The Scribbler

by Iain Maitland

  “No,” the slow brother answered simply. “It is dark.”

  “Keep watching. Say if you see anything,” the smart brother said, looking out the back of the barn.

  The slow brother grunted slightly, half crouching by the window.

  All Carrie could hear beyond that was the wind in the trees.

  “What do you see?” she said eventually to the smart brother in a quiet voice.

  He shook his head as if he wanted her to be silent; was still watching and listening intently.

  “What was that clanging?” she asked a minute later, still speaking softly.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, after a long pause. “I don’t see the police. Probably foxes by one of the other barns or the bins. We sometimes get thieves at this time of year. For the Christmas trees. They’d have been scared off now, though.”

  Another silence. Longer this time. Seeming to stretch on forever.

  The brothers stood still, as if they had been doing this for years.

  Carrie guessed, if they had had thieves before, that maybe they had stood guard many times like this through long winter nights.

  Carrie thought she could a creaking noise, then a rustling, the pitter-patter sound of someone creeping towards the barn. And then away.

  More silence.

  Then other movements. Further away this time. A crackling of leaves among the trees. The swish of a branch.

  Silence again.

  And voices. She was certain she could hear low, urgent voices. Whispering out there in the trees. Insistent whispers. Instructions. You stay here. You – over there, spread out. Lie low. Await the order to fire.

  Even then she thought it might be her imagination.

  Her ears straining for the sounds of police marksmen moving into place. She knew they were coming, the marksmen. Would circle and be ready, just as soon as they had worked out which barn they were in. Not that hard with the equipment they had these days and the two brothers moving continually to and from the windows and pretty much in plain sight.

  Silence.

  On and on.

  Into the night.

  All she could hear now, she thought, were the two brothers. The smart one at the back was taut and tense, ready to explode any second. Noises rumbled and whirred incongruously from his stomach.

  The slow brother at the front kept moving his right foot back and forth, as if steadying himself ready to fire. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A slippery, sliding noise, almost a squeaking, on the rotting floorboard. Over and over. Stop-start. Again and again. This rhythmic endless noise.

  “Shut up,” the smart brother shouted.

  The slow brother jumped and then turned slowly. “What?” His simple face, uncomprehending.

  “We need to be quiet and listen … watch for the police,” the smart brother said quietly.

  “I am,” the slow brother replied.

  “Keep still then,” the smart brother said.

  “Like a statue,” the slow brother answered. Thought for a few seconds and then added, “I will not blink.”

  Another long silence.

  The slow brother’s foot began again. It was all Carrie could hear.

  Front to back.

  To and fro.

  Back to front.

  Carrie waited for the smart brother to explode in fury. Thought what he might do. This trigger-happy man with his loaded gun. An argument. Brother against brother. Two guns. She wondered whether the slow brother might fight back or not. Was not sure.

  It was all she could hear now. The slow brother’s foot. And all she could see. The smart brother’s back, arched and tense. Each slide of the foot another torture. Every slip forward another movement towards the explosion.

  “I see them,” the slow brother said suddenly.

  “Don’t …”

  But it was too late. The slow brother fired his gun, once, twice, three times.

  * * *

  The smart brother was across to the front window.

  Pulling the slow brother back by the shoulders.

  They tumbled to the floor, the slow brother struggling to get to his feet.

  After a brief tussle, they stood there, like two wrestlers facing each other, both panting. Evenly matched, thought Carrie, in a fight to the death.

  “Don’t shoot at them,” the smart brother said. “They will shoot back. If you’re by the window, they will kill you. They’ve been trained. It’s all they do all day. Shooting. They have lasers and things.”

  “You shot …” the slow brother went to say, out of the back window.

  “I shot high. To scare them back. Warning shots. You shot down to kill. If you kill one of them, they will come for us straightaway. They will not wait. There will be too many of them for us.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Wait,” said the smart brother.

  He crawled on his knees to the front window.

  Carrie held her breath as he slowly moved to the right side of the window frame, the opposite side to the broken pane of glass that he had shot through. He wiped with his fingers at the dirty pane of glass to the right, raised his head, peered through.

  “What do you see?” the slow brother asked. “Are they dead?”

  “Ssshhh.”

  The three of them were quiet as the smart brother looked out.

  Eventually, the smart brother looked back, gesturing to the slow brother to check the back window.

  “Slowly … head down, like I did.”

  The slow brother crept across, adopting the same opposite-side, head-low position as the smart brother.

  “There’s no one here,” the smart brother said finally. “Out the front. You shot at ghosts.”

  “I saw policemen and I shot at them,” the slow brother responded, slower to anger than his brother, but it was definitely there, thought Carrie. Down deep inside. Ready to rumble up. “I am a hotshot shooter.”

  The slow brother stood up and, without thinking, stomped across to the front window.

  He bent and looked through the broken pane.

  Carrie shut her eyes, waiting for a shot to ring out, to see the slow brother stagger back and collapse dead on the floor.

