The Low Road

by A. D. Scott

  She stepped back, hands help up in submission, when she noticed one particular poster. “Hey, McAllister. See this one? This was one of the matches my father took me to—before my mother found out and barred me from going to the boxing. It was a real ding-dong of a fight. But him here, he won fair and square even though his opponent was a total bruiser well above the supposed weight. The crowd went mental. The bookies were furious. My dad was delighted, he won quite a bit on that match.”

  “Did he now?” An old man, or a man who had been in too many fights—McAllister couldn’t tell which—stepped out of the office. “And who might you be?”

  “Mary Ballantyne. And this is McAllister.”

  “No’ Colonel Ballantyne’s lass?”

  “Aye. Pleased to meet you.” She stepped towards him holding out her hand. It was like a child greeting an ancient toothless bear, who seemed harmless if you were stupid enough to be fooled by his face.

  There was a lull in the background noise of the gym as people paused to see what this novel encounter was about.

  “Fancy a dram?” This time the question was addressed at McAllister.

  “Seldom known to refuse,” he said.

  They went into the office. It was surprisingly neat and smelled more of surgical spirits than sweat. A first-aid cabinet was placed prominently on one wall. The back wall held a cabinet full of silverware: cups, trophies, and ribboned medals. A silver belt in the center had pride of place. It was then McAllister knew who this man was. And knew who the belt belonged to: Jimmy McPhee.

  The whisky bottle appeared, then clean glasses. Mary declined water. None was offered to McAllister—only sissies and foreigners diluted the “water of life.” They saluted each other.

  “Slaínte,” McAllister toasted.

  “Here’s tae us,” the man who was known as Slugger, his second name being Slevin, saluted them.

  Mary said nothing, only raised her glass in return, took a good sip, then put it down carefully; this was rotgut of the cheapest variety, and she was proud she hadn’t choked.

  McAllister sat back, giving Mary the floor. This was her show.

  “My colleague here, he’s from Dennistoun, but lives in the Highlands,” she began. “He has an obligation to a man from up there—and the man’s mother. Even though it’s not his fight, he’s honor bound to help.”

  McAllister watched the old man listening, showing nothing, except his eyes, which were alert, sizing up the challenge. He also noticed that Mary, for once, was asking no questions. Telling it like it is, he thought.

  “See, the other night, late, I was still at work when the call came through . . .” She had an extensive network of firemen and policemen and ambulance staff on her list of contacts—even though it was illegal. She also had an informant in the mortuary. “Anyhow, when I got there the fire was all but over, it was that fierce. But my . . . friend, he helped rescue the body before it was burned to a crisp, and the victim . . .” Using the man’s name was too personal, but she knew Mr. Slevin was well aware who the person she was talking about was. Maybe he’d been a friend. “He was tied up, he had fingers missing. Later I found out he had no teeth, and it seems he had a few left before the fire. He was alive when the fire was lit. And his death was horrible.”

  She left out the stench of burning flesh, the way the ambulance men, hardened from years of service during the wartime bombing, had to look away at the sight of the corpse. She left out the two shadowy figures hovering at the edge of the small crowd of onlookers, men gone before she could identify them.

  “As for me”—she looked straight at the former boxer—“my interest is in getting a good story. I want to show those jumped-up snooty auld farts in the newspaper that a lassie can be as good as any man. I’ll fight to get my story . . .”

  “Like father, like daughter.” Slevin was nodding.

  “. . . And if I destroy some evil bastards in the process, all the better,” she finished.

  “Another?” Slevin held up the bottle.

  Mary covered her glass. McAllister held his out.

  A sip or two later, McAllister took his turn. “I was admiring thon belt in the cabinet.” His voice thickened to his pre-scholarship, pre-cadetship native Glasgow accent.

  “Aye, one o’ the stars o’ Scotland.” The old man was nodding but still not giving anything away. “Could’ve won a national title, no’ just a Scottish one, if the war hadn’t got in the way.”

