“It’s like wartime,” complained Mr Wolf, then added, “Not that I’m old enough to remember.”

His technician shrugged and threw a clog of wood into the stove.  They were working from Mr Wolf’s house: a temporary arrangement.  Their office in the city was cold and dark, because in the last few days gas and power in the city had become intermittent.

Driving in and out to the office was a bad idea, too.  Not that the roads were busy; in fact the city centre was quiet these days.  There were miles of queuing lorries at standstill on the motorways, the quaysides lined with part-unloaded ships.  Their cargoes were trapped in Customs while the politicians argued.

Driving meant burning fuel that may not get replenished, so the interim government encouraged people to use the railway instead.  However, a circuit board had blown inside the signal box where the tracks converge on Waverley, and several trains were stuck fast in the gullet.  A replacement board had to come from Germany, but the urgently-needed package was stuck in Customs at Dover.

“Well I can’t get to site tomorrow.  We’ve only got petrol coupons for next week, and anyway we’ll only get 20 litres at a time from BP.  Barely enough to get there and back.”

“No point, there’s nothing going on down there anyway.  Last contractor’s report said they’d laid off due to shortages.”

The site had run out of plasterboard weeks ago, truckmixers wouldn’t deliver beyond the city boundary, and copper pipework was like gold dust.  There was talk of building licences being re-introduced, just like during the 1940’s.  So Mr Wolf turned back to the internet, which for the moment at least was still working, and tried to source some ironmongery.

There was no point specifying familiar brands; factories were on a shutdown and stocks at the wholesalers had run out.  After a couple of hours spent scouring the net and making fruitless phonecalls to ironmongers in little country towns, Mr Wolf struck lucky.  He found an ancient business in the Black Country with old stock in its warehouse.

A picture formed in his mind: dusty boxes massed in corners, on shelves, hung from hooks, piled on counters, set out on stands, stood up on the floor, and hidden away in stock rooms … all to be fetched out after a hunt.

The hardware man came back to him: “Many thanks for your enquiry, I went out into the stores to see what I have (and it's very cold out there!)   I’ve found two dozen 4" x 2 5/8" DPB washered butts, BMA finish.  Old stock, the boxes are tatty but the contents are like new.  They’re British made, Arrow Brand.”

“Regarding the actual maker, at the time my company would have bought them, maybe 50 years ago, there were dozens of small manufacturers.  Indeed they often made special locks and ironmongery for the larger companies you’re more familiar with.  But most of the little firms died out after we joined the EEC…”

Mr Wolf did a quick calculation from metric back into the Imperial measures which the interim government had imposed a few weeks before, along with food rationing and blue passports.  “Right then, I’ll take the lot.”  Lately came the fear that if you didn’t snap things up when you had the chance, someone else would.

So that was the door hinges sorted – but shortly afterwards the electricity went off.  Then the internet. 
Mr Wolf was secretly pleased, and turned to his technician:  “I’ve reached breaking point with TV and the net.  I’ve got a giant lever I’m about to pull.  All the politicians, journos and pundits – plus Fiona Bruce – are going to drop into a pit with hungry orcs at the bottom.”

It was 4pm, so he decided to quit whilst ahead and go for food.  As he sclytered though the snow, he could hear dull thuds resounding across the firth.  Perhaps they were bird-scarers, or wildfowlers blasting ducks from the sky – only now for food rather than sport. 

Soon he reached the small supermarket at the foot of the brae, hoping to discover it had received a delivery that afternoon.  An old man was tying his dog up outside the shop.

“It’s no easy,” he shook his head, “I cannae even get his food down the Co-Op any mair.”  They both looked down at his dog, a long-bodied basset with a morose expression.  The dog looked up, sneezed and shook itself.  Mr Wolf thought it did indeed look hungry, but they always do and besides the dog could do to lose a few pounds.

When he got back from the shop with a giant bag of pasta, a wedge of stale cheese and a dented tin of pear quarters, the technician had packed up and was ready to leave.  Mr Wolf nodded and waved him off, “We’ll need to carry on tomorrow and see if we can get some lever handles and pulls. 

“From where?  Off the black market?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t.”  Mr Wolf knew that things weren’t looking good – yet the folk protesting on the streets today and the angry hacks in the tabloids, had all been in favour until the reality struck them personally.

“Yeah, but it’s the same bandits that profit when things go wrong - guys like Arturo Ross.”

“Arturo Ross … now there’s a blast from the past.”

“Aye, I remember him.  God.  Arturo Ross …”

*   *   *

Next day was cold and bright, so Mr Wolf decided to take his chances with the petrol and see if he could find more hardware.

The client had agreed to keep paying fees provided Mr Wolf could lay his hands on materials.  To do that, Mr Wolf had to use all his ingenuity.  He fell back on old contacts, called in favours, and even searched in the baccy tin where he’d kept ten years’ worth of business cards, just in case this day should ever come.  At the very bottom of the tin was Arturo Ross’s card.

Half an hour later, Mr Wolf pulled his car up onto the unmade pavement in front of an old bleachworks.  The whitewash was peeling from the brickwork, and a few windows had been smashed, but the gates were open and machinery was running faintly somewhere inside.

Hi Arturo, how goes it?

Arturo looked up from vat of noxious chemicals.  He pulled out a length of metal which steamed and sparkled as it met the air.  It was a two foot long pull handle.

Mr Wolf brightened, “Where did you lay your hands on that?”

Arturo cleared his throat and replied vaguely, “A lad called James Riddell.”

“What?  You’re taking the piss.  Anyway, I’m needing handles, bronze or something that looks like bronze.

“You’ll be lucky son, replied Ross, “though I can mibbe help.”

“I hoped you might.”

When Mr Wolf returned a couple of weeks later with payment, Arturo Ross held out a lumpy package wrapped in brown paper - “These are the last pull handles in Scotland.  I hope your client is very happy wi’ them.  Cause he’ll no get any mair, no for love nor money.”

Ross ran the fifty pound notes under an ultra-violet lamp (you couldn’t be too careful these days) then added them to a roll held together with a fat elastic band.  There was no pale blue or sepia brown, but Mr Wolf got the want of many leaves of purple and magenta.

As Mr Wolf left with his door handles, Arturo Ross was smiling faintly, “What next eh?  Martial law?”

For months to come there was no let up in the cold weather: the city was dead and the ice showed no sign of melting.

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