The Long Arm of The Law

The Long Arm of The Law

Chapter 1

The street door slammed."The police are after Malky!". Big Tam looked up from his racing paper, brows furrowed in concern. Although the three horse accumulator was a complex calculation Tam had mastered it before he was old enough to see over the bookies counter. His concern was not for tomorrow's bet, which was a sure thing according to Pat McNeill, but for the volume at which the newcomer had made his portentious statement.

Tam observed the room through hooded eyes. The uneven wooden floor displayed a riot of white and yellow, discarded cigarette ends and betting slips telling of the lat Color e hour. Beams of afternoon sunlight illuminated the blue smoke haze. Behind the window Old Nick watched the punters with professional disinterest. To a man the punters clustered around the new Victrola radio set, betting slips clenched in work-worn hands. The only sound was the frantic jabber of the race commentator yelling the finishing order from his box thirty-five miles along the sunlit Ayrshire coast. With a look of desperate relief one man walked to the bookies window. The others dropped their slips on the floor. Two younger men shuffled resignedly towards the door as the older die-hards sought fresh slips for their next bet. The door slammed with a blast of cool air, sending yellow paper dancing across the floor.

"Wait for me outside", Tam smiled to his accoster. He finished writing his slip then ambled to the betting window. The floor creaked in protest at the weight of the big man. Old Nick counted money into the upturned palm of the winner. His sour face was made uglier by the smile he inflicted on his winning customer.

Billy Murdoch turned as Tam's shadow fell over him, automatically hunching his shoulders against an unexpected blow. He recognised Tam, smiled in relief, and shoved his winnings deep into his trouser pockets. "Two pounds five shillings, Tam, she'll be in a good mood tonight", he winked, then walked hurriedly to the door. He caught the door as it closed, and nipped out behind the nervous little man in the overcoat.

The wooden shack known euphemistically as a 'Turf Accountant's Office' sat between two tenement buildings, dwarfed by them as they were in turn dwarfed by the cranes and structures of the shipyard. The man in the overcoat cupped his hands to light a hand-rolled cigarette. Billy peered myopically up and down the street, squinting to see into the shadows of the tenement blocks. Satisfied by this scrutiny he marched resolutely homewards. He felt the weight of the money in his pockets. He jingled the coins. A wry smile appeared on his young-old face. Tonight his wife Mary would have no reason to scold him for gambling.For the first time in a long time Billy had real money. Whistling the first few bars of a rebel song he skipped once like the Tramp and took the corner at a run.

The bookmaker's door opened and closed once more. Tam laid his heavy hand on the small man's shoulder. "Tell me about the police, Dougal", he rumbled, "and we'll walk to the Rope and Chain".

Dougal grimaced, flicked his cigarette butt into the wind and followed Tam along the street. "Malky was gassed last night, throwing his redundancy money away on drink. You know how he's always fancied Irene MacMillan?". Tam grunted noncomitally, so Dougal took it as a sign to continue his tale."Irene says he told her that there was going to be more money where that came from, if she was nice to him. Her man Stephen went mental and Malky slashed him with a razor. That's why the police want Malky." Tam sighed, shook his head, and frowned at the approaching storm clouds.

Peter Devlin, (c) May 1998

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