Authors: Frederic Lindsay
The
bulk
of
Mary
O'Bannion
foundered
in
the
ghastly
light
of the
flaring
lamp,
the
waterfall
of
flesh
that
was
her
face
decomposed
with
shock.
Covered
only
by
a
dressing
gown,
wine red
with
decorative
detail
in
gold
thread
picked
out
on
the
cuffs
and
neck,
she
cradled
in
both
hands
a
great
exposed
flop
of
breast
where
the
door
had
struck
her.
'Where's
Kujavia?'
He
pushed
her
aside
moving
fast
to
keep
the
advantage
of
surprise,
and
felt
her
roll
at
his
touch
like
a
sack
of
milk.
As
he
forced
his
way
past,
she
groaned
recognition,
'It's
you
–
ya
bastard!'
He
had
a
choice
of
the
room
where
the
dog
had
been
or
the
kitchen.
He
was
prepared
for
two
possibilities:
that
the
place
would
be
empty
or
that
he
would
have
to
deal
with
Kujavia.
On
the
hand
that
knocked
wide
the
kitchen
door,
the
marks
of
the
dog's
teeth
had
left
a
ragged
half
circle
puffed
and
pink
like
a
burn
that
would
not
heal.
A
third
possibility
that
he
had
not
considered
was
that
Mary O'Bannion
would
have
a
customer
this
late
into
the
night.
Beyond
the
table
with
its
litter
of
uncleared
dishes,
a
naked
man,
tall,
fleshy,
bent
a
little
forward
facing
the
sink
and
the
window
black
above
it.
His
back
was
ridged
with
fresh
stripes
and
the
white
strokes
of
old
beatings.
The
long
muscles
stood
out
on
his
sides
and
flanks
like
a
man
in
the
stress
of
a
task.
At
the
opening
of
the
door,
he
had
wrenched
to
look
over
his
shoulder,
turning
only
his
head
so
that
each
eye
showed
a
streak
of
spooked
white
.
The
full
mane
of
hair
spread
out
like
a
soiled
halo.
'Ah,
no,'
Tommy
Beltane
groaned
in
disbelief
and
vexation.
For
Murray
turning
away
was
an
act
of
involuntary
decency
.
The
recess
bed
was
a
tangle
of
blankets
and
outdoor
coats.
It
was
noisome
but
unoccupied,
and
there
was
nowhere
else
to
hide
in
the
room.
'Look
at
him.
I
tell
you
look
at
him.'
For
a
crazy
second,
he
thought
she
was
calling
on
Kujavia,
and
saw
him,
a
column
of
shadow,
in
a
corner
where
he
could
not
be
.
Sweating
malevolence,
she
waved
at
Beltane
the
bulging
slab
of
her
arm
with
its
incongruously
tiny
hand
flapping
like
an
excretion
of
sick
flesh.
Unheld,
the
dressing
gown
slipped
to
reveal
breasts,
shaking
belly,
a
cascading
enormity
of
thighs
with
at
their
juncture
a
patch
of
hair,
folded
and
crushed
amidst
her
fat,
the
light
colour
of
which
suggested
some
trace
of
the
lost
girl
Tommy
Beltane
had
bought
.
'Turn
round
so
he
can
see
you.'
Very
slowly
then
and
laboriously,
a
puppet
worked
by
her
drunken
scream,
he
began
to
edge
round,
one
foot
and
then
the
other,
inch
by
inch
it
seemed
until
he
faced
them
.
Crouched
forward,
knees
bent,
hands
braced
on
his
thighs,
he
supported
from
a
thong
tied
around
his
testicles,
drawn
out
from
a
thick
bush
of
white
hair,
a
bag
looking
very
like
a
housewife's
shopper
made
of
string.
The
shopper
was
half
full
.
'More
weight.
He
keeps
crying
on
more
weight.'
Mary O'Bannion
cursed
him.
'He'll
go
on
till
one
time
it'll
pull
the
balls
off
him.
Not
that
he'll
know
any
fucking
difference.'
'Jesus
wept,'
Tommy
Beltane
said,
and
grinned
with
a
horrible
wincing
bravado
.
Murray
could
not
bear
the
sight
he
made.
'Tell
Joe
Kujavia –'
he
began,
but
the
fat
woman
made
a
noise
like
a
spitting
cat.
If
she
comes,
I'll
punch
her
out,
Murray
thought,
and
closed
his
fists
with
a
serious
exultation.
She
glared,
ropes
of
saliva
twining
from
her
lower
lip
as
if
like
a
monstrous
tabby
with
a
mouse
she
would
sink
her
teeth
in
him.
Physically
she
appeared
to
swell
with
malice,
but
an
instinct
of
self-preservation
at
the
last
moment
deflected
her
rage.
With
a
rush
that
defied
her
bulk,
she
threw
herself
at
Tommy
Beltane.
Though
she
held
out
her
hands
against
him,
most
of
the
damage
was
done
with
a
great
swing
of
her
belly
like
the
comedian
in
an
old-time
movie.
Beltane
staggered
under
the
impact,
his
hands
lost
their
support,
and
with
a
squeal
of
anguish
he
came
down
on
his
knees.