Authors: Frederic Lindsay
There
was
no
reasonable
way
to
refuse.
Malcolm
got
in
and
slid over
to
leave
room.
Heathers
followed
him
and
the
opposite
door
opened
and
Kujavia
came
in
on
the
other
side.
'What –
'
Malcolm
began,
but
in
his
fright
it
came
out,
Wait!
The
car
moved
off,
picking
up
speed
as
it
came
on
to
the
paved
road
and
became
part
of
the
flow
of
traffic
moving
towards
the city.
'How
can
I
do
business
if
I
can't
rely
on
people?'
Heathers
asked. He
did
not
seem
to
want
any
answer
to
that,
and
Malcolm watched
the
buildings
go
by
and
tried
to
pretend
Kujavia
was
not
there.
'How
do
you
like
being
the
boss
of
the
Department,
Malcolm?
Does
it
suit
you?'
'I'm
only
in
charge
of
things
temporarily,'
Malcolm
said.
'Until
Mr
Bradley
gets
back
to
work.'
'You
know
better
than
that
.
I
made
it
my
business
to
see
the
hospital
reports.
He's
dying.
He's
gone
rotten
here.'
With
the
same
pale
plump
hand
that
had
grasped
Malcolm's
arm,
Heathers
rubbed
his
belly.
'As
of
now,
you're
Johnny
on
the
Spot.
The
man
that
matters.'
'If
anything
did
happen
to
Mr
Bradley,'
Malcolm
said
carefully,
'I'd
certainly
hope
to
be
on
the
short
list.
After
all,
I
know
what
the
job
involves
.
.
.
'
Heathers
stared
at
him,
little
blue
eyes
very
bright
above
the
red
cheeks.
'You're
too
young,'
he
said
.
'They'll
bring
in
somebody
from
outside.
It's
the
way
the
Region's
mind
works.
If
you've
got
somebody
good,
you've
got
them,
so
look
outside
and
see
if
you can
bring
another
good
one
in.
You
can't
expect
politicians
to know
anything
about
management.'
The
casual
verdict
physically
sickened
Malcolm
who
wanted
his
share,
his
opportunity
at
the
pork
barrel
Bradley
had
delved
into
up
to
the
elbows.
If
Bradley
had
sold
himself,
he
had
taken
care
the
price
should
be
right.
Malcolm
remembered
him
saying,
'Some
plumber
or
carpenter
grafts
away,
studies,
gets
a
leg
up
and
becomes
that
wonderful
beast,
a
Master
of
Works.
First
thing
he's
being
invited
out
for
a
game
of
golf.
No
clubs?
Don't
worry – my
son's
bag's
going
spare
in
the
boot.
And
you'll
have
a
drink?
Come
to
think
of
it
–
what
about
a
meal?
You
can't
pay
here
–
it's
club
members'
treat
here.
That
kind
of
thing's
nice
–
especially
when
you're
not
used
to
it.
Oh,
you're
a
popular
chap.
Then
comes
the
day
you're
overseeing
a
job,
a
school
or
a
hospital
like
as
not,
and
the
concrete's
not
what
it
should
be
or
they've
scamped
the
wiring
and
you
should
have
a
word
with
the
contractor
.
It's
a
good
job
you're
seeing
him
at
the
weekend
for
a
round
of
golf
and
dinner
at
the
club.
He's
right
glad
you
mentioned
it.
He'll
see
to
it
–
no
problem.
And
if
things
don't
improve,
you
don't
like
to
keep
narking
on,
do
you?
Not
a
popular
chap
like
you,
a
chap
who
fits
in
so
well.
Not
with
him
being
a
personal
friend,
like.'
Bradley
shook
his
head
in
disgust
and
his
accent
broadened.
'That's
what
the
public
would
never
credit
–
how
cheap
most
of
those
buggers
come.'
It
was
six
weeks
and
a
day
before
the
routine
medical
check-up
gave
the
first
hint
that
something
was
wrong.
The
big
Yorkshireman's
eyes
were
clear
and
his
skin
had
a
very
healthy
look
from
the
open
air
and
all
the
good
holidays
he
had
taken
where
you
could
be
sure
of
the
sun.
There
was
no
way
of
telling
that
he
had
gone
rotten
inside.
'I
always
got
on
well
with
Willie
Bradley,'
Heathers
was
saying.
'I
could
work
with
him.
It wouldn't
be
reasonable
of
me
to
say
you
could
count
on
his
job
–
not
at
your
age.
But
you've
got
a
great
chance
to
make
a
good
impression.
You're
a
lucky
young
man.'
With
the
venomous
clarity
of
hope
deferred,
it
occurred
to
Malcolm
that,
despite
the
car
and
the
chauffeur
and
the
rings
on
those
plump
fingers,
Heathers'
accent
was
exactly
still
like
the
one
his
mother
would
have
described
as
that
of
a
keelie,
a
boy
from
the slums
of
Moirhill.