  “Spoiled a great many things, the war,” McAllister agreed. “The owner o’ thon belt, I’d like to shake his hand. Or at least let his ma know the state o’ things. After the fire an’ that, she’s worried.”

  Silence. But a silence punctuated by muffled shouts, groans, curses, the squeak of boots on canvas, gloves on leather, and a distant susurrus of heavy breathing from the two men competing to lift the heavy-duty weights outside the office window.

  “We’re thinking of going on a wee holiday tomorrow,” Mary broke the silence. “They say Millport is right nice this time o’ year.”

  “It is that,” Mr. Slevin agreed. “An auld friend o’ mine retired doon there. Jocky is his name. Right wild he was. But now, a quieter man you’ll never meet.” He grinned at this, and McAllister saw his top set of teeth was loose and the bottom set he hadn’t bothered to put in.

  “Let me give you the Herald phone number, in case . . .” Mary didn’t get to finish.

  “Now why would I be wanting a phone number?” he asked. Then stood. “It’s been right nice to meet you, lass. You too, McAllister.” They shook hands. “Right sorry about yer faither, Miss—a good man.” He held open the door. Mary stepped out into the light and the smell.

  As McAllister passed by, Slugger Slevin held his arm and muttered, “Tell Mrs. McPhee no’ to worry too much, her lad’s at least six o’ his nine lives left.”

  “What was that about?” Mary asked as they waited for a bus to take them back across the Clyde to the city center. It might still be light, but a dim light. It was not a good idea to hang around the Gorbals at closing time on a Saturday night.

  “Just wishing us well.” McAllister had no idea why he lied, but the less Mary was caught up in this, the better, was his thinking.

  “Time for a quick one before closing time?” she asked.

  “It’ll need to be a quick one, closing time in fifteen minutes.”

  “There’s that pub on the corner.” As she said this she stopped, looked around her, then stepped back towards a close entrance. It was impossible to see to the end but she went in a few steps and said, “McAllister, c’m ’ere. Listen.”

  When he joined her, he stood as she did, still, quiet, listening.

  “There it is,” she said. “Something’s going on in there.” It was a cheer, or at least a rising and falling sound, sound that seemed to be coming from a crowd.

  “Probably an illegal drinking den,” he said.

  “Maybe.” She started towards the end of the tunnel. Stone walls over and around them were funneling the noise. It sounded like a sports program coming from a neighbor’s radio.

  “Hey, where are youse goin’?” The voice resembled the growl of some big fierce dog.

  Mary was quick, her accent matching that of the man who was no more than a shape silhouetted against the dark night at the end of the tunnel.

  “Ah telt you this is no’ place for a knee trembler,” she was scolding McAllister, aggrieved, “an’ us no’ even engaged.”

  “Get away wi’ youse.”

  They did just that.

  Out on the pavement McAllister was doing his best not to laugh. “How does a well-brought-up lady know a phrase like that?”

  She ignored him. She was trying to see if there was another way to find the source of the noise. “This way.” She set off without waiting for him. “Here, down here.” A narrow cobbled lane ran alongside the boxing gym. Fifty yards down, the buildings gave way to a high wall. There was a door, but it was locked. The voices were louder, rising in waves
, then falling, hushed by someone saying, often, “Wheesht. Keep the noise down. Haud yer wheesh.”

  “Give me a leg up,” Mary told McAllister. He obliged. Cupping his hands, he hoisted her up. She caught the top of the wall, balanced her feet on the narrow ledge of the door frame, and keeked over to see whatever was happening. He heard her mutter a profanity, and she peered down for a half a minute. He thought he heard her say “barbaric” before adding, “Help me down.”

  He did.

  She was dusting the dirt and moss off her hands, saying, “You need to see this for yourself.”

  “What?”

  “Bare-knuckle fighting. I want to get in there . . .”

  “Whatever for? It’s not our business.”

  “To see what we can see, McAllister. Where’s your investigative spirit?” She knew this was not one of those occasions where she could just barge in. “Thon thug in the alley, he’ll never let me in, but you . . . I know, quick, go buy a bottle. Then go back down the close, say Slugger sent you, and give him a bottle—a half will do.”

