Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'Mine's
ben
the
room,'
she
said,
taking
the
coat
from
him
and throwing
it
back
across
the
chair.
He
followed
her
into
the
lobby.
It
was
not
surprising
that
he
had
overlooked
the
second
door.
Whatever
colour
it
had
once
been
had
faded
to
a
drab
shadow
in
the
darkest
corner
.
'I'll
get
my
coat,'
she
said,
and
opened
the
door.
She
was
so
wide
that
she
blocked
his
sight
of
what
might
be
in
the
room.
It
was
only
the
noise
that
warned
him.
Scrabbling,
clicking,
nails
on
linoleum,
a
gusting
of
breath,
the
woman
called
out
and
as
she
squeezed
to
the
side
the
dog
writhed
past
her.
The
impact
of
its
weight
and
the
blow
in
his
hand
were
felt
as
a
single
shock.
By
instinct
he
had
thrown
up
an
arm
to
guard
his
throat.
He
staggered
under
the
hurled
weight
of
the
beast,
managed
to
stay
upright
and,
turning,
got
it
pinned
against
the
wall.
Everything
seemed
to
be
happening
with
extraordinary
slowness.
Its
hind
legs
would
have
torn
him,
but
he
held
it
upright
locking
his
free
hand
around
its
throat
and
leaning
into
its
belly
with
his
knees.
He
shook
his
head
at
the
woman,
warning
her
not
to
interfere,
showing
his
teeth
at
her
like
a
dog,
and
without
a
weapon
she
hesitated
waiting
for
him
to
be
pulled
down.
There
was
only
a
little
time,
and
yet
everything
in
that
time
held
still.
A
wolf's
head
all
eyes,
the
dog
glared
its
hate.
His
blood
sprang
out
along
its
muzzle.
Every
part
of
his
attention
poured
into
the
grip
of
his
left
hand,
the
weaker
hand,
but
he
tightened
his
grip
and
leaned
his
weight
into
the
wall.
Roughness
of
hair,
cords
of
muscle
writhing
against
him.
The
choked
voice
of
its
snarling
trembled
against
his
palm.
It
began
to
die
but
it
was
brave
and
a
little
mad
from
being
locked
up
and
it
would
not
release
its
bite.
Suddenly
blood
and
clear
snot
came
from
its
nostrils
and
its
teeth
ground
on
the
bones
of
his
hand
in
its
last
agony.
He
knelt
by
the
dog
and
freed
himself.
As
he
stood
up,
she
was
turning
back
through
the
door
with
a
bottle
in
her
hand.
He
reached
out
and
took
it
from
her.
There
was
the
least
of
noises,
a
soft
light
tap
like
metal
on
metal,
as
he
laid
it
down
gently
on
the coal
bunker
in
the
corner.
She
retreated
before
him.
As
she
did,
she
wheezed
in
a
breathy
small-girl
whisper,
'That
dog
was
fucking
crazy.'
'It's
not
the
dog's
fault.'
'
Joe
trained
it.'
Since
a
cheque
from
Heathers
had
arrived,
he
had
hired
a
car.
Mary
O'Bannion
spread
across
the
seats
like
a
tide
of
sludge.
'You'll
have
to
get
that
hand
attended
to,'
she
whispered solicitously
.
'Get
a
jab
at
the
hospital
or
it'll
go
bad
on
you.'
He
grunted.
The
pain
in
his
hand
was
something
his
will
could
control;
later
he
would
get
treatment
for
it.
'The
blood's
coming
through
that
cloth,'
she
said,
looking
at
his
hand
where
it
rested
on
the
wheel.
'You
should
take
me
back
again,
and
then
go
to
the
hospital.'
'Later,'
he
said.
'We're
going
to
have
a
look
at
somebody
first and
you'll
tell
me
if
you've
seen
her
before.'
After
a
time
of
silence,
working
that
out,
she
seemed
to
lose
her
fear
and
become
talkative,
almost
cheerful.
'I
like
big
cars.
There's
no
rubbish
about
them.
I
like
the
smell
of
them.'
She
patted
the
radio
with
her
grimy
hand.
'There
used
to
be
this
Dutch
guy.
He
would
take
me
in
a
Rolls-Royce.
He'd
come
from
the
airport
and
fetch
me.
He
was
a
businessman,
see?
Money
was
no
problem
.
He
could
buy
anything
except
a
ride.
The
first
time
I
saw
his
dong
I
nearly
lost
my
eyesight.'
Murray
was
worrying
about
what
would
happen
when
they
got to
their
destination.
He
wondered
if
he
could
get
her
to
climb
the
stairs
to
Frances
Fernie's
flat;
and
only
then,
belatedly,
did
it
occur
to
him
that
meant
showing
her
where
her
mysterious
visitor
lived;
and
if
she
knew
then
Kujavia
would
be
told.
He
remembered
what
Tommy
Beltane
had
said,
an iron bar beating down; beating down on a blonde head
.
But
if
she
wasn't
the
visitor,
it
wouldn't
matter
,
and
how
else
could
he
find
out
but
by
going
to
the
flat
.
The
pain
in
his
hand
made
it
hard
to
think.