Ripped (38 page)

While
he
spoke
the
last
few
sentences,
he
had
been
fiddling
with
one
of
the
empty
glasses.
Now
he
looked
up,
blinking.

'Don't
worry,'
Murray
said
with
authority.
'Muriel's
conscience
will
be
clear.
If
ever
you
meet
her,
she'll
be
too
respectable
to
talk
to
you.
She'll
be
some
nice
guy's
old
lady.'

Immediately,
unreasonably,
Shanks
looked
relieved.

'I
wouldn't
tell
stuff
like
that
to
anyone
else,
Murray.
Frances
Fernie.'
He
scribbled
down
the
name
and
address
under
it.
'It's
a
street
off
Moirhill
Road –
further
out,
on
the
respectable
side.'

'I'll
find
her.'

Having
got
what
he
wanted,
Murray
stood
up.
Shanks
looked
up
at
him.

'That
stuff
about
Jack
the
Ripper
in
Saturday's
column.
It's
what
I
use
now
to
hide
what's
missing.
Who
cares
about
a
children's
home?
Nobody
wants
to
read
the
small
print
–
not
in
contracts
or
Acts
of
Parliament
–
it's
boring.
When
the
century
gets
its
tombstone,
that's
what'll
be
written
on
it:
They
got
bored
too
easily.'

Murray
picked
up
his
glass
of
tomato
juice
and
finished
what
was
left
in
it.

'Here's
to
Muriel,'
he
said.

He
didn't
really
like
tomato
juice.

10 Whores are Different

WEDNESDAY,
SEPTEMBER
5
TH
1988

It
didn't
bother
Murray
that
old
Barney
wiped
a
finger
under
his
nose
before
folding
the
paper
and
passing
it
over.
Situated
at
the
Cross,
selling
papers
every
day
of
the
week
in
all
weathers,
the
old
man
was
a
storehouse
of local
knowledge
and
a
magnet
for
gossip.
It
was
worth
putting
up
with
his
idiosyncrasies.
Anyway,
it
was
another
voice
to
make
a
pattern
of
the
days;
living
alone,
that
counted
for
something.

'Where
you
off
to
then?'
Barney
asked.

'Up
the
Road
a
bit.'

'A
fair
step?'

'So
so
,
up
past
the
canal,'
Murray
conceded
.

'You're
going
to
see
somebody?'
The
old
man
hazarded
a
guess.
He
had
a
voice
like
vinegar
and
razor
blades
from
too
many
wet
mornings
and
fogbound
afternoons.

'That's
right,'
but
went
on
since
it
was
part
of
the
game
to
give something,
'I've
been
trying
to
get
her
in
since
Monday.'

'Her,'
the
old
man
repeated.
'It's
a
woman
then.'
Honour
satisfied,
he
reverted
to
a
favourite
topic,
'All
the
people
you
have
to
see,
you
should
get
a
motor.'

'The
sun's
shining,'
Murray
said.
'It's
a
good
day
for
a
walk.'

'Ay,
but,'
Barney
said,
wiping
his
nose
again,
'in
business,
time
is
money.'

Speaking
as
one
businessman
to
another
,
which
was
funny, but
didn't
provide
a
car
to
replace
the
Cortina
which
had
failed
its test –
'if
it
was
a
horse,
ye'd
shoot
it,'
the
mechanic
had
said;
or
shorten
the
dusty
length
of
Moirhill
Road
on
the
day
of
a
bus
strike.
Time
being
money,
he
walked
too
fast,
so
that
when
for
the
third
time
he
turned
into
the
street
where
John
Merchant's
girlfriend
was
supposed
to
live
his
temper
was
sour
and
his
collar
stuck
to
his
neck
with
the
heat.

The
metal
grille
at
the
entrance
to
the
close
was
unlocked
and folded
back
which
was
an
improvement.
The
walls
were
lined
with
blue
tiles
each
with
a
white
flower
and
it
was
suddenly
cold
out
of
the
warmth
of
the
sun.
As
he
came
to
the
first
landing,
a
man
was
coming
down
from
above
carrying
a
parcel
clumsily
wrapped
in
brown
paper
and
Murray
watched
him
out
of
sight
before
knocking.

For
a
deceptive
moment,
Murray
thought
that
he
knew
the
woman.
She
had
blonde
hair
cut
short
and
a
narrow
pretty
face
with
high
cheekbones.
It
was
only
when
she
tentatively
smiled
showing
crooked
slightly
overlapping
teeth
that
the
impression
of
a
resemblance
vanished
.

'John
sent
me.'

'No,'
she
said,
'he
didn't,'
and
started
to
close
the
door.
He
pushed
it
back
and
forced
her
before
him
into
the
flat.

The
sun
had
found
its
difficult
angle
between
the
cliffs
of tenements
and
the
room
was
flooded
with
light.
It
was
clean
and
the
carpet
was
a
wound
brightness
of
pink
and
green.
There
was
an
easy
chair
and
a
couch
with
a
woman's
magazine
laid
open
on
a
cushion.
On
the
wall
opposite
him
a
painting
of
a
landscape
altered
as
the
sunlight
fell
across
it
warming
its
colours.
Through
an
open
door
he
glimpsed
a
bed
neatly
made
with
its
cover
smoothed
over
and
hanging
straight.
It
was
tidier
and
more
comfortable
than
where
he
lived
.

It
was
nothing
like
the
whores'
rooms
he
remembered.

'John,'
he
said,
'likes
his
meat
well
wrapped.
I
can
see
that.'
He
pointed
at
the
chair
and
the
edge
of
the
uncertainty
that
he
had
begun
to
feel
left
him
when
she
sat
down
without
arguing.
She
gave
no
indication
of
the
resistance
even
timorous
people
offer
as
a
token
when
they
are
in
their
own
homes
buttressed
by
a sense
of
possession.

'I
haven't
had
any
man
up
here,'
she
said
suddenly.
Muscles
in
her
throat
worked
as
if
out
of
a
dry
mouth
she
was
trying
to
swallow.

'One
man.
This
one
man
I'm
thinking
of.'

If
John
Merchant
refused
to
see
him,
then
it
seemed
to
Murray
that
he
had
to
apply
pressure
here,
to
the
hidden
part
of
Merchant's
life,
where
he
wouldn't
want
to
have
the
police
run
interference
for
him.