The floor-boards squealed again from the other side of the door, close enough for him to feel it.

‘Open this door. Open this fucking door!’

Nothing. Nothing but more creaking as if the floorboards were slowly bouncing.

‘Who’s there? Open this fucking door now!’

He began to edge his feet forward to gauge just where he was. His left shoe nudged forward maybe three or four inches when it hit the wall. He backed up, stopping when he realized he wasn’t certain whether there were blades in the back of the door behind him. He swung back his right leg and kicked out with his heel, slamming it into the door and wobbling dangerously as a result.

Laughter came from the other side of the door. A dirty laugh that was trying to be stifled but burst out uncontained. There were slaps against the door that made the metal ring and seemed to shrink the room; then, just as suddenly, there was light. He felt the air as the door pulled back behind him.

A voice came out of the laughter. ‘Step back. Straight back. Straight as a razor. Man, if I was any sharper I’d cut myself.’

Winter did as he was told. One step, two and he was out, standing up and whirling as soon as he was clear of the closet. In front of him, nearly doubled up in fits of laughter, was a guy about his own age, tears running down his cheeks.

‘Sorry, man. Seriously. Sorry. I just couldn’t resist.’

Winter swung his right arm, fist clenched, connected with the man’s jaw and put him flat on his back. The guy lay there, hand nursing his chin, and continued to laugh. He was about five foot eleven with short reddish fair hair, athletically built and with a wicked grin plastered over his face.

‘Fair enough. I deserved that. Just couldn’t help myself.’ A finger of his right hand tested his lips and saw it flecked with blood. ‘One shot’s all you get though. Okay?’

‘You could have killed me, you idiot.’ Winter softened as his rage slowly dwindled with relief. ‘Okay, maybe not killed me but those blades . . .’

The man held both hands up in surrender. ‘You’re right. It was stupid. Shouldn’t have done it.’ He got to his feet, slowly stretching out a hand. ‘I’m Euan Hepburn. Accept an apology?’

Winter shook his head and let a reluctant smile cross his face. ‘Tony Winter. Apology accepted. Just. You make a habit of doing stuff as stupid as that?’

Hepburn shrugged. ‘Yeah, pretty much. Some weird shit in this place, huh?’

‘You could say that. So it was you I heard moving around earlier?’

‘Either me or the ghost of the woman who fell down the lift shaft. You can never be sure somewhere like this. You know what this is?’ He nodded at the razorclad closet.

Winter shook his head.

‘It’s an art installation. Weird, huh? I’d heard about it. One of the reasons I wanted to explore in here. Look, how about I buy you a pint to make up for it.’

‘A pint?’ Winter looked at his watch. ‘It’s only seven thirty.’

Hepburn smiled mischievously. ‘Another quick scout round here and then a wee stroll to the Saltmarket. The Whistlin Kirk opens at eight. Need to get a breakfast with the beer, right enough. It’s the law.’

‘What kind of pub opens at eight in the morning?’

‘One that works what they call Grandfather Terms. So they can sell to shift workers. And I feel we’ve put a shift in going round here. What do you say?’

Winter laughed. ‘Why not? My mouth’s so dry—’

‘It thinks your throat’s been cut?’

‘Exactly.’

The Whistlin Kirk was in Greendyke Street, just a stone’s throw from the Clyde and just enough time to take your tie off if you’d walked from the High Court. It was only just gone eight but already there was a small, happy band with pints of lager in front of them on round tables. Plates held sausage, bacon and egg or filled rolls. The crowd was pensioner age, most pitched somewhere between sixty and eighty, and they all looked happy to be out of the house and still alive.

Hepburn led Winter to the bar where they were greeted with a nod by a woman in her thirties with blonde bobbed hair and a red apron over a black top. She sized them up and didn’t see any trouble she couldn’t handle.

‘Help you, boys?’

‘Two pints, please. A lager and a Guinness. And a bacon roll.’

‘Needs to be a roll each. It’s the law.’

They found a couple of seats in the corner, a bit along from a clean-shaven man in a hoodie who sat looking down silently into a pint of lager, a plate of square sausage and beans sitting untouched beside him.

The bar still had the stale whiff of last night’s booze but that was slowly disappearing through the open door along with the hangovers. Some customers chatted quietly, some cracked jokes and told each other lies. They all got what they wanted from it.

‘Nice place,’ Winter said quietly.

‘It is actually. Never any bother, keep a good pint, folk are friendly. Not my bit of town but I’d drink in here if I was local. And it’s cheap.’

Winter supped on his Guinness, deliberately letting a creamy crescent settle on his lip before licking it off. ‘You not got a job to go to today?’

‘Nothing till later. I work for myself so can generally choose when I come and go. I’m a freelance journalist.’

‘Yeah? What kind of stuff do you report on?’

He grinned. ‘Anything that pays. I do some undercover stuff but whatever pays the bills and lets me not work nine to five is fine by me. What about you?’

‘Photographer?’

‘Really? I know plenty but never seen you. Who do you work for?’

Winter dropped his voice. ‘The cops. Not long started.’

Hepburn laughed. ‘That explains it then. Obviously most of the guys I know are snappers for the papers.’

‘That’s not for me. So were you in the Central doing some undercover work?’

‘Jeez no. Just exploring. If I started exploring it to get paid, it would take all the fun out of it. I have a couple of cameras and tend to use one for work and one for urbexing.’

‘Really? I do the same. One for work and one for me, although I usually take both to a job with me. Just habit, I guess. So where have you explored?’

They took turns to reel off places they’d been. The old Merkland Street station, the public baths, Govan dockyards, Woodilee Hospital out at Lenzie, the Titan at Clydebank, a succession of old schools, factories, churches and disused railway lines. It turned out they’d unknowingly been following in each other’s footsteps across the city. They were each other’s shadow.

‘This makes a change,’ Hepburn grinned. ‘I never get the chance to talk to other urbexers. Man, I didn’t even know I was an urbexer till I read about it online. Until then I thought I was the only eejit going into places I shouldn’t.’

‘I guess there’s a few of us. Guy I met reckoned there were maybe about nine or ten in Glasgow doing it. Can’t be sure though. We all just do our thing and no one talks about it – we hardly ever meet each other. How did you get into it?’

Hepburn tilted his head in thought. ‘My old primary school was getting knocked down and made into flats. I thought it was a shame and wanted to have a look around before they flattened it. They said I couldn’t, chance had gone. So I figured I’d go in anyway. Getting in was a piece of cake. Looked around the classrooms and the gym, went into the head’s office seeing I got called there on a regular basis. I even sat at a couple of my old desks. Amazing how the memories came back. Just as well I went in when I did though because the place burned down a week later.’

Winter groaned. ‘Let me guess. They found something inside. Asbestos maybe? The developers couldn’t get planning permission and then the place mysteriously caught fire.’

‘That’s exactly it. Amazing how many times that happens in Glasgow.’

‘Always just a coincidence though. Feel good when you were back in the school?’