  She pulled and tore at the material between her wrists with the shard, one more attempt to free her hands before the smart brother, screaming in anguish, turned on her to kill her.

  But nothing happened.

  The slow brother just peered out. Carrie could see him checking slowly all around.

  “They have gone,” he said finally. “The police cars have left.”

  “What did you shoot at?” the smart brother asked.

  “Over there,” he answered. “By the big barn. There was someone behind it. A policeman. And someone behind him.”

  “You imagined it,” the smart brother replied. “Moonlight on metal … a padlock … or a fox running across … the corner of your eye … there’s no one there.”

  The slow brother shook his head emphatically, a sense of anger that his brother would not believe him. “I shot the policeman. And now they have gone. The cars. We have won. It is over.”

  The slow brother sounded delighted. He dropped his gun to the floor on the other side of the barn from her, Carrie noted.

  The smart brother looked disbelieving as he turned to Carrie.

  She shook her head slowly as if to say to him, ‘it’s not over, it’s only just beginning. This is the quiet before the storm.’

  * * *

  The slow brother sat down on the floor by his gun and reached into his tin of roll-up cigarettes. Carrie could see him visibly relaxing.

  He held the tin up to his smart brother as if to say, ‘do you want one?’

  The smart brother ignored him, moving back and forth between the front and back windows looking out. Agitated. On edge. Expectant.

  “Could they have gone, the police, for a while?” the smart brother stopped and looked at Carrie.

  She shrugged,
not sure what to say. “They might have retreated a bit, but not far … once you shot at the police … when they were taking your mother off … they won’t have gone away.”

  “Why have they taken Mother?” the slow brother asked in a steady, concerned voice, as if it had only just occurred to him.

  “Because it’s dangerous here and they need to get everyone out of the way. Your mother will be at the police station. She’ll be safe there.”

  “What will they do next, the police?” the smart brother asked more urgently, now looking out the back. She thought he’d shoot at anything that moved in that moment. He was that twitchy.

  “The first lot of police who arrived were probably local officers. They’ll be waiting for reinforcements … someone to take charge … firearms … specialist, trained police. It takes a while to get everything into place … and they will want to talk to your mother too … see what she has to say.”

  “She won’t say anything,” the smart brother snapped back. “Mother would not betray us.”

  “Mother wants to come home,” the slow brother said patiently, lighting a cigarette successfully for the first time. “To be with her boys. And we want Mother home.”

  Carrie nodded.

  “They know you have guns … so they will evacuate and cordon off the area first.”

  The smart brother nodded back, yes, I realise that.

  “They will then scout around to see where we are. That may take some time. Once they have done that, they will try to engage with you, to talk you into giving yourself up and letting me go.”

  “We will let you go; we will exchange you for Mother. If they do not bring Mother back, we will not release you,” the smart brother said.

  “You’ve fired shots.” She looked across. “So they will want to know that you are serious and will let me go.”

  “They will want to know we are serious?” the smart brother asked.

  “Yes,” Carrie nodded.

  The smart brother thought for a second or two and then looked across at his slow brother as if reaching a decision.

  “We’ll show them we’re serious … watch her carefully,” he said, looking at the slow brother and nodding towards Carrie.

  He moved towards the staircase.

  “I’m going to drag the body out and down towards the drive. Then they’ll see how serious we are. And what we will do if they don’t bring Mother back to trade for you. We’ll shoot you, too.”

  And with that he was down the stairs.

  Carrie sat helplessly, listening to the smart brother creaking the barn door open, imagining him holding his gun up and peering out into the night. Checking. Watching. Waiting.

  Then back for Gayther.

  She heard the smart brother heave Gayther up, hands under his shoulders, straining for breath as he dragged the body away, the feet trailing on the ground.

  And out of the barn.

  A silence – ten, fifteen, twenty seconds – Carrie hoping to hear gunshots, knowing that the slow brother, listening intently, would not kill her.

  And then the smart brother was back.

  “I’ve propped him up against the old tree stump near the top of the drive. They’ll see him there when they come back … they’ll know we’re serious all right.”

  He looked at Carrie.

  “That we want Mother back in exchange for you.”

  Or else, she thought.

  29. SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER. 2.37AM

  Time passed slowly. Minutes turned towards the hour. And then more. The brothers kept watch, going back and forward and then finally settling in an uneasy silence.

  The three of them now sat in a circle, more like a triangle, on the top floor of the barn.

  Moonlight still streaming through, breath like puffs of smoke in the cold air.

  “They are not coming,” the slow brother said, lighting up another roll-up cigarette. Carrie noted his gun was on the floor behind him, up against the wall. Unnoticed. Forgotten about. For the moment anyway.

  “They will,” the smart brother answered abruptly. He reached for the cigarette tin, laying his gun in his lap as he did so. “It’s only a matter of time. They will bring Mother back. We will then talk to them.”

