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Frances
Fernie
circled
the
tangle
of
her
possessions
fastidiously
before
settling
on
the
edge
of
the
bed
.
She
nibbled
at
the
corner
of
a
thumbnail.
'I
don't
know
anybody
called
Heathers,' she
said
without
looking
up.
'But
you're
right
about
somebody
introducing
me
to
John
.
You're
right
about
that.'

'So?'

'You
wouldn't
know
him,'
she
said.
'I
met
John
through
this
friend
of
mine,
Malcolm
Wilson.
But
you
wouldn't
know
him
.
'
Despite
the
shock
he
took
a
habit
of
self-control
for
granted.
Ideas
spun
through
his
mind
too
fast
to
be
made
use
of
or
grasped
.
He
thought
his
expression
would
give
nothing
away
and
then
he
realised
that
somehow
he
had
brought
his
face
close
to
hers.
Her
eyes
widened
impossibly
and
came
near
and
then
went
from
him,
rushed
out
into
some
inconceivable
distance
.
He
was
filled
by
a
murderous
rage.
Carefully,
one
step
at
a
time,
he
moved back
from
her.

'Why
tell
me
then?'

Her
lips
were
white
and
she
shook
her
head
but
seemed
unable
to
speak.
There
was
no
way
of
telling
what
it
was
she
denied.

'You're
a
whore,'
he
said.
'For
a
whore
you
take
too
many chances.'

He
stared
in
a
kind
of
stupidity
at
the
stuff
he
had
thrown
on
the
floor
to
remind
her
that
a
whore
was
different
and
that
no
matter
how
much
money
a
whore
gathered
it
could
not
buy
her
peace
or
any
place
to
be
secure.

In
the
lavatory,
the
lid
had
a
fur
cover,
slick
under
his
fingers
as he
lifted
the
seat
and
began
to
relieve
himself.
As
if
by
accident,
the
thick
yellow
stream
strayed
on
the
edge
of
the
bowl
and
he
stared
as
it
sprayed
soiling
the
carpet
and
it
seemed
as
if
the
hard
jet
falling
out
of
him
would
never
cease.
Like
a
sleep-walker,
he
ran
hot
water
into
the
basin
and
washed
his
hands.
He
soaped
and
rinsed
them
and
did
the
same
again
and
a
third
time.
The
towel
from
the
rail
was
warm
and
he
held
it
against
his
throat
.
Through
the
open
door,
he
watched
the
woman
gathering
up
the
yellow
haired
doll
with
a
twisting
protective
movement
that
kept
her
gaze
fixed
on
him.

By
the
basin
a
round
mirror
was
fixed.
When
he
pulled
the cord,
a
coil
of
fluorescent
light
came
on
around
it.
The
mirror
tilted
at
his
touch
and
he
saw
reflected
in
the
depths
of
his
eyes
two
perfect
circles
of
white.

11 Second Death

SATURDAY,
SEPTEMBER
8
TH
1988

Not
dreaming,
but
drifting
against
the
morning
light,
Murray
saw
his
brother's
wife
with
a
knife
in
her
hand
and
she
came
near
and
then
turned
and
went
from
him
into
the
distance.
It
wasn't
true
that
he
was
angry;
and
then,
unbidden,
his
father
appeared
and
poor
Seidman
killed
in
Memphis;
muddled
images
of
the
dead.

When
he
opened
his
eyes,
he
saw
a
grey
beetle
nested
in
balls
of
fluff
on
the
carpet.
He
waited
for
it
to
move,
but
it
turned
suddenly
into
an
eraser
that
had
been
knocked
off
the
desk
and
with
that
he
knew
he
was
in
the
front
room
and
remembered
why
he
was
sleeping
there.

'Can
I
come
in,
Murray?'

'What
time
is
it?
It's
the
middle
of
the
night.'

'It's
called
working
unsocial
hours.'

'You
get
paid
for
them.
I
don't.'

