The Big Man by William McIlvanney

air, then seeping imperceptibly till it was staining the sky into a marl of changing colours. Hedgerows rediscovered green and fields took shape. He found a rhythm and was trotting, not easily, through miles of morning. He was carefully asking his body questions and the answers were unsure but optimistic. He wasn’t fit but he knew that the fitness was there, under its coating of rust, just needing the effort. He gave it a little just now but not too much.
    Sometimes on the hills he would pass Frankie who would have to get off and walk. They passed each other with insulting comments. Once, from behind, he heard Frankie swearing. Looking back, he saw that the chain of the bike had come off and Frankie was struggling with it. Dan Scoular spun laughing on the road and carried on. He vaulted the gate below the hill of Farquhar’s Farm, slithered up the slope and collapsed at the top. He could see the town from where he was. From here it looked like not a bad place to be. In the clarity that relaxation from exertion can give, he thought it was good here, good the way it was, himself aware of the presence of his strength and the town there waiting, a place where the people he loved were. It was good. Who needed complications? Then he heard Frankie White shouting, ‘Dan!’
    He saw him appear on the road below, pedalling with difficulty and looking around, confused. But he would find him. Dan didn’t help, just waited till he was found. Frankie left his bike against the gate, climbed over and scrambled up the hill.
    ‘Right! Up, big man,’ he said.
    Dan was puzzled.
    ‘On yer feet. Phase Two of the training programme.’
    Frankie was moving around with his oil-stained hands heldout in front of him, palms towards Dan. Dan stood up and watched him.
    ‘You try tae hit ma hands,’ Frankie said. ‘But only ma hands. You watch. Ah can move like a ghost. Don’t worry. Ah’ll let ma hands ride wi’ the punches.’
    Dan began at a reluctant shuffle but soon they were moving briskly around the flat top of the hill. Frankie was dodging and weaving and moving his hands about with bewildering speed and Dan Scoular was purpling the palms of them with hooks and jabs and crosses that seemed to pluck their force out of thin air, just happened, needing no time to build their whipping trajectories. They built up a desperate momentum until Frankie’s hands got their own signals crossed and his right palm was against his own shoulder when Dan Scoular hit it. He went down so fast he did a backward roll down the hill. There was a moment of silence as he lay still. Then his voice came, very small and pretending to be calm.
    ‘Fine. Ah was meanin’ to take a break now anyway.’ Then he groaned alarmingly. ‘Ah just didny mean it to be ma hand.’
    He rolled over on his back and Dan sat down beside him, laughing.
    ‘Fast Frankie?’ Dan said through his laughter. ‘Trainin’ for a fight? This has been some start. Ah nearly get etten alive wi’ a dug. You canny even get a bike that goes right. Then Ah mistake ye for a punchbag. We better own up. We’re Laurel an’ Hardy at this game.’
    They both lay back, looking up at the sky and laughing helplessly. The idea of it started to build between them.
    ‘We could offer tae fight the Marx Brothers,’ Frankie said.
    ‘There’s too many of them for us.’
    ‘Ah’d be all right as long as there was no punchin’ allowed.’
    ‘Ah think we better tell Matt Mason we were only kiddin’.’
    The mention of the name was like a lapse of taste in a comedy routine. It killed the laughter. Frankie White sat up and plucked a stalk of grass. He felt cold now that he had stopped sweating. Dan Scoular leaned on his elbow and looked back towards the town again.
    ‘Who is this man, Frankie?’ he said.
    ‘Who?’
    The one Ah’m supposed to fight.’
    ‘Ah’ve seen him about a bit. Ah don’t know. Ah’d say he’s about six feet. Bit heavier than you. Maybe fifteen stones. They say he’s good.