Authors: Frederic Lindsay
The
murmur
of
his
voice
came
more
slowly
and
his
hands
lingered
and
lifted
away.
Her
eyes
drifted
open
in
time
to
see
him
going
out
into
the
hall.
He's pretending to answer the door,
she
thought
. He wants me to think I heard someone knocking. But he won't come back. I wish I had been able to tell him it was all right, I don't mind dying. I dreamed there was a prison where no one had ever been imprisoned. In the morning, I told my dream to Maitland and he said, ‘Some Christians believe that out of all creation no soul has ever been sent to Hell. Just that it exists is enough.’ He was telling me not to be afraid.
She
had
been
alone
for
an
endless
time.
Yet
when
Maitland
came
back
he
was
pushed
into
the
room
so
things
must
have
been
happening
fast.
The
man
behind
held
him
by
the
upper
arm.
The
second
man
crowding
in
past
them
didn't
stop
until
he
stood
over
her.
She
had
never
seen
either
of
them
before.
There
was
a
great
noise,
much
of
it
made
by
Maitland
who
was
shouting,
'Tell
them
who
I
am!'
The
man
bent
and
put
his
face
into
hers
so
close
she
saw
on
the
white
of
his
eye
a
thin
yellow
line
like
a
crack
in
porcelain.
'She's
not
about
to
say
a
thing.’
His
breath
in
her
mouth
was
minty
as
if
he
had
just
taken
a
mouthful
of
toothpaste.
From
his
cheek
there
came
the
tang
of
aftershave.
He
was
a
very
clean
young
man.
'Don't
touch
her!'
she
heard
Maitland
cry
out.
As
the
young
man
straightened
and
turned
he
held
his right
arm
a
little
behind
him
so
the
knife
in
his
hand
was
concealed.
When
she
saw
it
she
knew
what
was
going
to
happen
and
it
was
very
strange
since
she
had
thought
it
was
she
who
was
going
to
die.
'This
is
for
my
sister,
you
bastard,
'
he
said
and
there
was
a
scream
of
agony
and when
he
moved
aside
there
was
blood
on
Maitland's
trousers
between
his
legs.
He
would
have
fallen
down,
but
the
man
behind
hooked a
finger
into
each
corner
of
his
mouth
and
held
him
upright.
Like
that
with
his
face
pulled
out
of
shape
and
the
redness
in
his
hair
it
would
have
been
hard
to
tell
him
apart
from
Monty
Norman.
He
wrenched
his
jaw
from
side
to
side
but
there
was
no
way
he
could
bite
the
fingers
that
held
him
up.
The
upper
lip
was
drawn
back
and
because
the
gums
had
receded
the
teeth
seemed
unnaturally
long.
The
mouth
made
a
clown
shape
but
it
didn't
look
at
all
like
laughter,
instead
it
began
to
stretch
and
narrow
and
gagging
noises
came
out
of
it
as
if
trying
to
tell
her,
'I'm
sorry'
or
even
'I
love
you.’
Or
and
most
likely,
'Tell
them
who
I
am.’
And
then
the
young
man
hid
him
again
for
an
instant
and
when
he
moved
back
the
knife
was
sticking
out
of
the
socket
of
Maitland's
eye.
And
even
then
and
all
the
time
and
in
all
the
days
that
were
to
follow
she
held
to
one
thought.
She
would
never
let
them
drive
her
back
into
the
place
of
the
mad.
BOOK
EIGHT
Chapter 28
The
Heart's
Affections
Some Christians believe that out of all creation no soul has ever been sent to Hell.
Though
afterwards, almost at once, he had gone on, – But I expect that was declared a heresy by the Calvinists against the Arminians or by the synod of Carthage just after they condemned Pelagius. Too much mercy has always been heretical
.
Driving
into
the
city,
she
saw
a
freshening
in
the
colour
of
the
fields
and
thought
before
she
remembered,
I must tell Maitland there's a change towards spring
.
Storing
things
to
tell
him
was
as
habitual
as
breathing.
So
much
talk
over
the
years.
She
hadn't
ever
said
that
she
knew
he
was
disappointed
with
his
life,
or
asked
why
he
dared
to
be,
or
told
him
how
angry
it
made
her.
