Red Alert by Margaret Thomson Davis Page A

stomach ulcer and, for the time being at least, was forbidden any alcohol.
    Returning to the table, Price passed the glasses around. ‘I don’t know how you can drink that stuff, Joe.’
    ‘It’s what the bloody job has done to me and could do to you as well. The doctor said it was stress-related.’
    ‘Oh well, we’re all in danger of that. So we’d better enjoy our beer while we can.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’
    ‘It doesn’t help not being able to have a smoke,’ Joe said. ‘I’m in bloody agony here.’
    ‘Did the doctor not ban that as well?’
    ‘Oh aye, but I had to draw the line at that. I’ve been a smoker since I was a teenager and it’s impossible to give up. I tried but I’m telling you, the withdrawal symptoms are worse than when you give up drugs.’
    One of the other tutors said, ‘There’s more than a few of the students on drugs. Some on cannabis, some on ecstasy, I think, and I suspect a few idiots have reached the heroin stage. But what can you do? Except to hope they grow out of it.’
    ‘Well, we did, right enough. Most of us dabbled in something when we were young, didn’t we? I know I did a bit of experimenting.’
    ‘It’s different now. There’s more stuff around and much stronger stuff. It’s too often not a case of just dabbling or experimenting. Some of them are in danger of getting seriously addicted.’
    ‘That’s true, and they could ruin their lives and their talent. But as you say, what can we do? If we start preaching about that, they won’t listen. It might even make them worse.’
    Price took a big swig of his beer, then wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘Well, I’ve one consolation with the Pratt boy. As far as I can tell, he’s not on drugs. He’s too serious about his work for any of that. I don’t think he’d risk anything that would spoil his concentration.’
    One of the others laughed. ‘What about that red-haired girl? She’s the one who’s liable to be a stronger distraction than drugs. She might even persuade the lad to start on them.’
    ‘Over my dead body,’ Simon Price growled.

15
    Kirsty could never resist looking at the glass case outside the entrance of the fire station. It contained the embalmed body of a dog called Bruce. He had lived at the fire station from 1894 until his death. His first appearance was thought to have been at some sort of procession, where he had attached himself to one of the city’s fire engines and followed it back to the station. Soon his owner found out where he was and took him home. But a few hours later, Bruce had returned to the fire station and stayed there as a full-time, unpaid member of the Brigade. His licence was actually paid for by Glasgow Corporation for the rest of his life. He would always lie quietly in the watch room, then the moment the alarm bell rang, he would be up and away to the fire, running some twenty or thirty yards in front of the horses that were drawing the appliances. Most people were puzzled at how he always seemed to know the way to an outbreak and thought he must have an amazing instinct. What actually happened was that the driver of the leading appliance would indicate the direction to follow by nodding or signalling with his whip and the dog, glancing back, was quick to see which way to turn.
    Apparently when one old lady was visiting the station, she noticed that Bruce had a sore paw. As a result, she ordered a set of four small rubber boots to be delivered to the station. But Bruce had not been very keen on them and preferred his naked paws. He continued to run to fires until his death in 1902 and now there he was, still in the fire station, and with his rubber boots by his side.
    Sometimes Kirsty came in by another door but she preferred this entrance because her heart was always touched by seeing Bruce and being reminded of his story. It was obvious that, despite the firemen being just as tough as today’s firefighters, they had been fond of