Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'Put
it
in
a
report
for
Mr
Foley.
Today?
It
would
settle
his
mind that
something
is
being
done.
And
a
copy
for
me?'
Mr
Bittern
was
a
gently
unreasonable
man
and
when
Murray
put
down
the
phone
he
knew
ground
was
lost
that
he
could
not
afford
to
lose.
The
train
wheels
made
a
rhythm
out
of
loss
and
afford,
and
he
looked
out
of
the
window
as
they
ran
on
the
viaduct
level
with
the
top
floor
of
tenements
and
crossed
the
river
and
the
houses
began
to
spread
out
and
then
came
together
again
as
little
one-storey
semi-detacheds
showing
vegetable
plots
and
garden
sheds
and
children's
swings
to
the
railway
line.
'There's
a
good
shopping
centre
not
far
away,'
Malcolm
had
explained,
'and
I
can
get
into
the
office
by
train.
It'll
do
us
fine
,
for
just
now.'
Ambitious
Malcolm.
When
he
came
up
the
steps,
he
was
uncertain
for
a
moment
which
way
to
turn.
Below
him
the
long
empty
platform
seemed
glazed
and
expectant
in
the
sun.
He
began
to
walk
up
the
hill
towards
the
main
road.
Facing
down
the
slope
half
way
up,
a
Porsche
911
Turbo
was
parked;
it
had
the
big
spoiler
wing
at
the
back
and
was
the
colour
of
blue
the
sky
took
over
the
desert
at
sunset.
It
looked
exactly
like
one
he
had
seen
in
California,
sitting
outside
an
apartment
block
in
a
piece
of
the
Mojave
that
had
been
watered
and
tamed
and
shod
with
highways.
Out
of
a
habit
of
attention,
he
noticed
that
it
had
been
fitted
with
non-standard
BBS
wheels;
it
was
someone's
toy,
and
too
expensive
to
be
sitting
in
this
neighbourhood.
Inside,
a
man
in
a
white
shirt,
the
cuffs
rolled
back
on
his
forearms,
was
reading
with
the
book
rested
on
the
wheel
in
front
of
him.
It
didn't
need
a
uniform
for
Murray
to
identify
him
as
a
chauffeur.
He
had
the
air
of
a
man
used
to
waiting.
As
he
turned
into
Malcolm's
road
and
made
his
way slowly,
as
if
reluctant,
past
the
tiny
cropped
lawns
and
the
low
gates
clamped
across
each
entrance,
Murray
wondered
about
that
expensive
car
and
where
its
owner
might
be
while
his
driver
waited
so
indifferently.
When
Irene
came
to
the
door,
she
stared
at
him
as
if
shocked.
They
stood
intimately
close
in
the
warm
motionless
air,
time
suspended.
'Have
you
got
a
visitor
already?'
he
asked.
'Mmm.'
She
made
a
little
noise
that
might
have
been
assent.
With
her
right
hand
she
held
the
door
by
its
edge
as
if
she
might
decide
to
close
it,
while
the
other
hung
strangely
passive
by
her
side
with
the
opened
palm
turned
to
him.
She
leaned
down
from
where
she
stood
above
him
in
the
entrance
to
the
hall,
and
cried,
'Your
poor
face!
My
God,
I
had
no
idea
it
was
so
bad.'
Standing
back
as
he
came
into
the
house,
she
continued,
'We
would
have
come
to
see
you,
but
with
what
happened
.
..
We
would
have
come
to
the
hospital
at
the
weekend
.
'
'I
signed
myself
out.'
He
spoke
over
his
shoulder,
impatient
to
check
on
the
identity
of
her
visitor.
He
stepped
into
the
front
room;
sun
inclined
in
through
the
wide
picture
window,
islanded
the
chair
and
the
man's
shape
in
it
and
painted
a
white
lozenge
on
the
carpet.
The
air
felt
heavy,
hot
as
outside,
like
a
barrier
to
press
against.
'Mr
Heathers,'
Irene
said
behind
him.
'Do
you
two
know
one another?
This
is
Malcolm's
brother.
Mr
Heathers
came
to
see
if
there
was
anything
he
could
do
to
help
–
because
of
what
happened.
It
was
very
kind
of
him.'
She
sounded
matter
of
fact
as
if
she
meant
simply
what
she said,
kind
Mr
Heathers;
what
could
be
more
natural?
'I
heard
you
were
in
hospital,'
Heathers
said.
His
voice
sounded
dry
and
harsh,
but
firm;
with
his
back
to
the
light,
it
was
not
obvious
that
he
was
an
old
man.