The Stranger Came (63 page)

Too
much
evil
breath
coming
out
of
mouths
at
you.
In
the
old
days
students
at
Glasgow
University
who
had
come
to
the
city
from
the
islands
would
very
often
become
tubercular,
coughing
up
their
lungs
in
cold
digs.
They
lacked
the
immunity
of
those
who
had
grown
up
in
the
place.
They
had
no
protection
against
sickening.

At
Heathrow
she
let
herself
be
carried
along.
The
overnight
bag
was
light
enough
to
have
let
her
stride
as
on
previous
visits
feeling
the
brisk
edge
of
speed
until
the
moving
track
discarded
her
with
a
bump.
This
time
she
stood
head
bowed
and
let
herself
be
carried
along,
to
the
end
of
the
track,
to
the
train,
into
a hotel.
Bent
over
the
washbasin
gasping
she
threw
up
cupped
handfuls
of
water
until,
lifting
her
head,
eyes
in
the
mirror
surprised
her
with
their
blank
suddenness
of
enquiry.

And
after
all,
when
she
ventured
out
it
was
already getting
dark
and
it
might
have
been
better
to
wait
until
the
next
day.
A to
Z
of London
in
one
hand,
finger
keeping
the
page,
she
climbed
the
stairs
from
the
Tube
and
went
back
along
Chalk
Farm
Road
in
the
direction
of
Camden
until
she
recognised
the
name
of
a
street.

The
first
marker
she
came
to
was
the
church
he
had
told
her
about,
set
back
from
the
road,
with
a
flattened
spire,
crouching
behind
a
moat
of
scant
grass.
And
the
pub
was
where
he
had
said
it
would
be
and
she
turned
left
and
found
the
shop.
The
glass
was
dirty
and
the
window
empty
apart
from
a
Coke
can,
squeezed
and
lying
on
its
side.
She
couldn't
see
into
the
shop
for
a
curtain
pulled
all
the
way
along
the
back.
Light
leaked
around
the
ragged
edge
of
it.
The
door
had
boards
nailed
over,
but
when
she
gave
a
push
it
opened.
The
light
went
out.

'You
on
your
own?'
A-ow-wn,
drawn
out
in
a
Bow
Bells
tune.

'Yes
.’
She
stared
into
the
dark.
Listening
she
heard
breath
snort
and
whistle;
adenoids,
she
decided
automatically.

'What
d'you
want?'
The
voice
sounded
young.

'I'm
a
friend
of
Fraser
Allander's.’

'Who?'
But
before
she
could
answer,
'You
mean
Jock
the
Hat?'

It
seemed
likely.
'I
expect
so.’

Light
dazzled
her.
Like
a
stretched
string
whoever
was
behind
it
walked
the
line
to
her.
'Come
inside
if
you're
coming.’
She
moved
forward
and
the
door
was
shut
behind
her.
A
key
turned
in
the
lock.
The
torch
went
out
and
there
was
darkness
again
and
a
spinning
catherine
wheel
of
colours,
and
then
the
overhead
light
was
switched
on.

To
her
surprise
she
had
to
look
up
at
him.
He
was
young
but
tall
and
thin.
The
most
striking
thing
about
his
pale
narrow
face
was
the
boil
that
inflamed
the
wing
of
one
nostril,
an
aching
red
with
a
vesuvius
of
yellow
pus
in
the
centre.
Visibly
it
seemed
to
throb.
'You
talk
funny
the
way
he
did.
Sure
you're
his
friend?
Sure
you're
not
his
missus,
something
like
that?'
the
boy
said
all
on
one
breath.
Boy?
He
might
easily
be
in
his
middle
twenties,
perhaps
even
older,
but
he
looked
seventeen.

'Nothing
like
that,'
she
said.
The
shop
was
stripped,
nothing
on
the
counter,
nothing
on
the
shelves,
nothing
to
steal.
'I
thought
this
was
where
you
held
your
meetings.’

'Who?'

'The
Party.’

'Who?'

'Pax
Britannica.’
Absurd name
.
'Fraser
told
me
it
met
here.’

'And
if
it
did?'

'I
was
interested
in
what
he
told
me.
I
wanted
to
find
out
more.’

'Not
because
you
heard
Kite
speaking?'

'No
.’

'You
surprise
me.
Got
a
treat
in
store,
you
have.’

He
jerked
his
chin
and
she
obeyed
the
invitation,
following
him
across
to
the
bead
curtain
that
shut
off
the
back
shop.
It
clattered
apart
and
together
for
him
and
then
she
was
through.
A
little
square
room
with
a
table
and
eight
or
nine
chairs
scattered
about.

'It's
not
a
Party,'
the
boy
said,
standing
by
the
light switch. There
was
a
sink
and
a
kettle
with
the
flex
wound
round
it,
some
cups,
and
a
jar
of
instant
coffee.