Wild Geese Overhead by Neil M. Gunn Page B

policeman began to drag him away.
    â€œOne minute,” said Will. “For God’s sake, listen.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œI’m not drunk. There’s something wrong. Listen to me.”
    The policeman was all attention now and looked shrewdly into Will’s face.
    â€œGive me a minute,” said Will. “Let me lean against the wall.” The policeman helped him to the wall. Will shut his teeth against an overpowering desire to sit down. “It happened in there. I have only had one drink to-night. You know I’m quite sober.” Any one could see he was sober. “Only one drink. I was in there. The atmosphere—cut it with a knife. I went into the lavatory. A fellow spewed over me. It turned my stomach.”
    â€œWhat were you doing in there?”
    â€œMy job. I’m a journalist.”
    â€œOh, a journalist, are you?”
    â€œYes. I work on the Evening Star. Special articles—social conditions. You know. God, I’m feeling sick yet.”
    â€œSo you’re a journalist?”
    â€œYes. Give you my card.” A weak smile came to his face. “I thought I was tougher. It was the way the stuff—oh heavens!” Will had brought his hand up to open his coat and now began brushing the breast of it with sickening distaste.
    â€œIt isn’t a very nice thing to do on the street,” said the constable in a mollified tone.
    â€œDon’t rub it in! I’ll make a contribution—to the scavenging department.” The weary humour was a friendly effort.
    â€œHow would you like, if you were living here, and came out in the morning, and slid on that?”
    â€œHush—or I’ll do it again.”
    â€œYou better not,” said the constable.
    Will felt assailed by a humour wild and fantastic as the night, the black convoluting horror of the night. Something in the policeman’s voice was faintly reminiscent of Don, too. The Highland accent! The tangle of the Isles! The cheekbones protruded like stem or sternpost of a small boat. Smashing green seas and white spray.
    He had got hold of his pocket-book, when an uproar arose from the pub. “Come along,” said the policeman, taking Will in tow.
    As they reached the spot, Joe and Jamie came clattering through the doors, as if they had been forcibly ejected. Some men followed, but when they saw the policemen they backed away. Joe seemed to be doing his best to hold a one-armed maniac, whose language was foul. It was a strange, terrifying, agonizing foulness. Some youngsters, who had been following Will and the policeman, listened to it with frightened faces. Normally they would have listened like connoisseurs, with the general assessment: “Jesus, hasn’t he got a—skinful!” But now they were silent, the eyes in the pale faces glistening with a queer dread. Nothing on the normal plane of social horror was strange to them; but this was pushed off that plane into the abyss where there is no footing, only the cry coming back.
    Joe had said a few hurried words to the policeman, who was now helping him, and both of them began dragging Jamie away. The constable, who was with Will, strode forward, had a word or two with his colleague, and turned back, meeting Will.
    â€œGood night, constable—and thanks,” said Will.
    Their eyes met. In a slow grim way the policeman nodded. “Good night.”
    But Jamie wasn’t beaten yet. For he wanted back. He wanted back to the warmth of the pub; to the light and the warmth, to the obliterating crush of bodies, drinking, drinking, all drinking. He wanted back. The children at a little distance heard him cry: “For Christ’s sake, let me back! Let me back! Let me back!” his voice rising to a roar, then choking in his throat as he dug his heels in. It looked as if his captors were taking him to torture, not ordinary bodily torture, but some other hellish and unthinkable torture. It was