Ripped (47 page)

Unobtrusively
the
club
was
emptying.
For
some
reason,
the band
had
stopped
playing
early
and
by
now
half
the
tables
were
unoccupied.
People
were
drifting
away
and
greyness
came
on
the
air,
something
like
weariness,
something
like
remorse.
Even
if
he
tried
–
he
would
not
try –
to
tell
Mother
about
Merchant,
about
Malcolm
and
Frances
Fernie
–
and,
of
course,
he
did
not
want
her
to
know
about
them
–
she
would
not
believe
him;
she
would
not
even
listen.

The
tall
girls
rose
like
flowers
around
Heathers,
who
was
getting
ready
to
leave.
Perhaps,
like
flowers
kept
fresh
by
being
in
water,
their
sense
of his
wealth
and
his
power
kept them
so
desirable,
so
inexhaustibly
ready
to
be
entertained.
They
distracted
Murray
as
he
crossed
the
floor
towards
them.
What
good
would
it
do
to
follow
Heathers?
He
was
better
than
that;
better
at
his
trade.

–
Not the best in the world, but I know my trade. I trace, I snoop, I find out, the way someone else makes chairs or wires a circuit. If a man has nothing else, he can hold to his trade. I'm a good tradesman, if you must talk of pride.

At
the
last
moment,
with
the
satisfaction
of
having
had Heathers
turn
abruptly
towards
him,
he
veered
away.
In
a
corner
there
were
doors
marked
Dames
and
Hoods.

As
he
relieved
himself,
Humphrey
Bogart
bared
teeth
at
him from
the
tiled
wall
. Here's lookin' at you, kid.

'Get
him
to
close
his
eyes.'
The
man
standing
beside
him
put
a
large
pale
hand
across
the
tiles.
Murray
finished
and
stepped
back
to
avoid
his
contact.
The
man
was
tall,
heavily
built,
with
a
well-fed
fifty-year-old
face
under
a
plumage
of
white
hair.
Swaying
and
looking
over
his
shoulder
as
he
stood
into
the
stall,
the
big
cigar
in
the
corner
of
his
mouth
curled
blue
smoke
up
into
his
eyes.
The
computer
in
Murray's
head
unasked
rattled
cards
and
placed
him,
one
of
the
gay
couple
in
the
Shot
Paid
talking
about
a
visit
to
the
States.
That
time
too
there
had
been
piss
on
the
air.
Unexpectedly,
the
back
of
his
tongue
went
down
in
a
hidden
spasm
of
retching.
He
went
to
the
basin
and
ran
water
over
his
hands.

'It's
not
fair,'
the
man
said.
'Take
this
afternoon –
I
was
walking
from
the
Square
up
to
St
Vincent's
following
this
beautiful
thing
in
jeans.
Oh,
incredible.
A
beautiful
tight
bum
and
that
perfect
little
gap
between
the
thighs.
And
blond
hair,
shining,
and
worn
long.
And
then
I
came
level
with
him
and
he
was
a
girl.
God,
I
felt
so
upset
.
What's
the
world
coming
to
when
you
can't
tell
the
difference
between
the
boys
and
the
girls?'

'Mister,'
Murray
said,
'you
must
be
very
drunk
or
very
stupid.'
He
turned
with
a
sense
of
release.
His
hands
tightened
with
the
need
to
hurt,
but
the
first
glance
told
him
it
was
useless.
Smiling
with
shaking
lips,
the
big
man
was
as
abruptly
sobered
as
the
drunk
walking
a
parapet
who
realises
the
ground
a
few
feet
below in
the
dark
is
the
tops
of
tall
trees.

Murray
thumbed
the
button
and
felt
the
stream
of
hot
dry
air
flow
over
his
hands.

Another
man
had
entered
unnoticed.
He
watched
them
from the
door
with
blank
incurious
eyes.
Automatically
Murray
checked
his
memory
and
was
sure
he
had
never
seen
him
before.
He
would
not
have
been
difficult
to
remember:
black
hair
of
the
solid
colour
sometimes
given
by
dyeing,
standing
up
in
spikes,
and
a
doughy
lumpy
face;
like
a
cartoon
only
there
was
nothing
funny
about
the
effect.
He
moved
aside
to
let
the
big
man
escape,
carrying
his
white
hair
like
a
flag
of
surrender.

The
newcomer
came
forward
and
leaned
over
the
nearest
washbasin.
He
pulled
up
his
lip
and
picked
between
his
front
teeth
with
a
dirty
fingernail.
'Two
friends
making
a
quarrel?'
He
spoke
with
the
accent
of
the
city
touched
with
some
original
foreignness.

With
a
streetfighter's
eye,
Murray
saw
the
breadth
of
shoulder,
the
unusual
length
of
the
arms,
the
strange
lumpy
ridges
on
the
face
like
folds
in
dough
kneaded
with
dirty
hands
.
The
frustration
of
that
day,
of
too
many
days,
ached
for
relief.
'Friends?'
he
asked
and
spat
into
the
basin
.