Fenton's Winter (17 page)

"Poor devil."

"Where is Saxon Medical?"

"On one of these industrial
estates in Glasgow."

"That would fit, it's a Glasgow
address." said Jenny.

Fenton took the paper and read
the story for himself. He finished by saying, "He wasn't an
executive with that address."

"You know it?"

"It's near where I was
born."

"Is that the mist of nostalgia
I see in your eyes?"

"No it isn't. They should have
pulled that place down years ago."

"Then what were you thinking?"
asked Jenny.

"I was thinking that I might go
to see Mrs Lindsay."

Jenny was aghast. "Whatever
for?" she gasped.

"Anything to do with Saxon
Medical...I am interested."

Fenton went to Glasgow on the
following Tuesday. The Honda ate up the forty odd miles or
sobetween the Capital and Glasgow in as many minutes and Fenton
weaved his way expertly through the derelict buildings and cratered
sites that defaced the east side of the city until he found the
street that he was looking for. He pulled the bike up on to its
stand and walked towards the tenement block pulling his gloves
off.

There was garbage everywhere,
fish and chip wrappers, potato crisp bags, rotting fruit and the
inevitable red McEwan's Export beer can. He flicked it aside with
his toe, thinking that one of these cans should be in any time
capsule as a universal artefact of Scottish life. There seemed to
be one lying on the foot of every river and on the top of every
hill.

The entrance to the close was
stained with dried vomit, the protest of a belly too full of beer
being asked to accommodate take-away food. Fenton thought of his
father and his nights 'on the bevy.' As always when he thought of
his father, he experienced mixed feelings of guilt and regret for
he had never really known him at all, had never understood what had
gone on in his head.

To all intents Joe Fenton had
appeared to have been a simple, rather uncommunicative man who had
spent all his adult life labouring in the shipyards of the Clyde.
He would work Monday to Friday, drink himself into oblivion on
Saturday and lie in bed all day Sunday. His routine had never
varied.

Although by no means untypical
of the lifestyle of the area Tom Fenton had always believed that
there had been more to his father's behaviour than the blinkered
following of macho tradition. There had been something missing in
his father's make up, something he had often tried to define in the
past but always without success. He had never known his father to
display any kind of enthusiasm for anything in all the years he
could remember. It was as if he had lived his entire life on a
pilot flame fuelled with enigmatic sadness.

Even when drunk Joe Fenton's
thoughts, if any, had been concealed behind a moist eyed smile. The
burning political issues of 'red Clydeside' had left him cold as
had the titanic struggles between Rangers and Celtic football
clubs. It was as if, at some early stage in his life, he had
discovered some deep, dark secret, some awful truth, so terrible
that it had straightened out the parallax of optimism and forced
him to view his existence as one long inconsequential tunnel from
birth to grave.

Tom Fenton had never discovered
what his father's secret had been, whether he had found out the
meaning of life or that there was no heaven or hell or whether
there was just no point. The last possibility seemed the most
likely. Joe Fenton had lived his entire life as if there had been
no point, no point at all. He had died in the year that Fenton had
graduated, never having said much more to him than an occasional,
'Aye son,' in passing, a 'guid fur you,' when he had done well or,
'We'll hae nae mair o' that,' when he had done wrong.

To Fenton's mother Rose, a
simple, kind hearted woman, Joe had been a 'good man' but, within
the parameters of marital behaviour in the area, this had simply
meant that he had not physically abused her and had handed over his
wage packet unopened on a Friday night. Conversation and
companionship had been alien notions from another world.

For some reason, not totally
clear to him even now, Fenton hoped that his father had been proud
of him when he had graduated, perhaps because he feared in his
heart of hearts that it had really not mattered a damn, it probably
hadn't rated a mention in the pub. Maybe it had even been an
embarrassment.

Fenton edged deeper into the
mouth of the close to be assailed by the competing smells of fried
onions and cats' urine. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw
the iron gate that barred the way to the back passage and drying
greens and was forced to smile at the nostalgia it evokedfor it had
been down one of these dark passages that he had received a great
deal of his street education.

Levoy had been a popular game
among teenagers in the area, a variation on hide and seek that had
involved a great deal of hiding in dark closes with members of the
opposite sex and not too much seeking. One girl, some two years
older than himself, and whose name he now desperately tried to
remember, had taken it upon herself to see that he had not wearied
during the long dark vigils. He recalled with fondness his early
sorties into Betty McAlpine's underwear, his discomfort at being
unable to unhook her bra, his ecstasy as for the first time a
female hand had unzipped his fly and ventured inside. He remembered
his bewilderment at being stopped when he had moved his own hand
under her skirt to explore a magical maze of underskirts and
suspenders. "Sorry," she had said, "The flags are up." Failing to
understand and construing this as obligatory feminine modesty, part
of the etiquette of back-close loving, he had pressed on to find
his hand taken in a vice like grip. "Are you bloody daft or
somethin'?" the girl had hissed. The harsh admonishment had
dampened his ardour to the point where his proud member had begun
to wilt but then the girl, realising his complete ignorance of
female menstrual matters, had launched into a kindly explanation as
to why he could not go 'all the way.'

With both his confidence and
his erection restored he had rewarded her by having an orgasm all
over her dress.

Fenton climbed the dark stone
spiral stairs, stooping down as he came to each door to examine the
name plates. He was half way along the landing of the second flat
before he reached 'Lindsay'. He paused for a moment to listen to
the sounds of the close, harsh laughter from female throats
conditioned by cigarette smoke and endless bawling at errant
children, that self same bawling as yet another woman screamed her
frustration and inadequacy at her offspring. He pulled the door
bell and found it unconnected to anything. He replaced the handle
and knocked instead. The door opened a few inches to reveal the
haggard eyes of a woman about five feet tall and those of a child
some three feet below. "I've told you, “she began, "I'll pay you
when I can; I just haven't got it right now."

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..."