Authors: Frederic Lindsay
He
slid
out
of
her
slowly.
He
had
not
gone
down
at
all.
So enormous
was
he
that
it
seemed
he
would
slide
out
of
her
forever.
'Before
anything
else,
I
have
to
pee,'
he
said.
'We
shouldn't
let
you,'
Belle
said
as
if
considering
the
possibility
of
stopping
him,
but,
of
course,
he
could
not
allow
that
since
it
would
have
caused
real
discomfort.
Anyway
delayed
urination
could
damage
the
bladder
or
the
kidneys.
He
supposed
it
was
even
possible
that
urea
retained
in
the
bloodstream
might
adversely
affect
the
brain.
You
had
to
be
careful
about
such
things.
In
the
bathroom
he
could
not
relieve
himself
in
the
ordinary
fashion.
Taking
his
weight
on
one
hand,
he
had
to
lean
at
an
angle
over
the
pan.
It
intrigued
him
that
he
was
so
large
and
had
kept
his
erection.
He
stood
spread
legged
over
the
washbasin
and
ran
cold
water
out
of
his
hand,
impressing
himself
with
the
fancy
the
water
was
turning
to
steam.
You
haven't
changed
since
you
were
a
boy,
he
whispered
to
the
face
in
the
mirror;
but
it
was
a
lost
innocence
that
told
him,
Those
women
are
your
creatures.
Even
if
they
tie
you
up,
it's
because
you
will
them
to;
you
invent
them;
what
ideas
would
they
have,
left
to
themselves,
but
the
tired
cliches
of
a
commercial
script?
They
are
the
creatures
of
your
fantasy.
Despite
all
this,
the
face
in
the
glass
looked
afraid,
but
he
understood
that
an
edge
of
fear
was
part
of
this
complex
of
feelings,
and
anyway
most
of
that
clown's
look
of
fright
was
because
the
fluorescent
light
around
the
mirror
shone
as
a
white
circle
in
the
pupil
of
each
eye.
As
he
turned
away,
he
noticed
a
smear
of
blood
at
the
side
of
his
neck
and
paused
to
pat
it
dry.
Turning
a
corner
of
the
towel
red,
he
remembered
the
little
sting
as
the
sister
cried,
“don’t!” He
wondered
if
Belle
had
nipped
him
with
her
teeth.
First,
he
stood
at
attention
like
a
little
soldier
and
they
bound
his
legs
together
working
up
from
the
ankles.
They
tied
his
wrists
and
then
bound
his
elbows
which
for
some
reason
alarmed
him.
Yet
it
was
all
in
the
script
and
at
any
moment
of
all
that
pain which
was
no
great
pain,
and
that
absurdity
and
the
humiliation
which
was
at
the
same
time
real
and
unreal,
he
could
have
gone
back
to
the
little
philosophical
puzzle
which
had
pleased
him
so
much
to
consider:
who
was
using
whom?
As
it
happened,
he
was
too
busy
for
that
kind
of
thinking,
and then
Belle
produced
the
knife
and
the
script
was
torn
up
and
the
worst
that
he
had
ever
been
afraid
of
happened
and
the
humiliation
and
the
pain
was
nothing
he
had
ever
wished,
being
real
and
with
nothing
in
it
of
make
believe.
When
in
Conference
Room
One,
Chief
Superintendent
Frank
O'Hara,
head
drooped
forward
as
if
brooding
over
the
knotted arthritic
knuckles
of
his
big
hands,
argued
that
the
second
killing
of
the
night
was
unlikely
to
have
been
done
by
a
woman
-
what
woman
would
risk
going
into
that
fucking
place
by
herself?
–
Naturally,
he
knew
nothing
of
what
had
happened
between
Constable
Weyman
and
his
partner.
The
news
about
the
dead
man
was
passed
from
beat
to
beat
from
just
after
one
a.m.
until
it
reached
Constable
Weyman
about
fifty
minutes
later.
By
radio,
of
course,
he
had
heard
about
it
earlier
and
he
and
his
partner
had
been
reporting
on
vehicular
traffic
since,
but
the
kind
of
detail
which
is
unofficial
comes
on
foot.
From
the
spot
in
Carnation
Street
where
it
had
been
found,
it
was
no
more
than
a
twenty-minute
walk
along
Barnes
Street
and
round
by
Merse
Street
to
the
pavement
outside
Matt's
Bar;
but
news
about
the
condition
of
the
body
had
travelled
cater-corner
like
a
game
of
linked
hands
where
people
met
until
it
arrived
at
Constable
Weyman
.