The Stranger Came (66 page)

'She's
not –'
Nick
trailed
off.

'Not?'
He
leaned
across
her
and
took
the
boy
by
the
shoulder.
'Not
bloody
what?'

'She
came
to
the
shop
tonight.’

The
suffocating
weight
of
him
moved
off
her
as
he
sat
back.
It
was
as
if
he
was
looking
at
her
for
the
first
time. ‘You
from
a
paper?'

By
instinct,
Anne
moved
back
from
the
note
of
menace.
'She's
a
friend
of
Jock
the
Hat,'
the
boy
said,
not
sounding
at
all
sure.

'Allander?
He
talking
about
Fraser
Allander?'

'Not
a
friend,'
Anne
said.
'He's
one
of
my
patients.’

'That's
the
first
I've
heard
of
it,
Georgie!'

'You
hold
your
noise,'
the
fat
man
said.
‘Looks
like
we're
too
early.
Go
over
to
the
boozer
and
check
with
Kite.’

They
sat
in
silence
watching
the
boy
jerk
his
way
across
the
street
like
an
ill-hung
puppet.
The
pavement
glistened
in
the
light
from
the
public
house.

‘
Jock
The
Hat.’

'Fraser
Allander,'
Arne
said.
'In
to
dry
out,
was
he?'

'He
was
being
treated
for
alcoholism.’

'Where
would
that
be?'

Anne
didn't
answer.
She
eased
herself
across
on
to
the
seat
the
boy
had
left.

'Did
he
tell
you
he
was
a
gunman?
He
liked
to
tell
people
that.’

'Not
to
me,'
Anne
said.

'Handing
a
shooter
to
a
falling-down
drunk.
You
wouldn't
want
to
believe
everything
he
told
you
–
anything,
really.’

'He
told
me
about
Pax
Britannica.’

'And
you
came
from
– all
the
way
from
–
wherever
you
came
from.
He
must
have
made
it
sound
good.’

One
moment
the
street
was
empty,
the
next
with
heartstopping
suddenness
a
knot
of
men
burst
from
the
vestibule
of
the
church-like
building.
In
a
rear guard
action
they
were
driven
across
the
grass
and
out
stumbling
and
cursing
through
the
gates.

'At
last,'
the
fat
man
said.

Even
in
shock,
her
mind
worked
sorting
out
what
she
was
seeing.
The
group
that
was
being
driven
back
consisted
of
perhaps
a
dozen,
certainly
not
more
than
twenty,
white
men.
They
kept
close
together
and
they
were
being
attacked
by
a
larger
group,
twice
as
many,
dark
men
in
turbans,
turbans.
Wasn't that Sikhs?

'Animals,
animals,'
the
fat
man
was
saying,
'Cowardly
bastards.’

Just
in
front
of
the
van
an
elderly
man
in
a
green
turban
was
shouting
and
pulling
at
them,
yes,
mostly
they
were
young,
trying
to
get
them
to
stop.
And
yet
despite
the
uproar
and
the
heavy
surge
of
men,
she
was
cool
enough
to
see
that
it
was
mostly
a
matter
of
threatening,
shoving,
waving
fists,
nothing
so
very
bad
was
happening
after
all.

The
retreat
milled
to
a
stop
in
the
middle
of
the
road.
Mostly
now
they
seemed
to
be
arguing
rather
than
striking
out.
On
the
edge
of
the
group
a
car
inched
its
way
through,
hooting
derisively
as
it
accelerated
clear.

'There's
Kite,'
the
fat
man
said.

He
stood
on
the
other
side
of
the
road
outside
the
pub,
the
boy
Nick
a
head
taller
behind
him
.
Even
at
that
distance
he
gave
an
impression
of
being
dapper and contained,
the
long
tight-fitting
black
coat
only
emphasising
the
slightness
of
him.
At
his
neck
there
was
the
white
gleam
of
a
shirt
and,
all
her
senses
heightened,
she
knew
its
expense
as
if
fingering
folds
unfolding
of
soft
heaviness.
He
stood
with
his
hands
by
his
sides,
relaxed,
but
it
wasn't
as
if
he
was
still.
He
seemed
to
give
off
energy,
he
vibrated
with
energy.
His
face
was
only
an
impression
to
her,
wide and
big-nosed.
It
was
the
stillness
of
his
energy,
the
energy
of
that
stillness.

And
then
he
stepped
forward.
Like
pulling
a
cork
from the
mouth
of
a
jug,
men
poured
from
the
pub.
Dozens
of
them, young.
Wearing
their
youth
like
a
uniform.
Cropped
heads.
Scarves
like
banners
.
Tumblers
swinging
like
clubs,
breaking,
slicing
like
razors.
Now
there
was
hurt.
And
still
she
couldn't
stop,
observing,
recording.
She
saw
the
first
group
of
white
men,
a
moment
ago
being
attacked,
rushing
to
get
between
the
Sikhs
and
the
gate
to
trap
them
to
their
enemies
in
the
open
street.
She
saw
the
Sikhs
understanding
suddenly
too,
trying
to
fight
their
way
back.
She
saw
the
crowd
fall
on
them.

And
then
she
smelled
the
fat
man
beside
her.
He
leant
forward
panting,
sweat
ran
in
floods
down
his
cheeks.
His
hand
was
between
his
legs
clutching
himself.
'Yes,'
he
cried,
'yes,
yes.’
In
front
of
them
the
man
in
the
green
turban
was
tripped
and
went
down.
After
the
first
blows
he
got
up
on
hands
and
knees.
She
saw
the
long
pull
back
of
a
boot
and
the
swing
of
it
into
his
face,
and
again
and
again.
His
body
lifted
to
kicks.
She
knew
how
vulnerable
the
brain
was
in
its
fragile
case
of
bone.

And
then
it
was
over.
Only
the
injured
left
behind;
men
scattering.

The
door
beside
her
hung
open.
The
fat
man
was
outside.
'No,
no,'
she
heard
a
voice
choked
with
weeping
and
it
was
her
own.
She
had
to
stop
him.
No
more
hurting.
But
when
she
got
to
him
the
fat
man
was
as
attentive
as
a
student
bent
over
a
book,
looking
down
at
the
man
in
the
green
turban
who
lay
on
his
back
with
eyes
open,
legs
trembling
spasmodically.