Authors: Frederic Lindsay
The
deep
voice
unwound
without
hurrying,
hypnotic
in
its
certainty
that
it
would
not
be
interrupted;
and
then
the
eyes
blinked,
the
mouth
gaped
in
a
yawn
–
and
all
the
authority
vanished.
'Be
quiet,
Peter,
you're
drunk,'
Heathers
said
mechanically.
He
had
unnoticed
taken
a
seat,
and
Murray
was
surprised
by
the
change
in
him.
He
looked
old
and
shrunken
in
upon
himself.
The
deep
voice
muttered
a
reply
as
if
to
itself,
'
.
..not
the
only
arrangement,
didn't
say
it
was
.
..
could
do
what
the
fire-worms
do
off
Bermuda
and
burst
–
the
two
sexes
come
together
and
burst...
shredded
.
..'
'You're
too
late,'
Heathers
said.
'You
should
have
come
earlier.
She
was
here,
I
gave
her
a
number
to
phone.
Whatever
happens,
it's
nothing
to
do
with
me.
Get
that
straight.
As
far
as
I'm
concerned,
she
wasn't
here.
I
don't
want
to
know.'
He
sucked
at
the
last
of
the
whisky
and
his
upper
lip
creased
in
an
anticipation
of
the
deep
cut
lines
of
extreme
age.
'I
didn't
mean
to
tell
her.
I
didn't
want
–
I
wish
I'd
never
met
the
bitch!'
'Columbus
saw
them
on
the
night
he
approached
the
New
World,'
the
man
in
the
chair
said
aloud.
'Sending
out
signals
of
light
before
they
burst.'
He
began
to
giggle
like
a
child,
a
noise
so
unexpected
that
Murray's
skin
crawled.
'Oh,
the
lights,
Columbus
said.
Oh,
the
pretty
lights.
Look
at
the
lights!'
29
Various Wounds
MONDAY,
OCTOBER
15
TH
1988
When
he
slipped
and
fell,
he
saw
between
his
out flung
hands
cigarette
stubs,
soft
paper
gobs
gone
into
swirls
like
marine
life
and
by
them
fat
splashes
of
snot,
white,
with
thicker
centres
–
tiny
eggs
broken
on
the
pavement
.
Irene
hadn't
gone
home
last
night,
or
returned
when
he
checked
this
morning.
He
had
no
idea
where
she
was.
Now
he
sprawled
at
the
entrance
to
the
close
that
led
to
Mary
O'Bannion's
flat;
he
had
knocked
and
waited
and
knocked,
no
answer;
coming
out,
he
had
been
in
too
much
of
a
hurry
and
fallen.
Irene
or
Kujavia,
he
had
to
find
one
or
other
of
them
before
they
came
together.
If
they
hadn't
already
,
but
he
couldn't
afford
to
consider
that.
All
he
could
do
was
keep
looking.
There
wasn't
much
time.
'Hairdressers,'
the
woman
said,
rolling
down
her
tights
as
she
sat
on
the
edge
of
the
bed.
'Or
that's
what
they
claimed
they
were.
I
hate
fucking
amateurs
...
Do
you
want
the
blouse
off
next
or
the
skirt?'
'Whichever
you
like.'
'You
don't
care
which?'
She
gave
him
an
unexpectedly
shrewd
look.
'Take
the
top
off,
will
I?'
Without
standing
up,
she
began
to
unbutton
the
blouse.
It
was
less
like
a
strip-tease
than
the
unthinking
movements
with
which
a
mechanic
unpacks
a
tool
kit.
'So
the
two
of
them
had
a
right
big
tip
for
themselves.
Specially
the
younger
one.
Gave
me
this
patter
about
when
they
went
back with
this
bloke
and
here
he
tried
to
get
funny.
We
smashed
up
his
place,
the
younger
one
said.
Bloody
mad
amateurs!'
She
took
off
her
bra
and
glanced
down
without
pleasure
at
the
released
flop
of
her
breasts.
'I
think
she
was
a
bit
touched – the
younger
one.'
She
wriggled
her
bum
and
the
skirt
came
from
under
her
and
slid
to
the
floor.
'I
know
a
head
case
when
I
see
one
.
..
well,
in
this
game,'
she
smiled
placatingly,
'you
have
to,
don't
you?
But
I
haven't
seen
them
since.
Not
round
here.
Just
that
time
and
once
before
–
back
in
the
summer
before
it
got
cold.'
Murray
was
not
interested,
although
he
understood
why
she
was
talkative.
Even
a
whore
could
get
nervous.
He
hardly
listened,
trying
to
judge
when
it
would
be
right
to
ask
his
question.
Unclothed,
she
stood
up
to
let
him
look
at
her.
She
began
to
turn
then
changed
her
mind
and
sat
down
again
on
the
bed.
She
leaned
back
resting
her
weight
on
her
hands
in
an
obsolete
starlet
pose,
and
asked,
opening
her
legs,
'You
sure
you
don't
want
anything
else?'
He
shook
his
head.
'You
just
want
me
to
get
dressed
again
.
..'
She
took
up
the
bra
and
bent
forward
to
let
her
breasts
fall
into
the
cups.
As
she
reached
behind
to
fasten
it,
he
said,
'There
is
one
thing
you
could
do
for
me.'
Caught
like
that,
she
hesitated
with
her
hands
reaching
up
her
back.
'Tell
me
what
you
want,
and
I'll
tell
you
what
it
costs.'
'The
answer
to
a
question.'
He
took
out
all
the
money
he
had
left
and
fanned
it
towards
her.
'I
need
to
find
Joe
Kujavia.
I'll
pay
for
a
whisper.'
'Oh,
no.'
She
began
to
dress,
cramming
the
clothes
on
in
her
hurry.
'You've
come
to
the
wrong
place.
I
don't
know
what
you're
on
about.'
'I'm
not
police,'
he
said,
without
moving
nearer
or
raising
his
voice.
'You
know
what
I
am,
just
a
John,
another
mug.
Didn't
I
pay
you
already?
I'm
harmless.
Only
I
need
to
find
Joe – I
can
pay,
here,
as
much
as
you –'
'I
want
you
out
of
here.'
She
padded
on
her
bare
feet
across
the
dirty
linoleum
and opened
the
door
that
gave
on
to
the
corridor.
'Come
on,'
she
said.
'I
can
get
somebody
here
if
I
shout.'
'You've
already
taken
my
money.
Suppose
I
say
you
took
it
for telling
me
where
Joe
Kujavia
is?
You
wouldn't
be
any
worse
off
if you
did
tell
me.
Nobody
would
know.'