Ripped (125 page)

Because
I said he was bent. Or maybe it wasn't even because of that: after all, Eddy's been on the take for a long time: that's something all of us know about Eddy. Because I wasn't polite to him in front of Blair Heathers – perhaps that was it; a man has his pride. But, Billy, aren't you supposed to be the one who hates Heathers? You should be on my side, not Eddy's. My friend, not his. My friend.

'Come
where?
Where
was
he
supposed
to
come?'
Murray asked.

'To
the
Shot
for
lunch
with
us,
of
course.
I
told
you
I
have
to
go there.
To
see
Tommy
Beltane
.
I
told
you
he
phoned.'

If
he
had
been
told
where
they
were
going,
he
had
not
understood.
A
feeling
of
weakness
went
over
his
arms
and
legs,
as
if
all
the
power
had
been
drained
from
them.
Strangely,
it
was
not
an
unpleasant
sensation,
any
more
than
floating
when
he
had
swum
to
the
end
of
his
strength.
He
wondered
if
Beltane
had
recognised
him
in
the
corner
of
the
dark
landing,
if
he
had
pushed
at
the
unlocked
door
of
the
flat
above,
if
he
had
gone
in
and
found
Mary
O'Bannion.
It
would
be
strange
if,
instead
of
Peerse,
Tommy
Beltane
was
to
be
the
hunter.

'Look
at
that,'
Billy
said.
He
put
on
the
wipers
as
rain
battered
against
the
window.
'The
sun
was
out
a
minute
ago.
It's
going
to
be
one
of
those
days
that
change.'

For
the
rest
of
the
journey,
they
talked
about
the
weather
and then
about
finding
a
place
to
park.

It
was
early
yet,
and
the
Shot
wasn't
busy.
They
saw
Tommy Beltane
at
a
table
with
two
other
men.
Murray
had
expected
him to
be
alone.
He
hadn't
expected
him
to
be
talking
just
as
he
always
did.
If
he
faltered
when
he
saw
Murray,
he
corrected
it
so
immediately
there
was
no
way
of
being
sure.
As
they
sat
down,
nods
were
exchanged,
but,
as
if
by
complicity,
without
interrupting
the
flow
of
that
wonderfully
impressive
voice.
It
was
like
a
thing
apart,
not
a
possession
but
possessing
the
man,
made
to
create
an
audience.

'...
No
after
life.
No
hell
or
sweet
heaven.
Our
true
horror movie?
I'll
tell
you
the
last
ghost
story.
We'll
be
gathered
round
a
corpse
engaged
in
some
conjuration
we've
made
possible.
Something
scientific
naturally,
or
how
could
we
hope
for
a
miracle?
The
channel
opens
and
we
listen
to
discover
what
lies
beyond
the
gate
of
death.
We're
prepared
for
anything.
Anything
but
silence
.
..
Our
horror
will
be
the
silence,
a
stillness
that
has
no
waiting
in
it
nor
any
place
for
expectation.'

'Tell
me
one
thing,'
Murray
said
into
the
silence,
'That
body
they
used,
was
it
a
fat
whore?
One
who
had
gone
on
because
she
was
too
stupid
to
do
anything
else.'

One
of
the
men
Murray
didn't
know
laughed
uncertainly,
then trailed
off.

'That's
harsh,'
Tommy
Beltane
said,
combing
his
fingers
through
the
full
patriarchal
beard.

'I
would
rather
load
dead
meat
in
the
market,'
Murray
said, 'than
let
a
whore
lay
her
dirty
hands
on
me.'

The
words
came
thick
in
his
mouth.
He
felt
their
stares.

'Murray's
a
Calvinist,'
Billy
Shanks
said
with
an
uneasy
difficult
smile.

'That's
a
word
we
use
too
glibly
in
this
city.'
Over
the
hand
smoothing,
smoothing
his
beard
,
Tommy
Beltane
watched
Murray
.
'All
of
us
mouthing
that
particular
cliche
with
an
air
of
rightful
ownership
as
if
Calvin
had
been
born
up
a
close
in
Moirhill
and
burned
his
first
heretic
outside
the
City
Chambers
.
What
do
we
mean
by
it?
Ask
us
and,
if
we
have
what
passes
here
for
an
education,
we'll
stammer
out
something
about
predestination.
Only
by
that
we
mean
nothing
but
guilt-and
that
every
pleasure
has
a
price
higher
than
we
ever
wanted
to
pay.'

'I
heard
you
had
something
you
wanted
to
tell
Billy,'
Murray said.
'I
heard
that
you
phoned
because
you
had
something
you
wanted
to
tell
him.'
But
the
man
he
had
thought
of
at
first
sight
as
the
Prophet
shook
his
head.
'No
...
no,
you
don't
have
anything
to
say.
You
talk
a
lot,
but
you
don't
say
anything.
A
patter
merchant.
A
voice
in
a
bar.'

'Waiting
for
closing
time.'
It
was
a
wonderful
voice,
masculine
and
commanding,
and
whatever
he
might
have
wished,
even
against
his
will,
Tommy
Beltane
was
given
an
audience.
'Isn't
that
what
we're
all
doing?
What
makes
you
think
you
understand
me?
I
don't
claim
that
about
you.
If
I
spent
all
of
a
long
night
trying
to
understand,
that's
the
only
conclusion
I
could
come
to
–
I
think
some
of
us
are
not
.
..
at
home
..
.
in
these
bodies.
We
should
be
kind
to
one
another.
I
was
at
a
conference
lately
and
after
the
welcome,
after
the
first
meeting,
after
dinner,
I
couldn't
bear
it.
I
looked
round
this
room
and
there
were
people
at
a
piano
singing,
but
all
of
them
were
younger
than
me
and
I
didn't
know
the
songs.
I
went
up
to
my
room
and
repacked
my
case
and
came
down.
I
wanted
to
go
home,
but
I
couldn't
find
my
way
outside
.
I
went
along
corridors
that
had
locked
doors.
And
at
last
I
was
in
a
corridor
where
the
side
wall
was
all
of
glass
and
I
looked
across
a
darkened
courtyard
and
I
saw
them
crowded
in
that
room
singing.
It
was
so
quiet
I
heard
the
hum
of
one
of
the
lights,
failing,
flickering.
I
stood
there
with
my
case
in
my
hand
watching
their
mouths
moving.
I
couldn't
find
my
way
out.
And
so
in
the
end
I
went
back
to
my
room
and
unpacked
and
lay
on
the
bed,
waiting
for
it
to
be
morning.'