Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'She
wants
to
mind
her
manners,'
the
fat
man
said.
'So you
know
who
I
am.
Georgie
Clarke,
I
run
a
garage.
And
you're
Anne,
Doctor
Anne,
right?'
'With
a
patient
called
Fraser
Allander.
Who
told
me
he
was
a
member
of
Pax
Britannica.’
'In
good
standing –
when
he
could
stand.
Anyway
we've
been
through
that.’
'He
came
to
me
because
he'd
recognised
one
of
the
visitors
to
the
hospital.
Monty
Norman?'
deliberately
making
a
question
of
it.
The
fat
man
went
very
still.
'I
knew
a
Monty.
Different
second
name
though.’
Nodding
at
her,
he
rubbed
his
hand
on
his
chest,
cupping
the
fat
of
it
like
a
woman's
breast.
'The
Monty
I
knew,
well,
he
was
like
your
patient
Fraser,
he
took
off.
One
night
he
was
in
his
usual
haunts
as
the
law
says,
next
morning
he
wasn't.
Definitely
not.
It
wasn't
that
people
didn't
look
for
him.
Some
of
them
looked
hard.
Some
people
really
wanted
a
word.
He
wasn't
around
anymore.’
'Why
did
he
disappear?'
'End
of
last
year.
Don't
tell
me – that's
when.’
'You're
not
interested
in
why?'
'Where
maybe
…
Fraser
Allander
was
sure
it
was
him?
Why
would
he
tell
you?'
'I
told
you
he
was
a
patient
of
mine.’
'Fill
his
prescription,
did
you?
What
are
you
here
for?'
She
was
so
tired
there
was
a
moment's
temptation
just
to
say
to
him:
‘I'm
here
because
Fraser
said
the
man
was
able
to
hypnotise
people.
And
if
that
is
so,
then
the
things
on
Lucy's
tape
are
not
just
sick
imaginings.’
And
if
he
asked
again: ‘I'm
here
because
I'm
in
love.’
Wasn't that the truth?
'Don't
tell
me,'
the
fat
man
broke
into
her
thoughts. 'It's
always
love.’
And as
she
stared
at
him
in
fright,
went on,
'Are
you
the
wife?
'
Bewildered
she
said,
'Monty
Norman
has
a
wife?'
His
mouth
turned
down
like
a
disappointed
child.
'Monty
wasn't
the
marrying
kind.
Fraser
was
shit
– but
some
women
like
shit.
Don't
tell
me,
darling,
has
to
be
a
man,
and always
is.’
He
jerked
and
heaved
to
his
feet.
For
an
endless
second she
thought
he
was
going
to
attack
her.
'Stay
there!
Don't
even
bleeding
think
about
moving!'
The
door
slammed
shut
behind
him.
It
seemed
unlikely
he
would
have
given
her
a
chance
to
escape
without
getting
someone
to
stand
watch.
She
had
no
idea
even
which
district
this
house
was
in.
Deliberately,
she
took
one
slow
breath
and
then
another,
making
it
as
long
as she
could
manage.
House of ill repute
she
thought,
give a thing its name
. So
much
had
happened;
exhaustion
made
her
light headed;
it
was
the
way
she
imagined
being
drunk
must
feel.
When
the
fat
man
came
back,
the
woman
who
accompanied
him
was
thin.
The
respectable
grey
skirt
hung
from
the
bones
of
her
hips
and
the
blouse
showed
hollows
in
her
neck
and
throat
. Jack Sprat
,
Anne
thought,
and
his
Mrs
come
to
lick
the
platter
clean.
She
bit
the
inside
of
her
lip,
blinking
at
the
pair
of
them.
'Ask
Doreen,'
the
fat
man
said.
'I'm
sorry?'
'You
want
to
know
what
your
husband
came
here
for,
ask
Doreen.’
'I'm
not
married.’
She
tasted
the
saltiness
of
blood
on
her
tongue.
'He
comes
here
because
he
likes
to
hurt
people,'
Doreen
said.
As
she
spoke,
her
upper
lip
hardly
moved.
Anne's
mother
would
have
called
it
a
refined
voice,
an
attempt
at
refinement.
'Women,'
the
fat
man
said,
correcting
the
definition.
'He
likes
to
hurt
women.
But
I
expect
you
know
about
that.’
'Who?
Who
in
the
world
are
you
talking
about?'
He
nodded
to
the
woman,
who
said,
'Mr
Rintoul,
of
course.’
She
shook
her
head.
She
didn't
feel
like
laughing
any
more.
'Coming
here
men'll
give
you
any
kind
of
name –
except
their
own.’
It
was
Doreen's
first
trace
of
animation.
Most
people
enjoyed
the
shop
talk
of
their
trade.
That
was
something
Anne
had
noticed.
'Been
coming
here
for,
I
don't
know,
three
years
anyway.
He
didn't
ask
for
it
right
out,
not
the
first
time,
but
he
knew
what
he
wanted,
all
right.
When
little
Tracey
had
to
leave,
didn't
we
wonder
if
he'd
be
back?'