couldn’t tear his eyes off the terrible spectacle of the man lying on the cold concrete floor, his face swollen and bloody, his left eye so puffed up it looked as though some parasitic creature had attached itself to his face. His shirt was hiked up, and Douglas saw the evidence of the beating: marks quickly going from red to purple, blood drying on boot-shredded skin. The men gathered close.
“Leave him alone,” said one.
“See if you can wake him,” said another.
“Should we try and get him on his feet?”
“Bastards did him in but good.”
McEwen moaned and stirred, his arms and legs twitched. His eyes flickered open and then closed. A trickle of blood leaked from his mouth.
“Looks like he’s lost a tooth or two,” said a man with no more than three teeth in his head himself.
“Shoot the dog,” said the big Indian, quietly, although what he meant was unclear.
McEwen made a wet sucking noise in his throat. He tried to push himself up on his elbows.
“Get him sittin’ up,” someone said.
“Perhaps we could lean him against the wall,” Douglas said, and when eyes turned toward him, he pointed. “That wall, maybe.”
Pairs of hands heaved the limp body into a seated posture against the wall. McEwen’s head sagged on his breast and a string of pink-tinged drool stained his already filthy shirt.
With the injured man settled, the rest went back to their conversations, their pacing back and forth, their smoking, their cards, although now and then they glanced discreetly in McEwen’s direction, as though to make sure he was not about to leap on them, or fall, or die. They acted as though the violence might be contagious, and Douglas was not so sure they were wrong.
Douglas resumed his post near the bars. He didn’t like to think about what was happening to the other man, Tim Buck, who along with McEwen, had been culled from their lot upon arrival.
It was very hot in the cell and sweat trickled between his shoulder blades and between the cheeks of his buttocks, places where he could not reach. The lining of his stomach felt ragged. He vowed that should he get out of this unharmed, he would never drink again. His muscles, cramped from tension, began to tremble. His shoulders began to shiver. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands beneath his soggy armpits, praying that the shaking would stop and that no one would see his fear.
He heard a terrible retching. McEwen, clutching his stomach, was going to be sick. His head lurched, and men scattered. He tried to get up on all fours, then gave up and leaned over on one arm. He vomited blood.
The men in the cell stepped over each other trying to get out of the way.
“Guard! Guard!”
“Get a doctor!”
“Jesus H. Christ!”
Douglas was pinned against the bars. He turned his face away. A young cop approached the cell.
“What the hell’s the racket in here?”
“I think that man is going to die,” said Douglas in a voice that he did not completely register was his.
“Goddamn it!” said the policeman. “Dan! Jack! Get over here!” Other policemen came running and the door was opened. Men were pushed out of the way. Douglas saw McEwen, held under the arms and knees, being carried out of the cell. His head was tilted back. Douglas thought, He’ll choke. The man will choke.
“His head,” he said. “Be careful of his head.”
“Mr. MacNeil? Is that you?” A hand touched his shoulder. “What are you doing with this bunch? How did you get here?” said a dark-haired young cop. “Are you okay?” The young man waved his hand in front of Douglas’s eyes.
“I’m not a Communist,” said Douglas.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
“I know you,” he said.
“Of course you do. I’m Bobbie Patterson.”
Yes, that was it. He was little Bobbie Patterson. One of the boys who stole candy from the counter and mussed up his magazines. One of the neighbourhood boys Douglas had chased out of the store for years. He reached up and put his hands on Bobbie’s shoulders. He was afraid he might cry.
“I was walking. There were all these people. I wasn’t one of them. I was just walking.”
Bobbie Patterson pulled back and Douglas knew the whisky must be on his breath.
“Course you were, Mr. MacNeil. Course you were. Let’s see what can be done about this.” And he pulled Douglas from the cell, amidst hoots of derision.
“Yer a yellow-hearted fellow,” said a man. “Good riddance to ya!” And Douglas heard someone spitting.
“You know,” Bobbie Patterson said as they walked down the long loud hall, “you should be more careful, Mr. Mac. These men in there, well, they’re a bad sort. They’re out to undermine everything we stand for in this country.”
“Oh, yes, I can see that,” said Douglas. “I’m just an unlucky bystander in all this. I tried to explain that to the other officers but they wouldn’t listen. Although,” he added, seeing a dark look cross Bobbie’s face, “I can see how they wouldn’t have had the time and all, given the situation. Ha ha. You men are doing a fine job. Yessir. A fine job.”
“You wait here. I’m gonna have a word.” Bobbie laid his finger alongside his nose and winked, then he went to talk to an older officer. The older man glanced in Douglas’s direction. Bobbie put his hand on the man’s shoulder, turned to look back himself, then mimed tipping a bottle to his lips. The other man smirked and nodded. Bobbie clapped him on the back and went behind the desk to a rack of lockers. From inside one he pulled a paper bag containing Douglas’s possessions and walked back to him, grinning.
“Okay, Mr. Mac, you’re free to go. And go straight home, huh?”
“Yes, of course, Bobbie, or should I say Constable Patterson, eh? Yes, straight home with me. It’s been quite a night, quite a night.” Douglas pumped the young man’s hand. He was in a hurry to go. He needed the night air, clean, calm night air, to fill his lungs with the scent of something to wipe out the stench of the cell.
“Just one more thing . . . ” The young man held his hand firmly and wouldn’t let go.
“Yes?”
“Well, let’s be clear here. That man who got took to the hospital. That’s a sad thing, I guess, but sometimes guys come in here all beat up, you understand. Don’t have anything to do with the police department, you understand. Wasn’t for us he’d of bled to death in that cell. You do see that, don’t you, Mr. Mac.”
“Of course,” he said, smiling, looking Bobbie straight in the eye. “Of course. Like I said, you’re all doing a wonderful
