Ripped (113 page)

'You
may
as
well
stop,'
she
gasped;
this
time
he
heard.
'There's
no
one
there.'

Unstrung
then,
he
bent
forward
and
laid
himself
gently
down
until
he
rested
on
her.
A
great
sweat
burst
out
of
him,
issuing
from
his
long
need
and
loneliness,
oiling
the
junction
of
their
bodies
and
thighs.
Her
hair
surrounded
his
face
and
he
drew
a
strand
between
his
lips
and
blew
it
away
softly;
and
saw
her
hand
clenched
by
him
on
the
board.
Because
it
was
so
close,
the
hand
was
out
of
proportion,
grotesquely
large,
little
hills
of
knuckles,
and
the
knife
it
held
glinted
like
a
rapier.
In
reality
only
a
kitchen
knife
with
a
blade
five
or
six
inches
long,
but
honed
on
either
side
and
drawn
to
a
point.
A
blade
for
sticking
or
slicing
,
he
remembered
her
hand
punching
into
his
back;
her
left
hand;
the
knife
was
in
her
right.

He
straightened
and
eased
out
of
her.
With
a
little
grunt
of
complaint,
she
pushed
herself
upright.
She
faced
him,
not
trying
to
cover
herself
or
put
on
the
jeans
and
pants
tangled
round
one
ankle.

'I'm
sorry.'

'I
don't
ever
have
an
orgasm.
If
that's
important.'
Her
hands
hung
empty
by
her
sides.

'I'm
sorry.'

'You
want
me
to
cover
myself?'

She
bent
and
took
up
her
pants,
settling
herself
into
them
comfortably
and
smoothing
the
shirt
down
over
her
flanks.
She
pulled
up
the
jeans
and
fastened
the
button,
then
fished
out
the
toggle
to
draw
up
the
zip
moving
her
hips
up
and
forward
with
an
intimate
movement
as
if
she
was
alone.

'If
you
had
hit
me
with
the
knife,'
he
said
hoarsely,
'I
would
be
dead
by
now.'

It
lay
where
she
had
discarded
it
beside
the
bowl
and
the
broken
scatter
of
stuff
on
the
surface,
and
she
reached
out
and
swung
its
shining
blade
away
from
them.

'I
forgot
I
was
holding
it,'
she
said.

28
At Heathers'

SUNDAY,
OCTOBER
14TH

'Deal?'

'What
else?
When
he
has
something
to
celebrate,
Blair
likes
to
have
the
world
and
his
wife
joining
in.'

'Wife?
Did
you
bring
your
wife?'

As
the
two
men
laughed,
framed
between
them
Murray
glimpsed
Irene
on
the
other
side
of
the
room.
As
he
moved,
the
group
round
the
piano
surged
back
surrounding
him.
Trying
to
push
through,
he
found
himself
encircled
in
a
cleared
space,
alone
with
a
woman
who
was
wobbling
her
buttocks
as
some
kind
of
entertainment.
Holding
out
her
hands
to
him,
she
mewed
an
invitation.
The
spectators
yelped
applause.
He
tried
to
pass
her
and
she
hooked
plump
fingers
into
his
sleeve.
He
was
held.
She
parodied
excitement
.
Time
stretched
.
He
saw
their
mouths
yawn
like
muzzles
and
heard
them
yap.

With
a
convulsive
blow
from
the
side
of
his
hand
,
he
broke
her
grip.
Her
powdered
jowls
shook
as
she
panted
into
his
face.
A
loop
of
saliva
linked
her
parted
jaws
and,
showing
her
teeth
as
if
she
might
worry
him
like
a
rabid
bitch,
she
smile-snarled,
'Shy?
Are
you
shy?'

The
party
was
afloat.

Against
the
sober
man,
latecomer,
gate-crasher,
the
noise
swelled.
In
the
room
next
door
there
were
more
people,
but
Irene
wasn't
among
them.
Hurrying,
he
brushed
by
a
table
and
set
the ornamental
spray
of
fine
wires
trembling
in
a
shimmer
of
changing
colours.
From
decanters
and
glasses
light
swung
at
his
eyes.
Pushing
his
way
across
the
room,
a
pulse
of
pain
began
to
tick
inside
his
skull.
The
sharp
prod
on
his
shoulder
came
as
a
relief;
but
when
he
turned,
disconcertingly
fast,
ready,
it
was
only
an
overweight
stranger,
who
stumbled
back
a
step
as
if
in
fright.
'That
was
my
friend.'
Like
a
full
sponge,
the
man
leaked
moisture.
His
cheeks
glittered
.
'The
one
you
refused
to
dance with.'

Murray
stared
at
him
in
bewilderment
then
remembered
the
fat
woman.

'Are
you
listening?'
the
man
asked,
poised
between
aggression and
flight.
'She
doesn't
need
that
stuff.'

On
impulse
Murray
said,
'I
wouldn't
piss
on
your
friend,'
and
heard
a
snort
of
amusement.
Glancing
round,
he
discovered
Eddy
Stewart,
red
moon
face
split
in
a
grin.

'Take
my
advice.
Don't
argue,'
Eddy
said,
grinning.
'This
is
an
old
mate
of
mine,
and
he's
a
bad
bastard.'

Glaring,
the
man
looked
from
one
to
the
other
and
began
to
retreat.
Over
his
shoulder,
tremulously
malevolent,
he
piped,
'Why
did
you
fucking
come,
if
you
don't
want
to
have
any
fun?'

'That's
the
story
of
your
life,
Murray,'
Eddy
said.

'What
are
you
doing
here?'

'Mr
Heathers
wants
to
see
you
.
'

'You
have
your
hand
on
my
arm.'

The
big
man
smiled
and
took
his
hand
away.

'Nobody
asked
you
here,'
he
said.
'You
came
without
being
asked.
But
Mr
Heathers
is
willing
to
have
a
word.
So
what's
the
problem?'

As
Murray
went
with
him,
he
had
the
illusion
that
time
had flowed
backwards
and
they
would
go
outside
and
Peerse
would
be
waiting
in
the
police
car
to
ask
him
why
he
had
been
to
see
John
Merchant
and
the
call
would
come
and
they
would
go
to
where
a
body
was
lying
with
its
head
smashed
in
on
the
dirty
cobbles
of
a
lane
off
Deacon
street.
But
John
Merchant
was
dead
and
that
seemed
a
lifetime
ago.
It
got
quieter
as
they
went
towards
the
back
of
the
house.
By
an
uncurtained
window,
two
boys
and
a
girl passed
a
cigarette
and
gazed
out
like
philosophers
at
the
blank
darkness
over
the
garden.

Outside
a
door
half-way
along
a
passage
on
the
first
floor,
a man
watched
their
approach
with
the
attentive
lack
of
curiosity
of
a
sentry
on
duty.
He
was
big,
over
six
feet,
with
the
used
features
of
those
who
live
by
trading
in
punishment.
For
a
moment,
Murray
thought
he
recognised
him
as
one
of
the
men
who
had
beaten
him
in
the
club
the
day
Merchant
died;
but
he
couldn't
be
sure,
and
anyway
it
made
no
difference.