Authors: Frederic Lindsay
He
looked
and
the
speaker
was
the
older
woman
.
The
mane
of
grey
hair
with
its
streaks
of
red
had
shaken
loose
around
her
shoulders
and
she
seemed
like
a
crazy
Joan
of
Arc.
To
her,
as
if
there
was
no
one
else,
he
said,
'This
city
has
the
ugliest
whores
in
the
world
.
'
For
her,
too,
they
might
have
been
alone
for
she
held
him
with
a
look
of
hurt
and
shock.
It
was
as
if
she
were
terribly
disappointed.
Just
then
a
group
of
detectives
came
out
of
the
school
and
started
across
to
the
gate,
and
seeing
them
the
women
fell
back
to
their
previous
line
at
the
edge
of
the
pavement.
22
A Taste of Alone
THURSDAY,
OCTOBER 4
TH
1988
Even
though
he
had
left
the
city,
it
had
not
been
difficult
to
trace
Father
Joseph
Hurtle,
who
twenty
years
earlier
had
been
a
young
priest
in
the
parish
of
Moirhill.
The
wind
faltering
across
the
square
smelt
of
the
sea
and
clean.
There
was
a
bank
on
one
corner,
a
fountain
in
the
middle,
a
hotel
and
two
pubs,
in
one
of
which
he
had
been
given
directions.
'Father
Hurtle
seems
a
decent
sort
of
man,'
the
landlord
had
offered
unasked
.
'But
there's
not
many
R
.
C.s
in
Beaton.
I
don't
suppose
you
would
have
found
half
a
dozen
before
they
built
the
chipboard
factory.
So
most
of
them
are
incomers.
Not
that
some
of
them
haven't
settled
in
very
well.
It
must
be
a
real
change – out
here
in
the
country
from
what
they're
used
to.
We
got
the
chipboard
factory
and
then
we
got
the
new
houses.
I
suppose
that's
what
they
call
progress.'
He
went
out
of
the
square
by
the
bank
corner
and
the
directions
were
good
for
soon
he
found
himself
among
a
cross –
hatch
of
new
council
housing,
all
the
doors
painted
the
same
shade
of
brown
and
the
hedges
low
and
meagre.
His
destination
was
set
on
its
own,
across
the
road
from
the
last
of
the
houses.
On
the
one
side,
it
faced
the
sea,
and
on
the
other
a
low
undulating
landscape
was
blurred
under
a
grey
mist,
except
where
on
the
nearest
hill
farm
machinery,
like
a
box
of
red
and
yellow
toys,
was
laid
out
in
lines
as
if
waiting
to
be
sold.
The
chapel
was determinedly
modern
with
a
pleated
roof
like
a
paper
aeroplane
and,
as
he
went
round
the
side,
he
wondered
which
pleat
hid
the
untowered
bell.
From
some
childhood
urging,
the
thought
came
into
his
head
, I won't call him Father.
Tucked
on
the
other
side
of
a
neat
stretch
of
lawn,
there
was
a
house
which
bore
a
cheerless
resemblance
to
the
scheme
through
which
he
had
come.
Before
he
could
ring,
the
door
was
opened
by
a
thin-faced
man
with
a
head
of
curly
black
hair
and
an
air
of
being
flustered
.
Murray
saw
the
clerical
collar
and
next
that
the
man
was
holding
up
his
right
hand
in
his
left,
and
that
it
was
wrapped
in
a
white
cloth.
'Father
Hurtle?'
'Yes,
but – Did
you
want
to
see
me?
Yes?
Would
you
like
to
come
with
me?'
'The
thing
is,'
he
explained,
hooking
the
door
shut
with
his
little
finger,
'I've
cut
myself.'
He
set
a
nervous
pace
and
Murray
at
his
side
made
sympathetic
noises.
'It's
the
kind
of
accident
that's
easily
done.
I
was
going
to
use garlic
salt
and
I
banged
the
container
to
loosen
the
salt.
Things
get
damp.
And
the
glass
broke
in
my
hand.
It's
quite
a
bad
cut,
as
a
matter
of
fact.'
As
Murray
looked,
the
cloth
streaked
with
sudden
red.
'If
you
wouldn't
mind,
I
don't
much
feel
like
talking
at
the
moment.
Perhaps
if
you
could –'
'That's
all
right.
I'll
walk
you
down
to
the
doctor.
When
you're losing
blood,
it
doesn't
do
any
harm
to
have
someone
with
you
–
just
in
case.'
'Oh,
I
really
don't
think
there's
any
need,
though
it's
kind
of you.
I'm
just
going
in
here.
Not
so
far
as
the
doctor.
One
of
my
parishioners
who's
a
nurse.'
The
house
was
identical
to
its
neighbours.
Murray
accompanied
him
along
the
path
as
if
it
was
the
most
natural
thing
in
the
world,
and
the
priest
accepted
him
without
further
protest.
Perhaps
he
was
glad
of
a
distracting
presence
as
he
explained
to
the
plump
little
woman
how
he
had
come
by
his
injury.
'Garlic
salt?'
The
woman
shook
her
head.
The
priest
rested
his behind
on
the
edge
of
the
kitchen
table
as
she
unwound
the
cloth
from
his
hand.
She
repeated
the
words
as
if
memorialising
something
outlandish.
Her
attitude
towards
him
was
protective,
touched
with
the
incredulity
one
offers
a
child.