Unbearable Lightness of Scones

69. Death of a Gangster

Later, Matthew was to have only a blurred recollection of the events that came in the immediate aftermath of the collapse of Lard O’Connor. He remembered standing at the top of the steps that led down to Big Lou’s coffee bar; he remembered the sound of Lard’s head hitting the stone, a sort of sharp crack, like a piece of wood being broken; and he remembered finding himself down at Lard’s side, reaching for the great, heavy arm that was poking through the railings, and moving it to a more comfortable position. But Lard, by then, was beyond comfort.

For his part, Angus had a clearer memory of everything that happened, down to the smallest detail. He remembered the sound of Lard’s breathing as the Glaswegian visitor followed him down the steps. Angus remembered stopping and half-turning to explain to Lard that the steps were hazardous and that it was in this precise spot that Scotland’s most distinguished poet of the twentieth century had almost brought his literary career to a premature end. But he did not say any of this because, as he turned, he heard a strange sound emanating from Lard’s mouth – a choking sound; the sound of one struggling for breath.

Then Angus saw that Lard’s face was quite white and that his vast bulk was beginning to sway. He’ll crush me if he falls, he thought, and moved to the side of the steps, pressing himself against the flimsy barrier of the badly maintained railings. That action saved him from sure and certain injury as Lard suddenly toppled forward and half-slid, half-bounced down the steep set of stone steps.

When Lard reached the bottom, Angus rushed forward, to be joined by Matthew at the side of the inert, prone figure.

“Tell Big Lou to call an ambulance,” said Angus quickly. “And then come back out here and help me shift him. We don’t want his head lower than his body. All the blood will drain down.”

Matthew stepped over Lard and dashed into the café. Big Lou had already abandoned the bar and was coming towards him. She had her cordless telephone in her hand.

“Call an ambulance,” shouted Matthew. “Quick.”

Cyril barked. He was standing outside, staring at Lard on the ground and at Angus kneeling beside him. Something had happened in the world of men, but he was unsure what it was and if he was expected to do anything. To be on the safe side, he raised his head and gave a howl. That would cover an eventuality that was looking increasingly likely to him.

Matthew and Angus now man-handled Lard’s trunk and legs down the last few steps so that they were at the same level as his head and chest. He lay there on the cold stone, his mouth open, his eyes staring up at the patch of sky above. There was no movement.

“Artificial respiration,” said Matthew. “I’m going to apply mouth-to-mouth.”

Angus nodded. “And shouldn’t we thump his chest?” he asked.

“We could give it a try,” said Matthew. “But he looks a goner to me.”

They did their best. At one point Matthew thought that he detected some movement within Lard, but it proved just to be a great belch, which came up from his stomach, a last protest against the Glaswegian diet that had been directed into that long-suffering organ. It was a posthumous belch, and it was followed by silence.

A few minutes later, the ambulance arrived, and two men, each carrying some sort of box, came dashing down the steps.

“All right, boys,” said one of the ambulance men. “We’ll take over.”

They worked on Lard for more than ten minutes, ventilating him and applying a defibrillator to his chest. When the current was switched on, Lard’s body gave a twitch, but nothing more, and was once again still. They tried several times, looked at the heart tracing on the machine, and then exchanged glances.

“Did you see what happened?” asked one of the ambulance men, feeling for a pulse under Lard’s chin and then shaking his head.

“He gasped,” said Angus. “He was just above me on the steps and he gasped. It was a strange sound. Then he tumbled over and hit his head on the way down.”

The ambulance man nodded. “His heart had probably stopped by the time he hit the ground,” he said. “Big chap like this. That’s the way they go.” He paused. “Friend of yours?”

Angus hesitated. Was Lard his friend? He knew very little about him, and what little he knew was hardly favourable. But now he was mortal clay – that which we all become sooner or later. And if there is such a thing as an immortal soul – and Angus thought there was – then Lard had had such a one as the rest of us; a flawed one, perhaps, but a soul nonetheless. He had said something about his weans. So there were children. And a Mrs. O’Connor. And a life of plans and ambitions and fears – just the same as the rest of us.

“Yes,” he said. “He was a friend of mine.” He looked at Matthew. “And of you too, Matthew?”

Matthew nodded. “Yes, he was my friend too.”

“I’m very sorry,” said the ambulance man. “But I can tell you, he won’t have known what hit him. Out like a light. If that’s any consolation.”

It was, and Angus thought of those words as he helped the ambulance men to roll Lard onto the stretcher and carry him up the stone steps. “We’re not meant to allow you to help,” said the other ambulance man. “Health and safety regulations, you know. But you boys were his friend and maybe he would have liked it.”

“He would,” said Angus. “He would have liked it.”

And he thought for a moment how stupid our society had become, that its nanny-like concern for risk should prevent one man helping another to take a dead friend up the steps of Big Lou’s coffee bar. How silly; how petty; how dehumanising. And when they reached the top, he looked up at the sky, which had been overcast earlier on, but which now was clearing. There was high cloud, white cloud banked up to wide expanses of blue, and Angus wondered, curiously, what an artist might have made of this scene, Bellini perhaps, or Moretto. The angels would descend – well-built, strong angels – to carry Lard upwards to his rest; a man who had been undeserving in this world welcomed into the next, where human wrongs are forgiven and the heaviest become light.