Come to Harm by Catriona McPherson Page A

“Yeah,” he said. “We own it.”
    â€œAnd I’m very grateful for it,” Keiko said.
    â€œYou don’t need to be that grateful,” he said. “Better than having it sit there empty.”
    â€œBut surely such a lovely flat can’t have been empty for long?” said Keiko. “In Tokyo—” She bit this off. Her mother had told her to be careful not to say too much about Japan. If they cared they could come and see for themselves, Keko-chan. Just as I could go to Sydney and take my own photographs of the opera house if I wanted them. My sister-in-law does not need to come home and share hers with me .
    â€œWell, it’s a place to stay,” said Murray. “But you don’t have to let yourself get sucked in.”
    Keiko shook her head at him, but before she could ask what he meant, the bell dinged above the door.
    â€œAfternoon, young man,” said a woman, hefting a shopping basket onto the counter and leaning against it. Murray had flitted round to his station behind the register when he saw her coming.
    â€œMrs. Glendinning,” he said.
    â€œAnd how are you today, Keiko?” said the woman. Keiko bobbed her head and smiled. She couldn’t remember ever seeing this woman before but supposed that she might have been at the feast in peach ruffles or turquoise satin. And her name did seem familiar.
    â€œRight then,” Mrs. Glendinning said, peering into the display. “I’ll take a pound of your steak mince for tonight.” She gave Murray a sharp look. “That’s today’s mince, eh?”
    Murray nodded. He had pushed his hands into plastic gloves from the dispenser and had twitched a sheet of cellophane onto the bed of the scales.
    â€œAnd a pound—no make it two pounds—of pork links and they’ll do for his breakfasts too. Couple of gigot chops, maybe three, eh? They’re no size. Another pound of mince—beef just, for meatballs—and, em, Friday, Friday, Friday … Well I’ll take a good two pounds of Ayrshire back anyway and a wee tate of pudding slices for the weekend. Friday, Friday, Friday … Och, why not? That sirloin looks a bonny colour, two steaks’ll do us fine.”
    â€œMalc?” shouted Murray into the back of the shop.
    Keiko cocked her head. Almost immediately, along the corridor that led from the back, came the sound of Malcolm moving, a low pounding, rubber boots squeaking, the chafing of cloth and slow breaths, until he appeared in the mouth of the passage. He wore the same clothes as his brother, but his apron was dark from work, his coat sleeves pushed back as far as they would go up his wrists. But still they were edged with rust colour.
    Murray was weighing and wrapping, turning the waxed sheets into bags and sealing them, deft and precise, never touching their contents. He spoke without looking up. “Couple of sirloin for Mrs. Glendinning, pal.” Then he snapped open a carrier bag and began to stack the packages inside.
    Malcolm turned away to where a wedge of meat sat like a rock on a high cutting board and bent over it. Although his hands must be moving, all Keiko could see was his back, a wide block of white broken by apron strings. There were two muffled thumps that made Malcolm’s back judder, and then he turned around to face them, slapping the bricks of cut meat from his bare palms onto the scales.
    â€œI’ve left the fat on, Mrs. Glendinning,” he said, his soft voice booming a little as he strained to be heard over the width of the counter and the sound of Murray rustling the carrier bag. “You don’t have to eat it, but don’t go trimming it before you fry them, because—”
    â€œI’ll manage from here, son,” said the woman, winking at Keiko. “It’s like taking a chick from under a hen getting a steak out of Malcolm sometimes.”
    Malcolm smiled but was already moving away again.
    The