Walking Wounded by William McIlvanney Page B

having found her so dull. A handsome restaurant waiter she used to give lavish tips would wonder intermittently what had happened to her and his thoughts would be a kind of requiem, duly paid for. The dishes were unwashed. The alarm would be unanswered.
    Stripping off her prim clothes, they were amazed at the vision they saw. Her body was sensuous in rich underwear. The brassiere and the pants were of pale green, sheer silk, beneath which the dark pubic hair shimmered like Atlantis. They went on with what they had to do, unaware that they had witnessed the stubborn resplendence of unfulfilled dreams.

5
    The prisoner
    â€˜ A ll right, Rafferty,’ the governor said. ‘Good luck. And let’s hope we won’t be seeing you again.’
    The next one he certainly would be seeing again.
    McQueen: over the past twenty years more time in prison than out of it. Recidivist. Always the same crime: burglary without violence but also burglary without the slightest indication of ever stopping. Show McQueen a big house and he wanted to screw it. The Don Juan of burglary. His only saving grace as a burglar was his inefficiency. But at least inside he had tended to behave. And now this.
    The governor closed the file. He prepared himself for McQueen’s presence, the rumpled hair, the heavy shoulders, the puzzlingly introverted eyes. The feeling that you might never get through to him. Conversations with a totem pole.
    Without looking up, the governor knew that the assistant governor was watching him. He also knew, irritatedly, the way he was watching him: that look of those who wait for someone else to see the light. The governor hated that look, smugness like bell metal. The assistant governor was like a Jehovah’s Witness of the hard line, always ready to canvass for his cause, always patient before the benightedness of others, always convinced that phoney liberals would eventually see the error of their ways.
    The governor looked up and saw the expression that waspointed towards him like a Bible tract. Let us be righteous and burn the other bastards in hellfire.
    â€˜Okay,’ the governor said. ‘Let’s have him in.’
    â€˜This is a bad one, chief.’
    The governor wondered where the assistant governor got his dialogue.
    â€˜Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘Let’s have him in.’
    â€˜You want me in with you on this one?’
    â€˜No, Frank.’
    â€˜After what he’s done?’
    â€˜I know McQueen.’
    â€˜We all thought we knew McQueen.’
    â€˜Frank. If I shout for help, you come in with the machine-gun.’
    Levity was the best defence against the assistant governor. Humour was a foreign language to him. If you wanted him to laugh, you had to tell him it was a joke. He had his customary reaction of mild affront and went out and officiously ushered in McQueen, giving the governor a last significant look: help is at hand.
    McQueen came in pleasantly and stood in front of the governor’s desk. The governor decided not to tell him to sit down. This was a stand-up problem. McQueen returned the governor’s look and almost smiled and gazed out of the window. The governor tried not to like that crumpled face that looked as if it might have come out of the womb asking for directions and still not received an answer.
    â€˜McQueen.’
    â€˜Sur!’
    The governor felt that McQueen’s respect was subtly disrespectful. He invariably addressed the governor as ‘Sir’ but he invariably used the inflection of his West of Scotland dialect, as if reminding him that they didn’t quite speak the same language. ‘Sur’ was the fifth-column in the standard English McQueen affected when speaking to the governor.
    â€˜You know what this is about.’
    â€˜Yes, sur.’
    â€˜Why?’
    McQueen shrugged.
    â€˜Sur?’
    â€˜McQueen. You were obviously unhappy throughout the Christmas meal. Officer Roberts warned you three times.