George sat in the small
room looking up at the high narrow windows. They were too high to see out of
but somewhere beyond the glass, a bird was singing. He had been waiting almost
twenty minutes for the detectives Š Myles and Dennis, were they called? Š to
come back. They were still talking to Paul.
As he sat there, in the
red plastic chair, in the blue room with peeling paint, - an interview room,
but not like any George had been interviewed in before Š the events of the last
few hours finally caught up with him.
George had thought he
hadnÕt slept at all last night, but he realised he must have. HeÕd gotten home,
to Kinfauns, at about midnight, and John and Ringo hadnÕt arrived until six or
seven, perhaps eight.
John and Ringo.
John.
That phone call, what
was that about?
John had spent most of
the morning telling George how he and Ringo were going to support him, how
theyÕd found out what Paul had done, but on the phone it seemed he had changed
his mind.
Unless he thinks I did
it.
Killed Grace.
It was only at this
moment the weight of the matter really sunk in. George had living as if in a
dream. Lack of sleep, shock, or whatever. He had been detached from it all;
just answering the questions and waiting until he could go home. Go to sleep.
It didnÕt look like that
was coming.
George felt a tear run
down his cheek. He wiped it away. He hadnÕt even noticed the water welling up
in his eyes.
Who are you crying
for? He asked himself. Grace? Or yourself?
No, Grace, he decided. She was dead. It was his fault. It had
to be. He should have taken her home, no matter what sheÕd said. London wasnÕt
safe for girls at night. It wasnÕt safe for anyone. He suddenly thought of
Maxwell Carver. He hadnÕt thought of him in weeks.
But the police had said
she was killed in her flat. In their flat, that had been. Who would want to hurt Grace?
You did.
George almost looked
around, wondering where that came from.
You wanted to hurt
her. You said so much.
George shook the thought
out of his mind. People say things like they. They donÕt mean it. HeÕd
said heÕd wanted to kill Paul, more than once, after heÕd found out about him
and Pattie. But Paul was still walking around. Talking. Talking to the police. What
could he be telling them?
This time yesterday
she was alive.
Yelling at me.
Screaming. All those things she said. She just went over the edge, George thought. It couldnÕt be true, could it?
George had thought she
was lying, making it up Š confused at best Š he hadnÕt even remembered until
now. It hadnÕt seemed plausible, and she was drunk, talking about her mother
and her brother and God knows who else in between it all, and then when George
wouldnÕt do what she wanted, thatÕs when sheÉ went mad. George absently touched
his chest, running his fingers across his shoulder. Sore. Very sore. Probably
purple under the cloth of his shirt. He couldnÕt bring himself too look.
They were the ramblings of a mad woman, George told himself. He didnÕt even know whom Grace had been talking about.
But now she was dead. And there had to be a reason.
