Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'I'm
cold.’
'No
need
to
be.’
'I
want
to
go
inside
again.
Out
of
this
wind.’
When
he
didn't
respond,
staring
at
her
blank
faced,
she
tried
to
push
past
him.
As
she
did,
he
moved
with
her
half
a
step
and
then
turned
so
that
without
using
his
hands
he
had
put
her
against
the
wall
with
all
the
length
of
his
body
pressed
to
hers.
'I
could
warm
you
up,'
he
said.
'Have
you
gone
mad?'
She
heard
herself,
shrill
with
respectability,
very
matronly,
and
the
one
who
hid
inside
her,
young
Lucy,
thought
in
the
same
instant –
Idiot! What if he says, ‘As a hatter! Aren't we all? And you, especially you.’
'What
did
you
think
we
were
coming
up
here
for?'
'Not
for
this.’
'No
man
in
your
bed
for
weeks.
Not
since
you
came
in
here.
And
not
for
a
long
time
before
that,
eh?
Your
husband's
not
interested,
anybody
could
see
that.
You
think
I
didn't
see
that?'
Enraged
she
struck
him
in
the
chest
and,
just
for
a
moment
before
he
stepped
back,
felt
the
muscled
unexpected
reality
of
him
resisting
her.
'Call yourself a Christian
?’
Yelling the
first
thing
that came
into
her
head. Making
a
little
space
of
stillness
he
stared
into,
sandy
lashes
blinking
in
surprise.
Angry
and
even
frightened,
still
she
couldn't
help
the
other
Lucy
hidden
inside
thinking
he
probably
called
himself
Jesus
Christ,
the
Onlie
Begetter,
beware
all
imitations;
when
the
mood
was
on
him
that
is,
madness
being
what
it
is.
'Me?'
'You
talk
to
Doctor
Macleod
about
God,
I
heard
you,
the
problem
of
evil,
all
that
stuff.
Because
you
come
from
Lewis,
she
said.
I
thought
all
you
cared
about
was
religion.
I
wouldn't
have
come
up
here,
not
unless,
I
mean
I
thought –'
He
put
a
hand
on
the
outer
wall
and
jumped
up
on
to
it,
crouching
and
then
standing.
Looking
up
at
him
above
her
she
saw
clouds
swirl
round
his
head
as
he
fought
to
catch
his
balance.
'Do
you
want
me
to
fly?'
he
asked,
swaying
to
and
fro,
in
a
voice
like
ordinary
conversation
so
that
she
wasn't even
sure
she
had
heard
him
properly.
'Or
maybe
just
step
off,
all
the
way
down,
floating,
land
on
my
feet.
Safe
in
the
arms
of
Jesus,
eh?'
'Please
.’
She
knew
there
was
something
to
say
that would
save
him.
Something
he
would
believe
.
'Well?'
he
said.
She
shook
her
head
and
began
to
weep.
'I
don't
know
what
you're
getting
yourself
into
a
state
for,'
he
said.
'Do
you
think
God
cares
for
the
sparrow,
and
won't
be
looking
out
for
me?'
Sermons,
sermons,
sermons.
That
released
her.
'God doesn't
want
you
to
do
this!'
she
cried,
and
putting
her
hands
like
blinkers
on
either
side
of
her
head
ran
round
the
hut
and
got
the
door
open
while
the
wind
tried
to
tear
it
from
her.
Light
in
the
corridor
came
from
a
line
of
windows,
and one
part
of
her
mind
noted
how
smeared
they
were
by
weather.
Somewhere
out
of
sight
there
were
voices
and
a
rattling
of
trolleys.
She
made
herself
walk.
As
she
was
almost
past
the
third
window,
from
the
last
fragment
of
vision
she
glimpsed
some
dark
spread eagled
thing
hurtling
downwards.
With
a
groan,
she
went
to
press
her
face
against
the
glass,
crane
down,
see
him
crushed
against
the
ground
below.
'What's
wrong?'
He
was
in
the
corridor
only
a
step
or
two
away.
'I
thought
you'd
jumped.’
'Do
you
think
I'm
daft?
I
have
a
drink
problem.
In
here
to
get
myself
dried
out.
You're
the
lunatic.’
A
flush
of
heat
at
her
stupidity
went
through
her,
and even
an
absurd
desire
to
apologise.
But
before
she
could
say
anything
he
reached
out
and
in
a
casual
violation
laid
his
hand
on
her
crotch.
Tell
him
you're
old
enough
to
be
his
mother,
she
thought.
Old
enough,
certainly,
to
have
been
someone's
mother.
'As
for
that
gasping
for
it
bitch
Macleod,'
he
said,
the
hard
separate
pressure
of
his
fingers
cold
against
her,
'is
it
her
you
want
climbing
into
your
bed?
Is
that
what's
wrong
with
you?
Have
you
the
same
itch
as
her?'