Authors: Frederic Lindsay
She
made
no
pretence
of
not
taking
the
point
or
of
being
shocked.
On
questions
of
humiliation
and
punishment,
experience
had
sharpened
her
understanding
.
Like
rancid
butter
melting,
tears
of
sweat
leaked
out
from
every
grey
enormous
fold
of
her
cheeks.
'I
knew
you
were
a
right
bastard.'
The
words
squeezed
out
between
the
little
gasping
suck
of
her
lips.
'At
least
give
me
the
fare
for
the
bus.'
His
will
that
had
brought
them
there
unclenched.
Between
one
moment
and
the
next,
he
lost
any
faith
in
the
possibility
that
she
might
identify
Frances
Fernie.
What
had
persuaded
him
was
gone
and
seemed
absurd.
More
importantly,
in
his
distress,
suddenly
it seemed
better
to
do
nothing.
Blair
Heathers
was
paying
him
to
do
just
that,
to
keep
out
of
the
way
and
quiet.
Anything
he
did
might
harm
Malcolm
instead
of
helping
him.
'I
can't
walk,'
Mary
O'Bannion
said.
'Find
a
customer.'
With
the
rest,
he
spectated
as
she
struggled
away,
wallowing and
limping
under
the
burden
of
that
great
weight
as
if
already
her
feet
had
begun
to
bleed.
19 Double Murder
SATURDAY,
SEPTEMBER
29
TH
1988
'My
name?
Call
me
John.'
He
was
going
to
die
soon
but
he
did
not
know
that
so
he
was
able
to
joke.
He
knew
that
women
of
a
certain
kind
spoke
of
their
clients
as
Johns.
And
despite
her
refinement,
her
voice
and
clothes,
he
thought
of
her
in
that
way;
if
she
was
an
amateur,
he
expected
her
to
be
an
expensive
one.
On
the
other
hand,
he
was
so
comfortably
able
to
pay
that
it
complicated
pleasantly
the
question
of
who
was
using
and
who
was
being
used.
He
did
not
expect
her
to
give
him
her
real
name
–
that
was
part
of
the
impression
he
had
taken
of
her
– and
so,
when
she
began
to
offer
one,
he
stopped
her
and
said,
'I'll
call
you
Belle.'
It
was
another
of
his
private
jokes.
She
lingered
on
what
he
had
said
as
if
considering
its
possibilities.
It was
so
exactly
the
reaction
he
might
have
hoped
for
that
his
jaded
appetite
stirred.
'I
didn't
expect
to
be
given
another
name.'
'We're
not
the
same
person
all
the
time,'
he
explained
to
her. 'We're
all
the
pieces
on
the
board.
Why
should
they
all
have
the
same
name?'
Double
doors
at
the
end
of
the
reception
area
swung
open releasing
on
a
thick
apostrophe
of
cigar
smoke
the
fat
chuckling anger
of
the
crowd
watching
the
fights.
'They're
well
pleased.'
'I
didn't
know
it
happened,'
she
said,
'having
a
boxing
match
in
an
hotel
like
this.'
'It's
big
through
there.
They
have
the
ring
and
all
the
tables
set out
around
it.
They
lay
on
a
good
meal.
You
can
drink
and
sit
in
comfort
while
you
watch
–
not
that
everyone
bothers
to
watch.'
'It
sounds
as
if
you
would
prefer
to
be
there
instead
of
here
with me.'
'I've
eaten,'
he
said,
and
with
the
gesture
of
someone
sharing
a
joke
ran
the
tips
of
his
fingers
down
her
arm
with
a
light
pressure.
'I
was
reaching
for
my
wine
when
a
spot
of
blood
fell
on
the
white
cloth
between
the
bottle
and
the
glass.
It
put
me
off.'
'You
must
have
been
very
close,'
she
said.
'I'm
sure
that's
not supposed
to
happen.'
'Oh,
they're
quite
keen,'
he
said,
deliberately
misunderstanding
her,
'on
them
bleeding.
So
I
came
out
here
and
saw
you.
And
remembered
you.'
'But
not
my
name.'
'Parties
are
like
that.'
'And,
of
course,
I
was
there
with
my
husband.'
He
wondered
if
that
was
true.
Seeing
her
alone
here,
he
had
remembered
her
and
decided
that
he
had
missed
a
chance.
Expensive
whores
were
an
occasional
feature
of
old
Blair
Heathers'
parties.
'And
now
you're
here,'
he
said.
'Belle
de
Jour.'
They
set
out
for
her
place
and
he
took
it
for
granted
that
even
if
there
was
a
husband
he
would
be
somewhere
else.
A
double
life
after
all
needed
more
than
one
roof
over
its
head
.
He
had
indulged
himself
in
the
delights
of
explanation
as
she
drove:
'I
named
you
after
a
film.
It's
about
a
rich
young
lady
who
loves
her
husband
but
is
fascinated
by
the
idea
of
prostitution.
She's
afraid
of
it
–
horror-stricken
really
–
but
she
can't
resist
it,
not
once
the
idea
is
there
in
her
mind.
And
she
does
find
her
way
to
a
brothel.
She
can
only
go
there
in
the
afternoon,
of
course.
It's
the
only
time
she
has
free.
So
the
madam –
she's
the
one
who
christens
her – gives
her
that
name,
Belle
de
Jour.
The
girl
who's
only
available in
the
afternoon.'
After
all
that,
she
said,
'I'm
not
rich,'
which
made
him
laugh until,
easing
himself
on
the
seat,
he
was
disturbed
by
the
musty
unexpected
tang
of
his
body's
secretions.
'What
happened
to
her?'
the
woman
asked.
Everybody
enjoyed
a
story.
Made
up,
it
gave
you
a
beginning,
a
middle
and
an
end;
quite
often
in
the
right
order.
In
real
life,
on
the
other
hand,
you
employed
someone
for
years;
one
morning
you
came in
on
him
crying
at
his
desk
and
were
too
tactful
to
ask
why;
not
long
afterwards
he
handed
in
his
notice
and
disappeared.
Or
Jackie,
when
you
were
boys
at
school
together,
who
took
every
dare
however
rash
or
crazy –
the
schoolmaster
thrashed
him
and,
panting,
grinned,
'The
VC
or
the
gallows';
but
twenty,
God,
thirty,
years
later
you
opened
a
paper
and
read
about
some
traveller
in
cosmetics
dead
in
a
car
crash
and
recognised
the
name.