Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'Do
you
have
to
do
that
just
now?'
'I
read
up,'
she
said,
'so
I
do
things
properly
.
I'm
taking
the
bone
out
before
I
cook
it
and
that
makes
it
easier
to
carve.'
'Miss
Sturrock
said
you
were
clever.'
'...
Miss
Sturrock.'
'She
was
the
teacher
in
the
village
school.
Maybe
you
don't
remember
her.
But
she
remembers.'
'What
would
she
remember
from
all
that
time
ago?'
'An
awkward
girl
who
bumped
into
other
children
and
spat
when
she
talked.'
'Frances
is
dead.
It's
not
kind
to
talk
about
her
that
way.'
'Not
Frances
–
she
was
talking
about
you.'
'No,'
Irene
said.
'Not
me
.
That
was
Frances.'
'Do
you
remember
the
cliffs
above
the
village?
Miss
Sturrock
took
me
up
there.
Do
you
remember
how
high
above
the
sea
it
is?
And
then
we
went
down
to
the
loch.
That's
the
only
place
where
there
are
trees.'
But
the
face
she
turned
to
him
told
him
nothing;
a
pretty
woman
looking
round
from
a
kitchen
task;
he
wanted
to
take
her
flesh
between
his
fingers
and
mould
some
expression
he
could
understand.
'What
about
the
house
then?
Don't
tell
me
you
forgot
the
place
you
lived
in.
Miss
Sturrock
told
me
where
to
find
it.
I've
never
seen
a
lonelier
place.
You
couldn't
have
been
any
lonelier
on
an
island
in
the
middle
of
the
sea.'
A
barbed-wire
fence
jumped,
he
crawled
across
a
child's landscape
patted
out
of
plasticine,
a
heathland
that
sagged
and
rose
in
soft
swellings
as
if
the
earth
had
bruised.
He
recognised
everything,
it
was
all
the
places
he
had
lived
as
a
child,
scoured
places,
where
even
the
flowers
crouched
under
the
wind.
In
a
place
like
this
his
father
had
died,
swum
down
the
gull-crying
air.
'It's
not
something
I
ever
think
about,'
she
said.
It
was
incomprehensible
to
him;
even
while
they
were
talking
she
had
her
back
to
him,
working
at
what
was
in
front
of
her
on the
kitchen
surface
as
if
it
was
all
that
concerned
her.
She
was
taking
the
last
soft
portion
of
forcemeat
and
pressing
it
into
the
bird.
Finished,
she
folded
across
the
flap
of
the
neck
skin.
'When
they
were
adopted,
they
weren't
allowed
to
keep
their
own
names,'
he
said
harshly.
'The
village
liked
familiar
names.
Like
Frances.
Or
Alice.'
'The
girl
who
went
through
the
looking
glass.'
The
silence
lay
between
them
.
Swum
down,
fallen
or
jumped
from
a
high
place
.
He
had
left
home
and
that
had
happened
to
his
father.
What
would
her
reaction
be
if
he
said
to
her,
none
of
the
things
she
might
expect,
but,
I
have
never
known
if
my
father
killed
himself
or
if
it
was
an
accident.
What
he
remembered
were
their
quarrels
.
That
he
might
have
been
loved
so
much
was
not
a
possibility
he
had
ever
been
able
to
bear.
She
had
turned
and
he
saw
that
she
was
staring
at
his
hands.
He
had
clenched
his
fists.
'When
you're
there
during
those
long
waits
in
the
hospital
with your
brother,
does
he
tell
you
what
Frances
was
like
in
bed?
Do you
like
to
listen
to
that,
Murray?'
'Someone
like
you
doesn't
have
to
talk
like
this.'
Unexpectedly,
she
laughed.
The
noise
grated
on
him
like
the
squeal
of
a
cat.
'I
don't
understand
you,'
she
said.
'I
haven't
understood
anything
about
you
from
the
day
I
met
you.
What
kind
of
detective
are
you?
What
do
you
do
if
a
witness
says
"fuck"?
What
about
"fuck"?
How
do
you
feel
about
"fuck",
Murray?'
'I
do
my
job.'
'Do
you
put
your
hands
over
your
ears?'
She
dosed
her
ears
with
the
tip
of
each
forefinger,
very
gently
in
mockery
.
Baited,
he
swung
his
head
from
side
to
side.
'I
can
do
my
job.'
'But
you're
no
good
at
it.
If
you
were
any
good
at
it,
Frances would
still
be
alive –'
'I
can
do
my
job,'
he
said
again,
clinging
to
that.
'Half
the
cops
in
the
city
are –'