As
they
went
into
the
back
room,
Eddy
Stewart
staggered
against
the
lintel. 'You're
drunk
.
'

'Tired.'
Uninvited,
Stewart
half
fell
into
the
rocker.
It
squealed
back
under
the
impact.
Murray
lifted
him
by
the
arm –
'That's
where
I
sit,
remember?'
–
and
dropped
him
into
one
of
the
upright
seats
at
the
table.

'You're
not
a
kind
man,'
Stewart
said
thoughtfully.
'Always
liked
you,
Murray.
Always
from
the
old
days.
I
never
cared
what
they
said
about
you.
But
you're
not
a
kind
man.
Couldn't
say
that.
Not
being
honest
,
honestly.'

'How
drunk
are
you,
Eddy?
I
thought
that
was
a
sponge
you
kept
in
your
throat.'

'Ach!'
Stewart
made
a
throaty
exclamation
of
disgust
and
resting
his
head
on
his
hand
seemed
to
go
to
sleep.
Murray
knocked
the
elbow
off
the
table.

'What
the – '
Stewart
spluttered
as
his
head
jerked
up.
He groaned
and
rubbed
the
sagging
flesh
on
his
face
into
deep
folds.
'Can
I
stay
here
for
the
night?'

'Not
a
chance,'
Murray
said.
'This
is
private.
People
come
here
when
they're
invited.
You're
breaking
a
rule,
Eddy.'

'I
haven't
had
all
that
much
drink
.
A
share
of
a
couple
of
bottles
to
help
them
celebrate.'
Abruptly,
he
said,
'I
can't
face
going
home.'

'Find
another
blackbird
and
get
her
to
sing
for
you
.
'

'You
can
get
tired
of
putting
it
to
whores
.
'

'So
go
home
.
'

'Fucking
Moirhill!
They're
all
peddling
their
meat
up
there
or
they're
tealeafs
or
just
thick
and
too
bone
bloody
idle
to
live
anywhere
else.
If
you
weren't
just
a
toytown
copper,
you'd
have
stayed
long
enough
to
knock
a
few
doors
.
You
didn't
stay
long
enough
to
learn,
Murray.
You
don't
know
how
many
shits
there
are
in
the
world.'

'Next
time
bring
your
violin.
Come
on.
Out.
I've
work
in
the morning,
and
you're
a
big
time
detective
with
a
boss
.
Peerse'll
be
looking
for
you.'

'Peerse
can
go
and – '
Stewart
made
an
explicit
gesture
of
explanation,
'sideways.
Another
bloody
teetotaller
.
I
was
helping
the
Northern
team
celebrate.
They
got
a
confession.'

A
confession.
Murray
went
still.

'For
the
guy
that
got
offed
in
Deacon
Street,'
Stewart
said.
'You
were
there.
Turns
out
he
was
a
queer.
Met
the
wrong
little
friend.
The
kid's
been
done
a
couple
of
times
before
for
queer-bashing.
This
time
he
went
too
far.'
Rubbing
a
finger
in one
eye,
he
squinted
at
Murray
sceptically.
'What's
making
you
so
happy?'

'It's
the
way
you
tell
them,
Eddy,'
Murray
said.
'Stuff
you
too.'
Stewart
yawned.
'I'm
shattered.'

'You
can
put
your
head
down
here
–
but
this
is
the
last
time.'

As
Eddy
Stewart
gaped
in
mid
yawn,
the
concession
taking
him
by
surprise,
Murray
despite
himself
felt
his
grin
widening,
a
thing
out
of
his
control.
No
more
worry;
no
more
crazy
suspicions.

They
had
a
confession.

He
rolled
over
and
shut
out
the
light
with
an
arm.
Outside
a
bus
crashed
gears
as
the
signal
on
the
corner
went
to
green.
He
wondered
if
Stewart
was
still
sleeping,
and
then
must
have
dozed
for
when
he
opened
his
eyes
the
big
detective
was
resting
his
behind
on
the
edge
of
the
desk.
'I
can't
find
the
coffee.
And
I
can't
face
that
perfumed
piss
you
drink.'