  He did as bidden, found himself in the dark almost bumping into the doorman cum watchdog.

  “Slugger wants to know who’s winning,” was all he said as he handed over the door price—a bottle of McKinley.

  “It’s close. Been at it for a good whiley, near two hours, an’ they’re still standing.”

  The light came from three flaming torches set in the corners of what might once have been a stableyard. The smell of paraffin was strong, the flames unsteady. But there was enough light to see the blood-covered chests and torsos, and the bloodied, mashed-up faces and fists of the fighters. The men looked young, in their teens. Their legs and arms were skinny. One of the lads had prominent ribs, and had shaved his head to give him an advantage; it didn’t seem to be helping, as he could barely stand.

  McAllister knew this fight would end only with the loser unconscious at best. Severely injured, most likely. Deep flickering shadows cast the watchers’ faces into gargoyle shapes, demon faces. Unlabeled bottles were being passed around. The referee was the only man in shirtsleeves—the traditional white, and he was wearing a bow tie. How incongruous in a fight like this, McAllister thought.

  The bookie was in a corner taking bets, a sheaf of notes on a metal drum serving as a table.

  The fighters were still staggering, bouncing off each other, gathering what strength they had left to swing a stray punch. In spite of the referee’s warnings, they did not, could not, separate from a particularly long clinch. Then someone threw a bucket of water over them.

  They separated, staggered back, falling into the crowd. Men, bloodlust up, pushed them back into the middle. They wanted more. They wanted broken bones, broken bodies, they wanted the bets paid out, no matter the damage done to the lads, both only one blow short of oblivion.

  The fighters stumbled around, an occasional swing of an arm, missing the opponent, no more weaving and ducking, and no contact for over two minutes. Then a man, a wee bantam cockerel of a man, pushed one of the lads towards his opponent, saying, “Finish him.”

  “I’m away hame,” one wag said, shaking his head, hopefully in disgust, McAllister thought. “This’ll still be on in the morn.”

  “Break. I’ve telt youse, break. Now.” The referee was almost pleading, as, once more, the fighters clung together, holding each other up in a semiconscious waltz, made all the more macabre by the blood dripping down the opponents’ necks, backs, soaking into the waistbands of their trousers.

  “If youse dinny break I’m calling it aff and all bets forfeit.”

  “Go on, Tommy, finish him,” a voice called out.

  There came a crack. No one saw where the punch came from. McAllister suspected the referee who was standing close, the sleeve of his shirt now dark with blood. One of the men-boys doubled over. Then collapsed. A cheer rose up. Other voices hissed. The referee held up the winner’s arm long enough to declare victory before letting him drop to the dirt next to his unconscious opponent. “Wheest!” he hissed at the crowd. “Do you want the polis here?”

  “They’re paid aff,” the man running the bets said as he was handing out money.

  Time to leave, McAllister knew, but he could not help looking once more at the collapsed heap of flesh, the loser with a face that looked like it had been through a mincer. And no one was helping them.

  “Are thon lads all right?” he asked no one in particular.

  “What’s it to you?” the doorman asked.

  McAllister knew he’d made a mistake and, like some of the others, threw a ten-shilling note and some coins at the boxers, then left. Quickly.

  The pub was shuttered and dark when he emerged into the street. He walked towards the bus stop with no hope of catching one.

  “McAllister.” Mary was beside him. She linked her arm in his. She was shivering, although it was not cold. “Was that what I think it was?”

  “Aye, and as brutal.”

  “That’s Glasgow for you. Much money floating around?”

  “Probably.” He was remembering the neat piles of cash, and paper, weighed down by stones, on the metal-drum table. “The fighters were no more than boys.”

  “Right. Tell me about it tomorrow, I’m knackered.”

  A taxi came by with the light out. But Mary stepped into the street. It stopped.

  “Where to?”

  “Blythswood Square.”

  “Jump in.”

  McAllister was no longer surprised at her ability to conjure taxis out of nowhere. The taxi took them to her flat first.

