Authors: Frederic Lindsay
Murray
stared
at
him
speechless.
'That's
what
I
hear
anyway
.
.
.
'
Barney
trailed
off.
'That's
what
you
wanted
to
tell
me?'
The
paperseller
put
a
hand
to
his
lips
in
a
gesture
that,
despite
the
pouched
eyes
and
the
grey
unshaven
jaws,
was
oddly
childlike.
'Oh,
Christ,
Murray.
Did
I
tell
yous
that
already?
I
did,
didn't
I?
For
fuck's
sake,
I
think
my
head's
wasted.'
'No.
It's
all
right,'
Murray
said.
'Thanks,
Barney.'
The
old
man
grinned
in
relief.
'Anytime.
I
hear
things
yous
never
would.'
The
years
caught
up
with
everyone
.
The
years
and
the
red
wine.
And,
of
course,
Irene
wasn't
waiting
for
him
outside
his
flat.
He
accepted
in
his
exhaustion
that
it
would
be
Miss
Timmey,
knocking
and
knocking
on
the
broken
door
as
he
climbed
towards
her.
What
she
had
to
tell
him,
he
heard
like
a
message
from
his
own
despair.
'...his
head
just
looked
too
big
for
his
wee
body,
not
a
stitch
of clothes
on
him,
all
his
ribs
standing
out,
you
could
have
counted
them,
it
was
like
one
of
those
pictures
you'd
see
of
the
poor
folk
during
the
war
in
the
camps
or
some
wee
black
bairn
in
Africa,
and
he
was
just
bruises
all
over
and
what
was
.
..between
his
legs,
you
know,
there
,
was
hurt.'
'It
was
a
girl
they
had,
it
was
a
girl,'
Murray
protested,
not pointing
but
holding
up
one
hand
as
if
for
protection
against
the
closed
door
of
the
middle
flat.
A
girl,
happy,
healthy,
as
fat
as
she
could
roll;
a
child
of
love
held
between
two
of
the
beautiful
people,
Moirhill
version.
Every
time
you
saw
the
couple
they
looked
as
if
they
had
just
got
out
of
bed,
glossy
and
replete;
you
could
see
how
the
sight
of
them
might
drive
an
old
woman,
a
dry
spinster,
demented;
so
that
she
imagined
a
child
was
being
tortured,
pestered
you
with
what
she
had
imagined
she
had
heard.
That
was
an
easy
problem
for
him
to
solve,
a
man
who
understood
human
nature,
a
detective.
'It
was
a
girl,'
he
repeated
stupidly.
'The
child
in
there
was
a
girl.'
'Nobody
knew,
you
see,
about
the
wee
boy,
he
was
never
let out,
they
say
she
had
him
by
another
man
before
she
got
married,
if
she
was
–
married
that
is,
and
they
kept
him
tied
to
a
cot
but
something
must
have
happened
and
he
got
out
and
they
found
him
crawling
down
the
stair
.
..
and
he
was
that
light,
that
light, you
felt
you
could
pick
him
up
and
hold
him
in
one
hand.'
To
Murray's
horror,
the
old
woman
wept.
'I
said
to
the
police
I
told
you
what
I'd
heard.
They
were
right
angry.
They'll
be
coming
to
see
you,
I
expect.
I
had
to
tell
them
I'd
told
you.'
Crossing
a
vacant
piece
of
ground
at
the
corner
of
Florence Street,
Murray
began
to
shudder.
From
somewhere
out
beyond
the
suburbs,
the
wind
carried
a
sprinkling
of
snow.
A
long
time
ago
in
the
Northern
shop,
autumn
then
too,
and
one
of
the
other
policemen
arguing
with
him
about
how
exactly
they
executed
traitors
under
the
old
savage
laws
of
England,
thick
lipped,
emphatic,
a
white
complexion
under
red
hair;
arguing
until
he
went
to
the
phone
to
settle
it.
The
voice
of
the
librarian
had
replied
at
once,
'The
traitor
was
hung
and
the
bowels
drawn
out
and
burned
in
front
of
his
eyes
while
he
was
still
alive.
Oh,
and
he
was
castrated
.
And
then –'
What
had
been
strange
to
Murray
was
that
he
had
answered
at
once,
without
having
to
check
any
book,
as
if
he
had
been
waiting
for
just
that
question.
Behind
him,
the
light
of
the
shop
window
threw
a
lozenge
of yellow
on
the
wet
pavement
.
It
was
dark
and
getting
late;
he
was
running
out
of
time
and
this
felt
like
his
last
chance.
Although
he
hadn't
eaten
that
day,
the
smell
of
food
made
him
feel
sick.