Glasgow Student Short Story Prize 2009

Judged by A.L. Kennedy
Edited by Elisabeth Ingram, Rebecca CF Bradburd and Jose Velazquez

McLeish

While Bet was in hospital with her lungs, her husband Bob was too muddled with whisky to walk himself never mind the dog so McLeish spun around the back yard for three days, skidding in his own excrement until he found a way out.

    On Monday he fell back into his old routine: he walked himself first thing in the morning, just after the news at one and last thing at night. He took the same route every day, dawdling here and there if it was worth his while. He sniffed the lampposts to see if the usual suspects had been by and then cocked his leg to add his own olfactory signature. Once he’d put his name on the map, he hung out by the shops. Mr. English from the terrace passed McLeish in the morning on his way to buy a paper and took a shine to him. He bought him a choc ice which he left on the patch of grass beside the newsagent’s. McLeish didn’t have a sweet tooth but he knew when he was onto a good thing so he licked it politely until Mr. English turned out of sight at Murchison’s corner.

    On Tuesday McLeish walked Mr. English up as far as the butcher’s and looked into the shop, sniffing the air to see what was on offer but Mr. English walked on oblivious. Murchison himself was not a man for pets and he chased the dog from his door with a soiled mop.

    By Wednesday McLeish was restless; Bet always took him to Aunt Isa’s on a Wednesday. The two women would have a week’s worth of gossip to trade so while Isa poured the gin, Bet lit a cigarette and turned up her hearing aid to whistling point. McLeish was shushed with left-over mince and tatties. This Wednesday McLeish poked his nose out of the door every half hour but it bucketed down all day. He kept out of Bob’s way; Bob was starting to smell and had taken to hurling things at McLeish as he passed, none of which were food. While Bob slept in his chair, McLeish hovered up all the edible things that lay round about him. Bob wasn’t much of an eater but he was a messy eater. Bet was the opposite, she could put a lot away but she rarely dropped a crumb on the way to her mouth. Eventually McLeish went back to his bed.

    On Thursday McLeish stood at the bus stop waiting. The first bus was a double-decker; two men got on but McLeish stayed put. Mr. English walked past and asked him what he was up to but he had no time for the old boy as the 75 rumbled into view.

    A few single-deckers stopped at that stop but Mcleish knew which the 75 was; maybe it was the way the doors hissed open, maybe it was the bus’s olfactory DNA (chips, urine and chewing gum), or maybe it was Patrick, the driver, who called McLeish by his name and stopped obligingly at the swing park opposite Isa’s. McLeish ignored the park that day and headed straight for the house. He thought he could smell mince from the end of the street, he could definitely smell it from the back gate. He howled on the door step for a while but there were no sounds coming from inside the house so he lay down.

    Isa was home from Bingo at five and fussed over the dog as he licked her face clean. She had already put Tuesday’s leftovers in the bin but she found a tin of corned beef in the cupboard. While Mcleish was eating she phoned Bob and gave him an earful.

    In the evening McLeish wouldn’t settle, he sniffed every corner of the house and poked his nose where it wasn’t wanted. He turned circles in his bed and barked when Isa scolded. Isa had almost lost the rag with him when she suddenly jumped up and shouted, I ken whits wrang wi yi, and disappeared into the kitchen. She came back with a familiar white packet and a box of matches. She huffed and puffed as she pulled over the pouffee and placed a glass ashtray on it. Carefully, with inexperienced fingers, she lit one of Bet’s cigarette, puckering her lips around it to get it to burn. Lucky for you she ay leaves a packet here, she said, resting the fag on the ashtray and beckoning the dog over. McLeish sniffed the air, lay down on the old candlewick that was his bed, and let out an involuntary sigh.