Strange Loyalties by William McIlvanney Read Free Book Online

effortlessly and effectively as an ocean closing over a wreck.
    Suddenly I didn’t want to sit in the Akimbo Arms, a pub I had known slightly, and be invaded by the anonymity of the town. I needed a place that would give me a stronger sense of Scott.
    â€˜John,’ I said. ‘What you say we don’t go to the Akimbo? We could walk to where I’ve parked the car. And I’ll drive us to the Bushfield Hotel. I need a room for the night anyway.’
    â€˜Sure,’ he said. ‘I have the odd pint in there. It’s all right.’
    The Bushfield was a converted private house. It was mainly a pub but it had perhaps ten bedrooms as well. Katie and Mike Samson, who owned it, had known Scott well. I had spent a few sessions in there after hours, enjoying the singsong. The sweetly ample Katie had been very fond of Scott. Maybe Mike had liked him, too. But with Mike you couldn’t be sure. Tall and lean, he sometimes gave the impression that you might need a power-drill to find out what was going on inside his head. Together, they were tune and descant, Mike providing a slightly lugubrious undertow to Katie’s joy in things.
    I parked the car in front of the hotel and took out my travelling-bag. As John Strachan and I went into the hotel, Katie was crossing the hallway from bar to kitchen.
    â€˜Have you got a room here for a wayfaring stranger?’ I said.
    â€˜Oh, Jack,’ she said.
    She stood staring at me. I thought I understood what the stare meant. She was reaffirming the death of Scott in seeing his big brother. Scott would never again be standing where I was. Katie being Katie, as spontaneous as breathing, the thought brought tears to her eyes. She approached with her arms open and pulled me down into an embrace where breathing was difficult. The travelling-bag hit the floor. Just when I was going down for the third time, she released me.
    â€˜You’re thin as a rake,’ she said.
    â€˜That’s just muscular leanness, Katie.’
    â€˜Don’t dodge. What have you been eatin’? Or what have ye not been eatin’, more like?’
    â€˜I’m the worst cook in Britain.’
    â€˜Ach, Jack. I heard about yer other bothers, too.’ Shemeant my marriage. ‘Trouble always travels in company, doesn’t it?’
    I tried to introduce John Strachan to her but she knew him already. She would. She treated even casual customers as if they were part of an extended family. She shooed John through to the bar to get a pint and took me upstairs to show me my room. It was freshly decorated and beautifully clean.
    â€˜This is the best one,’ she said. ‘Some of the others are getting done up. Then there’s two fellas from Denmark staying the night. And a man from Ireland’s been here for nearly a week.’
    I didn’t unpack the bag. I told her I wanted to phone Glasgow. She wouldn’t let me use the payphone. She took me back downstairs to the kitchen. Fortunately, Buster the dog recognised me, although that didn’t always guarantee you immunity from threatening noises. She left me dialling Brian Harkness’s number.
    â€˜Hello?’
    â€˜Hullo, Morag?’ I said. ‘It’s –’
    â€˜I know who it is all right. I’d recognise your growl anywhere. It’s Black Jack Laidlaw, the mad detective.’
    It’s nice to be recognised.
    â€˜Where are you?’ she said.
    â€˜I’m in Graithnock. I’m still in Graithnock.’
    â€˜Whereabouts in Graithnock?’
    â€˜I’m just booking into a wee hotel. I just got in there.’
    â€˜Don’t be daft,’ she said. Morag had the kind of directness that often goes with authentic generosity. Kindness was such a natural thing with her she never bothered to dress it in formal clothes. ‘You’re forty minutes down the road from us. Get your bum in the car and get up here.’
    I didn’t take time to explain that that