  “Bright an’ early tomorrow, McAllister. See you at Central Station. We can talk then.”

  “ ’Night.” He did not look back as they drove away. He knew she would not wave. Or glance back. Or even think of him. Mary Ballantyne is one driven young woman. And I am one ridiculous middle-aged man.

  NINE

  McAllister had given Mary her ticket the night before and agreed to meet on the train.

  “Go early,” his mother had warned over breakfast. “It’s right busy this time o’ year.”

  He hadn’t mentioned why he was going to Largs so as not to worry her. She held the view that taking a train for the sole purpose of walking up and down the seafront or along a pier was beneficial to the health and wished him a good day at the seaside.

  “Take the ferry over to Millport for a few hours,” she’d suggested. “Lovely place. We had great holidays there when you boys were wee.”

  When he agreed he might do that, he caught the brightness in her eyes, and was reminded he was all that remained of her family.

  • • •

  Once inside the train station, he looked up at the huge board displaying destinations, times, and platforms. Across the station concourse he saw a long line of people queuing up for the train to Largs. On closer inspection they looked like a line of refugees escaping the imminent demise of the city from an atomic bomb, or the Russians, or both.

  Bulging suitcases were tied shut with rope—or perhaps clothesline. Sacks, and in some cases pillowcases, were hoisted up on shoulders, filled with what looked like rocks but was probably a week’s supply of groceries, the prices on the holiday island being notoriously high.

  Some of the women had sewn themselves new sundresses. Unfortunately these exposed whiter-than-white skin and chicken wings and rounded stomachs from too many children and too many potatoes. He knew that soon their city skin would take on the appearance of boiled lobster; every case of sunburn was a chance to show off to neighbors unable to afford a holiday.

  And weaving in and out of the baggage, the couples, the grandparents, the church groups, or communities of neighbors who went on holiday together year after year from the first years of marriage to old age, children scampered, high on excitement and sugar-laden orange cordial. Playing chasie, they ran like rats in thrall to the Pied Piper, to the head of the queue, hoping to run under the barriers and be first on the train, dodging swipes and yells and distr
acted commands to Get yersells o’er here right now.

  McAllister showed his ticket. It was duly punched and he was ushered through the first-class barrier. He joined a jolly bunch of people out for a holiday combined with a day trip to the races. This he deduced from their peculiar garb; like golfers, racegoers and racetrack bookmakers had a dress code all their own. Loud garish shirts, hats with bands that would soon be festooned with betting slips, they carried folding stick-stools, and, undoubtedly, flasks containing whisky.

  Then there were the women. They were dressed for the winner’s enclosure, or box seats in the stands—either that or the equivalent of the Queen’s garden party at the Palace of Holyroodhouse. Overhearing their more subdued chatter, he picked up what was known as a Kelvinside accent—a mangled form of Glasgow English denoting their middle-class status. We are not the hoi polloi, proclaimed women in layers of pancake makeup, and flowery hats with brims worthy of a beekeeper.

  It was only when the guard blew his whistle, loud and shrill, outside the carriage window that McAllister wondered if Mary was going to make the train. On the final whistle and with the groan and clunking as the carriages reluctantly let go their grip on the rails and began to inch forward and still no sign of her, he sighed a mixture of disappointment and relief. Meeting Jimmy on his own would be much easier. Turning up with Mary, well, he knew Jimmy would never pass judgment, but he would prefer it if he wasn’t seen in her company.

  The train was nearing Paisley when the carriage door slid open and Mary came in, plonked herself down in her seat, and grinned at him. “Thought you’d got rid of me, did you?”

  The other four passengers in the carriage stared at her, the women with disapproval, the men otherwise. Mary was wearing a dirndl skirt in a bright abstract pattern, cinched in at the waist with a wide belt. Her sleeveless white shirt was buttoned within an inch of the brassiere, obviously lacy through the thin white material. With golden hoops in her ears, black around her eyes, and pale pink lipstick, hair tied up in a ponytail with a red chiffon scarf, she looked like a girl who’d borrowed, or stolen, her mother’s clothes and makeup.