Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'It's
late,
Miss
Timmey
.
'
'I
heard
it
again,
Mr
Wilson.'
She
caught
a
pinch
of
his
coat
sleeve
in
her
tiny
claw.
Thinning
white
hair
pulled
tight
to
her
skull,
nose
like
a
polished
bone,
she
reminded
him
always
of
a
bird.
A
wounded
bird
which
fluttered
against
him
on
the
shadowed
landing:
'I
heard
the
child
cry
out.
Oh,
it
was
awful,
awful.'
'There's
nothing
wrong
with
the
child
in
there,
Miss
Timmey.' He
nodded
at
the
flat
opposite
his
own,
and
she
put
her
finger
to
her
lips.
'Oh,
sshh.
Sshh!
It's
the
other
child.' Deliberately,
he
raised
the
pitch
of
his
voice.
'They
have
only
one
child
and,
believe
me,
I
had
a
good
look
at
her
after
you
spoke
to
me.'
It
was
stupid
even
to
try
to
persuade
her.
She
was
old,
touched
with
senility;
she
had
never
been
married,
never
probably
been
with
a
man;
and
she
had
the
bad
luck
to
live
next
to
a
pair
of
the
beautiful
people,
Moirhill
version,
the
girl
small
and
pale
blonde,
the
man
older,
in
his
mid-twenties
with
very
black
curly
hair,
every
time
you
saw
them
they
looked
glossy
and
replete,
as
if
they
had
just
got
out
of
bed.
They
kept
touching.
Murray
had
seen
them
in
the
park,
locked
together
on
the
grass,
with
the
child
matter
of
fact
and
cheerful
playing
round
them.
It
was
little
wonder
they
had
driven
old
Miss
Timmey
demented.
She
kept
hearing
a
child
in
pain
and
need
of
rescue;
she
had
cast
Murray
for
the
part
of
white
knight,
which
was
his
bad
luck.
He
tried
again.
'The
girl's
healthy.
She's
happy.
She's
as
fat
as
she
can
roll.
There's
nothing
wrong.
Go
to
bed.'
Reluctantly,
she
edged
towards
the
refuge
of
her
own
flat,
the
one
in
the
middle.
'Please,'
she
whispered.
'They
might
be
listening.'
'No,'
he
said,
not
lowering
his
voice.
'They'll
be
sleeping,
and
that's
what
I'm
going
to
be
doing
in
about
ten
minutes
from
now.
And
that's
what
you're
going
to
do.
Go
inside.
Lock
your
door.
Make
yourself
a
cup
of
tea.
And
go
to
bed.'
'But
the
child?'
'Is
asleep
in
her
bed.'
'But-'
Impatient,
he
interrupted,
'I
hope
for
your
sake
that
they're
not
listening,'
and
she
shrank
back,
yet
still
hesitated
so
that
it
was
only
after
what
seemed
to
be
a
struggle
that
she
could
bring
herself
to
close
the
door.
It
occurred
to
him
that
in
her
own
way
she
had
shown
a
lot
of
courage.
It
was
a
pity
she
had
not
found
a
better
cause.
He
looked
at
the
two
closed
doors
and
then
turned
to
open
his own.
Soon
he
would
be
asleep.
The
couple
would
be
asleep
entwined
in
one
another's
arms.
Their
plump
little
daughter
would
be
asleep.
He
doubted
if
Miss
Timmey
would
sleep.
He
’d
incorporated
the
banging
on
the
door
into
his
dream
so
that
he
surfaced
with
the
confused
impression
it
was
the
night
in
Memphis
when
Seidman
got
himself
killed.
The
noise
of
traffic
came
and
went
and
the
banging
stopped
and
then
started
up
again
louder
than
before.
The
pillow
had
got
lost
out
of
the
bed
and
one
side
of
his
neck
ached. The
window
showed
as
a
dull
glowing
patch
on
the
dark. Under
it
he
could
make
out
the
shape
of
the
sink
and
the
single
ugly
line
of
the
cold-water
tap.
The
pilot
light
on
the
Ascot
water
heater
offered
a
tiny
blue
reflection. With
a
groan
he
came
fully
awake
and
rolled
out
of
bed.
The
voice
roared,
ending
on
a
bang,
'It's
Eddy
Stewart.
I've
brought
you
a
present,
Murray
.
' He
took
the
chain
off
and
opened
the
door.
'Close
your
mouth,' he
said.
'I
have
a
nervous
neighbour.' Stewart
was
lying
against
the
wall.
He
lifted
his
head
and
showed
one
eye
shut
and
dried
scabs
of
blood
like
tribal
scars
on
the
cheek
underneath
it. 'I
need
a
kip
for
the
night.'
'This
isn't
a
doss-house,'
Murray
said,
but
he
turned
and
led
the
way
back
into
the
kitchen
where
he
had
been
sleeping.
Yawning,
he
went
over
to
the
sink
and
turned
on
the
water
heater.
The
gas
under
the
tank
lit
with
a
soft
explosion
.
'One
coffee
to
sober
up
on
and
then
out.'
Behind
him,
he
heard
the
creak
of the
rocker
chair.
'That's
where
I
sit,
Eddy.
Find
somewhere
else.'