Authors: Frederic Lindsay
When
he
came
out
the
small
bedroom
was
in
darkness.
From the
passage
beyond
came
the
sound
of
voices.
A
voice
which
he
recognised
as
that
of
the
woman
who
called
herself
Frances
said
something
and
then
another
voice
spoke.
'You
take
such
chances,'
the
second
woman
said.
It
sounded very
different
to
him
from
the
voice
of
Frances
, more
,
educated,
not
a
country
accent,
one
from
a
town
or
a
city,
southern
English,
perhaps
London?
'I
needed
company.'
'Company!
That's
another
name
for
it.
What
happened
last
night
anyway?'
'That's
why
I
sent
for
you,'
Frances
said.
'He
was
in
a
funny mood
from
the
minute
he
got
here.'
She
lowered
her
voice
and
he
moved
by
an
ordinary
impulse
of
curiosity
nearer
to
the
narrow
crack
of
the
door's
opening.
'Soldavo
,
one
of
the
guards.'
'Do
you
think
it
can
be
true?'
'He
saw
him!
There
wasn't
any
chance
of
a
mistake
–
that's
what
he
said.'
'What
name?
Didn't
he
give
you
a
name?'
'I
tried
to
get
it
out
of
him.
You
know
what
he's
like –
he
didn't
think
it
would
be
right
to
tell
me –
he
didn't
think
it
would
be
safe
for –'
She
stopped
speaking
suddenly
as
if
at
a
signal.
When
the
light
came
on,
the
room
appeared
momentarily
not
small
but
vast.
Turning
acres
of
light
pinned
him
alone
and
isolated
in
the
centre
of
an
enormous
room.
Conscious
of
his
nakedness,
he
covered
himself
with
his
hands.
'I'm
sorry,'
he
said.
There
were
two
women.
Frances
was
naked
like
himself
but
without
shame.
The
other
woman
was
clothed
and
had
dark
hair,
and
it
was
to
her
he
spoke
as
if
she
had
come
to
judge
him.
'I didn't
mean
any
harm.
I
couldn't
help
hearing
what
you
were
saying.
But
Frances
told
me
about
her
friend.
I
know
what
a
terrible
thing
happened
to
him.'
She
was
young
and
beautiful
and
passed
judgement
on
him.
'My
sister
doesn't
fuck,'
the
dark haired
woman
said.
'But
you
can
come
to
bed
with
me.
And
she'll
help.
You'll
be
surprised
at
the
way
she
can
help.'
He
wished
that
he
could
go
home
and
Clare
would
be
there, but
she
had
abandoned
him.
Whatever
happened
now
would
be
her
fault.
6
A Sense of Vocation
FRIDAY,
AUGUST
31
ST
1988
There
had
been
giants
on
the
earth
in
those
days,
and
two
of
them
had
been
set
naked
on
either
side
of
the
marble
staircase.
Approaching
them,
it
annoyed
Murray
that
he
couldn't
any
longer
remember
which
of
them
Purity was
and
which
Honour.
As
he
put
his
foot
on
the
first
step,
a
hand
caught
him
by
the
shoulder.
Turning,
the
movement
with
which
he
knocked
the
grip
loose
was
instinctive.
'Don't
be
a
mug,
'
Eddy
Stewart
said.
'I'm
not
here
as
a
friend, they've
made
you
a
Councillor, it's
not
a
joke.
There's
been
a
complaint.'
They
had
to
move
aside
as
a
group
of
visitors,
smiling
and
jostling,
white
teeth
in
black
faces,
one
or
two
of
them
in
national
costume,
came
towards
the
staircase.
'I'm
listening.'
'You've
been
making
a
nuisance
of
yourself
trying
to
see
John
Merchant.'
'And
he
got
in
touch
with
the
police?'
Murray
was
puzzled.
Stewart
hesitated
.
'There
was
a
complaint.'
'Heathers
call
you?
What
does
that
make
you,
Eddy?'
As
long
ago
as
their
time
together
on
the
beat,
Murray
had
judged
Stewart
could
be
bought
by
someone
some
day
when
the
price
was
right.
Perhaps,
it
was
possible;
he
had
known
that
before
Stewart
did.
'Just
another
hard
man
for
hire.
I
don't
think
you
could
stop
me
if I
wanted
to
go
up
and
try
to
see
Merchant
again
.
'
'You're
not
an
easy
bloody
man
to
help.'
Stewart's
heavy
face
flushed
an
ugly
red.
'I'm
trying
to
mark
your
card
for
you
before
you
see
Peerse
.
’ Which
made
it
a
different
proposition
altogether.
'He's
here?'
'You
know
Peerse.
He
makes
it
his
business
to
hear
anything
about
you.
He
takes
a
personal
interest.'
Stewart
began
to
cross
the
hall
to
the
entrance
and
Murray
fell
into
step
beside
him.
'You
want
to
watch
that
mouth
of
yours.
One
day
it'll
get
you
into
trouble.'
As
they
approached
the
car,
the
door
swung
open
and
a
voice complained
genteelly,
'Hurry
it
up.' Stewart
went
in
front
beside
the
driver,
a
pale
fat
man
Murray
did
not
recognise.
Peerse
was
so
tall
that
he
had
to
bend
his
head
slightly
to
avoid
the
roof.
He
sat
in
the
farthest
corner
of
the
bench
seat
with
his
back
very
straight
although
he
had
to
bend
his
head.
A
Detective
Inspector,
he
had
not
finished
climbing
the
promotion
ladder.
He
had
too
much
talent
not
to
be
a
man
with
a
future.
Murray
found
that
hard
to
accept.
When
they
had
been
young
policemen,
he
had
regarded
Peerse,
beaten
up
twice
in
the
early
months,
so
ludicrously
tall
and
thin,
as
a
joke.
He
had
been
like
one
of
those
daddy-long-legs,
appalling
and
fragile,
that
shed
legs
at
a
touch.
Now,
expensively
suited,
authoritative,
with
silver
wings
of
hair
that
made
him
look
more
like
an
ambassador
than
a
policeman,
it
was
their
shared
misfortune
that
more
than
anyone
else
in
the
world,
apparently,
the
sight
of
Murray
reminded
him
of
what
he
disliked
about
that
past.
He
leaned
across
Murray
and
pulled
the
door
closed.
At
once
the
car
moved
away
accompanied
by
the
urgent
double
note
of
the
siren.
'What's
the
hurry?'
Stewart
asked,
but
Murray
caught
only
a few
words
of
the
driver's
reply.
Stewart
turned
in
his
seat.
'Should
we
drop
him?'
He
nodded
at
Murray. Instead
of
answering,
Peerse
flicked
the
middle
finger
of
his right
hand
as
if
gesturing
away
a
servant.
Stewart
faced
to
the
front
and
Murray
watched
with
interest
the
vivid
stain
that
rose
and
ebbed
on
the
side
of
his
neck.
Eddy
was
not
having
a
good
day. Had
the
driver
said
something
about
a
body?
Faҫ
ades
of
mean
dullness
flowed
past,
pubs,
betting
shops,
gap
sites
and
boarded
windows.
Out
of
the
driver's
words
Murray
had
picked
a
name
–
Deacon
Street.
That
meant
Moirhill;
a
tougher
district
now
than
when
Blair
Heathers
had
left
it;
more
derelict,
without
the
sense
of
community
there
had
been
then
among
the
poverty.
If
there
had
been
a
killing,
Peerse
would
want
to
get
there
fast,
before
the
Northern
shop
boys.