Walking Wounded by William McIlvanney

were chatting.
    The grey-haired man moved. He walked with a diffidence that belied his appearance. He looked vaguely military. He wore a beautifully laundered blue-checked shirt, a tie that could have been knotted by computer and a navy cashmere sweater. His fawn trousers had a crease that suggested he had never sat down in them. The brown brogues were highly polished. He had a carefully-clipped moustache and his hair was neatly cut. He carried in his left hand what looked like a large black envelope. It was a fine plastic raincoat, folded and held in a perspex pouch. It was a day of particular heat, of cloudless sky.
    The grey-haired man walked tentatively round the entire oval of the bar. His glances indicated that he was lookingfor someone. They were glances too quick to be registering much, furtive as a camera shutter. They were a means not of seeing who was there, merely who wasn’t. The young man was following the walk round the bar with his eyes without stopping talking. The grey-haired man came back to the point inside the door where he had been and he hesitated again. He was deciding something.
    He crossed to the bar. He waited. The young barman must have stopped watching the grey-haired man, for he made no move. The grey-haired man waited. The woman behind the bar looked up at him. As she made to move, the barman put his hand on her arm without looking round. He winked at her and finished what he was saying and turned slowly and walked along the bar.
    â€˜Thought you were just sight-seeing,’ he said.
    The grey-haired man laughed. The barman didn’t.
    â€˜A gin and tonic,’ the grey-haired man said. The barman was turning away. ‘And –’
    The barman turned back towards him.
    â€˜And a vodka and lemonade. Both with ice.’
    The barman made a performance of looking to see if there were someone behind the grey-haired man.
    â€˜Sorry?’
    â€˜A gin and tonic and a vodka and lemonade. Both with ice.’
    The barman shrugged. While he mixed the drinks, the grey-haired man looked at his watch. When the drinks came, the grey-haired man paid and lifted the glasses and paused again. There was no seating at the bar but there were tables positioned away from the counter. Most of them were empty. The grey-haired man chose the table nearest the door. He sat down and set aside the vodka and lemonade and began to sip the gin and tonic.
    Two girls came in, their accents announcing them as American as the door opened. They looked about twenty, one wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, the other a shirt and along wrap-around skirt. Their eager exchange seemed to consist mainly of names like Degas and Renoir and Pissarro. They hit the muted atmosphere of the bar like a carnival in a graveyard. They had marvellously vivid and open faces, as if the light from the Statue of Liberty were illuminating them from within. The barman was waiting for them at the counter by the time they arrived.
    â€˜Yes, ladies. What can we do you for?’
    â€˜Two beers, please,’ the blonde one said. She smiled absently and her mouth appeared to have enough large and perfect teeth to provide an extra set for someone else.
    â€˜Beers?’ the barman said archly.
    The girls noticed him.
    â€˜Beers? For ladies of your obvious sophistication?’
    â€˜We’re slumming today,’ the dark-haired one said. ‘You got lager?’
    â€˜Indeed we have. I take it you mean halves?’
    â€˜Yeah. Glasses of beer,’ the dark-haired one said.
    While he was getting the drinks, the barman continued to talk to them, asking what they had seen and where they had come from. Twice he said, ‘Yeah.’ The girls made polite responses without seriously interrupting their conversation. Still preoccupied with painters, they sat down on the nearest available seats, which happened to be at the same table as the grey-haired man. ‘Hi,’ the blonde girl said to him and they went on talking to each