Fenton's Winter Read Online Free

that suggested
she had said the same thing a million times before.
    Fenton looked to the other
barmaid. "Pint of lager please."
    "Skol or Carlsberg?"
    "Carlsberg."
    A plume of froth emanated from
the tap. "Barrel's off."
    "All right, Skol."
    Fenton looked behind the bar at
a poster on the wall which proudly announced, 'This establishment
has been nominated in the Daily News pub of the year competition.'
By the landlord, thought Fenton.
    "Hello there," said a voice
behind him. He turned to find Steve Kelly from the Blood
Transfusion service. "Didn't know you came here for lunch," said
Kelly.
    "First time," said Fenton.
    "Me too," said Kelly. "I'm
sitting over there by the fire. Join me when you get your
food."
    Fenton joined Kelly in sitting
on plastic leather seats in front of a plastic stone fireplace.
They watched imitation flames flicker up to plastic horse
brasses.
    "The breweries really do these
places up well," said Kelly without a trace of a smile. Fenton
choked over his beer. Kelly smiled.
    Fenton's fork ricocheted off a
sausage causing chips to run for cover in all directions; one
landed in Kelly's lap; he popped it into his mouth.
    "You can have the rest if you
want," said Fenton putting down his knife and fork.
    "No thanks, I've just tasted
it."
    "What brings you here?" asked
Fenton.
    "I was looking around for a
nice quiet wee place to bring that nurse from ward seven to one
lunch time."
    "You mean somewhere where the
wife wouldn't be liable to find you?"
    "You've got it."
    "Well this place seems quiet
enough."
    "Aye, but it wasn't exactly
food poisoning I was planning on giving her."
    "Point taken."
    They sipped their beer in
silence for a few minutes before Kelly said, "So who's the loony
Tom?"
    Fenton kept looking into the
flames. "I wish to God I knew," he said.
    "Munro was a friend of yours
wasn't he?"
    Fenton nodded.
    "I'm sorry."
    Fenton sipped his beer.
    "Who will be taking over his
projects?" asked Kelly.
    "Me for the moment."
    "Then you’ll be wanting the
blood?"
    Fenton was puzzled. "What
blood?"
    "Munro phoned me on Monday; he
wanted some blood from the service."
    "Better hold on that till I
find out what he needed it for."
    "Will do."
    "Another drink?"
    "No."
    They got up and moved towards
the door. "Would you mind returning your glasses to the bar?"
drawled the lounging barmaid.
    "Aye, we would," said Kelly
flatly. They left.
    Fenton waited while Kelly
finished buttoning his coat up to the collar. He hunched his
shoulders against the wind. Kelly said, "So you'll let me know
about the blood?" Fenton said that he would and they parted.
    Fenton was grateful that the
wind was now behind him, supporting him like a cushion, as he
walked slowly back to the hospital. This time he avoided the park
and opted instead for the streets of Victorian terraced housing,
black stone houses that looked cool in summer but dark and
forbidding in winter, the bare branches of the trees fronting them
waved in the wind like witches in torment. As he reached the lab he
had to pause to let a silver grey Ford turn into the lane beside
the lab. One of its front wheels dipped into a pot hole splashing
water over his feet. He raised his eyes to the heavens then saw
that the driver was Nigel Saxon and that he had realised what had
happened. Saxon stopped and wound down the window looking
apologetic, "I say, I'm most frightfully sorry."
    Fenton smiled for it was hard
to get angry with Nigel Saxon. He waited while Saxon parked his car
then watched him attempt to side-step the puddles as he hurried to
join him. Saxon was everyone's idea of a rugby forward running to
seed, which indeed he was. He had played the game religiously for
his old public school till, at the age of twenty-five or so, he had
discovered that it was possible to have the post-match drink and
revels without actually having to go through the pain of playing.
Now at the age of thirty-two he was beginning to look distinctly
blowzy, a fact of which he seemed cheerfully