Ripped (5 page)

'Somewhere
else?'
Stewart
looked
round
without
showing
pleasure.
The
rocker
he
was
sitting
in
was
one
of
the
old
kind,
with
a
fixed
base
and
a
spring;
the
back
and
arms
were
covered
in
faded
green
velvet;
beside
it
a
low
table
supported
a
chess
board
and
an
arrangement
of
pieces.
As
Murray
continued
to
stare
at
him,
he
got
up
and
took
one
of
the
two
plain
wooden
chairs
beside
the
kitchen
table.
Apart
from
a
cooker
beside
the
sink
at
the
window
end
of
the
room,
there
was
nothing
else
in
the
way
of
furniture.
There
were
no
pictures
or
photographs
on
the
walls. 'This
place
needs
a
woman's
touch.'

'I'll
leave
that
to
you,
Eddy,'
Murray
said,
taking
a
mug
from
a
hook
and
putting
in
a
couple
of
heaped
spoonful’s
of
instant
coffee.

Stewart
rested
his
elbows
on
the
table
and
put
his
head
in
his
hands
like
a
man
who
wanted
to
go
to
sleep
.
'You
should
have
seen
this
one
tonight.
We
finished
up
in
her
flat.
The
place
was
practically
empty.
In
the
bedroom,
there
was
just
a
mattress
on
the
floor,
know
what
I
mean?'

'I've
seen
a
room
like
that.'
He
put
the
cup
of
coffee
between
Stewart's
elbows.

'But
you
haven't
seen
a
woman
like
this
one.
She
was
black
–
smooth,
smooth
skin – Jesus,
when
you've
been
married
as
long
as
I
have,
you
need
to
see
a
woman's
belly
without
stretch
marks.
We
made
it
on
this
mattress
on
the
floor,
and
then
she
took
off
the
evening
dress,
a
long
gown,
red
and
cut
low
so
that,
you
know,
you
could
see
her
tits.
And
then
she
got
this
floor
brush
and
she
started
marching
up
and
down
with
it
over
her
shoulder.
I
mean
the
bitch
was
stark
naked,
marching
up
and
down
and
singing.
Black
as
the
earl
of
hell's
waistcoat
and
singing,
'The
Campbells
are
Coming'.
She
wanted
me
to
get
up
and
join
her –
'shun,
quick
march,
right
turn
–
form
bloody
fours,
I
shouldn't
be
surprised.
Mad!
But
what
a
body –
black,
did
I
say
she
was
black?
She'd
even
have
made
you
forget
you
were
a
monk,
Murray.'

'If
you
want
to
have
a
wet
dream,
go
home,'
Murray
said,
taking
his
seat
in
the
rocker
by
the
chess
board.
'You
know
I
don't
listen
to
that
stuff.'

Stewart
wiped
his
hand
across
his
mouth.
'You
never
had
a
pro?
Don't
try
to
kid
a
kidder.
You
forget
I've
known
you
a
long
time.
I
remember
what
you
did
when
we
were
on
the
beat
together
twenty
years
ago.
Before
Billy
Graham
converted
you.'

'Drink
your
coffee.'

Distracted
for
a
moment,
Stewart
stared
at
his
cup.
'Are
you
not
having
any?'

'I
don't
drink
that
muck.
I'll
have
a
cup
of
tea
after
I've
got
rid
of
you.'

'Oh,
yeah.
Scented
tea
from
bloody
China.
You're
an
old
maid,
man.' Murray
yawned
and
held
up
the
fingers
of
his
right
hand.
'Five
minutes.'

'I
remember
after
you
got
converted
how
you
rounded
up
the whores
on
Bath
Street
and
walked
them
down
to
the
Sally
Ann’s
at
the
corner
of West
Campbell
Street.
You
made
them
stand
there
and
sing
hymns
in
their
bare
feet.
And
the
rain
was
pissing
down.'

'No,
Eddy.
You've
got
me
mixed
up
with
somebody
else.'

Stewart
gave
him
a
grin
of
satisfaction.
'Is
that
right?
Could
be.'

'Why
don't
you
go
home
to
Lynda?
She'll
be
waiting
for
you, God
knows
why.'

Stewart
stopped
smiling.
'When
I
said
that
bitch
tonight
was
in
evening
dress,
didn't
you
wonder
why?'

'It's
time
for
you
to
go
home,
Eddy.'

'I
met
her
in
the
line
of
duty.'
As
he
waited,
Murray
leaned
forward,
ignoring
him,
and
slid
the
queen
along
one
of
the
board's
diagonals.
'I
thought
you
might
be
interested.
Are
you
not
curious
about
what
your
wee
brother
gets
up
to?'

Looking
up
abruptly,
Murray
caught
Stewart
grimacing
at
him, pulling
back
his
upper
lip
like
a
dog
showing
its
teeth.
As
he
watched,
Stewart's
face
settled
itself
again
into
the
habitual
folds
creased
by
tiredness
and
drink,
familiar
as
a
mask
.
The
mask
said:
'We've
been
targeting
Blair
Heathers.'