Ripped (108 page)

'None
of
that
sounds
so
bad
to
me,'
Murray
said.
'She
was
only a
kid,
and
she
was
having
a
bad
time.'

She
shook
her
head,
a
brief
sharp
movement.
It
occurred
to
him
it
was
the
gesture
she
had
used
when
a
child
was
being
slow;
as
if
she
might
cry
to
him,
'Don't
you
see
?
'

Instead
she
said,
'You've
missed
the
minister
.
He's
not
retired
like
me,
perhaps
someone
caught
him
before
he
could
escape
on
to
the
Head.'

'That's
all
right.
I
don't
suppose
he
could
have
told
me
more than
you've
done.'

'You're
a
good
listener,'
she
said
grimly.
'I'm
going
back.
You
go
on
over
the
hill –
that
way –
and
you'll
get
a
look
at
the
house
they
lived
in
after
Sandy
Fletcher's
accident.'

'I
don't
think,'
Murray
began,
'it
would
be
worth –'

'I
don't
want
you
walking
back
with
me.
You
make
too
much
noise.
Go
on
over
the
hill,
if
you
want
to
understand
the
life
they
had.'

After
a
moment
he
shrugged
and
began
to
walk
in
the
direction she
had
indicated.
'I
say!'

He
turned.

'What
have
you
seen
while
we've
been
talking?'

He
stared
back
uncomprehending.

'A
wheatear
–
there
with
rust
on
its
throat.
Didn't
you
see?'
Triumph
reddened
her
leathery
cheeks
and
she
watched
him
maliciously.
'Or
the
moorhen
?
Or
the
coot
there
?'
A
dark
bird
tugged
a
caravan
of
ripples
under
the
bank.
'And
so
much
to
hear!
You
don't
know
where
to
look
unless
you
listen.
Don't
preen yourself,'
Miss
Sturrock
cried.
'Don't
preen
yourself
on
being
clever
about
getting
a
silly
old
woman
to
talk
so
much.
Of
course,
I
think
about
her.
But
I
can't
see
how
anyone
would
have
made
a
difference.

27 The Knife

SATURDAY,
OCTOBER
13TH

They
hadn't
drawn
the
curtains
in
the
house
across
the
road.
He
could
see,
as
if
held
in
a
frame,
a
table
uncleared
from
the
evening
meal
and
a
woman
with
a
boy
who
might
have
been
her
son,
their
heads
close
together
as
if
sharing
a
joke
.
In
a
moment,
the
father,
shirt-sleeved,
came
through
the
open
door
from
the
kitchen
and
with
his
hand
raised
to
his
mouth
bit
a
piece
from
something
and
stood
watching
them
as
he
chewed.
Dull
suburban
home
movie;
but
in
Murray's
fatigue
it
had
an
hypnotic
effect
that
was
hard
to
break.

'Travelling,'
he
said
without
turning
his
head.
'I
spent
some
of the
day
travelling.
And
I
went
for
a
walk
along
a
cliff.'

At
his
back
Irene
said,
'You're
so
tired
you
can
hardly
talk
straight.'

'I've
had
a
long
day.
I
went
looking
for
a
minister
and
found
a schoolteacher.'

'And
then
you
came
to
see
me.'

Armoured
by
routine
or
indifference,
the
actors
in
the
playlet
across
the
street
seemed
to
have
no
need
of
privacy.
Reaching
up
with
his
arms
on
either
side,
he
drew
the
curtains
shut.
'I
came
anyway,'
he
said,
'but
I
wasn't
sure
you'd
be
here.'
When
he
turned,
he
moved
abruptly
as
if
to
take
her
by
surprise.
He
had
thought
she
was
standing,
but
she
had
seated
herself
on
the
couch and
he
had
not
expected
that
.
'You
might
have
been
at
the
hospital.
Or
at
Mother's.'

'He
hasn't
made
up
his
mind
whether
he
wants
me
to
visit,'

Irene
said.
'He
thinks
I
should
have
stopped
him
from
going
to
Frances
when
she
phoned.'

'Does
Malcolm
know
she
was
your
sister?'

'He
didn't
go
there
for
my
sake,'
she
said.

'I
know
what
he
went
there
for.'
Saying
that,
he
heard
himself,
harsh,
dry,
a
voice
full
of
a
dry
rage.
He
saw
the
heaviness
of
a
man
pressed
down
like
a
burden
on
the
outspread
body
of
a
woman.
It
came
between
him
and
Irene
so
that
he
looked
away
from
her
as
if
she
might
read
the
unwanted
vision
in
his
eyes.
'Did
I
ever
tell
you,'
she
asked,
'that
Frances
expected
to
be
fucked
by
you
that
day
you
went
to
her
flat?
While
you
were
asking
your
questions,
she
kept
waiting
for
you
to
start
hitting
her.
After
that,
she
expected
to
get
fucked.
She
couldn't
have
stopped
you. Instead
you
poured
her
stuff
on
to
the
floor.'

She
got
up
and
walked
through
into
the
kitchen.
He
followed
and
stood
just
inside
the
door
watching
her.
She
set
down
a
bowl
half
full
of
a
grey
greasy
mix
beside
the
carcass
of
a
chicken
on
a
tray
and
began
to
lay
beside
it
knives
from
a
drawer,
each
coming
down
with
its
sharp
separate
knock
on
the
wooden
surface.

'It's
not
for
me,'
she
said.
'I
don't
like
chicken.
It
makes
me squeamish.'

Tiredness
gathered
to
a
single
ache
at
the
base
of
his
skull.
The
surface
of
the
mix
in
the
bowl
was
covered
in
flecks
of
green.
Staring
at
it,
he
felt
a
drop
of
sour
vomit
rise
into
the
back
of
his
mouth.

'Finding
out
things
is
my
business,'
he
said.
'I
know
who
killed
Annette
Verhaeren.
It's
not
a
great
secret –
only
his
name
doesn't
appear
in
the
papers.'
But
that
wasn't
what
he
wanted
to
say
first.
He
had
come
to
tell
her
about
being
in
the
village.
'Finding
things
out
.
..
I
had
a
contact
who
helped
me
to
trace
where
Annette's
children
had
been
taken
for
adoption.'

'Billy
Shanks?'

She
was
working
with
a
knife
on
the
chicken
carcass
.
She reached
in
with
the
blade
first
at
one
side
and
then
the
other, sawing
to
cut.
With
the
knife
she
held
back
the
skin
at
the
top
of
the
aperture
and
used
her
fingers
to
wrench
the
bone
inside
to
and
fro.
The
grey
skin
wrinkled
back
in
folds
under
the
pressure
of
the
knife
and
the
forked
bone
tore
free
at
last
crusted
with
brown
meat
stained
with
blood.