The
hostility
of
the
thought
frightened
him;
it
wasn't
something
he
had
planned
for;
it
didn't
fit
in
with
what
he
wanted
for
himself
.
Sweat
trickled
down
between
his
shoulder
blades.
'Mr
Heathers –'
'Blair.
That's
all
the
respect
I
need.
Just
Blair.
My
father
now,
he
was
different.
When
I was
a
kid
,
I saw
him
getting
into
an
argument
with
a
rent
collector
who'd
been
calling
him
“Heathers”
– without
any
"mister"
in
front
of
it.
He
knocked
him
down.
I'll
be
honest
with
you;
he
kicked
him
in
the
head.'
Heathers
smiled.
'I
don't
offend
easily.
But
then
I'm
a
more
successful
man
than
my
father.'
Glancing
away,
Malcolm
saw
Kujavia
leaning
back
in
the
corner
with
his
eyes
shut.
There
was
no
way
of
telling
if
he
was
awake
and
listening. 'Denny!'
Heathers
leaned
forward
to
the
driver.
'I'll
need
you again
in
about
half
an
hour –
after
you
take
Mr
Wilson
back
to
his
work
.
'
'There's
no
need
,
'
Malcolm
said
.
As
he
spoke,
the
car
came
to
a
halt
.
Without
waiting
for
the
driver,
Heathers
opened
the
door
himself
and
swung
round
to
get
out.
'Really,
there's
no
need.'
He
did
not
want
to
be
left
alone
with
this
ugly
ill-smelling
old
man.
'I
can
make
my
own
way.'
'Did
I
promise
you
a
run
back?'
Heathers
held
up
one
soft
white
hand
in
admonishment.
'People
have
to
keep
their
promises
to
one
another.
Otherwise
it
would
be
all
take
and
no
give.
That
wouldn't
be
right.'
As
they
pulled
away,
he
glimpsed
Heathers
trotting
up
the
broad
steps
in
front
of
his
building.
Success
made
you
healthy,
energetic,
slow
to
take
offence.
Turning,
he
found
that
Kujavia
had
opened
his
eyes
and
was
watching
him.
The
moment
of
recognition
followed
at
once.
'Why
you
look
at
me
like
that?'
Kujavia
growled
.
'I've
just
remembered
where
I
saw
you
before.'
On
Saturday
night.
Arriving
at
Heathers'
house;
as
he
got
out
of
the
car
with
Irene,
the
first
person
he
noticed
was
John Merchant.
The
tall
figure
of
the
Convenor
was
bent
forward
with
an
odd
intent
stillness.
Following
his
gaze –
a
car
pulled
up
at
the
entrance
–
a
big
car
but
shabby,
with
one
wing
crumpled.
A
woman
getting
out
–
and
Merchant
looking
not
at
her
but
at
the
man
inside,
whom
you
glimpsed,
white
face,
spiked
black
hair,
a
lumpy
ugliness
.
But
glimpsed
only
for
a
moment
before
your
attention
was
entirely
taken
by
the
black
woman
.
It
was
as
if
everything
Heathers'
money
might
obtain
for
you
had
been
gathered
in
a
single
fleshly
image.
'You
don't
know
me.'
As
he
spoke,
Kujavia
leaned
forward
and
closed
the
glass
panel
that
shut
off
the
driver.
'You
didn't
go
into
the
party,'
Malcolm
said
.
'You
brought
the black
girl –
Rafaella
...
'
He
couldn't
remember
the
second
name
she
had
given
.
'You
brought
her
and
then
you
drove
away.'
'What
bloody
party?'
'On
Saturday
night
at
Mr
Heathers.
There
were
a
lot
of
people
there,
dozens
of
people
.
But
you
just
brought
the
woman
and
then
drove
away.'
'Why
I
do
a
thing
like
that?'
'Because
you'd
brought
her
for
me,'
Malcolm
said,
and
something
in
the
other
man's
stillness
told
him
that
what
he
had
suspected
was
true
.
‘– My
family
are
Nigerian’,
she
had
said.
The
taxi
tilted
and they
rushed
down
into
the
tunnel
under
the
river;
a
lorry
hurtled
past
them
in
the
slow
lane,
hung
the
echoing
clamour
of
its
wheels
over
them
like
some
crazy
fairground
machine;
and
her
eyes
shone
as
she
turned
to
him
. ‘
My
family
are
Nigerian.
My
father
was
killed
in
an
accident,
and
my
mother
did
not
send
for
me
to
bring
me
home.
My
mother
would
have
sent
for
me
but
she
was
not
able
though
she
kept
wanting.’