Davey came up over the steep, stony track that would lead him to the golf course once he had climbed a fence and crossed a burn. Sometimes he stopped to catch his breath. He was coming up for sixty and a hard life had taken its toll. When he reached the fence he became uneasy. Tam Duggan sat on a tree stump, arms folded as if patiently waiting on him.
‘Saw ye comin’ in the distance,’ said Tam with a jovial smile. ‘I thought I might as well go along wi’ ye.”
'Aye,’ said Davey with a nod. He could hardly refuse the offer for Tam was a big strong-looking fellow in his early twenties with a police record as long as his arm, mainly for assault.
He climbed stiffly over the fence then jumped the narrow burn with Tam following more easily.
‘Up collectin’ your golf ba’s?’ said Tam. ‘I hear you dae quite well.’
‘No’ bad,’ mumbled Davey, his voice lost in the wind that had sprung up carrying a drizzle of rain with it.
He gave his companion a sidelong glance, wondering if he was as bad as folk said – it was easy to be in trouble nowadays, especially if you were young and had nothing to take up your time.
Tam faced him and said humbly, ‘I hope you don’t mind me comin’ along wi’ ye. I thought I might try some collectin’ masel’.’
His coarse, handsome face was marred by a scar running the length of the left cheek.
‘Why no’?’ said Davey. ‘It’s a free country,’ though his heart sank. He didn’t want anyone else poaching, at least not alongside him. Others who collected golf balls were usually solitary figures in the distance, acting as if they were out for a stroll and keeping well clear of each other.
From 'The Collectors'
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