  Carrie knew that the police would arrive soon, at any moment. Most likely, a cordon was already in place around the farm. They were still questioning the mother. Working out where the brothers would be. What they might do. Getting the team in place. Marksmen too. Then it would all unfold – and fast.

  She had to try to get away before that.

  Once the police arrived anything could happen.

  This gun-happy man and his half-witted brother.

  Carrie felt the material between her wrists. She had been pulling and tearing at it with the shard of glass at every opportunity. Her hands, her wrists, she knew, were scratched and torn with her cutting. But the material did not seem to have loosened or ripped and she wondered whether she had actually been cutting at the right part of it at all.

  She stayed put, her back against the wall opposite where the slow brother sat. If she stood up, she would wobble and stumble and was worried that, if she fell, the shard of glass that she’d been holding so carefully might stab into her wrist, cutting her veins. Or that she might drop the shard and they would see what she had been doing. They’d then gag her and tie her against something so she could not move at all and any chance she had of escaping would be gone.

  She kept watch on the two guns. If she could somehow free her hands, and get one of them, she had a chance. The smart brother held his loosely on his lap or by his side. Moving it back and forth as he smoked and stubbed out his cigarette – but always conscious of it and never really letting go. If she grabbed at it, he’d be up and ready to shoot her in an instant.

  She looked at the slow brother, who, now and then, would glance shyly back at her and smile his wonky-faced smile; more of a grimace, really. She smiled, too, but did not talk to him the way she had done, as a friend and confidante, because the other brother, with the hard face and staring eyes, would see through her. Would understand what she was doing. Might punish her in some way.

  The slow brother seemed to have forgotten about his gun. Carrie hadn’t. She knew she had to go for it.

  She wondered, if she got the slow brother’s gun, whether she could hold them both off. Or if she could shoot the smart brother before he shot her. If she had to. Life or death.

  She had to try something. To avoid the oncoming slaughter. Pondered a while. Then decided to put a plan she’d worked out into action.

  She started by pushing the shard of glass carefully into the straw just behind her, so it would not be seen, and then sat upright.

  * * *

  “I need to go to the toilet,” she said firmly, almost insistently. The only thing she could think of.

  The slow brother looked troubled. She could see from his face that he was embarrassed, felt awkward.

  “You’ll have to wait,” the smart brother answered.

  “I can’t,” she replied.

  “You’ll have to. We don’t have a lavatory here,” he said, taking one last drag on his cigarette.

  A second or two’s silence.

  The slow brother looked bewildered.

  “So, you what?” she asked. “You want me to … just go … as I am … here … now?”

  The smart brother shrugged, as if to say, ‘do what you like, I’m not untying you’.

  She looked at the slow brother for help, but he would not meet her eye. She sat, waiting.

  Then the slow brother spoke. “I can untie her hands. Watch her.”

  The smart brother leaned back, blowing the last puff of smoke out of his mouth.

  “You’ll have to keep an eye on her. I don’t trust her,” he said.

  “You can turn your back,” she answered sharply. “You’re not watching me.” She paused and then added, “You’ll need to let me go downstairs. I need to go to the toilet properly.”

 
; A moment or two as they both took in the meaning of what she was saying. The slow brother looked uncomfortable. The smart brother barely concealing his disgust.

  Not really, she wanted to say, not really. I just want to get away from you up here and be downstairs with my hands and legs untied. And this is the only thing I can think of. What else can I say? How else do I create a chance?

  The smart brother spoke clearly to the slow brother. “Untie her and walk her downstairs. Stand by the door. Aim your gun at her. Turn your head to the side to give her some privacy.”

  He stared at her. “We don’t have anything for you. You’ll have to sort yourself out after. And if you try to run, we’ll shoot you. Won’t we?” He nodded towards the slow brother.

  The slow brother looked unsure. “I do not …”

  “When the police arrive,” she said, “the first thing they will do once they see … DI Gayther’s body … is to ask to see me. Alive. If I’m dead, they will just storm the barn and kill you. You’ll never see your mother again.”

  The smart brother paused and then nodded. “If she tries to run, shoot her in the legs.”

  “I do not …” the slow brother tailed off. They all knew what he was going to say. I do not shoot ladies.

  And that was what Carrie was banking on. That he’d half turn away as she crouched down. That she could somehow run at him, push him aside, maybe catch him off-balance, and be out of the barn door and running before the smart brother could react, coming down the stairs and shooting her.

  The smart brother thought for a second or two. Then he spoke. “Untie her and take her downstairs. Put her at the back of the barn and go to the front and turn your back. I’ll stand by the top of the stairs so I can see the barn door. If she makes a break for it, I’ll shoot her down.”

  She looked back at him and knew he meant it.

  Changed her mind.

  Thought it better, safer, to stay as she was.

  But the slow brother was already up, pocketing his gun and moving towards her. He lifted her up, steadied her and turned her around as he reached for a penknife in his pocket.

  “Your hands are all bleeding,” he said, looking down. “How did—”

  “The material’s been too tight, it’s been chafing and cutting into my flesh, the blood’s from that.”