Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'I
could
have
you
cut,'
he
said
stupidly.
He
had
no
help
from
his
anger
or
his
lust.
That
night
both
were
with
him
as
he
imagined
what
he
might
have
done
to
her
and
followed
each
refinement
with
another
until
he
climaxed
and
slipped
into
a
troubled
sleep.
But
when
it
mattered,
he
let
himself
be
led
through
the
hall
past
the
telephone
and
the
tea
roses.
When
the
door
opened,
the
man
outside
had
reacted
very
fast,
like
a
fighter,
taking
a
half
step
back.
Before
he
could
stop
him,
the
man
had
caught
his
uninjured
hand,
turning
it
so
that
he
could
look
at
the
wound.
'It's
all
right,
Murray,'
the
woman
had
said.
'He's
just
leaving.'
The
sun
struck
signals
off
the
windows
of
cars.
His
legs
and belly
ached.
It
was
hard
to
walk
.
He
felt
a
great
temptation
to
rest
on
one
of
the
stone
steps
that
led
up
into
the
neat
little
gardens.
When
the
Underpass
is
finished,
he
thought.
I'll
deal
with
her
then
–
and
him
.
Afterwards – when
I
don't
need
him;
that
made
sense,
it
was
smart;
he
had
been
smart.
The
pain
of
his
hand
cut
through
his
confusion,
making
him
feel
sick.
Where
he
had
cradled
it,
the
blood
had
spread
across
his
shirt
as
if
he
had
been
wounded
in
the
chest.
He
hid
it
in
his
pocket
and
with
his
good hand
he
drew
the
jacket
across
to
hide
the
stain.
He
tried
to
think
how
long
he
had
been
in
the
house.
Soon
he
would
come
on
the
parked
car.
Had
he
been
long
enough
in
the
house?
Would
Denny
think
it
had
been
long
enough?
He
was
very
tired
and
the
sun
beat
on
his
unprotected
head.
He tried
to
understand
why
he
had
submitted
to
being
led
out
of
the
house,
but
with
each
effort
instead
of
an
explanation
he
received
an
image
of
her
mouth
with
the
smear
of
blood
as
she
said,
'As
if I
cared.'
It
was
not
possible
that
what
he
had
felt
was
fear.
He
dismissed
the
idea
of
fear,
stumbling
along
in
the
heat,
looking
around
for
the
car
and,
fierce
veins
beating
in
his
skull,
worrying
about
how
he
would
explain
himself
to
Denny
his
chauffeur.
5
The First Victim
THURSDAY,
AUGUST
30
TH
1988
Then
his
name
did
not
matter.
He
was
fifty-one
years
old
and
in
good
shape
apart
from
the
regular
discomfort
produced
by
a
stomach
ulcer.
He
believed
there
was
more
risk
in
visiting
doctors
than
in
staying
away
from
them
.
He
could
not
forget
how
as
a
boy
he
had
seen
his
mother
come
back
from
hospital
unable
to
raise
her
head
from
her
chest
because
treatment
had
destroyed
the
muscles
of
her
neck.
As
a
result
he
swallowed
quantities
of
tablets
and
powders
he
got
from
the
local
chemist,
and
died
without
ever
discovering
the
cause
of
his
discomfort.
There
was
no
way
of
knowing
how
many
of
the
lines
round
his
eyes
had
been
scored
by
the
ulcer
and
how
many
by
the
process
of
his
marriage
going
bad.
From
ten
days
earlier,
when
his
wife
left
him,
he
had
been
explaining
to
neighbours
that
she
was
gone
to
visit
their
married
daughter
in
Shreveport,
a
city
in
Louisiana,
which
is
one
of
the
Southern
states
of
the
United
States.
As
it
happened,
most
of
his
neighbours
knew
where
Louisiana
was.
He
told
the
truth
elaborately
because
he
was
a
rather
dull,
meticulously
honest
man,
and
because
he
was
missing
out
the
one
thing
that
mattered
which
was
that
she
had
explained
to
him
with
some
force
why
she
did
not
intend
to
come
back.
On
that
Thursday
morning,
he
had
told
his
employer
he
was taking
leave
of
absence
.
There
had
been
some
unpleasantness
and he
was
not
certain
that
his
job
would
be
there
when
he
wanted
it again.
Previously
he
had
taken
the
surrender
value
of
his
life
assurance
policies
and
in
his
pocket
he
had
an
airline
ticket
to
the
United
States.
He
had
been
disappointed
by
the
sum
he
had
realised
on
the
policies
but
it
was
enough,
and
fortunately
he
was
in
sound
health,
apart
from
the
unsuspected
ulcer
and
a
long
history
of
trouble
with
his
teeth.
Later,
when
his
name
mattered,
the
record
of
so
much
dental
work
was
helpful.
Tomorrow
he
would
catch
a
plane,
tonight
he
could
not
face
an
empty
house.
He
ordered
a
beer
and
asked
what
was
available
to
eat,
settling
for
two
rolls
sad
enough
to
have
been
left
over
from
the
lunch
offering.
Steadily
he
chewed
on
them
as
if
he
could
masticate
the
years
of
his
marriage,
purge
what
had
been
wrong
and
take
only
the
best
of
it
with
him
across
the
Atlantic
to
his
wife.
It was
a
fool's
sacrament,
tasting
of
chemicals,
to
whiten,
to
aerate,
and to
speed
fermentation.
There
was
nothing
in
it
of
wheat.
If
it
was
a
penance,
he
served
it.
Perhaps
he
made
a
special
kind
of
face
reflecting
on
all
of
that
for
when
he
looked
up
the
woman
was
already
watching
him.
He
had
been
married
to
the
same
woman
most
of
his
adult
life
and
been
faithful.
Even
during
the
bad
last
years,
he
had
not
turned
to
another
woman.
The
kind
of
life
he
lived
did
not
throw
him
into
the
company
of
anyone
likely,
and
he
had
lost
the
courage
or
the
knack
of
hopefulness
needed
to
offer
himself
to
a
stranger.
It
was
more
than
three
years
since
he
had
made
love
to
his
wife;
although
they
continued
all
that
time
out
of
old
habit
to
share
a
bed.
His
manhood
was
dry.
Yet
when
he
saw
the
woman
watching,
he
left
his
place
at
the
bar
and
joined
her.
He
gave
himself
no
time
to
think
,
which
was
extraordinary,
and
as
he
listened
to
her
a
knot
of
fear
and
excitement
tightened
and
unwound
and
tightened
in
him.
It
was
as
if
even
at
his
age
a
man
might
change
and
become
somehow
new.
'It
would
have
been
our
thirtieth
anniversary
next
month.'
Close
up,
she
was
younger
than
he
had
thought.
He
had
made
a
judgement
on
the
woman
sitting
alone
watching
him
which
did
not
fit
the
girl
opposite.
She
was
certainly
under
thirty
with
very
blonde
hair
cut
short
and
dark
big
eyes.
She
had
a
good
jaw
and clearly
marked
cheekbones,
things
which
he
associated
with
character.
For
some
reason,
it
seemed
to
him
like
the
face
of
a
country
girl
–
and
then
she
looked
to
the
side
and
down
and
it
was
a
beautiful
face.