Ripped (62 page)

'Kujavia
,
Billy
Shanks
gave
you
it.'

'Not
necessarily,'
Murray
said
in
his
turn.

Beltane
pointed
down
the
side
street
they
were
crossing.
'Deacon
Street.
Where
they
found
the
first
body.
One
of
these
charming
ladies
might
be
Jill
–
She
Who
Rips.'
He
bowed
generally,
and
a
woman
with
her
hair
in
curlers
gave
a
flustered
grin.

'When
you've
visited
the
Crusader,
have
you
ever
come
across Mary
O'Bannion?'

'A
whore.'
Beltane
filled
his
mouth
with
the
word,
made
from
it
an
orotund
song.
'An
old
fat
whore.
A
very
fat
smelly
whore.
She
lives
with
Kujavia
–
so
I've
heard.
You
were
right
about
that.'

They
crossed
Moirhill
Road
and
turned
into
Baird
Drive, climbing
the
steep
hill
towards
the
public
park.

'Below,
that's
the
kingdom
of
the
whore
master,'
Beltane
said.
'Deacon
Street,
Florence
Street
–
all
round
there
.
Those
letters
that
have
been
coming
to
Billy's
newspaper
signed
Jill
are
from
that
kingdom.
Jack
the
Ripper
had
a
passport
for
it
a
hundred
years
ago.
He
was
a
client
gone
wrong
– like
the
Yorkshire
Ripper,
Sutcliffe.
Why
shouldn't
our
Jill
be
returning
the
compliment?
A
whore
who
hated
customers,
police,
pimps
–
hated
men.
It's
always
seemed
to
me
whores
must
be
full
of
hate
–
down
there
in
the
dark
kingdom
.
'

An
image
came
to
Murray
of
Frances
Fernie,
sitting
on
the
edge
of
a
bed
watching
without
protest
as
he
threw
her
possessions
on
to
the
floor.
'Prostitutes
aren't
like
that,'
he
said.

They
were
walking
now
in
the
shade
cast
by
the
line
of
beech
trees
on
the
other
side
of
the
railings.

'Who
can
be
sure
what
they're
like?'
Beltane
asked.
'Even
the patron
saint
of
repentant
prostitutes
wasn't
a
prostitute
at
all.
Saint
Lucia
–
she
was
tortured
and
killed
by
the
Romans
for
being
a
Christian.
Whether
she
was
or
not,
her
boyfriend
denounced
her
to
the
authorities
because
she
wouldn't
go
to
bed
with
him.
The
earliest
recorded
martyr
of
the
permissive
society.'

'I'll
let
you
be
the
expert
on
the
subject.'

In
response,
Beltane
made
a
gesture
of
scooping
at
the
back
of
his
hand
with
a
fingernail.
'I
wouldn't
like
to
give
you
anything
you
could
use
against
me,'
he
said.
'You
could
make
a
man
very
sorry
if
he
ever
confided
a
weakness
to
you.'
He
made
the
dabbing
gesture
again
on
the
back
of
his
hand.
'You're
a
scab
picker.'

They
turned
into
the
park.
The
attack
had
taken
Murray
by
surprise.
It
was
not
a
description
of
himself
he
recognised.
Underfoot,
the
grass,
barbered
close,
was
waiting
for
autumn
and
rain
to
recover
its
fresh
greenness
after
the
summer
crowds.

'If
we
go
up
round
this
way,'
Beltane
said,
'there's
a
bandstand at
the
top.
It's
sheltered
and
catches
the
sun.'

'You
know
around
here
well
.
'

'As
a
child
I
played
in
this
park.'

'You
–
Billy –
Eddy
Stewart –
Blair
Heathers
–
did
everyone
in
this
town
manage
to
get
themselves
born
in
Moirhill?'

'Oh,
not
in
Moirhill!'
Beltane,
taken
by
surprise,
sounded
prim
and
conventionally
shocked.
He
pointed
ahead.
'We
stayed
over
on
the
other
side.'

'Where
the
rich
people
live.'

'Hardly
rich.
Bungalow
land.'
A
woman
on
the
path
ahead
of
them
knelt
and
took
three
dogs
off
the
leash.
Yapping,
the
smallest,
a
chow,
pursued
a
Borzoi
and
an
old
leisurely
Labrador
across
the
grass.
'I
hate
dogs,'
Beltane
said
suddenly.
'Droppings
that
blind
children.
Sins
of
the
mothers
in
this
case.
Middle-class
dog
fondlers.'
His
breath
came
harder
as
they
climbed
and
his sentences
shorter.
'That
bloody
fool
Columbus
importing
syphilis.
Took
the
fun
out
of
things
for
four
and
a
half
centuries.
What
put
it
back?
Not
the
pill,
that's
surface
stuff.
Deep
grammar
of
it –
a
shot
of
penicillin
in
the
bum.
That's
what
made
the
permissive
society.
Even
so
–
we
can't
get
that
fifteenth-century
innocence
back.'

'Do
you
have
Mary
O'Bannion's
address?'
Murray
asked.
'I'm
not
interested
in
how
you
got
it.'