Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'Let
me
get
this
straight.
Are
you
telling
me
John
Merchant
was
killed
by
a
prostitute?'
Heathers
sprayed
them
with
his
anger.
'I
don't
think
that
follows.
Not
at
all
–
I
know
he
was
your friend –'
Heathers
ignored
him.
'Who
are
you?'
'Murray
Wilson.
I'm
the
brother.'
'You're
–
'
Heathers
pondered,
rubbing
thumb
and
second
finger
together,
slow
motion
version
of
finger
snapping
to
remember '
–
the
brother
–
the
one
who's
handy
with
the
phone.
And
now
you
turn
up
here.'
He
smiled
unpleasantly.
'Your
brother's
the
one
I
do
business
with.
I
don't
have
anything
for
you.'
'I
wouldn't
count
on
doing
any
more
business
with
my
brother,'
Murray
said.
'He's
been
with
the
police
all
day.
It's
what
they
call
"helping
with
enquiries".'
For
a
moment
he
thought
he
had
the
old
man
going,
he
could see
all
the
questions
he
needed
to
ask,
but
then
Heathers
thinned
his
lips, 'I'm
here
with
friends,'
he
said.
'You've
chosen
the
wrong
time.'
Without
looking
round
he
beckoned
with
one
finger.
It
was the
gesture
of
a
man
who
could
shrug
off
his
coat
knowing
somebody
would
be
there
to
catch
it
before
it
hit
the
ground.
The
barber's
shop
trio
gathered
behind
Murray's
chair.
On
a hot
and
spicy
breath
the
invitation
was
breathed
into
his
ear,
'The
gentleman's
leaving?'
He
stood
up
.
'Leaving
for
a
drink.
I'll
be
over
there
when
you
want
me.'
'I
won't
want
you,'
Heathers
said
.
The
dark
brown
shirt
followed
him
to
the
bar.
'You're
sure
you
don't
want
to
leave?'
'I'll
leave
when
Heathers
does.'
'I'll
tell
Mr
Heathers
that,'
the
man
said,
not
sounding
threatening
at
all.
With
knife
cuts
there
is
an
initial
numbness,
often
the
victim
believes
he
has
been
struck
only
with
a
fist;
later
the
pain
comes
and
if
the
knife
is
unclean
the
wound
goes
bad.
After
a
time,
the
way
he
had
been
dismissed
from
Heathers'
table
went
bad
in
Murray's
pride.
He
stood
with
his
back
against
the
bar
and
watched
them
make
a
long
leisurely
supper;
it
would
have
been
unreasonable
to
think
they
should
go
home
because
Merchant
was
dead.
A
rich
man
was
enjoying
a
night
out
with
his
expensive
admiring
friends.
It
didn't
make
any
sense
that
an
obscure
clerk
called
Malcolm
Wilson
could
have
been
allowed
to
disturb
his
evening.
The
bottles
came
and
were
emptied
and
no
one
seemed
to
look
Murray's
way
and
the
band
played
and
at
intervals
they
would
dance,
one
or
other
of
the
desirable
girls
smiling
down
at
Heathers
as
his
plump
white
hands
lifted
the
cheeks
of
her
buttocks.
And it repented the Lord that he had made man on the earth
,
and it grieved him at his heart
.
The
quotation
came
unwanted
into
his
head
and
with
it
a
memory
from
childhood.
His
father
had
taken
him
to
visit
his
uncles.
Three
unmarried
brothers,
Calum,
lain
and
Angus,
bearded
fishermen
they
had
gathered
round
the
child
like
salt
towers.
It
was
the
only
time
his
father
had
ever
taken
him
to
see
them.
At
one
point,
they
prayed;
they
made
you
kneel
on
the
floor
to
pray;
you
had
to
kneel
and
lean
with
your
elbows
on
the
seat
of
your
chair
to
pray.
That
bit
was
like
something
in
a dream;
he
had
dreamed
about
them
for
a
long
time
afterwards,
shouting
out
in
his
sleep.
He
did
not
think
anyone
mourned
John
Merchant
or
cared
about
what
had
happened
to
him;
except
possibly
Frances
Fernie –
only
he
had
never
put
much
store
by
the
idea
of
whores
with
a
heart
of
gold.
Suddenly
he
realised
that
although
he
could
spot
the
rest
of
the
party
among
the
dancers
or
at
the
table
Heathers
was
nowhere
to
be
seen.
He
circled
the
floor
heading
for
the
vestibule
where
he
remembered
there
were
phones
on
the
wall
near
the
entrance.
Heathers
was
putting
the
phone
down
finishing
a
call,
but
as
he
caught
sight
of
Murray
watching
he
lifted
it
again
and,
after
a
moment's
hesitation
as
if
making
up
his
mind,
dialled
again.
The
phone
had
a
hood
around
it,
and
Murray
watched
the
hand
gripping
the
phone
and
the
lips
moving
as
if
with
a
message
from
outer
space.
When
he
had
finished,
Heathers
made
as
if
to
brush
past
Murray
then
stopped
and
swung
round.
To
his
satisfaction,
Murray
saw
that
the
old
man's
cheeks
were
mottled
red
and
white
with
rage.
'I
don't
know
what
your
game
is,'
he
said.
'You
won't
help
your
brother
by
being
stupid.'
'You
don't
want
to
get
so
excited
.
It
could
give
you
a
stroke.
At your
age,
that
might
be
fatal.'
Murray's
Highland
blood
made
him
kin
to
the
second
sight,
that
old
gift
by
which
the
chosen
open
a
window
on
the
future.
He
saw
Heathers'
face,
suffused,
terrified,
staring
into
the
blankness
of
the
moment
beyond
dying.
If
not
now,
yet
the
hour
and
the
moment
would
come.
Heathers
gaped
at
him
as
if bewildered,
and
then
a
fusion
of
hatred
and
terrible
fear
altered
his
look
like
a
rabid
dog
baring
its
teeth
before
it
would
bite.