So
much
talk
but
not
one
word
that
told
how
something
in
him
wanted
to
bring
down
all
the
world –
himself – or
that
mirror
image
of
himself
which
was
her
–
the
fading
image
of
a
girl
who
had
walked
with
him
hand
in
hand
one
summer's
day
looking
at
pictures
hung
on
the
railings
in
a
park.
They
had
never
talked.
Even
now,
and
that
would
have
been
the
moment
for
them,
tears
wouldn't
come.
Her
discipline
was
complete.
She
had
begun
to
impose
it
upon
herself
even
in
the
moments
before
she
lost
consciousness.
I'll
never let them drive me mad again.
The
policeman
in
the
hospital
told
her
what
she
had
taken
was
the
same
mix
of
tablets
which
killed
Sophie
Lindgren.
If
that
was
a
mystery,
let
them
solve
it.
Let
them look
for
Monty
Norman
and
the scarred
man
and
the
men
who
had
killed
her
husband.
She
knew
nothing.
It
was
a
doctor
who
told
her,
if
you
hadn't
been
sick
that
morning
in
your
car,
you
would
be
dead.
Above
Princes
Street
the
castle
on
its
hill
lay
like
a
cutout
against
the
sky.
There's
nothing
up
there,
Maitland
had
said,
the
group
of
them
standing
outside
Jenners
looking
up
at
it.
It's
a
bit
of
theatre,
just
lathe
and
plaster
and
painted
canvas,
that
wide.
It's
not
any
more
or
less
real
than
the
house
in
Psycho
.
The
American
couple
laughing
seemed
almost
half
persuaded.
Anyway,
he
said
straight-faced,
what
could
be
more
appropriate?
This
is
the
most
schizophrenic
city
I
know.
When
she
went
into
the
gallery,
Anne
Macleod
was
nowhere
to
be
seen.
There
were
display
cases
with
ceramics
on
shelves
and
past
them
to
the
rear
a
long
room
with
no
one
in
it
though
there
was
a
table
with
two
piles
of
typed
sheets
and
a
visitors'
book
lying
open.
She
stood
in
the
middle
of
the
room
and
turning
looked
at
the
pictures
carefully
all
the
way
round.
They
didn't
mean
anything
to
her,
and
since
she
had
expected
they
would
that
was
a
disappointment.
When
she
went
up
close,
however,
it
was
a
man
who
had
put
his
signature
on
them,
and
at
the
table
she
realised
the
typed
sheets
were
catalogues,
one
for
this
man
but
the
other
for
Beth
Lauriston.
Carrying
the
typed
sheet
she
went
back
to
the
front
area and
found
a
stair
to
an
upper
floor.
It
led
to
a
high
Lshaped
room
filled
with
space
and
light
around
a
woman
seated
behind
a
table
like
the
one
in
the
downstairs
gallery.
It
seemed
there
was
no
one
else,
but
as
the
woman
glanced
up
Anne
Macleod
came
into
view
from
the
hidden
part
of
the
room,
making
a
desultory
progress
along
the
pictures
hung
on
the
far
wall.
On
seeing
Lucy
she
became
perfectly
still
for
a
moment and
then
rushed
across.
Lucy
let
her
hands
be
taken.
'Are
you
all
right?
I've
thought
about
you
all
this
time.’
Her
voice
echoed
shocking
the
silence.
'Blamed
myself.’
'Yes,
yes,'
Lucy
said
softly.
She
found
herself
being
drawn
towards
the
stair.
'I
didn't
know
whether
you'd
be
at
home-
or
with
relatives.
I
even
tried
to
find
out
from
the
police.
It
was
such
a
relief
when
you
answered
the
phone
–
to
hear
your
voice.
I
was
in
tears.’
Lucy
drew
her
hands
away.
'Could
we
stay
here?'
'Why?'
'Just
for
a
little,'
Lucy
said.
In
arranging
to
meet
at
the
gallery,
she
had
imagined
it
would
be
a
busy
place,
but
there
had
been
no
one
downstairs.
At
least
here
there
was
the
woman
at
the
table.