The Stranger Came (90 page)

'Here.'
The
Woman
held
out
a
dangling
length
and
she
opened
her
mouth
and
the
Woman
dropped
it
warm
on
to
her
tongue. 'No
more,
mind.'

She
watched
and
the
Woman
took
one
of
the
legs
and
bent
it
and
twisted
until
it
pulled
loose.
Where
it
tore
free
red
liquid
gathered
under
the
torn
place.

'Oh,
it
could
have
done
with
a
while
longer.'

With
her
fingers
the
Woman
worked
at
the
gap,
and
brown
chunks
and
strands
were
piled
on
another
plate.
The
pool
of
red
widened
.

'We'll
do
something
with
those
bits,
to
be
on
the
safe
side.'

'What's
that?
The
red
stuff?'

'It
shouldn't
be
there.
It's
a
big
bird,
right
enough.'
Blood.
It
was
blood.

The
piece
she
had
started
to
swallow
came
up
her
throat
and
she
would
be
sick
but
nothing
came.
She
spat
out
the
chewed
horror
from
her
mouth.

'You
wee
bitch!'
the
Woman
cried.
'Get
out
of
this
kitchen!
That
was
deliberate
badness.
You
did
that
out
of
badness!'

At
the
gate
she
watched
the
boats
hurry
nearer
through
the
dark
water.
The
one
who
tried
to
make
her
call
him
Daddy
would
be
on
one
of
them
bringing
back
the
big-clawed
creatures
caught
in
a crib.
He
would
drop
the
creature
into
boiling
water
and
it
would
die.
When
it
was
dead,
he
took
it
out
and
broke
the
shell
with
a
spoon
and
took
out
the
pink
and
brown
stuff
inside.

Was
there
no
blood
in
it?

Fat
Chae,
who
liked
to
watch
the
boats
come
back,
was
walking
down
to
the
harbour
beside
his
mother.
They
walked
slowly
without
speaking.
His
mother
was
always
with
him
though
he
was
almost
grown
up.

'There you are,
'
the
Woman
said
.
She
had
come
to
the
door. 'Come
back
in
here.' When
she
went
inside,
the
Woman
gave
her
a
kiss. 'I
shouldn't
have
lost
my
temper
with
you.'
She
felt
the
Woman stroke
her
hair.
'Poor
thing,
poor
lamb,
poor
motherless
bairn
.
'

The
best
thing
was
to
smile
and
put
your
head
against
her.
She felt
the
hand
stroke,
stroke
her
hair. 'You're
a
good
girl.
You're
my
girl
now.
That's
what
you're
going
to
be,'
the
Woman
said.
'I
don't
pay
any
heed
to
what
they
say.
I
know
you'll
grow
up
to
be
a
good
girl.'

It
was
silly
to
be
afraid
of
blood.
I
won't
scream,
she
thought, not
even
if
it
is
coming
off
her
fingers
on
to
my
hair.

BOOK
ONE

1 After Midnight

SATURDAY,
AUGUST
25
TH
1988

After
midnight;
Murray
Wilson
kept
his
head
down
and
climbed
towards
Sunday
bells
and
an
old
woman's
voice.

It
had
been
an
unprofitable
week;
there
had
been
too
many
like that
on
the
string
recently.
That
day,
however,
he
had
worked
at
his
trade.
After
lunch,
he
had
taken
a
bus
out
into
the
country
.
Half
an
hour
was
enough
to
change
worlds.
Among
the
neat
bungalows,
he
found
the
right
neat
bungalow
and
at
his
knock
a
nice
suburban
lady
shading
forty,
in
green
slacks
and
a
halter
top,
appeared.
Her
smile
was
pleasant,
but
there
was
too
much
caution
in
it,
which
let
him
know
that
he
was
at
the
right
house.

'Mrs
Jerrold?'

'Yes?'

She
made
it
into
a
question,
but
the
lack
of
a
denial
was
all
he
needed.
She
watched
his
hand
as
he
pulled
out
the
envelope.
He
held
it
up
and
her
eyes
moved
as
she
read
what
was
scrawled
across
the
front
:
Gone
Away.

'Your
writing?
Or
Mr
Jerrold's?
Anyway
here
you
are
and
here
I am,
and
you've
probably
had
one
of
these
before.'
With
a
natural
movement,
he
passed
her
the
envelope.
'Would
you
like
to
write
a
cheque
for
me
now?
If
you
don't,
the
only
place
your
husband
will
be
going
away
to
will
be
court.'

'I
couldn't
give
you
a
cheque,'
she
said.
'My
husband
handles
the
money –
anything
to
do
with
money.'

'He
wouldn't
mind,'
he
said.
'If
it
has
to
be
done,
maybe
he'd
prefer
if
you
did
it.'

'I
don't
have
a
cheque
book
.
Don't
you
see
I
can't
help
you?'

'I
was
trying
to
make
it
easier
for
you,'
he
said.
'But
I
don't mind
waiting.'

He
sat
in
the
front
room
surrounded
by
the
expensive
furnishings
for
which
his
clients
would
like
to
be
paid
.
At
one
point
in
the
afternoon,
she
brought
him
a
cup
of
tea,
and
said
suddenly
as
he
drank
it,
'He
tries
hard.
He
doesn't
drink
or
gamble.
It's
not
his
fault.'
When
he
went
upstairs
to
the
lavatory,
all
the
doors
to
the
bedrooms
were
closed
.
He
opened
each
of
them
,
one
had
a
bed
and
a
table,
the
second
was
empty,
in
the
last
there
were
mattresses
on
the
floor
and
children's
clothes
scattered
on
the
bare
boards
and
stuffed
into
cardboard
boxes,
the
kind
firms
use
to
deliver
a
washing
machine
or
a
television
set.

It
was
his
trade
to
know
how
to
persuade
people
to
give information,
to
accept
documents,
to
make
statements
that
had
to
be
signed
against
what
they
saw
at
first
as
their
own
interests;
and
this
was
done
not
by
force
but
by
his
understanding
of
what
would
influence
them.
For instance the
opinion
of
neighbours,
the
effect
on
their
business,
the
hope
of
leniency
if
they
co-operated,
sometimes
shame,
conscience
perhaps
or
some
picture
of
the
person
they
had
once
imagined
themselves
to
be
.
Part
of
his
trade
was
to
be
able
to
get
into
a
house,
and
sit,
and
wait.
After
a
time,
two
little
girls
arrived
in
from
school
and
sat
side
by
side
on
the
couch
watching
him
with
wide
eyes.
'Play
upstairs,'
their
mother
said
at
last.
'It's
only
a
man
who's
come
to
see
Daddy.'
When
Daddy
came
home
from
hunting,
he
wrote
a
cheque
and
held
it
between
trembling
fingers.
'You
won't
have
any
trouble
with
that,'
he
said,
staring
at
his
signature
as
if
he
felt
in
it
some
special
power
to
cure
what
ailed
him.
It
was
the
woman
though
who
came
to
the
door
and
asked,
'Are
you
proud
of
yourself?'
whispering
so
that
her
husband
would
not
hear.

It
was
the
kind
of
trace
that
should
ideally
have
been
fitted
in with
other
enquiries
because
the
fee
was
small
and
there
would
be a
low
ceiling
on
expenses.
It
had
been
an
unimportant
routine
job
.
Murray
Wilson
kept
his
head
down
and
climbed
towards
the old
woman's
voice;
perhaps
she
would
lose
her
nerve
and
retreat
indoors.
The
light
from
the
landing
came
down
to
meet
him
and
the
voice
hissed,
'Mr
Wilson,
I've
been
watching
for
you
coming.'