Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'Killing
the
child,
you
mean?'
But
she
could
see
from
his
expression
Maitland
hadn't
mentioned
that.
She
hadn't
meant
to
be
disloyal.
The
headache
started
on
the
train.
Just
an
ordinary
headache,
not
the
kind
that
was
an
affliction.
For
those
it
had
been
a
long
time,
not
one
all
the
nights
she
had
been
in
hospital.
Suddenly
that
seemed
strange
to
her
and
she
caught
herself
rubbing
at
her
temple
in
the
old
way
until
she
brought
the
culprit
hand
into
her
lap
and
held
it
there.
She
closed
her
eyes.
Opened
them
at
once.
A
line
of
bare trees.
She
watched
them
and
thought
of
stick
men
flickering
by
in
a
picture
book
under
a
child's
thumb.
She
made
her
way
from
the
train
into
the
booking
hall.
With
the
crowd
swirling
round
her,
after
all
she
couldn't
find
a
reason
to
be
in
Edinburgh.
On
the
board
there
was
a
departure
due
that
would
take
her
back
to
Balinter.
What
she
needed
was
a
quiet
place
to
be
alone.
She
couldn't
make
up
her
mind
what
to
do,
and
saw
she
was
being
watched
by
a
man
on
one
of
the
ugly
plastic
seats
scarred
with
cigarette
burns.
An
unshaven
man
with
the
battered
look
of
hard
times,
two
plastic
bags
held
between
his
feet,
he
watched
her
as
if
for
a
sign.
There
were
no
telephone
books
at
the
line
of
phones
under
the
departure
board.
She
had
to
walk
along
to
the
central
post
office
at
the
east
end
of
Princes
Street.
“I
must
speak
to
Doctor
Anne
Macleod,”
she
told
the
answering
voice.
“It's
very
important.”
The
clock
on
the
tower
of
the
Balmoral
Hotel
read
quarter
to
four.
She
couldn't
remember
if
she
had
eaten
for
breakfast
or
lunch.
And
there
had
been
the
gins
when
Janet
came.
Little
wonder
she
had
a
headache.
Nothing
more
natural.
She
took
the
glass
lift
down
into
the
shopping
mall
by
the
station.
After
she
had
eaten
something,
she
would
phone
again.
I'll
phone
again,
she
had
said.
Please
tell
Doctor
Anne
Macleod
I'm
in
Edinburgh.
Later
her
headache
was
worse
and
she
couldn't
recall
whether
or
not
she
had
eaten
in
the
food
court.
Instead
she
remembered
the
way
the
tables
were
set
out
by
the
pool
and
the
shape
the
fountain
made
as
it
rose
and
the
drops
from
it
falling
in
circles
into
the
water
below.
When
she
found
herself
in
the
pedestrian
precinct
the
first
thing
she
took
account
of
was
how
one
of
the
bushes
in
the
concrete
pots
had
buds,
though
so
tiny
and
tight
you
might
not
notice
and
think
it
was
dead.
After
that
she
looked
in
the
travel
agent's
window
at
brown
bodies
running
hand
in
hand
into
the
sea
on
another
planet.
Yellow
sand,
blue
sea,
meeting
at
an
edge.
By
then
she knew,
of
course,
that
the
entry
beside
the
agent's
led
up
to
the
office
of
the
Gregory
and
Rintoul
Trust.
As
she
climbed
to
the
Trust
office,
a
young
woman
ran down
the
last
flight
towards
her.
The
impression
of
a
moment;
but
for
an
instant,
young,
full
of
life,
seeing
her
in
that
place,
it
had
been
Sophie
Lindgren.
Slowly
she
began
again
to
mount
the
stairs.
Hadn't
she
been
promised
nothing
was
certain?
Not
even
the
coming
of
pain.
When
she
came
down
across
the
Meadows,
the
great
open
grass
space
and
the
arch
of
sky
overhead
was
like
water
to
her
after
the
noise
of
the
streets.
The
beauty
of
the
place
was
its
trees;
it
would
be
bleak
without
them;
but
there
were
empty
gaps
on
either
side
of
the
path
where
there
should
have
been
new
saplings.
One
late
survivor
must
have
been
attacked
only
the
night
before;
the
slender
trunk
snapped
and
bent
over
like
a
crippled
dancer.
Recognising
the
street,
she
crossed
the
road
on
impulse
and
when
she
had
knocked
for
some
time,
a
man
not
much
more
than
a
boy
opened
the
door.
'The
Norman
fellow's
not
in,'
he
said,
sounding
rude although
that
might
only
have
been
because
of
his
accent,
Belfast
and
abrupt.