Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'She
didn't
know
anything
about
Joe,'
the
pursed
lips
spat
out the
words.
'Nothing.
She
knew
nothing.
She
just
knew
about
me
because
my
name
was
in
the
papers
.
It
was
me
that
helped
Father
Hurtle
with
the
children.'
'Tell
me
about
it.'
'Ask
her.
If
you're
that
anxious,
ask
her
that
sent
you.'
'That's
not
the
idea,
Mary.
The
idea
is
you
tell
me,
and
that
lets
us
know
if
you
tell
the
same
story
twice.'
He
tried
to
read
the
expression
on
her
face
but
the
drooping
folds
of
flesh
made
a
mask
out
of
its
abundance
.
After
a
moment,
he
saw
to
his
astonishment
a
plump
tear
leak
over
the
bottom
lid
of
her
left
eye
and
run
the
downhill
slalom
of
her
cheek
.
'Poor
wee
things.
Even
if
I
didn't
really
like
Annie,'
she
wheezed,
'those
two
wee
ones
were
lovely.
She
was
a
cunt
though
and
a
right
snob.
I
was
dirt.
I
was
ignorant.
I'd
never
been
anywhere
.
I
couldn't
even
cook.'
She
made
the
last
charge
sound
particularly
venomous;
whether
because
it
had
hurt
most
or
out
of
a
memory
of
how
the
woman
Annie
had
spoken
it
was
impossible
to
tell.
'I
still
haven't
been
anywhere
.
I
never
seen
Belgium
or
Germany
or
anywhere.
And
I
still
can't
cook.
But
I
couldn't
have
been
that
bad
at
learning.
For
I'm
still
here
and
she's
away.'
And
with
the
tear
still
drying
she
broke
into
a
cracked
cough that
he
took
a
moment
to
recognise
as
laughter.
'But
you
looked
after
her
children?'
he
wondered
aloud.
He
frowned,
trying
to
remember
the
name
of
the
priest
she
had
mentioned.
'You
didn't
like
her,
but
you
got
Father
Hurtle
to
arrange
for
them
to
be
adopted?'
It
was
an
obvious
guess.
'God
help
them,'
she
cried
falsely
.
'Poor
wee
motherless
things.
Father
got
a
good
home
for
them.'
'And
you
kept
in
touch?'
'Eh?'
'You
took
an
interest
in
the
children?'
If
he
had
thought
the
choice
of
phrase
might
flatter
her,
he
was
mistaken.
Lady
Bountiful
farted
and
said,
'Father
wouldn't
tell
anyone
where
they
were
going.
And
why
would
I
care?'
'Children
grow
up,'
he
said.
'They
want
to
find
out
about
their
real
mother.
Adopted
kids
do
that
sometimes.
They
come
looking.'
With
the
effort
of
thought,
the
fat
woman's
mouth
hung
open
and
her
tongue
lolled
out
over
the
bottom
lip.
'That
wee
blonde?
One
of
the
kids?
Annie's
daughter?'
She
gave
the
barking
cough
that
parodied
laughter.
'Annie
thought
she
was
a
lady.
Her
girls
were
going
to
be
ladies.
That
one
was
no
fucking
lady!'
A
young blonde woman staring at him from the edge of a bed.
There
was
a
simple
way
to
discover
if
one
of
the
children
had
grown
up
to
be
the
woman
calling
herself
Frances
Fernie.
'Up.
On
your
feet.'
Her
only
response
was
to
let
her
great
thighs
sprawl
apart.
The
smell
of
gin
from
a
pub
door
snaring
him
in
the
bad
time
and
the
young
policeman
buying
the
bottle
and
taking
it
back
to
the
empty
room
to
be
drunk
in
secret
–
never
with
anyone
else
for
that
would
have
been
weakness.
The
smell
that
rose
from
her
was
unclean
but
spiced
with
the
odours
of
the
body's
hidden
places.
A
jungle
smell,
a
taint
of
the
swamp,
sick
flowers
of
corruption
that
drugged
the
air
and
drew
a
man
face
down
among
them
to
die.
Out
of
the
dead
past
the
smell
drifted
to
him
from
the
bodies
of
whores.
'If
you
make
me,'
he
said
softly,
'I'll
soil
my
hands
on
you.
You can
get
up
the
easy
way
or
the
hard
way.'
As
if
there
could
be
any
easy
way
for
her
to
hoist
up
that
gross
hill
of
flesh.
She
sighed
and
strained,
heaved
and
was
on
her
feet.
'I'll
need
a
coat.'
There
was
one
thrown
across
the
chair
by
the
bed
near
where
he
stood,
but
when
he
picked
it
up
to
pass
to
her
he
saw
that
it
was
ludicrously
too
small.
It
was
a
woman's
coat,
however,
and
he
said
to
her,
'That's
not
yours.
Does
Joe
wear
it?'
which
was
only
a
piece
of
mockery
until
he
caught
the
look
on
her
face.
It
was
a
cloth
coat,
dark
green
in
colour,
not
new
but
of
reasonable
quality,
the
kind
the
better
chain stores
would
sell.
Holding
it,
he
remembered
what
Barney
the
paper seller
had
told
him,
that
Kujavia
did
this,
cross-dressed
for
a
disguise
or
some
private
satisfaction.
It
made
him
more
grotesque,
not
less
frightening;
it
had
been
hard to
believe,
thinking
of
that
lumped
white
face,
the
smell
of
dirt.
'If
he
does,'
Murray
said
almost
to
himself,
'he
must
be
the
ugliest
woman
in
the
world.'