Authors: Frederic Lindsay
He
was
crying.
Something
in
their
reaction
must
have
made
him
realise.
He
put
his
fingers
to
his
cheek
with
a
glance
of
dolorous
bravado.
It
was
a
look
most
of
them
had
not
seen
before
and
it
was
not
pleasant
to
see.
It
said
that
although
a
man
could
have
secret
lives
and
separate
selves
yet
in
the
end
they
would
come
together
necessarily
and
be
one.
'You
shouldn't
be
angry
with
me,'
he
wept.
'Somebody
I
loved is
dead.'
They
watched
him
go.
'You
didn't
have
to
talk
to
him
like
that.'
'Maybe
I
know
some
things
about
him
you
don't.'
'I
know
somethings
.
..
but
I
admire
him,'
Billy
Shanks
said.
'And
he's
a
kindly
man –
I
know
some
of
the
good
things
he's
done.'
'I've
seen
some
of
the
things
he
does.'
'He
lives
his
life
with
style.
That's
my
definition
of
courage.'
'Even
the
sight
of
him
makes
me
want
to
vomit.'
'If
I
had
to
choose,
Murray,
I
think
I'd
choose
Tommy.
He's better
company.'
Murray
stood
up,
then
hesitated.
'I
need
to
get
to
my
brother's
house,'
he
said.
'But
I
don't
have
enough
for
a
taxi.'
With
a
familiar
clumsy
looping
movement,
Billy
pulled
out
a
handful
of
crumpled
notes
from
a
side
pocket
and
held
them
out
uncounted.
'I'll
square
it
with
you
when
I
see
you.'
'Fuck
you,'
Billy
said
bitterly,
'don't
bother.'
It
was
true
that
the
day
was
changeable.
As
they
crossed
the
city,
crowded
pavements
clenched
against
the
rain
turned
leisurely
in
a
truce
of
sunlight.
'The
nights'll
be
drawing
in
soon,'
the
driver
said.
On
instinct,
he
stopped
him
at
the
corner
and
walked
the
rest.
It
would
have
been
easy
to
miss
the
house
among
its
neighbours,
small
family
houses
built
in
the
thirties;
some
had
put
a
dormer
window
in
the
attic
to
get
another
bedroom;
somebody,
sometime
after
the
war,
had
set
the
fashion
of
adding
a
porch
.
The
car,
sitting
on
the
tarred
slope
by
the
front
door,
was
what
he
recognised;
and
the
shock
he
felt
made
him
realise
he
had
expected
it
to
be
gone.
During
the
night
in
the
cell
and
the
interview
room
,
what
Irene
had
said
about
the
murders
had
run
through
his
mind
like
a
refrain.
While
they
were
questioning
him,
what
he
had
listened
to
instead
of
their
voices
was
her
voice
saying:
'She
could
go
away
and
start
a
new
life.
She
wouldn't
do
it
again
.
..
that
would
be
the
end
of
it.'
He
moved
swiftly
up
the
path,
carefully
keeping
the
car
between
himself
and
the
window.
When
he
touched
the
front
door,
it
gave
under
his
hand.
It
had
been
lying
a
fraction
open,
and
that
dismayed
him.
He
stepped
into
the
hall
with
the
soft
step
of
a hunter.
In
the
current
of
air
that
came
with
him,
dry
stems
of
withered
flowers
rattled
in
a
vase.
He
passed
through
the
living
room
and
in
the
kitchen
found
tea
and
cups
laid
on
the
work
surface,
but
when
he
put
the
back
of
his
hand
against
the
pot
it
was
cold
.
The
car
in
the
drive
proved
Irene
had
come
back
here;
it
did
not
mean
she
had
stayed.
There
was
more
than
one
way
of
leaving
a
house.
Perhaps
like
him
she
had
taken
a
taxi,
or
walked
to
the
end
of
the
road
and
caught
a
bus;
the
right
bus
could
go
to
a
railway
station
or
an
airport;
a
bus
could
be
the
beginning
of
a
long
journey.
Back
in
the
front
room,
he
heard
a
car
door
slam
outside
and
ran
to
the
window;
outside
the
house
opposite,
a
man
was
locking
the
driver's
side
of
a
red
Ford
Escort
though
it
was
parked
in
the
drive,
a
careful
man.
The
sky
had
darkened,
preparing
for
rain.
Murray
watched
the
careful
man
go
into
his
house
and
the
light
went
on
and
he
could
see
him
sitting
down
at
the
table
with
a
boy
who
must
be
his
son
home
from
school
for
lunch,
and
the
woman
between
them
leaning
forward
resting
her
hands
on
their
shoulders.