The Sergeant shook his hand warmly, and although it may have been a trick of the light, Peter was sure that for a fraction of a second, the policeman had begun to blush.
"It was a pleasure," he started to reply. "Actually, that's not true...it was a mess. Blood everywhere, a burning car, bodies...not one of my best days. But I can honestly say that I am very, very pleased that this is one case that has had a positive outcome."
"You saved my life. I thank you Sir."
"Enough," he smiled. "You've done it already! I was just doing a job that I was trained to do. But thanks."
"Do you mind if my photographer takes a few snaps?" Peter asked, turning slightly to introduce the photographer that had accompanied him from the paper. "This is Douglas."
"Hi," the Sergeant said, shaking Douglas's hand too. "I don't see why not..."
"Good," Peter replied. "I think it would really make the article much better if we did. Hopefully you will get a front page spot."
"Yes, my boss mentioned something about an article, when he asked me to meet you here. What's it about?"
"It's about the Craigmillar Estate. About life here, and how it's being destroyed by the behaviour of a few hard-core nutters who are trying to model themselves into an LA Style gang, or Team or Crew, or whatever else they are calling themselves nowadays. It's the follow-on article to the one I wrote a few weeks before my accident. I thought it would be great to publicise the work your police group is doing, and hopefully try to make you and your colleagues more accessible to the general public and residents of Craigmillar. I just think that if they got to know you guys more, then it might help."
"Couldn't agree more."
Peter wanted to time this just right. He had to be careful how he said the next bit.
"...Originally, my editor suggested that I write something about your citation for bravery for diving into the waters of the loch and 'saving' the life of a local resident. But I persuaded him against that. I just think that most of the locals would have preferred it if you had let him drown, given that he is probably the leader of the CME Team. I think that's what we would call negative publicity. The last thing an article like that would do, would be to raise your profile in the community in a positive way. Most of them would probably just want to chuck you into the loch, for letting him live. It's just lucky that he's locked up somewhere safe where no one can get their hands on him. I, for one, would like to meet the bastard and have a few words with him...if you will please excuse my French!"
As the Sergeant allowed the photographer to direct him into position for the photograph, with Arthur's Seat as the backdrop, the policeman replied to Peter.
"Actually, he's not locked up anymore. You won't have heard yet, but he was released yesterday. He got out early for good behaviour."
"What? You're pulling my leg?" Peter couldn't believe it. "That thug deliberately tried to kill me. I almost died as a result, and he's already out of prison? You are joking, right?"
"Sorry, I'm not. I wish it was different. But I heard this morning that he was already back on the estate."
Peter looked away, trying to hide his emotions and control the anger that suddenly surged through him.
Peter was not an evil person. He had probably never been cruel or really violent in his life. But that bastard had deliberately tried to ram him off the road and kill him. To discover that just as Peter had managed to pull his life back together, having been at death's door and back, that his attacker was now a free man and once again walking the streets of Craigmillar, seemed too incredible to believe.
It only lasted a couple of seconds, but for a few, very real and tangible moments, Peter found himself imagining driving straight into the estate, finding Big Wee Rab, and killing him.
That night he dreamt about it again. In greater detail.
When he woke up the next morning, he was sweating and shaking.
Several times during that day he thought about the dream again.
It was a violent dream. Thinking about it made Peter feel uncomfortable. He was and never had been a violent person.
Was it some form of post-traumatic stress syndrome?
Whatever it was, it didn't seem to want to go away. Over the next couple of days, a rage built up within Peter. An anger towards Big Wee Rab that he had never felt towards any other human. His ex-girlfriend, who worked at the News, noticed it. Over a white wine and a non-alcoholic beer, he explained his feelings and the dream, and she suggested that he should go for some counselling to help him come to terms both with what had happened to him, and how it had happened.
To Peter, the answer seemed so simple.
Kill Big Wee Rab.
The thought scared him.
Over the next few days his dreams showed him how to do it. Made it so clear.
Peter began to get apprehensive about going to sleep.
He became scared of closing his eyes.
But each night, eventually the need to sleep overpowered him, he did close his eyes, and he slept.
And then he dreamt. Every night.
.
--------------------
.
Peter's latest article on the Craigmillar Estate, including the photograph of Sergeant Angus, graced the third page of the Evening News on the Saturday evening.
The feedback was brilliant. Everyone loved it.
Perhaps his ex-girlfriend had said something, or maybe it was just coincidence, but on the Monday morning the editor called him into his office, closed the door, congratulated him and offered him a coffee.
"Peter, you are looking really tired...perhaps you are working too hard, too soon...?"
"No, it's okay. I just haven't been sleeping properly for a while..."
