God rest ’is soul. But Ah ken whit Ah’m tellin’ ye. Ah’m tellin’ ye there’s no’ a brass farthin’ o’ that money cornin’ tae you or anybody like you. It’s no’ ma style tae speak ill o’ the dead. Let them rest in peace. That’s ma motto. Rest in peace.Ah canny imagine that yer feyther wid try tae pull a fast yin like that. Ah fancy you’re tryin’ to paddle yer ain canoe here. Well, ye’re up the creek. An’ if it wis yer feyther that put ye up to this. An’ if he did tell ye that some o’ the money wis his, then he’s a liar. A rotten liar an’ a cheap-skate.’
    Charlie rose under the impetus of his own blow. Mick blocked it and split Charlie’s cheek with his counter, knocking him against the wooden wall of the lock-up. Before Charlie could recover, Mick had butted him with his head but made only partial connection, drawing a thread of blood from his nose. Blinded, Charlie caught Mick and closed with him. They grappled in a stalemate of strength for some seconds, heaving for vantage. Charlie’s knee pistoned twice into Mick’s groin, and he felt him sag. Feeling the deadlock break, Charlie slung him against the van and strung him up with punches, refusing to let him fall. His anger held Mick there desperately,