Beneath the Abbey Wall by A. D. Scott

McAllister.”
    â€œIs it?” McAllister peered at the bruised sky and smelt imminent rain.
    â€œI won’t come in . . . I don’t suppose Donnie McLeod is still with you . . . ” The big man shifted uncomfortably on his small neat feet.
    â€œHe . . . ” McAllister did not have a chance to elaborate.
    â€œNo, I don’t suppose he’s here.” Sergeant Patience was speaking in a deliberate, penetrating voice, knowing it would carry down the hallway. “And I don’t know where he went to last night . . . ”
    McAllister waited, knowing he would soon know why the policeman was blethering on.
    â€œWe, I mean Detective Inspector Dunne, has been wanting to speak with Mr. McLeod for some time, and always seems to miss him. So, since he was in the cells last night . . . ”
    â€œWith the door open . . . ”
    â€œA precaution in case he chocked or summat . . . ” Sergeant Patience took McAllister’s nod as agreement and continued, “So, if you should see Mr. McLeod, maybe you can persuade him to come in, volunteer-like . . . ”
    â€œNot a word about last night will come from me,” McAllister told him. “But wasn’t Mr. McLeod booked in?”
    â€œNothing like that, I, we, was only helping him off the street, just in case . . . ”
    â€œAye.” McAllister wanted to say he was grateful, knew this wasn’t needed but also knew that Don was now in thepoliceman’s debt. “If I should see Mr. McLeod, I’ll tell him to contact the police.”
    The slump of relief on the man’s face made McAllister reassess him. He knew the sergeant would do him few favors, but his concern for Don McLeod was laudable. Then he remembered the old newspaper saw about good subeditors of long standing—and that was his deputy—“They knows where the bodies are buried.”
    McAllister made tea. He considered cooking bacon and eggs and his favorite Stornaway black pudding, then decided against it; the state of Don’s stomach might not be ready for a good Scottish fry-up.
    It took three large mugs of tea, the first one fortified with a slug of whisky, before Don was ready to slump upright. It took a long bath and a change of cloths three sizes too big for him before Don looked half alive. But the real talking had to wait until late in the afternoon, after McAllister had lit the fire and served them his culinary masterpiece—cock-a-leekie soup.
    â€œYou look like a ghost of yourself,” McAllister remarked. “An improvement. Last night you looked like the ghost of some long-dead clansman from Culloden.”
    Don made a noise, no words.
    â€œI know it’s none of my business . . . ” McAllister continued.
    â€œYou’re right. It’s no’.”
    â€œBut if you are going to kill yourself slowly, can you let me know so I can make other arrangements.” He let that remark lie between them as he served his guest another bowl of soup.
    They took their time and after washing up, they went back to the sitting room. The rain had set in dark and heavy and steady, real Sunday weather, so McAllister switched on the standard lamp, a dark wooden piece whose base was carved with what looked like overlarge misshapen vine leaves, the parchment shade trimmed with yellowing tassels hanging unevenly aroundthe rim. It had come with the house and McAllister had kept it, as he enjoyed the well of golden light it made in the high-ceilinged room. When the uneven electric flow made the lamp flicker, he thought of campfires and starry nights and times past, drinking with friends in hidden camps in the foothills of the Pyrenees, resting before the next round in the losing battles against Franco’s fascists.
    â€œThanks.”
    The sound of Don’s voice made McAllister jerk back to the here and