"Exactly. Listen, I was thinking. I know that the man who tried to kill you was set free, and he probably returned to the estate. Stressful encounters are probably the last thing you need just now. So maybe it's a good idea if you consider temporarily shelving your crusade to help people on the estate, and concentrate on helping yourself instead?"
He was not the only one. His mother had also suggested that perhaps he should forget about the Craigmillar Estate. After all, if Peter went back there, surely it was just a matter of time before he bumped into the people that had done this to him.
That didn't scare him though. Peter was quite confident in his ability to handle himself in most difficult situations.
What scared Peter now, was the graphical depictions of how he pictured killing that bastard Rab the next time he saw him.
The image of what he had done to him in his dream seemed so real. And it made Peter almost physically sick.
But the thought would not go away.
It stuck with him night and day.
After a week, Peter decided he needed a break. It was time to get away from everything and go on holiday.
Hopefully, a new scene and some relaxation would help him forget the dream.
..
Chapter Twenty Two
.
.
Arthur's Seat.
Edinburgh
24th Feb
.
.
The midwinter heat wave had continued for the past week. The normal cold and wind was due to return next week, but for now, the sun still shone and it was pleasantly warm.
The snow had all gone now, and the grass underneath was a mix of yellows, browns and light greens. The ground had smelled spring and was making its preparations.
From the city centre of Edinburgh it is possible to drive down the Royal Mile, one of the oldest streets in Europe, directly into the Queen's Park, a vast expanse of open parkland, in the centre of which a large volcanic plug rises high above the ground, dominating the city that nestles at its feet.
Reputedly once climbed by King Arthur, Arthur's Seat can be climbed by foot from a number of different paths that have been etched over the years into its steep banks.
Almost every year a tourist loses his or her life making
the ascent, but the incredible view from the top of the hill continues to draw visitors every day of the year, come sun, wind, rain, hail, or snow.
Peter had driven his car up the scenic road that wound its way up and round the park, passing two Lochs on his way.
At the top of the road, Peter parked his car beside Dunsapie Loch.
He got out, and leaned against his car, staring up at the hill above him.
It was the first day of his two-week holiday.
He had not yet decided where to go.
Last night the dream had woken him again.
He was killing Big Wee Rab.
He woke up in a cold sweat, made some hot milk, and sat by the window of his flat in Lochend. The view from his window was dominated by the Queen's Park, and the dark, black hulk of the 'mountain' that sat at its centre.
He opened the window and breathed in the cold night air.
His gaze wandered back to the hill, and he found himself staring at the summit. Some small lights, probably torches, were visible near the summit. Probably some students making their way down the hill, after an alcohol inspired climb in the dark.
"I wonder what it looks like up there, in the dark?" Peter thought to himself.
He coughed, and choked a little on the hot milk.
What?
I wonder what?
He looked back at the hill. The lights were slowly making their way down the slope.
"If someone can climb the hill in the dark, surely it can't be that bad after all?" he thought to himself again.
Again, the thought caught him by surprise. But, and this was the thing, this was the third time he had had such a thought in the past week, and on each occasion there was no aftershock, or fear, or negative feeling associated with it.
What was going on?
The next day, he woke up, made himself a cup of tea, pulled the curtains open, lay back down on his bed and propped his head up with a pillow so that he could study the hill. From his bedroom window he could already see some little black-specks making the climb. He looked at his watch. 8.00 a.m. "They must be keen, or mad..." he thought to himself.
For the first time in his life be began to study the hill, imagining what it would be like to climb it. Trying to see 'how' he would climb it.
He realised that from here, he couldn't really see any proper route to its summit.
That was how an hour later, he came to be standing beside his car, a pair of sturdy shoes on his feet, a raincoat, a bottle of water and his Nikon SLR in a small rucksack on his back, and a pair of sunglasses on his head.
Leaning back against his car, he visually followed the route that the tourists were taking from the Loch up to the top.
It looked easy enough.
Peter the great acrophobic smiled.
He couldn't believe what he was just about to do.
He crossed the road, lifted his foot, and took the first step upwards.
.
--------------------
.
Peter stood at the top of the mountain, king of the world. He was clinging tightly to the Ordnance Survey point, which protruded from the summit, not because he was scared, but because the wind was blowing, and there was only room for one or two people to stand at the summit at any point in time.
Actually, there were two small summits, separated by a little dip where you had to scramble across some rough volcanic rock to get from one to the other.
Peter had already scrambled from the first to the second, without any fear, and he was now busy snapping hundreds of photographs of the incredible panorama that rolled around him like some great IMAX screen.
Except this was no 3D film. This was real!
Peter was really, unbelievably, incredibly, actually standing at the top of Arthur's Seat! He laughed out aloud. He couldn't believe this.
What's more, he felt GREAT!
