Authors: Frederic Lindsay
There
was
no
reason
to
go
upstairs.
He
stood
with
his
foot
on the
first
step
and
his
head
bent
as
if
in
thought.
There
would
be
no
reason
to
go
into
the
room
where
she
had
slept,
where
the
faint
smell
of
her
body
would
cling
to
the
things
she
had
worn
next
to
her
skin.
Incoherent
images,
of
clothes
spilled
on
a
floor,
of
the
intimate
private
life
of
a
woman's
hips
as
she
eased
up
a
zip
as
if
she
were
alone,
held
him
in
an
oblique
suspended
attentiveness
like
a
man
who
would
not
acknowledge
a
shameful
thing
but
peeped
at
it
from
the
corner
of
his
eye.
The
outer
door
lay
open
and
he
reached
out
and
struck
it
so
that
it
closed
with
a
crash
like
wakening.
From
above,
a
voice
called
out:
'Is
that
you,
doctor?
My
son's up
here
in
the
bedroom.'
'Mother?'
When
he
went
in,
she
was
standing
by
the
foot
of
the
bed.
His
brother
lay
still
with
his
eyes
closed
like
a
dead
man.
Startled,
she
put
up
a
finger
to
the
lips
painted
on
the
old
bright
mask
of
her
face.
'For
God's
sake,
what
is
Malcolm
doing
here?
He
should
be
in
hospital.'
'Oh,
no.
I'm
going
to
look
after
him.
Irene
helped
me
to
bring him
home
this
morning’
.
'Irene?'
There
was
a
sigh
of
breath;
at
the
sound
of
his
wife's
name,
Malcolm
was
smiling.
Against
the
white
pillow,
his
face
was
a
yellow
axe.
His
eyes
opened
and
closed
again
as,
sedated,
he
was
pressed
down
into
sleep.
As
if
released,
the
old
woman
began
to
thrust
Murray
from
the room.
If
it
had
not
been
for
her
expression,
there
would
have
been
something
comic
in
the
reiterated
frail
shoves
that
sent
him
stumbling
back.
Don't
come
looking
here
for
her.
She's
gone.'
She
wanted
to
drive
him
back
to
the
head
of
the
stairs
and
then
out
of
the
house,
but
he
stepped
aside
into
the
next
room,
not
resisting
her
otherwise.
'Did
you
expect
her
to
stay
after
what
you
did
to
her?
Did
you think
she
would
be
ashamed
to
tell
me?
You've
ruined
your
brother's
life.'
'What
is
it?
What
is
it?'
Murray
asked
helplessly,
stumbling
back
from
her
assault.
'You
threatened
her
with
a
knife
and
took
her –
You
know
what
you
made
her
do.
Don't
deny
it
–
she
told
me.
There
wasn't
anybody
to
stop
you.
Your
brother
couldn't
stop
you,
you
coward.'
'It's
not
true.
It
wasn't
like
that –'
'Don't
tell
me
lies.
Who
could
believe
you?'
his
mother
demanded.
'Who
would
believe
anything
you
said
about
her?
You've
driven
her
away.'
There
was
no
mercy
in
her
justice.
He
was
at
the
end
of
his
retreat.
The
room
was
not
large;
Malcolm
had
used
it
as
a
study
for
there
was
a
table
with
a
file
box
on
it
and
a
battered
second-hand
office
desk
against
the
wall.
One
of
its
drawers
was
pulled
half
out
and
the
key
in
its
lock
still
swung
back
and
forward
from
being
brushed
against
as
they
came
in.
As
a
speculation
of
his
trade,
like
a
memory
of
an
earlier
life,
it occurred
to
him
that
there
could
have
been
a
shared
bank
book
locked
in
that
drawer
and
that
Irene
might
not
have
left
empty
handed.
'You've
ruined
your
brother's
life.'
The
old
woman
beat
at
him
with
brittle
fists
of
folded
bones
.
As
the
only
refuge
left
him,
he
turned
his
back
on
her.
Through
the
livid
air,
rain
burst
on
the
panes
and
leapt
up
in
glistening
rods
from
the
curve
of
the
road.
The
voice
faded
behind
him;
he
refused
it;
but
what
it
said
had
no
need
of
words.
While
he
watched,
lights
came
on
in
more
of
the
houses
opposite
because
of
the
storm.
It
was
over
there
he
had
seen
the
woman
linking
her
husband
and
son
at
a
set
table
.
Thinking
of
that,
he
leaned
forward
until
his
forehead
pressed
hard
against
the
cold
of
the glass,
but
it
made
no
difference
.