Walking Wounded by William McIlvanney Page B

one-dimensional purpose of coming home. But by the time he stepped off the bus, he realised he had a dog. He thought maybe it had been waiting in the darkness near the bus-stop. The first time he had been aware of it was when it was padding unconcernedly beside him. He stopped. It stopped. He walked on. It walked on. It might have been trained to obey him.
    It was a smooth-haired fox terrier. It stayed with him for some time, long enough to eat two corners of the hearth-rug that Noreen hadn’t liked much anyway (she had been threatening to get a new one before she died) and the leg ofa kitchen chair, as well as quite a lot of more pedestrian fare. And it was gone as suddenly as it had come.
    It ran away one evening in pursuit of a big mongrel bitch. The last Benny saw of it, it seemed to be closing the gap at the corner of the street. But maybe it didn’t catch up until much later. It may have been so far away by the time it caught up with the bitch that the obvious thing was to follow somebody else home. It may have done that. It was that kind of dog.
    Benny took its absence philosophically. For a week or so after that, he would rise at odd intervals of an evening and go outside. Moving around vaguely, he would call ‘Billy Boy’ (a name he had chosen for his own sectarian purposes and to which the dog seemed to answer as well as any other) or whistle absent-mindedly now and again. That dog didn’t turn up but others did from time to time.
    That was why when Fin Barclay walked into ‘The Akimbo Arms’ with the Greyhound, Benny felt justified in regarding himself as an expert on dogs.

    You didn’t have to be an expert to realise that it wasn’t Mick the Miller Fin had on the leash. ‘Bisto’ (as Fin proudly announced – ‘but that’s no’ its racin’ name’) was a kind of off-purple in colour, slightly hairy to be convincing as a greyhound and too skinny to be convincing as anything else.
    â€˜What’s its racin’ name?’ Gus McPhater said, contemplating Bisto over his pint of McEwan’s while the dog wagged its tail placatively. ‘Paraplegic?’
    â€˜Whoever knitted that,’ Benny said, ‘is colour-blind for starters.’
    â€˜And must’ve lost the pattern,’ Gus said.
    â€˜That dog’s got splay feet,’ Benny said.
    Fin patted Bisto’s head and looked at Gus pleadingly, willing him to say something nice. Gus wasn’t an insensitive man.
    â€˜Mind you, it’s nicer than yon dog old Jock Murray had,’he said. ‘The wan everybody just called “Scabby”. That was a really ugly dog.’
    Benny Mullen rose solemnly and walked round Bisto while the dog danced nervously, trying to keep its eyes on him. He felt its haunches and then pursed his lips. He made a couple of mystic passes down its forelegs. He stood up straight and stared at it. Fin was silent, awaiting the decision.
    â€˜You was robbed,’ Benny said.
    â€˜I like it,’ Fin said, ‘I like it,’ repetitively buffing up his dream of owning a greyhound. Benny’s breath was clouding it.
    â€˜If ye got that dog for nothin’,’ Benny said, ‘ye should ask for yer money back. You was robbed.’
    The dog had started to attract the attention of others in the bar. Big Harry the barman was leaning over the counter to get a better view. As usual, his face was as happy as a death-mask.
    â€˜No dogs allowed in the bar, Fin,’ he said. ‘But you’re in the clear wi’ that.’
    There was general laughter. Gus and Benny looked at each other. Kind people called Fin naïve. Unkind people didn’t. But he was their friend. Something would have to be done.

    Early the following evening Benny and Fin and Bisto were approaching a tenement in an old part of the town. Bisto, seeming to recognise the area, was straining at the leash. Fin was letting himself be pulled