Docherty. William McIlvanney

      ‘When dae they make their bloody move?’

      ‘She’ll likely be in bed, the pair auld sowl,’ Jenny murmured, and at once regretted it, for Tam was already moving.

      ‘Tae hell wi’ this,’ he said as he crossed the floor.

      Tam. Ye’ll stey where ye are.’ She caught up with him at the door. ‘There’s men oot there. Let them see tae it. You’re bidin’ here.’

      ‘Go in the hoose, wumman,’ he said angrily and was gone.

      They heard the rattle of his heavy boots as he went downstairs. Angus and Conn, who had been unaware of anything happening in the street, had caught the echo of it in their own house – first in the unnatural silence of the living-room and then in the panic of their mother’s voice. They scrambled out of bed, Angus in the lead, and came through in their nightshirts – old shirts which had belonged to their father.

      ‘Bed, you two! Bed!’ their mother shouted.

      But she seemed to forget about them again at once, was too distraught to follow up her threat. They stayed. And in a moment the stray particles of an ordinary night had been precipitated into imminent ignition.

      Angus and Conn had arrived at the window in time to see their father emerge from the entry below them and cross towards the man at Miss Gilfillan’s window. The whole family stood looking down on a scene that appeared more distant than it was, stylised, with a formal inevitability: Tam approaching the man, the men at the corner waiting and watching, utterly silent now except for one voice somewhere saying, Tam Docherty’. Behind the children, their mother muttering, ‘Oh my Goad! Can ye no’ get sittin’ in peace at yer ain fire-end. Is this no’ terrible?’

      The stillness of the street made every sound audible. The man had turned to glance down at Tam and then resumed looking in the window. His indifference squared with the fact that he had chosen a window that faced out onto a street that wasn’t empty. He seemed to believe that inches gave immunity.

      ‘Here, sur,’ Tam said. The mode of address was ominous, habitual with him when he was roused. It was the formality of a duelling challenge.

      The big man turned slowly to face him, luxuriating in the action.

      ‘Hm?’

      ‘Here, sur. Whit d’ye mean tae be et wi’ this?’

      ‘I’m lookin’ in this winda’ here.’ The accent was Irish.

      ‘That’s a maiden lady in there, sur. An auld budy. Ye’ll be frichtenin’ her tae daith wi’ this cairry-oan!’ Tam remained a good yard away, not wishing to provoke the big man. His voice was perfectly pleasant. ‘Noo, wid ye no’ be better tae go oan tae where ye’re goin’.’

      He looked Tam over as if measuring him for a coffin.

      ‘Bogger off, little man. Before I fockin’ fall on yese.’

      Something happened instantly to the situation which was almost audible, like a safety catch unclicking.

      ‘Noo, noo, sur,’ Tam said. ‘These is sweary-words ye’re usin’. That’s no’ nice.’

      The big man turned fully round now. He understood. An agreement had been reached. He looked down at the ground, shook his head, lunged suddenly at Tam. Tam ran backwards. As the impetus of the other man’s rush made him stoop, so that his arms dropped, finding nothing solid, Tam came back in at full throttle, and hit him twice, flush on the cheek-bones, right hand and then left. The big man went back a couple of yards and stopped dead. He made a sound that suggested contempt and flicked one hand across his face, dismissing the blows like cobwebs.

      Watching him, Tam had a revelation about what he was up against. If this man hit him, he would be having an early night. Before the Irishman could set himself, Tam had moved right into him, hooking ceaselessly. His fists bounced the man’s head off each other as if they had it on a string. It took an awful long time, and his arms were tiring, before he felt that infinitesimal relaxation, the thaw of muscles that precedes the mind’s unmooring from consciousness.

      He didn’t stop. The man had subsided against the wall, blood spattering from his nose and cuts on his face, and still Tam punched, following his head as it slithered to the ground, rabid with anger. As the man fell, Tam kicked him once in the stomach and his leg was flailing back a second time when Jenny’s voice screamed, ‘Tam! Fur Goad’s sake, stoap! Stoap!’

      Tam’s body froze. The men were round him, about five of them. They moved him back, one of them saying, That’s enough, Tam. There’s nae need fur that. That’ll dae ye noo.’

      ‘D’you want the same?’ Tam was too high to recognise who it was he spoke to. He snarled at a shape. ‘Ya fat-ersed bastard! Whit were you daein’? Hidin’ in a bloody coarner?’

      ‘Ye were oot before we could make a move,’ somebody else said.

      ‘Jesus. He was at it fur meenits,’ Tam said. ‘Beggin’ fur boather. Whit were yese waitin’ fur? Invitation cairds? There were enough o’ ye tae move the bloke oan withoot a blow bein’ struck. Ya useless bastards!’ He looked down at the man, whose head rested on a pen in the road, while two of the men examined him. ‘Hoo is he?’

      The big man groaned and came to, as if offering an answer.

      ‘He’ll be a’ richt, Tam,’ somebody said.

      ‘Who is he?’ Tam asked.

      ‘He’s leevin’ in the Model.’ The Model Lodging House was situated at the opposite end of Soulis Street from High Street. It catered for a mixed migrant clientele, mainly labourers. ‘He was in Mitchell’s earlier oan. Threatenin’ tae dae terrible things tae onybody that goat in his road. Then he went fur a walk. Must’ve came back.’

      ‘Oan ye go in noo, Tam. We’ll take ‘im doon tae the Model.’

      The big man had been helped to his feet, and they cleeked him off down Soulis Street. Tam came back in. Miss Gilfillan hadn’t emerged and he thought it best to let her recover on her own.

      The house was a strange place. The family was reduced to a stunned solemnity. The scene outside, seeming a triumph for Tam in its occurrence, had, in the retrospect of a few moments, negatived to an x-ray plate in which they saw the sinister shadows formed at the centre of Tam’s self. He was aware of it, avoided their eyes, like a patient who didn’t want to know the worst.

      ‘My Goad, Tam,’ Jenny said. ‘Ah thocht ye hud killed ‘im.’

      Tam sat down suddenly, giving himself up at once to despair, and rested his head in his hands.

      ‘Ah think Ah wantit tae,’ he said. ‘Oh Jesus. Why did Ah hiv tae hit ‘im sa hard? It was a’ bye a while before Ah stoaped. Ah widny let go. Ah widny let go.’

      Jenny and Tam were only conscious of each other in the room.

      ‘Naebudy can jist turn it oan and aff like a spicket,’ she consoled him.