Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'She's
not
usually
marked,'
he
said
drily.
The
Minder frowned
and
glanced
away.
'I'll
tell
her
to
be
careful
nobody
sees
them.
Not
even
the
boyfriend.’
'Boyfriend?'
'Course
she
has.
Pretty
kid
like
that.
She's
due
to
get
married.’
'That'll
spoil
your
game.’
'Why
would
that
be?
I
don't
know
anything
about
him,
but
if
he's
flush
I
just
might
carry
on
with
the
treatment.
Put
the
price
up,
shouldn't
be
surprised.
Love's
young
dream,
he
wouldn't
grudge
it.’
'Dodgy
.’
'Don't
see
why.’
'Dangerous
for
you
I
mean.’
'She
does
whatever
I
tell
her.
Maybe
he's
the
one
would
have
to
be
careful.’
'It
would
depend
who
he
is,'
the
Minder
said.
'You
wouldn't
want
to
pick
on
the
wrong
guy.’
'Such vileness
!
It has nothing to do with us
.
You have no right
.
'
At
the
noise
he
seized
up
as
if
paralysed
and
then
when
he
relaxed
the
sickness
came
up
sour
into
the
back
of
his
mouth.
He
dropped
the
shirt
into
the
case.
On
top
he
threw
shoes
and
the
electric
razor
in
its
box.
Stranded
helpless
then,
he
tried
to
think.
Time
was
running
out
for
him.
At
first
he
had
paid
no
attention
to
the
man
sliding
on
to
the
vacant
stool
beside
him
at
the
bar.
More
than
a
month
had
gone
by
since
the
night
with
the
girl,
but
more
than
the
time
that
had
passed,
it
was
the
state
of
the
Minder
that
prevented
recognition
until
he
spoke.
His
face
had
been
carved
and
beaten
out
of
shape.
'I
met
her
again,'
he
said.
'That
little
girl
of
yours. Funny
thing
is
–
I
knew
the
bloke
she
was
with.
And,
don't
laugh,
I
told
him.
I'd
been
feeling
bad
about
it,
you
see.
And
there
was
a
time
when
him and me
were
by
way
of
being
mates.
You're
going
to
think
I'm
a
real
cunt
–
I
wanted
to
make
it
right.
I
told
them
I'd
pay
you
a
visit
myself,
but
they
didn't
want
that.
Him
and
her
brothers
took
their
time
explaining
that
to
me.
And
here
you
are
still
alive.’
'I've
been
out
of
town,'
he
said
stupidly.
'I
reckon
they're
going
to
fucking
kill
you
the
slowest
way.
And
I'll
come
to
the
funeral.
I
wouldn't
miss
seeing
you
going
into
the
ground.’
He
stood
up
and
moved
the
ruins
of
his
face
in
what
might
have
been
rage
or
grief.
'You
should
have
found
out
who
her
boyfriend
was,
you
stupid
bastard.’
He
stared
into
the
case,
not
able
to
think
what
else
he should
take.
Somebody
had
been
in
the
flat.
Though
they
had
been
careful,
he
had
seen
the
signs.
Once
they
heard
he
was
back-
He
had
to
get
away.
But
where?
'All
the
faces
looking
for
you,'
the
ruined
man
sneered.
'You
can't
hide.’
BOOK
ONE
Chapter 1
The
Good
Wife
It
was
the
act
of
a
good
wife.
If
she
did
not
go,
it
was
true,
he
would
still
catch
a
connection
within
the
hour;
and
even
so
early,
probably
he
would
be
able
to
get
something
to
eat
while
he
waited.
All
the
same,
anticipating
the
pleasure
of
his
surprise,
she
rose
early
with
a
good
conscience,
taking
credit
from
the
warmth
of
the
bed
she
was
abandoning
of
her
own
free
will
and
finding
the
crisp
clear
air
of
a
fine
morning
almost
a
disappointment.
Fields
and
hills
unwrapped
themselves
from
the
darkness
as
she
drove,
and
coming
into
Edinburgh
it
was
light.
In
Princes
Street,
she
ducked
her
head
to
catch
a
glimpse
of
the
old
castle
on
its
plug
of
rock,
memento
of
a
spent
volcano.
