Ripped (122 page)

Out
of
the
dark,
Kujavia
came,
a
small
man,
hardly
taller
than the
woman,
but
very
broad.
He
was
wearing
a
suit
rumpled
enough
for
him
to
have
slept
in
it,
but
the
material
looked
heavy
and
of
good
quality.
When
he
unbuttoned
the
jacket,
braces
showed
curving
over
a
little
high
paunch.
His
shirt
was
open
at
the
neck
with
a
scarf
knotted
at
the
throat.
And
Murray
knew him with
his
lumpy
potato
face,
dull,
malicious,
brutal,
those
erected
spikes
of
black
hair;
he
was
the
one
from
the
nightmare
out
of
the
circle
of
standing
men,
a
silver
club
glittering
in
his
hand,
the
arc
of
his
arm
carrying
darkness.
A
small
man,
not
much
taller
than
the
woman,
but
very
broad.

Apart
from
one
glance
round
as
he
entered,
Kujavia
seemed unsuspicious.
Perhaps
he
had
been
watching
and
had
seen
her
arrive
alone.
In
any
case,
it
did
not
seem
to
occur
to
him
there
might
be
anyone
else
in
the
flat.

Behind
the
glass,
they
moved
and
gesticulated.
The
woman
came
nearer
and
then,
as
if
surprised,
retreated.
The
man's
face
was
distorted
by
a
heavy
jeering
contempt.
His
mouth
moved
and
he
showed
his
teeth
like
a
dog.
On
his
side
of
the
glass,
Murray
listened
in
the
silence
to
the
uneven
thunder
of
his
heart.

Did
you ever set a trap, Kujavia? You go back and it's been sprung. When you're very young and squeamish, it isn't a nice sight. The bar beaten into the fur of its neck. The paws stretched out like small hands. I was so squeamish, being young, that I picked all of it up by the edges of the wooden base, in a piece of newspaper so I wouldn't really touch anything, and threw it in the bin, trap, mouse and all. The mouse dangling like a glove, boneless and empty. Mother was angry at the waste. She made me go out and empty it (the horror in case the dead thing clung) then fetch it inside. A trap for every time – that would be expensive. She said to me, You have to learn to live in the real world.

And
it always caught them across the neck. Crack! And you saw the pink show of its tongue. And a tiny pile of shit at the back, so little you might not notice it as you lift the trap away. It must nibble the cheese and release the trap and then jump back – for if it didn't, the bar wouldn't land exactly there on the neck – crack! Believe me, it's worked out. Whoever makes these traps, works it out. But suppose the mouse, when the trap moved, froze still? That might save it. Nobody's ever imagined a mouse that kept still when the trap went.

But
whatever, whoever, would be able to stay when the great terror whistled in the air? –Nature was against it.

When
he
opened
the
door,
it
seemed
Irene
was
as
startled
as
Kujavia.
They
were
standing
as
close
as
conspirators
or
lovers
interrupted
in
guilt.
Kujavia
took
three
or
four
trotting
steps
backward,
groping
behind
him,
feeling
for
the
door.
'Oh,
fucking
bitch,'
he
spat
venomously.
'You
do
this.
You
do
this
to
me.'

It
was
the
moment
of
surprise.
It
was
cripple
or
kill
time
and
never
a
better
chance.
The
knowledge
was
mapped
into
the
memory
of
his
muscles.
Yet
he
let
the
precious
time
of
advantage
pass
though
he
had
been
trained
so
it
came
more
easily
to
act,
his
body,
like
the
bodies
of
so
many
men,
made
over
into
an
obedient
animal
prepared
to
slip
the
leash.
Yet
he
stood,
the
animal
was
forgetful;
his
will
tangled
in
the
strangeness
of
their
resemblance,
as
if
beauty
and
ugliness
could
be
confused.

And
as
the
moment
was
lost,
Kujavia
made
his
own
act
of
recognition.

'Sure
.
..'
He
struggled
with
it,
the
thick
pulpy
brows
drawn
down,
then
showed
a
row
of
yellow
teeth.
'Sure!
I
give
you
a
small
lesson
when
Mr
Heathers
ask
me,
then
he
take
you
on.
He
hire
you.
What
is
it?
Does
she
pay
you?
Is
that
what
she
promise?
She
doesn't
have
any
money.
She
talks
fancy,
but
I
know
her.
She's
nothing.
I
pay
you.
I'm
a
rich
man.'

'I
was
going
to
tell
you
he
was
there,'
Irene
said
on
one
breath,
like
a
child
pleading.

'What
do
you
care
about
this,
mister?'
Kujavia
asked
contemptuously.
'It's
not
your
business.
Is
she
going
to
sleep
with
you?
I
give
you
plenty
of
women.'
He
turned
the
black
deadness
of
his
gaze
briefly
on
the
woman.
'Or
her.
I
can
give
you
her.
Blair
Heathers
is
a
rich
man
–
like
me.
But
I
know
how
to
handle
the
women.'

'I
don't
want
you
to
be
afraid
of
him,'
Murray
heard
Irene
cry.
'I
don't
want
you
to
be
afraid
of
anybody.
He
told
me
you
killed –'

'You
be
quiet,'
Kujavia
interrupted
her,
without
raising
his
voice.
'I
don't
tell
you
to
speak.
Keep
your
mouth
shut.'
He
began
to
sidle
forward,
addressing
himself
now
to
Murray,
keeping
his
attention
fixed
on
the
other
man's
eyes.
'You
go
away
now.
You
and
me
don't
have
quarrel.
Forget
you
ever
been
here.
I
deal
with her,
okay?
You
don't
hear
of
her
any
more.
You
take
some
money.
That's
what
you
want.
That
way
you
have
no
problem,
no
trouble.
I'm
a
rich
man.'