Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'He'll
come,'
she
said.
'We
have
to
be
ready.'
He
followed
her
along
the
passage.
A
door
that
he
had
not
remarked
at
the
end
on
the
right
led
into
a
very
small
narrow
space
like
a
pantry.
In
the
corner,
there
was
a
window
that
looked
into
the
living
room.
It
was
set
deep
in
the
wall
like
part
of
an
old
conversion,
and
was
covered
on
their
side
with
a
net
curtain.
'You
could
watch
from
here,'
she
said.
Without
answering
her,
he
went
out
and
through
into
the
living
room.
Set
high,
dirty,
the
window
in
the
corner
wasn't
anything
to
notice.
Glancing
that
way,
the
attention
was
taken
by
the
painting
of
brown
fields
with
a
tiny
cold
moon-sun
low
over
a
hill.
Through
the
open
door,
along
the
short
passage,
he
could
see
the
bed
with
her
coat
thrown
on
it.
'But
you
can't
be
in
here
,
'
she
said,
coming
after
him.
For
the first
time,
she
seemed
uncertain
of
herself.
'Not
when
he
comes.
I
have
to
see
him
on
my
own.'
'We
want
a
confession.'
He
would
play
out
the
game
until
she
realised
it
was
hopeless
and
that
Kujavia
would
not
come.
'You
know
if
he
sees
you
it
won't
work.
You
said
yourself
he'd
think
it
was
a
trap.
He'd
go
away – you'll
spoil – I
didn't
want
you
here.
Please,
please –'
She
almost
wept
in
the
distress
of
her
frustration
.
He
thought of
the
men
who
had
been
killed,
of
fat
Leo
Arnold
weeping
for
his
brother,
of
Merchant.
'If
Frances
wasn't
worth
it
...
'
He
wanted
to
comfort
her.
He
wanted
to
hold
her.
'No!'
She
swayed
back
and
struck
away
his
hand.
'None
of that.'
Her
lips
writhed
as
if
getting
rid
of
filth.
Three
spaced
knocks
beat
against
the
outer
door.
'Now,'
she
cried
softly.
'Please,
please.
He's
here.'
Because
he
had
not
believed
Kujavia
would
come,
the
sounds
went
through
him
as
separate
shocks
each
one
like
a
blow.
He
rubbed
at
the
side
of
his
head
and
caught
himself
in
the
act
of
that
unconscious
gesture
which
had
become
a
habit
with
him.
In
a
sudden
alteration,
she
brought
her
body
close
to
his.
She put
his
hand
on
her
breast.
'I
didn't
mean
that
just
now,'
she
whispered.
'We
can
make
love,
afterwards,
we
can,
I
won't
mind, anything,
afterwards.'
In
her
urgency,
she
pressed
herself
against
him.
The
drum
beat
in
Murray's
skull.
On
the
outer
door,
the
fist beat
steadily.
'If
it
is
him,
he's
here
to
kill
you,'
he
said.
She
stepped
back,
needing
room
for
her
great
moment.
'He's
my
father.'
And
she
nodded,
eager
to
share
it.
'Not
Frances
–
just
me.
My
father.
Mine.
I've
always
known
that.
There's
no
way
he
wouldn't
come
when
I
told
him
that.
He
won't
hurt
me.'
But
Mary
O'Bannion
was
dead.
What
she
said
was
impossible, a
crazy
thing.
He
struggled
to
find
the
words,
a man in an alien country, that would make her understand
.
'And
Annette
Verhaeren?'
An
iron bar beating down into the flesh that had mothered her.
The
knocking
on
the
outer
door
stopped.
'He'll
go
away,'
she
cried
in
the
same
soft
hasty
whisper.
'Oh,
you
bastard,
why
won't
you
go
in
there,
before
it's
too
late,'
she
began
to
push
at
his
chest,
herding
him
backwards,
'please,
before
he
goes
away,
you
fucking
bastard
–
I
didn't
mean
that –
you're
right.'
He
was
the
mirror
in
which
she
might
glimpse
these
alterations.
'You're
right,
he's
here
to
be
punished,
we'll
punish
him,
there's
a
lane
at
the
back,
and
I've
parked
my
car
close
–
please,
please,
he's
going
away
–
it
won't
be
difficult,
with
two
of
us
it'll
be
easy –'
She
had
actually
driven
him
back
by
the
strength
of
her
desperation.
With
her
hands
fluttering
at
his
chest,
he
stepped
into
the
narrow
pantry-like
space.
Giving
in,
he
moved
away
from
her
unurged
until
he
was
by
the
window.
Through
the
droop
of
soiled
curtain,
he
could
see
into
the
room
they
had
left.
'He'll
be
just
another
of
them,'
she
whispered.
'Just
somebody
else
found
in
Moirhill.'