Ripped (119 page)

'Kujavia?'
the
Indian
behind
the
counter
repeated
thoughtfully.

'No
,
I
do
not
know
the
man.
That
is
quite
unfamiliar
to
me.'
Despite
the
beleaguered
shutters
over
the
windows,
he
had
the
air
of
a
man
in
transit
,
passing
with
cardigan
wrinkling
over
a
full
paunch
from
Moirhill
to
better
things.

'Now
that
surprises
me,'
Murray
said
with
a
tired
sour
grimace.

He
made
as
if
to
go,
then
turning
back
asked
almost
casually,
'Is the
black
girl
still
here?'

Involuntarily,
the
shopkeeper's
eyes
widened.
He
bent
his
head
over
the
bundle
of
papers
on
the
counter,
and
tapped
at
a
face
in
a
picture
with
a
hard
brown
finger.
'It's
absolutely
wrong,'
he
complained.
'Why
should
educated
people
still
want
to
read
of
such
a
person?'
Even
upside
down,
yesterday's
monster,
Idi
Amin,
was
unmistakable.
'I
could
not
tell
you
how
much
I
hate
that
man.
We
lived
in
the
same
street
as
him.
He
was
our
friend.
And
no
sooner
were
we
at
the
airport
than
he
took
all
our
furniture.
Lovely
furniture –
made
in
Denmark
to
our
order.
We
had
seven
cars.'

'Is
that
where
you
got
a
taste
for
the
black
ones?'

The
shopkeeper
frowned
in
offence.
'We
do
not
care
for
them.
Not
in
that
way.'

'I've
just
come
from
one
of
Kujavia's
whores,'
Murray
said.

'She
didn't
know
where
he
was –
of
course.
But
she
told
me
she'd
seen
the
black
girl
coming
in
here.
All
I
want
to
do
is
talk
to
her – that's
all.'

Slowly,
the
large
brown
eyes
turned
to
look
towards
the
back
of the
store.
A
curtain
was
drawn
across
the
opening.
'She
was
in
distress,'
he
said.
'It
was
an
act
of
humanity.'

As
he
put
back
the
curtain,
he
heard
the
shuffle
of
feet.
She was
edging
away
step
by
step,
but
the
back
room
was
small
and
it
didn't
take
long
for
her
to
reach
the
end.
She
watched
him
with
wide
fixed
eyes,
the
pupils
dilated
as
if
she
was
drugged
or
in
shock.
An
enormous
bruise
distorted
one
side
of
her
face,
and
as
she
sucked
in
her
lower
lip
with
a
parody
of
something
appealing
and
childish
a
gap
showed
where
a
front
tooth
was
gone.
She
was
young,
and
under
the
ruin
of
her
face
enough
was
left
to
suggest
she
had
been
fine
looking.

'She
won't
talk
to
you,
you
know,'
he
heard
the
shopkeeper
say.

'I
have
given
her
tea.
It
was
an
act
of
humanity.
Something
dreadful
has
happened,
but
she
will
not
talk.'

Murray
stepped
through
and
let
the
curtain
drop
behind
him.

The
weak
single
bulb
cast
a
drained
light.
'You
don't
have
to
be
afraid
of
me,'
he
said
to
the
black
girl.
'Did
you
come
from
Mary
O'Bannion's?'

She
nodded.

'Was
Kujavia
there?'

She
stared
at
him,
blank
and
fixed
as
if
she
had
not
heard.
'Did
something
happen?'

In
the
long
moment
of
waiting,
her
smell
came
to
him
–
a female
scent
rank
and
pungent;
and
then
something
else,
a
sweet
sickliness
of
unwashed
flesh
that
did
not
seem
to
belong
to
her,
but
reminded
him
of
the
fat
woman
–
and
their
smells
were
different
yet
strangely
mingled
and
confused,
partaking
one
of
the
other,
so
that
suddenly
he
had
an
image
of
them
intertwined
obscenely
on
the
fetid
bed.

'Did
something
happen?'

And
at
last
she
folded
one
hand
into
a
long
fist
as
if
holding
something
and
swung
it
in
the
air.

An
iron bar, beating down...

'Is
she
dead?'

Into
the
gap
of
the
broken
tooth,
she
sucked
her
lip
stroking
it
with
her
tongue
and
then,
sweetly,
unexpectedly,
like
a
child,
she
smiled.

'I
cannot
tell
you
how
much
I
hate
that
man,'
the
grocer
said
as Murray
left.
There
was
no
way
of
knowing
if
he
was
thinking
of
Kujavia
or
Amin.
'If I
had
that
man
here,
I
would
stick
pins
in
him
and
pour
in
salt.'

