The Tenement by Iain Crichton Smith

were young, they were happy, they hadn’t been long married. The world was ahead of them. When they woke up in the morning they were excited, anticipatory, confident.
    â€œYou should have seen Mrs Floss in her bikini,” said John. “She was like a whale. And her skin’s dead white.”
    â€œMaybe she thinks the back green is the deck of a ship.”
    â€œCooper should marry her. It would be a marriage of convenience.” And he laughed out loud. “Get it, marriage of convenience. He works in a toilet, you see. Great. I must tell the boys that.”
    It was a winter’s night, cold and frosty. In December. The street was quiet, as there was an international match between England and Scotland on TV, and Mr Cooper like the rest of the townsmen was watching it. Beside him on the table were six cans of lager. England were winning in spite of the confident forecasts made in the newspapers that this time Scotland would definitely win, as they had Charlie Nicholas. When England scored, Cooper kicked the table on which the cans of lager lay, and went out into the close. He had played football in his youth and still agonized over the international results.
    He stood in the close inhaling the air which, though cold, was not unpleasant. He missed the strollers on the street, for in the evening he would stop them and talk to them. He was a gregarious man. He had retired early because of a bad back and still missed his job. Many a time he had seen a strange car parked outside a house. Oh, the things that went on. Milkmen and postmen knew all about them. His own wife had been bedridden for a long while with a heart condition; and he was a full-blooded man.
    At that moment, as he stood in the close contemplating Scotland’s latest shame, he heard a scream. It sprang suddenly out of the night and it seemed to him, as he scanned the street, that it had come from the close opposite. It was a high-pitched scream like that made by an animal in a shrubbery or (he recalled) an enemy being bayoneted. He listened and heard it again. Then he saw a man emerging from the close opposite and walking whistling up the street, away from the town. The man was tall and, in the light of the lamp which overhung the close, he saw that there was a scar on his face. The man turned and looked at him and smiled. The smile was a peculiar one, almost conspiratorial, threatening, triumphant. Cooper felt a piercing fear in his bones. Then he heard the scream again.
    Without thinking he crossed the street to the close. The lamp cast a yellow foggy light: he didn’t like that yellow light much, he preferred the pink one that appeared in the earlier part of the evening. He moved from the stone of the pavement to the stone of the street and then to that of the close. There was nothing to be seen in the close itself. He walked into the back which was darker and only lighted by the illumination from the windows above. Faintly he could hear the noise of the football commentary. He stood there trying to get his eyes accustomed to the blackness. No, it wasn’t wholly blackness, there were stripes of yellow: it was like an animal’s pelt.
    Then he saw a patch of thicker darkness in the corner, and went over towards it. He sniffed. Yes, there was a definite smell of pee, thick and rank. He heard a low moan. He bent down. He felt a coat, a head, a hand. He pulled at the hand and dragged the shape to its feet while it winced and moaned and protested. He was worried for a moment that the person, whoever it was, had been knifed, but there didn’t seem to be any blood on his hands: at least they didn’t feel sticky. He clasped the hand, pulled the dark mass into the light of the close. The mass dragged its feet, as if it couldn’t walk properly. In the light of the lamp that shone sickly above the close, he saw that it was a woman and that she was clad in a dark coat. He dragged her across the street towards his flat which,