Authors: Frederic Lindsay
Murray
remembered.
'Going
to
Mary
O'Bannion's,'
he
said
slowly,
'that
was
probably
a
mistake.
She
shouldn't
have
gone
there.'
Somewhere
he
heard
a
sound
of
music,
a
radio
being
played
too
loudly,
as
if
a
door
had
just
been
opened.
He
was
so
concentrated
upon
her,
however,
that
for
the
moment
it
did
not
register.
Inconsequentially,
she
said,
'Tomorrow
I'm
going
to
Blair
Heathers.
He
phoned
and
asked
me.'
'Why
would
you
go
to
Heathers?'
He
stared
at
her
in
bewilderment
.
Always
she
surprised
him,
left
him
shut
out,
excluded.
'There
isn't
anything
for
you
there.'
'I
can't
go
to
Mary
O'Bannion's,'
she
said.
'I'm
not
as
brave
as
Frances.'
But
as
he
tried
to
understand,
she
turned
away.
I'm
here bitch I'm here bitch I'm here I'm here I'm here.
Before
he
could
speak,
she
said,
'Mum
Wilson
must
be
coming
down.'
'What?'
'I'll
take
her
to
the
hospital
tomorrow
–
on
my
way
to
Heathers.'
'Mother?
She's
been
upstairs
all
this
time?'
The
music
stopped
as
if
a
switch
had
been
turned.
Straining,
he
heard
a
door
bang
shut.
She
was
coming
down.
'Didn't
you
realise?
I
couldn't
leave
her
on
her
own.
That
wouldn't
have
been
right.
Tomorrow
I'll
feed
her
chicken
before
we
go.'
Irene
smiled.
'She
had
to
rest.
I
thought
you
knew
.
.
.
'
When
he
let
her
go,
she
said,
in
what
he
heard
as
contempt,
'You
needed
that.'
He
felt
her
body
against
his
and
shook
with
lust
and
rage.
'No,'
he
said.
'I
needed
this.'
He
was
too
quick
for
her.
With
a
boxer's
reflex,
he
swept
away
her
hand
as
it
hooked
for
his
face
and
with
his
weight
crowded
her
back
the
length
of
the
kitchen
until
the
wall
stopped
her.
She
had
nowhere
to
go.
She
was
in
jeans
without
a
belt
so
that,
when
he
popped
the
button
and
pulled,
the
zip
peeled
down
to
the
crotch.
She
didn't
speak
but
grunted
with
the
effort
of
striking
at
him.
Her
hand
swung
round
his
back;
some
corner
of
his
mind
recorded
that
she
was
using
only
one
hand;
her
left
hand
hit
him
again
and
again
just
over
the
kidneys.
'Get
them
off.'
And
he
used
both
hands
to
drag
pants
and
jeans
down
her
thighs.
'Ah,
yes.'
'You,'
she
heaved
against
him,
'prove
–
nothing
–
prove
nothing
you
bastard
–
bastard
–
'
And
with
that
he
turned
her
and
laid
her
belly
down
across
the
work
surface.
Her
body
made
its
own
space,
smashing
neatness
into
debris,
sending
aside
a
glass
that
rolled
until
it
fell
and
exploded
on
the
floor
by
their
feet.
With
his
hands
he
held
her
legs
open
and
by
some
accident
of
dexterity
put
himself
into
her
without
any
fumble
or
searching;
a
terrible
shameful
relief
unblocked
his
loins,
for
his
rage
had
been
shot
through
with
fear
that
he
would
fail
to
enter
her,
go
soft.
Instead,
with
that
hard
muscle
filling
her,
he
began
to beat
up,
bending
his
knees
and
driving
up
so
that
he
lifted
her
from
the
floor
with
every
stroke,
and
it
was
not
her,
not
her
body,
it
was
his
heart
he
drove
against,
beat
against,
that
drum
stick
beaten
by
lust
and
rage,
whose
pace
raced
against
him
until
one
or
the
other
had
to
surrender
and
he,
for
survival,
released
all
his
need
and
suffering
in
a
shuddering
discharge
that
seemed
as
if
it
would
never
let
him
end.
When
it
slowed
he
was
still
full
of
tension
and
kept
her
split
on
that
thick
rod
from
which
he
dangled
her.
He
had
her
left
hand
in
his
and
drew
it
up
high
between
her
shoulders
bunching
up
the
bright
shirt
so
that
he
looked
down
the
stretch
of
her
naked
back
from
their
intertwined
fists
to
where
the
hair
of
his
groin
foamed
black
against
the
white
globes
of
her
buttocks.
With
his
other
hand,
he
gripped
her
by
the
nape
of
the
neck
and
now
turned
her
head
so
that
her
cheek
lay
against
the
board
and
she
sought
him
with
her
eye.
'Do
you
know
what's
happened
to
you?
What
I've
done
to
you?'
he
asked
and
tightened
his
grasp.
She
said
something
but
he
was
too
excited
to
listen
.
'You've
been
fucked.
Your
word,
not
mine.
Fucked.'