Authors: Frederic Lindsay
A
muscle
in
Murray's
thigh
had
cramped.
It
was as if
he
had
been sitting
very
still
for
a
long
time.
Cautiously,
he
eased
it,
while
Merchant
talked
on
as
if
compelled
about
that
lost
time.
He
wondered
if
the
older
man
was
ill,
and
even,
fantastically,
if
it
was
possible
that
he
had
been
told
he
was
going
to
die.
'All
that
stuff,'
Murray
said,
'it's
the
past,'
and
fell
silent.
'No,'
Merchant
said.
'The
guard
who
killed
the
boy
is
here
in
the
city.
I
saw
him
on
Saturday
night.
I
knew
him
at
once.'
His
voice
trailed
away
and
he
sat
looking
at
his
hands
like
a discarded
prayer
folded
over
the
file
of
official
papers. 'All
that
stuff,'
Murray
said
almost
gently,
the
way
you
talk
to
someone
who
is
sick,
'about
being
a
Jew
in
the
camps.
Nobody
wants
to
hear
about
that
Jewish
stuff.
All
the
Socialists
are
flying
the
PLO
flag
now.
Don't
you
understand
nobody
cares
about
that
stuff
anymore?'
'You
don't
listen,'
Merchant
said.
'It
didn't
happen
to
me because
I
was
a
Jew.'
3 Irene and I
WEDNESDAY,
AUGUST
29
TH
1988
Inside,
Malcolm
Wilson
found
the
air
heavy
and
still
with
the
dry
taste
of
electric
heaters
in
hot
weather.
In
the
bright
sunshine
the
site
was
a
scooped
saucer
raked
brown
with
claw
marks
and
alive
with
ant
men
and
lego
toys.
Inside,
blue
smoke
from
Blair
Heathers'
cigars
trailed
from
the
lamps
like
festive
streamers.
'Thank
God
it's
Friday.'
Heathers
laughed,
showing
teeth
so splendid
and
so
clean
that
they
could
only
be
false,
the
right
kind
of
expensive
dentistry
having
arrived
too
late
in
a
self-made
life.
'That's
what
you
lot
with
your
bums
behind
desks
say
-
and
the
grafters
out
there
aren't
any
different.
You
have
that
in
common.
T.G.I.F.'
He
was
in
high
spirits,
it
seemed.
Despite
the
gloss
on
his
skin,
the
jewellery
on
his
plump
white
fingers,
the
exclusive
barbering,
he
looked
at
home
here
close
to
the
raked
earth
and
the
machines
.
'They
won't
find
much
difference
down
there,'
the
heavy
man
standing
next
to
Malcolm
objected.
Malcolm
tried
to
recall
his
name.
'They're
on
shifts
round
the
clock.
Sunday
or
Friday
makes no
bloody
difference.'
And
then
he
smiled
at
Heathers
to
show
how
that
was
to
be
taken;
'We
keep
them
at
it';
and
Malcolm
remembered – Chalmers,
the
site
manager,
which
made
him
like
the
rest,
a
Heathers'
employee.
'Into
the
golden
hours,'
Heathers
said.
'They'll
be
earning
more
than
I
do.' Malcolm
glanced
round
the
beefy
competent
men
indicating
their
appreciation
of
the
joke.
They
were
all
of
a
type
except
himself
and
the
odd-looking
man
with
the
foreign
name.
'And
this
is
Mr
Kujavia.
He's
a
business
consultant,'
Heathers
had
said.
Kujavia?
It
was
foreign,
of
course,
but
of
what
country
–
Russia?
Perhaps
Poland.
He
was
in
the
same
kind
of business
suit
as
the
others,
a
thickset
man
under
the
average
height
with
a
lumpy
potato
face
and
spikes
of
black
hair
standing
up
on
his
head.
Mr
Kujavia
the
business
consultant.
Where
had
he
seen
him
before?
'Malcolm
,
here
is
the
man
who's
paying
for
it
all,'
Heathers
was saying.
'Oh,
no,'
Malcolm
said,
and
felt
his
foolishness
when
there
was
a
general
response
of laughter.
'I
help
with
little
pieces
of
the
local
red
tape.'
'And
that,'
Heathers
smiled,
'helps
to
pay
the
bit
the
government
and
the
E.E.C.
leave
over.'
It
was
afternoon
and
it
seemed
to
Malcolm,
looking
out
through
the
long
glass
panels,
that
despite
what
had
been
said
about
working
round
the
clock
there
was
a
change
to
be
observed
and
that
the
patterns
outside
were
altering
into
something
not
slower
but
somehow
looser,
like
metal
coils
yielding
up
their
tension.
'Everybody
finished?'
Heathers
asked.
'Don't
let
me
rush anybody.
Only
I'm
going
right
now.' There
was
a
general
setting
down
of
glasses.
'Right.
We'll
have
the
Cook's
Tour
then.' Someone
hurried
to
open
the
door
and
they
filed
out
into
the
dry
dusty
air.
It
felt
arid
and
overheated
like
the
temporary
structure
they
had
left,
as
if
the
entire
site
had
been
baked
on
a
whim
of
Heathers.
In
the
open
vehicle,
they
were
crowded
together.
Startling
but unmistakable,
he
caught
the
smell
of
an
unwashed
body.
Involuntarily,
he
turned
his
head
in
surprise
and
realised
he
was
beside Kujavia.
The
man's
linen
was
clean
where
it
showed;
even
the
face
and
hands
seemed
clean,
but
again
the
air
between
them
was
oiled
with
the
choking
offence
of
human
dirt.
The
muscles
of
his
throat
rose
and
perhaps
he
made
some
noise
for
the
man
looked
round.
The
impression
was
of
a
pure
and
terrible
malevolence
and
Malcolm's
shoulders
contracted
as
if
ducking
from
a
blow.
Even
when
Kujavia
glanced
away,
it
took
an
effort
to
straighten
from
that
spontaneous
and
uncontrollable
reaction.
Humiliated,
he
wondered
if
any
of
these
bulky
stolid
men
surrounding
him
had
noticed.
He
took
deep
breaths
of
the
clean
air
that
blew
warm
against
them
and
willed
his
heart
to
beat
more
slowly.
He
tried
to
imagine
in
what
kind
of
business
Mr
Kujavia
might
act
as
a
consultant
to
Heathers,
whose
voice
dominated
over
the
engine
and
the
racket
of
the
site
as
they
bumped
down
towards
the
bottom
of
the
saucer.