Wild Geese Overhead by Neil M. Gunn Page A

large glass. The stuff that, with a dash of meth., was called Red Biddy. One of these, with a chaser of beer, and a fellow could be well on. They were not having chasers. They were sticking to the wine. Taking it in little mouthfuls, and discussing—film stars. Will could not believe his ears. Not young lads. Men of over thirty, over forty. Yes, they were discussing a film that had been, a film that was coming, and the stars concerned. “Ay, she’s grand.” “I’ll tell you what I thought was awful good. Remember that time when he came in and she was——” Pale-faced, bright-eyed film-addicts, living a dream-life on the dole, with sixpence twice a week for the pictures and a little more for Empire wine.
    A buzzing of blood went into Will’s ears. Never in his life had he been assailed by the pathetic in this frightening way. In comparison, Bill Bailey and his listeners were he-men.
    â€œWant another?” Joe asked.
    â€œOne minute,” said Will and he looked around. “Where’s the lavatory?” he asked the barman.
    â€œThrough that way.”
    Will edged his way through, was involuntarily stopped by his nostrils on the threshold, held his breath, and went into the latrine. Men’s backs and shoulders; one or two swaying in their drink. The fellow next to him was leaning forward, supported by the forehead which pressed against the flag-stone wall. All at once the horizontal pipe a few inches above the man’s head noisily gushed out water through its small perforations. The water descended upon his cap, soaked it, and trickled down his face. His whole body convulsed and his mouth ejected a violent gush of vomit, which hit the flag-stone and spat back upon Will’s clothes. Will let out a harsh grunt of disgust and began wildly brushing the stuff off with his naked hand. Slowly the face twisted round at him. Black burning eyes. The eyes held him, torture drawn to fine points. The face drew back from the wall, slowly, and steadied, concentrating on Will in a demoniacal satire and hatred. Only as the body squared up did Will notice that the right arm was missing.
    Before he could be assaulted, Will turned away, re-entered the bar, and went up to Joe. “He’s in there,” he said.
    â€œWho? Jamie?”
    â€œYes.”
    Joe looked at him. “Feeling sick?”
    â€œYes.” Will kept wiping his left side. “Must get some fresh air.” He turned abruptly and pushed his way out. The cold raw night hit him in the face. Two policemen were standing on the opposite pavement a few yards down. It was near closing time. He turned up the side street hurriedly. One policeman slowly moved up after him. He strove to keep his sickness down, going on blindly. He could not keep it down. He moaned aloud in agony and the sickness came in a spate through his teeth. He groped for the wall and steadied himself. His legs began to tremble; his head went icy cold. A hand with metal fingers gripped his shoulder. “What’s this?” But he could not get breath. His legs were giving way. He got breath and moaned: “Leave me.” The policeman shook him and said roughly: “Come on!” He did not mind the policeman, because now the fainting sensation was ebbing, casting the thing that was himself high and dry again.
    He slowly straightened up. “Sorry, constable.” He gasped, for some bitter stuff had got into his wind-pipe.
    The policeman stooped and looked into his face. “Who are you?” The voice was gruff and suspicious.
    Will did not answer. Deeper than his human sense of shame, than his hatred of the animal mess, was this feeling that he was coming all right. For there had been one terrible drawn-out moment when he had felt himself shooting into a black abyss. The policeman shook him. His strong fingers bit the shoulder bone. Will lost his balance, but the policeman held him upright. “Come on!” The