Ripped (66 page)

Murray
waited
a
moment,
took
a
deep
breath,
before
saying carefully,
'That
would
be
because
I
was
in
hospital.'

'He
keeps
things
from
me.
He
thinks
I
would
worry,
but
I
can
tell
when
something
is
wrong.'
She
leaned
forward,
her
blind
seeming
gaze
accusing
him
.
'I
would
expect
you
to
tell
me.'

'He's
old
enough
to
tell
you
what
he
wants
you
to
know.'

'You
are
the
elder.
A
brother
should
care
for
a
brother.'

'Oh,
I'm
in
good
shape
for
looking
after
him.'
He
raised
a
hand as
if
to
touch
the
bruised
envelope
of
flesh
by
his
eye,
but,
realising
what
he
was
doing,
did
not
complete
the
gesture.
Embarrassed,
he
said,
'It
must
have
been
all
that
fresh
air
when
I
was
young.'

If
then
any
thought
came
to
his
mind,
it
was
of
his
father's changes
of
duty
from
one
lighthouse
to
another,
continual
changes,
to
edges
where
the
land
made
a
fist
of
rock
and
ended
or
across
the
sea
to
islands,
every
move
exchanging
one
remoteness
for
another,
heads
turning
as
you
walked
into
another
class
of
strangers;
but
Mother,
fixing
her
gaze
on
his
lips,
said,
'Your
visits
to
your
uncles
did
you
little
good.
I
know
what
kind
of
place
you
were
in
when
you
got
that
hurt.
Calum
and
Angus
are
dead
now,
but
not
your
father
or
any
of
his
brothers
would
have
stepped
inside
a
place
where
drink
was
sold.'

That
was
so
ridiculous,
it
made
him
want
to
laugh
and
he
was
surprised
to
hear
it
come
out
as
a
groan.
'That's
not
you.
That's
not
you
now,
not
anymore.'
The
headache
reasserted
itself
with
a
sharp
discomfort.
'When
Malcolm
brings
his
bottle
of
wine
this
afternoon,
will
you
refuse
a
glass
from
it?'

That
was
childish.
In
her
presence
he
regressed
arms
whirling
shrinking
down
a
tunnel
eat
me
drink
me
..
.

'If
your
father
could
hear
you
now,'
she
cried,
matching
his
anger.

'But
he
can't.
He's
dead
.
And
whatever
you
think,
it
wasn't
anything
to
do
with
me
.
'

He
had
been
in
Glasgow
when
it
happened
,
the
fifteen
year
old son
who
had
run
away
from
home.
What
blame
could
he
have
for
that
accident?
A
man
falling
from
a
high
place,
arms
whirling,
shrinking
down
the
clear
air
to
the
grey
rock.

They
shared
their
dismay
in
silence
until
she
explained
it
away to
herself.

Gazing
at
him
with
an
air
of
being
offended,
she
said,
'You
live
in
the
past.'

And
when
Malcolm
arrived
with
Irene,
later
than
usual,
he
came
with
empty
hands.
There
was
no
bottle
of
wine.
'I
had
to
stop
on
the
motorway
for
something
to
eat.
You
didn't
forget
I
was
away
on
a
course?
They
put
in
an
extra
session
this
morning
and
it
trailed
on.
Irene
ate
because
she
was
tired
of
waiting.
We
were
sure
you
would
have
eaten
too.'

'No,'
Murray
said
quietly.
'We
waited.'

'We
were
sure
you
would
have
eaten,
Mother,'
Malcolm
called.
She
came
to
the
door
of
the
kitchen
carrying
an
oven
glove.
'I
didn't
buy
in
anything
special.
But
there's
always
plenty.
I
have
a
pound
of
mince
and
sausage
rolls
and
six
slices
of
Silverside.
And
York
ham
–
a
half
pound
and
a
quarter.
Bits
and
pieces
that
have to
be
eaten
up.'

There
seemed
no
way
of
preventing
her
from
buying
unrealistic
amounts
of
food.
Wilfully,
she
bought
and
stored
and
had
often
to
throw
away
meat,
fruit,
pastries,
sweet
biscuits,
of
which
she
ate
surprising
amounts.

When
she
turned
back
into
the
kitchen,
the
three
of
them
were left
to
study
one
another.
Malcolm
cleared
his
throat.
'You
don't
look
as
bad
as
I'd
expected.
Irene
said
you
were
looking
terrible.'

'It's
worse
than
it
looks,'
Murray
said,
exactly
reversing
the
sense
of
what
he
had
intended
to
say.
He
squinted
evilly
at
his brother
out
of
the
slant
of
his
injury.

'I
was
sorry
I
couldn't
get
in
to
the
hospital.
Did
you
have
many
visitors?'