The Tenement by Iain Crichton Smith Page A

of course, was on the ground floor. He opened the door and heaved and pushed the woman into a chair, and switched off the television.
    He looked down at the woman. Her legs were thin like matchsticks. Her face was pinched and there was blood on her lips where perhaps she had bitten herself. There was a smell of sickness and of pee. The head nodded like a pendulum and he saw to his horror that the woman was a spastic, not a bad one, but a spastic just the same. She must have been about sixty years old. He himself was almost sick, but steadied the woman as she nearly toppled off the chair.
    â€œYou okay?” he said.
    The woman nodded. She clutched his hand as if she were a child. “Listen,” he said, speaking slowly, “I don’t know what’s happened, but I’m going for the police. Are you sure you’re okay?” He left the room and knocked at the Masons’ door. But there was no answer: they must be out.
    He came back. The woman was still sitting in the chair, her head nodding like that of a marionette.
    â€œBefore I go,” he said, “you’d better have a drop of whisky.” He knew that brandy would be better, but he didn’t have any in the house, not since his wife had died. He poured some whisky in a little glass and put it to her lips. She spluttered and tried to get rid of the whisky, but he forced it down her throat.
    â€œIt’ll do you good,” he said. “Take it.” She steadied herself and kept some of it down. Her trembling quietened a little.
    â€œNow,” he said, again speaking very slowly, “I’m going to phone. I won’t be long. I don’t have a phone in the house.” She signed that she understood. But as her head was nodding all the time anyway, he wasn’t sure whether she had understood or not. He walked down the road quickly to the kiosk, which stood at the junction of two streets. He found himself glancing behind him as if he was afraid of the scarred man chasing him. It looked very much as if the scarred man had assaulted the spastic. Imagine it, the very thought was disgusting—and for the first time it occurred to him that perhaps he himself might be under suspicion, be accused. But surely the woman would know that it was he who had rescued her.
    He phoned the police and was told they would be along shortly. He walked back. As he did so, he hoped that the woman had not toppled into the electric fire that was burning in front of her. He should have placed her on the sofa, dim fool that he was. He almost ran—so worried he was—but when he arrived the woman was sitting safely in the chair, quite still, staring down at the floor.
    â€œI’ll make a cup of tea,” he said. “The police won’t be long.” She didn’t say anything, but watched him blankly as he put the kettle on. When he had made the tea he gave her some with plenty of sugar and she steadied a little. As she was drinking it a car drew up at the front of the house, and a policewoman and two men came out. The men were in plain clothes. One was wearing a leather jacket and was tall and heavy with a strong Roman nose and the other was smaller and wore a blue jersey. No one would ever have thought they were policemen. The policewoman came in with them and turned to the spastic.
    Suddenly, the spastic spoke for the first time. “It won’t be in the papers, will it?”
    She had difficulty in speaking. He wondered why this had been the first thing that occurred to her. She had recovered a little and was sitting back in the chair, the centre of attention.
    The man with the leather jacket took out a notebook.
    â€œTake your time,” he said. “What happened?”
    She told him in broken words. She had been visiting a woman in the close opposite Cooper’s as she always did on a Thursday evening. As she came down the stairs into the close she was seized and dragged into the back of the close. She