Authors: Frederic Lindsay
A
muscle
in
Murray's
thigh
had
cramped.
It
was as if
he
had
been sitting
very
still
for
a
long
time.
Cautiously,
he
eased
it,
while
Merchant
talked
on
as
if
compelled
about
that
lost
time.
He
wondered
if
the
older
man
was
ill,
and
even,
fantastically,
if
it
was
possible
that
he
had
been
told
he
was
going
to
die.
'All
that
stuff,'
Murray
said,
'it's
the
past,'
and
fell
silent.
'No,'
Merchant
said.
'The
guard
who
killed
the
boy
is
here
in
the
city.
I
saw
him
on
Saturday
night.
I
knew
him
at
once.'
His
voice
trailed
away
and
he
sat
looking
at
his
hands
like
a discarded
prayer
folded
over
the
file
of
official
papers. 'All
that
stuff,'
Murray
said
almost
gently,
the
way
you
talk
to
someone
who
is
sick,
'about
being
a
Jew
in
the
camps.
Nobody
wants
to
hear
about
that
Jewish
stuff.
All
the
Socialists
are
flying
the
PLO
flag
now.
Don't
you
understand
nobody
cares
about
that
stuff
anymore?'
'You
don't
listen,'
Merchant
said.
'It
didn't
happen
to
me because
I
was
a
Jew.'