MONDAY,
OCTOBER
15
TH
1988

In
the
corridor
where
the
dog
had
lain,
the
mountain
of
flesh
that
had
been
Mary
O'Bannion
had
given
up
the
ghost.
One
arm
was
flung
out
and,
despite
himself,
he
noticed
how
small
it
was
and
fine
boned
as
if
it
had
been
spared
for
a
cruel
memento.
He
searched
the
kitchen
and
the
back
room
and
remembered
as
he
was
leaving
to
check
the
little
lavatory,
but
no
one
was
in
hiding.
He
pulled
the
outer
door
shut
and
it
looked
all
right
although
he
had
broken
the
locks
to
get
in.

The
light
on
the
landing
below
was
out
and
he
felt
his
way down;
the
slippery
chill
of
the
wooden
banister
sliding
under
his
palm.
Perhaps
Kujavia
had
told
Mary
O'Bannion
that
he
was
going
to
meet
Irene.
Perhaps
she
had
tried
to
persuade
him
not
to
go,
tried
to
tell
him
it
was
a
trap,
made
of
herself
a
gross
barrier
to
block
his
way.
He
had
killed
her
and
gone.
But
where?
Where
would
Irene
ask
him
to
come?
The
risk
she
was
taking;
there
was
no
place
where
she
could
be
safe
with
him,
the
man
who
had
killed
her
sister.
Where
would
she
want
him
to
come?
The
man
who
had
killed
her
sister
…

Someone
was
coming
up,
a
man's
steps,
climbing
fast.
It
was
as if
his
ears
had
been
closed
in
a
dream
and
suddenly
he
heard.

He
stepped
into
a
corner
of
the
dark
landing.
There
was
a
hasty
panting,
absurdly
loud,
and
he
held
his
breath
and
felt
instead
his
heart
tick
in
his
throat.
The
shape
came
from
below
in
a
rush.

Stepping
on
to
the
landing,
it
was
tall,
taller
than
Kujavia,
and
Murray
let
his
breath
sigh
out.
At
the
sound
there
was
an
exclamation
of
fright
and
the
figure
stretched
out
a
hand
towards
him
and
then
fled
stumbling
upwards.
The
light
from
above
glowed
through
a
bristling
mane
of
hair;
there
was
no
mistaking
that
halo.

Tommy
Beltane
had
come
to
visit
again.

Yet
he
did
not
believe
Kujavia
would
come.

He
prowled
from
room
to
room,
keeping
away
from
the
windows.
In
the
bedroom,
he
slid
open
the
drawers
in
turn.
It
seemed
he
should
recognise
some
of
the
things
he
had
spilled
out
on
this
floor.
The
police
must
have
gone
through
the
flat
after
she
was
killed,
but
her
stuff
lay
in
the
drawer
laundered
and
folded,
like
clothes
that
had
never
been
worn
waiting
for
an
owner.
Soon
perhaps
the
real
owners,
the
shadowy
figures
behind
John
Merchant,
would
dispose
of
the
place.
There
were
books
on
a
shelf
by
a
bed,
but
their
titles
meant
nothing
to
him.
No
more
than
the
clothes
had
they
anything
to
do
with
her:
props
of
the
part
she
had
played
for
Merchant.
From
the
bottom
of
the
last
drawer,
he
lifted
out
the
child's
doll,
old
and
ragged
with
only
a
tuft
or
two
of
yellow
hair.
As
he
gripped
the
scabbed
toy,
he
had
an
image
of
the
woman
snatching
it
up,
how
she
twisted
her
body
so
that
he
was
never
out
of
her
sight.
A
child
trapped
in
the
desolate
cottage
by
the
edge
of
the
sea
where
Annette
Verhaeren's
daughters
had
been
taken
would
have
needed
something
to
comfort
her.
Or
she
might
have
come
across
it
in
a
corner
of
this
flat,
discarded
by
some
previous
woman:
there
was
no
way
of
being
sure.
Gravely,
it
watched
him
out
of
the
one
remaining
eye
in
the
battered
face.

In
the
bathroom,
big
fluffy
orange
towels
were
folded
on
the rail
as
if
she
might
step
out
alive
from
behind
the
hinged
leaf
of
marled
glass
that
concealed
the
shower.
There
was
a
hand basin
inset
into
a
black
surface;
and
a
circular
mirror
above
it
that
showed
him
a
coil
of
light
reflected
in
his
eyes.
He
fingered
the
contents
of
a
shelf:
Charles
of
the
Ritz
boxes,
Aludrox,
a medicine,
L'Homme
Roger
et
Gallet,
Creme
a
Raser,
at
the
end
a smokey
brown
bottle,
Eau
de
Toilette,
the
cap
black
and
round
with
a
bronze
press
knob.
Like
the
clothes,
like
the
books,
he
could
not
find
Frances
Fernie.
She
had
seemed
wary
and
not
easily
to
be
caught;
but
she
had
opened
the
door
that
night
to
a
hunter
more
cunning
than
herself.
Carefully,
he
pulled
the
cord
to
put
out
even
the
light
around
the
mirror
before
he
opened
the
bathroom
door,
but
light
flooded
in
and
the
shape
of
a
woman
straightened
from
where
she
was
laying
her
coat
on
the
bed.