A fighters story

Previously

…Patrick removed his cap, the damp wind whipping his hair, and bowed his head. The mist from the Bothlin Burn bridge seemed to creep back into his bones, deep and permanent. He understood now. The pale woman in the mist hadn’t been a campfire ghost story; she had been the herald of the pits, collecting the inevitable toll of a mining life. The warmth of the Pentland Road kitchen, the bright hopes of the two young mothers looking toward the autumn and winter to come, and the vibrant life of the boxing club all felt suddenly small and vulnerable, crushed under the brutal, unforgiving weight of the valley. Chryston would never feel quite the same