Great, as in "I am King of the World!" Great as in, "Now, the world is my oyster. I can fly anywhere, I can climb anything!" Great as in, "I can rescue cats from trees!". And great as in, he felt as strong as an ox, fit as a fiddle, in better shape than he had ever been at any time of his life!
His fear of heights, miraculously, seemed to have vanished.
And so had any thought of Big Wee Rab, and wanting to kill him.
..
Chapter Twenty Three
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.
Craigmillar Estate
At the bottom of Arthur's Seat
.
.
Big Wee Rab had been back for just over a week, but already it was beginning to feel as if he had never been away. He had stepped out of the routine of life on the estate, not through his choice, but now he was back, the routine was exactly the same as before.
In the morning you got up and there was nothing to do.
In the afternoon, after lunch, there was nothing to do.
In the evening, after dinner, there was nothing to do.
Perhaps he was being unfair. Entertainment was possible, if you did want to take a little initiative and create your own.
For example, in the morning, you could steal a car.
In the afternoon, you could drive to Dunbar, and get some drugs or smoke some weed down on one of the many beautiful beaches between here and there.
In the afternoon, you could mug someone.
In the evening, you could sniff some glue, beat someone up, crash the car and set fire to it, or steal something from someone's house.
And, ...but this could take a little bit more initiative..., Rab could start organising more ‘social evenings’, by arranging pitch fights with other gangs to see who was top dog, or had the best crew.
Of course, when driving a stolen car through the streets of Edinburgh, there was always the slight possibility that they might get caught, which added to the adrenaline rush and the whole buzz.
In fact, Rab realised, that was the main problem with the estate. There was nothing to do which was actually 'legal'. In prison, 'inside', he had been confined to small spaces, but he was never bored. He was always busy, doing things, learning to read better, making things, exercising and working out, or eating, laughing, playing cards, and sleeping.
There was also a schedule, a rota of activities, a level of discipline and organisation that made life inside almost better than life outside.
Here there was too much free choice, but nothing to choose.
At least, nothing that was legal or free.
The bottom line was that life outside was boring.
Unless you were educated or had qualifications, 'you would never go nowhere.' You would never be able to escape. In fact, that was it, Rab decided...life on the estate was like a prison sentence, but worse, because it was without the organisation, discipline, or opportunities that you got inside.
If he stayed here, he could already see the next ten years mapped out for him. Either he would die of boredom, or he would die in a fight, while trying to make life more exciting.
It was eight days after he got back that he made the final decision to leave. He had to get away from here. He had to escape. He would escape.
Before he could go anywhere, however, there were two problems that he needed to solve.
First, he had no idea of where he could go, when he did leave.
Glasgow? London? America? Fuck no, that would need a passport.
How about Europe? He'd heard you 'didnie need a passport onymore' to go anywhere inside the EU?
He'd seen pictures of the beaches in Spain and the south of France. Massive beaches. And the women there 'didnie wear ony bras'. They were 'right fit, had massive tits and were fucking naked!' as Wee Eck had so quaintly described it, when Big Wee Rab had shown him one of the pictures he had ripped out of his favourite book in the prison library.
Which is what, in the end, made up Big Wee Rab's mind.
He would go to 'Nice' on the south coast of France. It had to be nice there. Because the name said so.
The sec
ond small problem was that he was 'brassic'. He was broke. Had no money. No cash. Nothing. Nada. Nichts.-Fucking nowt.
After thinking about it for a long time, he realised that although he was definitely going to escape, he would not be able to do it immediately. He would first have to steal some money. One final 'bad gig', that would then help him to clean up his act and get as far away from here as possible.
So, and this was the big question, who could you steal money from on an estate where everyone was poor?
He spent the rest of the day thinking about that question, without finding any obvious answers. That night, however, while quietly smoking a large spliff in his bedroom, the answer came to him. It took awhile, but when it came, it was so simple.
Mr Wallace.
He was an old guy. Almost dead. He must have saved up money all his life. He must have a stack of cash. And since he can hardly walk or make it to the bank anymore, Rab reasoned, it had to be hidden in his house somewhere.
That was the answer then.
He would pay a private visit to Mr Wallace, find his hiding place, steal the money, pack his bag, and leave.
He took another big draw on his spliff, lay back on his bed, and began to dream of his new life in France.
..
Chapter Twenty Four
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.
Near the Hörnlihütte
The bottom of the Matterhorn.
Switzerland
.
.
Peter was standing on a plateau near the base of the Matterhorn, looking almost straight up. The muscles in his neck strained as he looked up, and up, and up. Probably never before in his life had Peter actually spent so much time looking 'up'. He had certainly always avoided looking 'down' at anything that was more than a metre beneath him.
BOX SET of THREE TOP 10 MEDICAL THRILLERS Page 9