Ripped (39 page)

'I
wouldn't
hurt
anybody,'
she
said.
'You
won't
prove
I've
hurt
anybody.'

He
saw
that
her
upper
lip
was
shining
with
sweat.
The
woman
was
terrified.
Why
was
she
so
afraid?
It
was
as
if
they
were
talking
about
two
different
things.

'What
do
you
call
yourself,
Frances?
Is
it
Mrs
or
Miss
Fernie?'

The
truth
was
that
he
wasn't
even
sure
any
more
that
he
had
the
right
woman,
the
one
named
for
him
by
Billy
Shanks.

'I'm
not
married,'
she
said.
'Why
are
you
here?
Are
you
not
the police?'

'You're
not
very
bright,'
he
said
.
'You're
not
very
bright
at
all,
Frances.'

She
wiped
her
hand
across
her
lips.
Crouched
on
the
chair,
she
was
wearing
a
black
sweater
and
dark
grey
tight
cord
trousers.
Her
feet
were
bare
apart
from
plain
black
slippers
like
ballet
pumps.
There
was
something
of
a
dancer's
slimness
and
tone
to
her
body,
its
breasts
small
and
high
with
the
nipples
standing
out
under
the
light
sweater.
Standing
over
her,
he
caught
the
salt
smell
of
her
fear.

'Not
bright,'
he
said
and
walked
through
into
the
bedroom.
Beside
the
neatly
made
bed,
there
was
a
wardrobe
against
the
wall,
two
chairs,
one
cushioned
and
set
before
a
dressing
table
which
had
a
scatter
of
brushes,
bottles,
little
boxes
and
a
decorative
fan
in
garish
colours
spread
half
open.
He
began
to
throw
the
clothes
from
the
wardrobe
on
to
the
floor.
At
the
sound
she
came
to
the
door
watching
in
silence
without
a
protest.

'He's
generous,'
he
said
and
waited
for
a
moment
as
if
it
was
a question
she
might
answer
.
He
began
on
the
drawers
of
the
dressing
table,
pouring
out
first
from
the
small
ones
on
either
side of the
mirror
rings
and
a
watch
and
a
necklace
of
plump
amber-coloured
beads.
From
two
larger
drawers
he
tipped
out
scarves
and
tubes
of
pills
and
ointments,
one
of
which
fell
clear
of
the
mess
and
rolled
to
rest
with “haemorrhoids”
lettered
in
blue
on
the
upper
side.
At
the
bottom
there
were
two
long
drawers
and
from
them
he
threw
down
jerseys
and
soft
coils
of
underwear.
Last
of
all,
under
everything
else
as
if
hidden,
he
came
on
a
doll
damaged
by
time
and
with
most
of
its
yellow
hair
missing.
It
fell
on
all
that
had
gone
before
and
watched
him
from
its
remaining
eye.
'John
doesn't
like
anything
too
flashy,'
Murray
said
and
stirred
the
tangle
with
a
shoe
smeared
by
the
oily
dust
of
his
long
walk.
'And
he
likes
things
kept
tidy
.
I
bet
you
even
have
to
take
a
bath regularly.'

'I
don't
need
anybody
to
make
me
take
a
bath,'
she
said.

'I
wonder
if
he
likes
that
voice
of
yours.
What
is
it –
east
coast?'
She
had
retreated
into
a
watchful
silence
.
'There's
no
way
John's
going
to
take
you
out
on
his
arm –
not
where
he'd
meet
anybody
that
mattered.
He's
a
bit
of
a
gentleman,
John,
maybe
a
wee
bit
of
a
snob,
eh?'
His
voice
kept
the
same
quiet
insistent
pitch
as
he
moved
closer
to
her,
uncomfortably
close.
'You're
all
right,
but
not
anything
special.
Why
you?
Is
it
something
he
does
to
you?
Eh?
Or
the
other
way
round?
Is
that
it?
I
think
that's
it.'

For
a
second,
crowding
her
close,
it
was
possible
to
believe
she
would
spill
them
out,
the
indignities
which
would
give
him
a
hold
on
Merchant
and
let
him
protect
his
brother.

'I
don't
talk
any
worse
than
you.'
That
was
unexpected,
like
a
cat
twisting
under
his
hand
.
'The
Highland
way
you
talk,'
and
at
her
own
words
she
blinked
and
something
changed
in
her
eyes.

There
would
be
no
secrets,
but
he
didn't
stop
trying.
'How
did
you
come
to
meet
John
Merchant
in
the
first
place?
Did
somebody
pass
you
on
to
him?'
A
useful
possibility
occurred
to
him.
'Was
it
Blair
Heathers
–
did
he
pass
you
on?'
Something
about
her
had
left
him
in
no
doubt
from
the
first
glance
that
she
was
a
professional.