Ripped (32 page)

'Probably
not.'
And
at
last,
reaching
forward,
he
turned
the
key and
brought
the
car
to
life.
'Unless
.
.
.
'

Murray
had
to
wait
while
the
yellow
Datsun
spasmed
across
the
yard
and
rushed
on
the
gate,
narrowly
missing
the
stone
pillar
on
the
left.
Taking
a
breath,
he
prodded,
'Unless?'

Billy
Shanks
swung
into
the
turn.
'Unless
it
happens
again,'
he cried.
'And
if
it
happened
on
the
right
date
–
magic!'
He
jolted
into
top
gear.
'Then
it
would
be
big.'

He
glanced
to
the
side,
but
for
some
reason
Murray
had
turned
away
and
there
was
no
way
of
telling
what
he
thought
about
that
.

8
Visiting Mother

SUNDAY,
SEPTEMBER
2
ND
1988

'Mum
Wilson,'
Irene
called
her,
which
never
sounded
entirely
appropriate.
Not
that
the
old
lady
though
born
in
the
first
years
of
the
century
on
an
island
in
the
grey
heaving
Atlantic
among
a
Sabbatarian
people
–
huddled
gaunt
into
a
black
shawl.
If
there
had
been
any
possibility
of
that,
it
had
died
with
her
husband.
His
death
was
a
junction
at
which
her
life
had
taken
a
different
road;
so
that,
for
example,
as
a
change
representative
of
all
the
others,
she
had
not
crossed
the
threshold
of
a
church
since
that
time.
Altogether,
with
her
good
complexion
and
upright
carriage,
in
a
dress
of
light
colours,
she
made
of
old
age
a
reassuringly
modern
icon.
Yet
one
still
somehow
unsuited
to
being
called
'Mum
Wilson'
in
Irene's
light
clear
tone.
Perhaps
for
no
better
reason
than
that
her
sons
called
her
Mother.
Perhaps
because
Irene
never
called
her
just
Mum;
it
was
always
in
full
'Mum
Wilson'.
To
an
unreasonable
extent
it
got
on
Murray's
nerves.

'Mum
Wilson,
as
usual
we
apologise.'
Her
voice
rang
through the
tiny
flat.
'Or
I
apologise
for
him.
He
didn't
want
to
be
hurried
this
morning.
Sunday's
his
day
for
lying
in
bed
and
worrying.'

'Worrying?'
The
old
lady
fixed
her
gaze
on
her
younger
son.
Her
eyes
were
extraordinary,
being
palest
blue
against
her
brown
skin
and
the
nested
wrinkles
of
age.
They
had
the
milky appearance
of
the
near
blind,
but
in
reality
her
vision
was
perfectly
good.
Against
this,
as
she
aged,
she
had
become
increasingly
deaf.
By
habit,
voices
were
raised
in
her
presence.
'What
is
it?
What's
wrong?'
And
her
tone
had
sharpened
with
an
anxiety
that
was
instant,
apprehensive
and
hovering.

'Not
a
thing,
Mother.'
Malcolm
brushed
a
kiss
against
her
cheek,
and
went
through
into
the
sitting
room
assuring
her
over
his
shoulder,
'Everything's
fine.'

'What
did
you
say?'

'He
says
everything's
fine,
Mother,'
Murray
said
raising
his
voice,
before
dropping
it
again
to
ask,
'Why
do
you
do
that?
You
know
she
can't
hear
you
if
you
walk
away
from
her.'

'What
is
it?'
Mother
asked
him.
'How
can
I
hear
what Malcolm's
saying
if
you
keep
talking?'

'Look
at
Malcolm,'
Irene
cried
into
the
silence.
'You
can
see
how
well
he's
looking,
Mum
Wilson.'

'No,'
the
old
woman
said.
'He's
not.'

She
stared
at
her
son
who
had
spent
a
lot
of
time
outdoors
in
this
good
summer;
the
paleness
slid
behind
his
tan
made
him
yellow.
He
had
the
look
of
a
man
who
has
slept
badly.

'Don't
fuss,
Mother,'
he
said
irritably,
and
then
to
Irene
more
quietly,
'Don't
you
think
I've
had
enough?'

'Speak
so
Mother
can
hear,'
Murray
burst
out. At
which
all
three
turned
to
look
at
him.

'What
is
it?'
Mother
asked.
'What
are
you
keeping
from
me?'
It was
the
start
of
a
Sunday
visit
familiar
to
them.
The
table
had
been
opened
out
and
set
for
dinner
since
midday.
Now
,
two
hours
later,
Malcolm
and
Irene
had
arrived.
There
had
been
plenty
of
time
while
they
waited
for
Murray
to
listen
to
his
mother's
concern
over
whether
Malcolm
was
well,
happy,
untroubled.
Meticulously,
she
did
not
relate
any
of
these
speculations
to
Malcolm's
wife.
Since
her
younger
son's
marriage
two
years
earlier,
she
had,
after
the
first
shock,
come
to
terms
with
Irene
for
her
own
reasons.
Mostly
that
day
she
had
fretted
over
his
reason for
missing
the
previous
Sunday's
visit.

'They
don't
come
every
week,
Mother,'
Murray
had
said.
'Even
I
don't
manage
every
Sunday.
Things
happen.' She
widened
her
strange
blind-seeming
eyes
on
him
and
said,
'No,
he's
been
very
faithful
about
coming.
He
doesn't
often
miss
a
Sunday
now.'

'Not
since
he
got
married.'

'Irene
keeps
him
up
to
the
mark,'
she
said
seriously.
'She's
been
good
for
him.'

For
some
reason,
he
covered
his
mouth
with
his
hand.
He
felt
the
hard
pressure
of
his
teeth
against
the
drawn
tightness
of
flesh
at
the
root
of
his
thumb.
Thinking
of
the
reach
of
her
ambition
for
her
younger
son,
he
said,
'Malcolm
needed
to
marry
a
lady.'