Authors: Frederic Lindsay
Black
satin
skin,
extraordinary
breasts
in
the
low-cut
red
gown, the
delicate
luxury
of
her
perfume;
but
when
they
got
out
of
the
taxi,
the
pavement
was
broken
and
uneven
under
a
litter
of
glass
and
soiled
rubbish
.
‘I
thought
you
were
in
a
hurry’,
she
had
said.
Under
the
expensive
perfume,
there
was
the
sudden
tang
of
sweat.
In
the
cold
night
she
smelled
of
fear.
'I
wasn't
that
interesting –
not
for
a
woman
as
beautiful
as
that,'
he
told
Kujavia.
'It
was
too
easy.
I
know
I
don't
look
rich.'
And
then,
too,
if
from
the
taxi
he
had
not
glimpsed
the
street
sign:
Moirhill
Road;
or
if
she
had
taken
him
to
a
better
district
or
if
they
had
stopped
outside
a
hotel
.
.
.
Desire
and
suspicion
had
pulled
opposite
ways.
If
she
could
have
found
a
familiar
phrase
to
say
to
him,
something
he
recognised
out
of
his
own
background,
he
would
have
gone
with
her
like
one
of
those
toys
that
march
down
an
incline
at
the
touch
of
a
finger.
‘
-You
won't
regret
it,’
she
had
said.
Anything
you
want.
Kujavia
leaned
forward
and
banged
on
the
glass
with
the
edge
of
his
fist.
The
driver
looked
round
and
at
a
peremptory
chopping
gesture
from
his
passenger
brought
the
car
to
a
stop
by
the
kerb.
'I
want
to
see
the
girl,'
Malcolm
said.
Over
his
shoulder,
as
he
got
out,
Kujavia
said,
'You
don't
know
what
you
want.'
But
he
did.
It
was
as
if
the
policeman's
feet
had
beaten
fear
out of
him
and
left
only
the
taste
of
her
lips,
when
she
had
kissed
him
in
the
taxi,
and
the
length
of
her
tongue
in
his
mouth.
Next
morning,
aching
and
bruised,
he
wakened
with
a
swollen
erection.
'Wait
here?'
The
driver
made
a
sour
sceptical
movement
with
his
mouth.
'The
kids'll
have
the
wheels
off
the
motor
if
I
sit here.'
Jackal
children,
however,
gathering
for
a
fresh
kill
angled
away,
ostentatiously
unconcerned,
as
they
caught
sight
of Kujavia.
None
of
them
would
touch
the
car.
He
registered
the
poverty
of
the
street
as
he
hurried
after
Kujavia,
but
it
was
different
in
daylight.
What
harm
could
come
to
him
in
daylight?
As
Kujavia
turned
into
a
close,
however,
and
he
followed
and
climbed
the
stairs
in
pursuit,
his
legs
began
to
shake
under
him.
Somewhere
above,
he
heard
a
door
close.
The
noise
echoed
in
the
stone
box
of
the
stair.
There
were
three
doors
on
the
landing,
two
with
brass nameplates
beside
the
old-fashioned
bell
pulls.
He
did
not
recognise
the
names
and
so
it
was
on
the
third
bare
door
that
he
knocked.
Almost
instantly,
it
was
opened
but
only
for
a
few
inches.
Across
the
gap
he
saw
the
dull
line
of
a
chain.
From
inside,
a woman's
voice,
thin
and
piping
like
a
girl's,
asked,
'Who's
there?
What
do
you
want?'
'Mr
Kujavia?'
he
wondered
hesitantly.
'Is
this
where
Mr
Kujavia
lives?'
In
the
silence,
he
could
hear
her
breathing,
odd
little
gasping
sounds.
'If
he's
there,
would
you
tell
him
I'm
willing
to
pay
for
the
information
-
where
she
is
-
the
person
I
mentioned
to
him?'
A
man's
voice
muffled
from
inside
shouted
something,
the
chain
rattled
coming
off
and
the
door
swung
wide.
From
the
woman
and
the
passage
beyond
her,
there
came
the
same
smell,
oily,
sweet,
and unmistakable,
of
human
dirt.
Her
bare
forearms
shone
like
larded
sides
of
bacon.
She
was
enormously,
obscenely
fat.
In
the
lobby
the
outer
door
closing
made
the
worst
sound
in
the world.
He
understood
that
he
had
tricked
himself.
There
was
no
way
that
the
elegant
black
girl
from
Heathers'
party
could
be
in
this
place.
Soiled
light
spilled
from
a
door
at
the
end
of
the
passage
and
as
he
went
towards
it
he
was
startled
by
a
hellish
outburst
at
his
back.
'It's
just
the
dog
in
the
back
room,'
the
woman
wheezed.
'He can't
get
out.'