White Rage by Campbell Armstrong

get dirty looks from non-smokers. They make you feel like a leper. Listen, you fancy a cup of tea somewhere I can smoke?’
    â€˜I should wait for Jay,’ Helen said.
    â€˜Forget Jay. Look, if he turns up and you’re not here, he’ll be on the phone to you before the night’s out. Men are all the same. Whip the rug out from under their feet, suddenly they’re all attention. Like puppydogs. Come on. I know a place round the corner.’
    Helen Mboto hesitated. ‘It’s kind of you, but …’
    â€˜Wait, wait, you don’t think, oh no …’ Sally Kincaid laughed. ‘This is some kind of pick-up?’
    â€˜No, but –’
    â€˜You’ll realize how ridiculous that is when you know me a wee bit better. Men are my weakness. I don’t need extra vices.’
    Helen got up from the table. She was embarrassed. Sally was only offering friendship. Sometimes city life made you suspicious. You wanted to feel free and open-minded, but it wasn’t always possible.
    Sally was already moving towards the door. She took a black raincoat from a hook in the wall. She said, ‘Never trust the weather here. You’ve learned that already, I suppose.’
    â€˜It was the first thing I learned,’ Helen said. They went out into the street. She found herself staring into the headlights of traffic coming down Byres Road, and hoped she might see Jay running towards her, apologizing for being late. But there was no sign of him.
    â€˜This way,’ Sally said. She took a few steps along the pavement, away from the main thoroughfare. ‘It’s only a few blocks. I live in Havelock Street. Tell me what kind of tea you like.’
    â€˜We’re going to your house?’
    â€˜Flat. Two rooms and a bathroom. I call it home.’
    â€˜I thought we were going to another café. Are you sure this is no problem –’
    â€˜Problem? No way. I’ve got green tea, Typhoo, Darjeeling, some herbal stuff, nettle. You know what they call people in Glasgow who love tea? Tea-jennies. That’s me. C’mon. Let’s get a move on. I think it’s going to rain again.’
    Helen hurried after her. They entered a street where the lamps were less bright. Sally took a big bunch of keys from her bag. She unlocked the security door of a tenement and stepped inside a long tiled close leading to a flight of stairs. Helen followed. On the first landing Sally stuck a key in another door and turned it.
    â€˜Home sweet home. It’s not a palace. Be my guest.’
    Helen stepped into the flat. The living room was barely furnished. A sofa, a coffee table, no decorations on the walls. A fireplace with imitation coals. The air smelled damp. The wallpaper depicted seashells and sea horses.
    â€˜I know, I know, it’s pretty basic.’
    Helen said, ‘My grandfather always says we allow possessions to own us.’
    â€˜Wise man. I’ll put the kettle on.’ Sally Kincaid opened a door that led to the kitchen. ‘You fancy Darjeeling?’
    â€˜It’s fine,’ Helen said.
    â€˜Sit down. Get comfy. Meet my flatmate.’
    â€˜You have a flatmate? I didn’t know. Will she mind you bringing a visitor?’
    Sally Kincaid didn’t answer. She went inside the kitchen.
    Helen sat on the edge of the sofa. Webs hung in high corners of the room, and dead flies lay inside the overhead lightbowl.
    A man stepped from the kitchen. ‘Hello. I’m the roomie.’
    â€˜Oh. I think I expected a woman,’ Helen said.
    â€˜See what expectations can do?’
    His face was ordinary, neither benign nor cruel, but for some reason she didn’t like it. Instinct. She couldn’t say why she felt uncomfortable. She looked at her watch. How long was she expected to stay? She had no grasp of the local etiquette.
    He stood over her, leaning slightly towards her. ‘Our Scottish hospitality is famous all over the