Ken McClure - Fenton's winter

Fenton assured her that he was not there to collect money. "Then what?" she asked.

"I would like to talk to you about your husband."

"What about him?" asked the woman suspiciously.

"Nothing bad I promise. I just want you to tell me about him. Can I come in?"

"You're another reporter," said the woman.

Fenton was about to deny it when he noticed that the woman seemed pleased at the prospect of his being a reporter so he smiled instead and she opened the door.

They sat down to talk in a small, sparsely furnished kitchen cum living room which impressed Fenton with its tidiness and neatness. It seemed almost an act of defiance against an ever encroaching desert of filth and squalor.

"My Jimmy never stole a thing in his life," insisted the woman, "Someone planted that drill in his locker."

"Why would they do that Mrs Lindsay?" probed Fenton gently.

"Because they wanted him out that's why," said the woman.

Fenton's throat tightened as he saw the possibility of a management intrigue against James Lindsay because he knew too much about something.

"Who are 'they'" he asked.

"The men he worked beside."

Fenton's heart fell. "Why did his work mates want him out Mrs Lindsay?"

"They were jealous because he was such a good worker. Jimmy said that when the company expanded to make the new plastic they would probably make him a foreman and we could move away from here." The woman looked around with disgust at her surroundings, her eyes settled on a damp patch on the wall paper. "We were going to buy a bungalow in Bearsden," she said mistily, "And Jimmy was going to buy a Sierra. He said that he would get me a Mini for the shopping and taking the weans to school…"

Fenton thought he recognised the story. Jimmy had been either a dreamer or a drunk. He continued to probe gently for the woman desperately wanted to believe that her husband had been innocent…but he had not, a fact that became more and more apparent with every answer. A familiar tale unfolded. Drink, gambling, money lenders charging enormous rates of interest, threats, fear, desperation and, in James Lindsay's case, suicide.

The woman started to sob quietly while the child who had never let go of her skirt for an instant since he had come in, continued to stare at him and pick his nose unconcernedly. Fenton supposed that he must have seen a lot of crying over the past week or so. He looked for some way of changing the subject and his eyes fell on a photograph of a man in uniform on the mantelpiece. "Was that your husband Mrs Lindsay?" he asked.

The woman nodded, then blowing her nose and tucking the handkerchief into her skirt, she added, "He was an Argyll. He looked so lovely in his uniform…"

Fenton sensed that the tears were about to start again and stood up. "He was a fine looking man," he said softly, "And a daddy you can be proud of," he added, bending down to press a five pound note into the child's hand.

Fenton restrained himself from taking an almighty kick at the beer can lying in the entrance to the close and compromised by flicking it aside once more with his toe. As he did so he suddenly became aware of two men who had been pressed up against the doorway. He spun round in surprise.

"Is this the wan Bella?" asked one of the men, half over his shoulder to the darkness of the close.

'Bella' emerged from the shadows, a shambling mass of flab in stained apron and carpet slippers. She scuffled towards Fenton and chewed gum while she examined him. "Aye," she announced, "That's the bastard."

The questioner, a full head shorter than Fenton but squat and powerful with a scarred face and a noseline that altered direction more than once, looked at Fenton with granite eyes. His companion, an emaciated figure suspended inside a dirty black suit several sizes too large stood one pace behind. His skin, a sickly yellow colour, looked as if it had been stretched over his cheek bones like the wing fabric of a model aircraft. He puffed nervously on a cigarette, holding it between the bunched finger-nails of his right hand while his eyes darted nervously from side to side.

"I hear you were botherin' Mary Lindsay, pal," said granite eyes with quiet menace. Fenton felt fear climb his spine like a glacier on the move. The memory of the last time filled his head making the thought of so much pain again just too awful to contemplate. "I've been to see Mrs Lindsay, yes," he said in carefully measured tones that had been filtered to remove any inflection that could possibly be construed as antagonistic.

"Oh hiv ye," said granite eyes moving towards him slowly, "Do you hear that Ally? He's been to see Mrs Lindsay, yes." He exaggerated a sing-song posh accent as he said it. The yellow skinned corpse withdrew his left hand quickly from the drapes of his jacket pocket and flicked his wrist to reveal an open razor.

"What in Christ's name is this all about?" asked Fenton, his mouth dry with fear.

Granite eyes smiled with no trace of humour. "When will you bastards ever learn?" he hissed through gritted teeth. "You canny get blood frae a stone. Mary Lindsay hisnae got any money pal, savvy? Nae money!" His finger stabbed at Fenton's chest as his voice rose. "So why dae youse bastards keep comin' round here? Are ye tryin' tae kill her like ye did Jimmy?"

Fenton could sense that granite eyes was working himself up into a frenzy and bringing the yellow skinned corpse with the razor with him. This was not going to be any kind of warning. He only had seconds left. The fat woman stood idly by, chewing her gum as if she were watching television. In a moment she would change channels.

"There's some mistake," said Fenton hoarsely.

"You made it pal," hissed granite eyes moving on to the balls of his feet.

Fenton bunched his stomach muscles and prepared himself for what he now saw as inevitable. Granite eyes was the big problem. The other one had the razor but granite eyes was the real hard man and it would take more than one blow to take him out. He dismissed the notion of kneeing him in the crotch, it was too obvious and granite eyes would expect it for amateurs always tried that. He would go for a punch to the throat. If it connected the man would go down. If he could then get in with a couple of kicks quickly he might stay down long enough for him to deal with yellow skin. Razor or no razor, with granite eyes out of the way, Fenton knew that he could take him, in fact, the man looked so ill that one blow might splinter his consumptive frame like a matchwood doll.

Fenton looked into his opponents eyes and was gratified to find a flicker of doubt there as if he had suddenly realised that Fenton might not be the complete amateur he had taken him for and, if that were the case…he was big. Fenton knew what granite eyes was thinking and took comfort from it. Correct, he thought, I've been away a long time but I know the game too. You don't realise it but I know you…I've known you all my life…"

"Stop it! Stop it!" cried a woman's voice from above but Fenton did not look up, neither did granite eyes. They held each other's gaze, afraid to give the other any advantage.

"Leave him alone Scobie! And you too Ally! He's not one of them, he's a reporter!"

Fenton gave thanks to any god that happened to be listening as he saw granite eyes turn and look up. He turned back again and said, "Is that right pal? A reporter eh?" He said it as if nothing at all had gone before and they had just been introduced. His smile revealed rows of rotten teeth. "Doin' a wee story on Jimmy are you? Exposing these money lendin' bastards? Good fur you."

"I'm doing my best," Fenton lied.

"Well, ma name's Scobie McGraw and this here's Ally Clegg — two gees by the way." The yellow corpse grinned. "If there's anythin' we can do tae help ye only hiv tae ask."