Flushed
clouds
in
red
and
orange
framed
it.
Dramatic,
obvious,
a
bit
of
a
cheat
,
all
of
that,
but
still
she
could
for
once,
alone
in
the
car
at
dawn
on
a
November
morning,
enjoy
it
without
bothering
too
much
about
its
past
or
present.
She
enjoyed
it
for
what
it
seemed
to
be.
It
rose
in
the
cold
air
as
a
piece
of
theatre.
People
forgot
that
here
you
were
north
of
distant
Moscow.
Or
was
it
if
you
were
in
Aberdeen?
Not
that
it
mattered.
Someone
had
told
her
that.
She
smiled
and
in
her
imagination
the
castle
tipped,
a
giant
absurd
samovar,
pouring
tea
over
the
ranked
chimneys
of
the
New
Town
and
its
Sunday
sleepers.
She
had
this
ridiculous
sense
of
making
a
beginning.
She
laid
claim
to
the
cold
bright
morning
by
right
of
virtue
and
early
rising.
The
gaudy
clouds
flew
a
banner
over
the
castle
for
her
by
way
of
promise.
Yet
she
was
only
going
to
meet
Maitland
–
whom
she
loved,
of
course,
no
doubt
of
that
–
but
whom
after
all
she
had
met
in
the
mornings
and
evenings
of
so
many
days;
a
lifetime
ago
jumping
off
a
bus
at
the
stop
near
her
parents'
home;
striding
through
the
gate
from
an
international
flight
(giving
her
his
private
signal
of
relief,
Maitland
hated
flying);
very
often
like
today
off
a
train,
returning
from
a
meeting,
from
a
conference.
It
was
a
tribute
to
Maitland
that
she
should
still
be
capable
of
feeling
this
lift
of
excitement;
surely
it
was
a
tribute
to
their
relationship;
anyway,
it
said
something
about
her,
about
the
youthfulness
of
her
heart.
It
was
annoying
that
the
train
should
be
late.
'I
had
no
chance
to
check,'
she
explained.
'I
left
home
so
early.’
The
girl
in
the
brown
coat,
who
had
given
her
the
bad
news,
nodded.
'I
was
even
worse –
I
was
so
afraid
of
being
late
I
was
too
early
even
if
it
had
been
on
time.
I
hardly
slept.’
'Poor
you,'
she
said
seriously.
They
walked
together
past
the
newspaper
kiosk
where
they
were
laying
out
the
first
bundles
of
early
editions
and
turned
along
by
the
side
of
the
booking
hall.
The
girl
pointed
to
a
sign
which
read
STATIONMASTER.
'We
can
ask
there
for
when
it's
due,'
she
said.
'The
porter
told
me
to
ask
there.’
'Who
are
you
meeting?
Your
boyfriend?'
The
girl
laughed
self-consciously.
'No
-
one
exciting,
only
my
brother.
He's
coming
up
from
Bristol.’
'I'm
meeting
my
husband
–
Professor
Ure.’
She
looked at
the
girl,
for
a
moment
expecting
her
to
respond,
then
laughed
and
explained,
'My
husband
isn't
on
the
faculty
at
Edinburgh.
There's
no
reason
why
you
should
know
him.
It's
just
that
at
home
all
the
students
do,
you
see.
And
for
some
reason,
I
assumed
you
were
a
student.’
She
paused
and
glanced
at
her
companion
for
confirmation,
but
the
girl
said
nothing.
'I
suppose
it's
because
at home
almost
all
the
young
people
I
come
into
contact
with
are
students.’
'I
hope
someone
is
here,'
the
girl
said,
and
they
turned into
the
Stationmaster's
office.
A
counter
separated
them
from
the
dingy
interior.
A
young
man
in
his
early
twenties
leaned
on
a
table
and
muttered
into
the
phone.
Diligently
he
ignored
them.
She
disapproved
of
him
–
of
his
shirt-sleeves,
of
the
earring,
even
of
the
rims
of
red
flesh
from
which
his
eyes
peered;
he
would
revenge
himself
on
them
by
means
of
an
ingenious
ignorance.
When
he
finished,
however,
he
was
pleasant
and
even,
within
limits,
helpful.
It
struck
her
that
the
girl
was
pretty.
Very
pretty.