Authors: Frederic Lindsay
When
Blair
Heathers'
party
arrived,
it
made
an
entrance
–
but
then
that
unoccupied
table
on
the
busiest
night
of
the
week
had
already
made
its
declaration.
It
was
a
surprise
when
the
disturbance
settled
that
there
were
only
seven
of
them.
They
took
up
room
naturally;
their
gestures
needed
space;
even
the
girls
taller
than
Heathers
who
sat
in
the
middle
apple-cheeked
and
beaming.
Like
Christmas Eve
in
the
sergeants'
mess,
Murray
thought,
pushing
himself
off
the
stool
in
their
direction.
As
he
came
up,
one
of
the
men
and
a
girl
were
making
their
way
to
the
dance
floor.
He
took
the
girl's
seat
and
looked
round
.
Left
at
the
table
with
Heathers,
who
sat
almost
opposite,
were
two
men
and
the
other
three
girls,
look-alikes
more
or
less
for
that
year's
image
of
the
desirable.
The
men
were
older
than
the
girls
but
a
lot
younger
than
Heathers,
to
whom
with
a
common
impulse
all
of
them
had
turned.
At
that,
even
the
girl
who
was
available
to
be intrigued
realised
that
Heathers
didn't
know
him
either.
'Nobody's
sad,'
Murray
observed
in
the
tone
of
a
man
willing
to be
reasonable.
The
nearer
of
the
two
men,
beak-nosed,
beefy
jowelled,
blared,
'I
rather
think
you've
chosen
the
wrong
place
to
squat.
Better
if
you
left
again,
eh?'
The
officer
whom
duty
called
to
the
defence
of
an
unspoiled
Christmas.
Murray
studied
him
thoughtfully
but
did
not
bother
to
reply.
The
waiters
wore
striped
shirts
to
be
in
character,
their
sleeves held
up
with
bands
of
fancy
elastic
like
a
barber's
shop
quartet.
Most
of
the
shirts
had
yellow
on
purple
stripes,
but
the
one
who
came
across
had
blue
on
dark
brown.
Another
officer.
'Is
everything
satisfactory,
sir?'
he
asked,
staring
across
at
Murray.
'Is
there
anything?'
Before
Heathers
could
answer,
Murray
said,
'If
this
is
a
wake for
John
Merchant,
I'm
one
of
the
mourners.'
Heathers
stared
and
then,
over
his
shoulder,
said,
'Leave
it,
Peter
–
for
the
minute.'
The
man
in
the
striped
shirt
sketched
a
bow
and
moved
off. From
the
corner
of
his
eye,
Murray
saw
him,
nodding
a
couple
of
the
waiters
discreetly
nearer.
Beak
-
nose
enquired
generally,
'What?
What
did
he
say?
I
didn't
catch
his
name.
Didn't
say
mourning,
did
he?'
The
girl
with
the
interested
smile
became
solemn.
She
was
prepared
for
any
occasion.
'I
can
have
you
lifted
right
out
of
the
door,'
Heathers
said.
'I
probably
will
yet.
What's
this
about
John
Merchant?'
'Did
you
know
he
came
from
Poland?'
'That's
not
a
bloody
secret,'
Heathers
cried.
He
looked
round
for
the
waiters.
'It's
a
long
way
to
come
to
die.'
'Die?'
It
seemed
Heathers
was
persuaded
he
was
dealing
with
some
irrelevant
crazy.
'Who
died?'
But
it
was
the
second
man
at
the
table,
junior
rank
but
sound,
who
told
him,
'I
thought
you
knew,
Blair.
I
thought
you
didn't
want
to
discuss
it.'
'Knew?'
Heathers
snarled
and
balls
of
spit
flew
out
with
the exclamation.
'How
am
I
supposed
to
know
anything?
I'm
only
off
the
plane
an
hour.'
'I
didn't
realise
.
..John
Merchant's
been
murdered.
I
saw
it
on
the
news
before
I
came
out.'
'God
almighty!'
Genuinely
Heathers
seemed
stunned.
'How
would
John
get
himself
killed?'
It
was
an
odd
way
to
put
it,
and
it
was
Murray
who
responded
.
'Messily,'
he
said.
'John
got
himself
killed
the
hard
way.
Somebody
used
a
knife
on
him
-
in
places
you
wouldn't
want
me
to
describe.'
'Oh,
please,'
the
girl
said
in
what
could
have
been
protest
or
anticipation
.
Not
a
man
to
give
the
benefit
of
the
doubt,
Murray
watched
her
lick
her
shining
lips.
'From
what
I
hear,'
Murray
spoke
across
the
table
at
Heathers,
'most
of
the
wounds
were
made
while
he
was
still
alive.'
'It
was
a
sex
crime,'
the
junior
officer
explained.
'There
was something
about
a
letter,
so
that
they
know
it
was
a
woman
who
did
it.
She
must
be
quite
mad
.
She's
killed
someone
already in
Moirhill.
There
are
brothels
there,
you
know.'