Agnes Owens Read Online Free Page B

was interested and hoped he would not sag to the floor before he could tell me. He swayed a bit then came back to the subject.
    â€˜D’ye know that heid-banger Pally McComb?’
    I nodded.
    â€˜Well, I heard it was Wullie Morrison that ran ower ma dug. So I gave Pally a couple o’ rabbits tae gie him a doin’. I wid have done it masel but I didny want involved wi’ the law.’ His voice sank confidentially. ‘As ye know I huvny got a dug licence. Anyway, Pally is that shortsighted that he didny know the difference between Wullie and Johnny, so he banged Johnny.’
    â€˜I see,’ I said, but I didn’t think it was such a great story.
    â€˜How’s the dug then?’
    â€˜I selt it.’
    â€˜Ye selt it?’
    â€˜Aye, it wis gettin’ past it. Matter o’ fact it wis a bloody nuisance wi’ a’ these complaints aboot it. But dae ye know who I selt it tae?’
    â€˜Naw.’
    He began to laugh then went into paroxysms of coughing. I was getting impatient. He finally calmed down.
    â€˜It wis Wullie Morrison that bought it.’
    I said nothing. I couldn’t make any sense out of it.
    â€˜Ye see,’ McDonald wiped the tears from his eyes, ‘I sent Pally up wi’ a note tae Wullie this afternoon tae say he’d better buy the dug, due tae its poor condition efter bein’ run ower, or else. Well, he must have seen the state o’ his brother’s face, so he sent the money doon right away. Mind ye, I didny think he’d gie me twenty pound. Personally I’d have settled for a fiver.’
    â€˜Wullie could never stick the thought o’ pain,’ I said. I began to laugh as well, and hoped Paddy would keep on his feet long enough to get me another drink.
    â€˜Right enough, Paddy,’ I said, holding firmly on to him, ‘ye’re a great case, an’ I’ll personally see that when ye kick the bucket ye’ll get a big stane above yer grave, me bein’ in the buildin’ trade an’ that.’

McDonald’s Mass
    I was taking a slow amble along the river bank. The weather was fine, one of those spring mornings that should gladden anyone’s heart. The birds were singing, the trees were budding and the fishing season had started, but I was feeling lousy. The scar in my temple and the cuts round my mouth were nipping like first-degree burns. My neck felt like a bit of hose pipe and the lump on the back of my head was so tender that even the slightest breeze lifting my hair made me wince. My mother’s remark, ‘You look like Frankenstein’, had not been conducive to social mixing, but since I wanted someone to talk to I decided to look up my old china Paddy McDonald because at times he could be an understanding man if he was not too full of the jungle juice.
    I turned with the bend in the river and there on the bank, under the old wooden bridge, was a gathering of his cronies, namely, Billy Brown, Big Mick, Baldy Patterson and Craw Young. They were huddled round a large flat stone that displayed two bottles of Eldorado wine and some cans of beer, but I could not see Paddy.
    They did not hear or see me approaching. Billy Brown jumped up as startled as a March hare when I asked, ‘Where’s Paddy?’ at the same time staring hopefully at the wine.
    â€˜Paddy’s died,’ he informed me.
    My brain could scarcely adjust itself to this statement.
    â€˜That canny be true.’ Without waiting for the offer I took a swig from the bottle.
    â€˜It’s true right enough,’ replied Billy, smartly grabbing it back.‘I found him masel up in the Drive as cauld as ice an’ as blue as Ian Paisley.’
    The Drive was a derelict building where the boys did their drinking when it was too cold for outdoors.
    â€˜Whit happened to yer face?’ asked Big Mick.
    â€˜That’s a long story.’ I was so stunned by the news that I had forgotten about my face for