Life For a Life

by T F Muir

  And as she ran, her feet crunched snow, kicked through frosted grass long enough to slow her down. Her breath gushed in front of her. By the near corner, the snow had drifted. With less than ten feet to go, her feet sank into thicker snow, telling her that she was not going to reach the corner in time, she was too slow, too late—

  A man stepped out from the corner of the steading.

  Jessie’s heart stopped but her legs kept pushing as her mind tried to work out why he was wearing white fatigues, and why the gun looked so long.

  The gun swung her way, aimed at her face.

  She half-stumbled, half-dived as her mind told her they were not military fatigues but forensic coveralls, that the gun was a Makarov fitted with a suppressor—

  She heard the spit as the Makarov kicked in Kumar’s hand.

  She felt something slap her shoulder but her momentum carried her forward. She landed on her knees and her head butted Kumar’s groin, and powered him on to his back on the snow-covered ground with a surprised grunt.

  Jessie tried to kick herself to her feet but some part of her was not working the way it should. The Makarov was still gripped in Kumar’s hand, and he swung his arm at her to take another shot. But at such close quarters, the length of the barrel with its suppressor was more of a hindrance than an advantage.

  Jessie heard the angry spit, felt the warm buzz as a bullet zipped through her hair.

  Another bullet spat past, ricocheted off the barn’s stone wall.

  Then she had Kumar’s gun arm gripped in both hands, except that it felt as if it was only one. But Kumar, instead of fighting to recover his gun, rolled on to his side, taking Jessie with him. Before she could work out what had happened, she was on her back with Kumar on top of her, trying to tug his gun arm free.

  Jessie held on as long as she could, but it was no use.

  The gun slipped from her grip and Kumar struggled to his feet.

  He looked down at her, lowering the barrel as he pointed it at her face. ‘You stupid bitch,’ he said, and turned his head at an animal roar by his side.

  Something flashed before Jessie.

  The suppressor spat, the bullet burying itself in the snow by her head.

  Kumar toppled over, overpowered by the surprise attack. Even above the animal’s roar, Jessie heard the angry spit of another three shots in quick succession.

  She pulled herself over, made it to her knees, surprised to see the snow bleeding red.

  And why was Robert here, roaring like a madman, swinging his fists?

  Jessie struggled to push to her feet, almost made it before slumping back into the snow. ‘Robert,’ she shouted, but her voice came out as weak as a gasp. He could not hear her anyway, she knew that. But as he continued to punch she saw that his attack was lightweight, little more than boyish slaps rather than manly punches.

  She saw, too, how strong Kumar was – the ring on his little finger told her he was Kumar – for he seemed to be taking no notice of Robert’s flailing punches, more intent on finding his feet, which he did with alarming ease.

  And Robert, as if realising at last that he was no match for the man, rushed over to his mother’s side, grabbed her by her hands, tried to pull her to her feet to lead her to safety. But his grip slipped on her blood, and his face grimaced in horror as he looked at his bloodied fingers and roared his deaf-man’s roar again.

  Behind Robert, Kumar rubbed his hand under a bloodied nose, then gave Jessie a red-toothed smile as he levelled the gun at Robert.

  Jessie reached up, pulled Robert to her, and threw her arm round him.

  ‘He’s only a boy,’ she pleaded.

  ‘That doesn’t matter to me,’ Kumar replied, his finger tightening round—

  The Makarov jerked, and spat a bullet at the snow.

  Kumar grimaced in pain as his gun arm twisted behind his back, then grunted with surprise as his head butted the steading wall. Then his other arm jerked behind him to the metallic click of handcuffs, and Mhairi saying, ‘You’re under arrest, you fuck-head.’

  Kumar seemed to recover from his second surprise attack of the day and put up a struggle to break free. His head rocked back in a reverse head butt that could have cracked concrete. But Mhairi pulled out of the way just in time, took hold of Kumar’s head with both hands and thudded it into the barn wall – once, twice, three times for luck – with an anger she must have been saving for Angus.

  Kumar slumped to the snow, his face leaving a bloodied trail down the stone wall. Mhairi retrieved his gun and, with an expertise that surprised Jessie, removed the magazine clip and slipped it into her pocket.

  Then she was kneeling by Jessie’s side. ‘You’ve been shot.’

  ‘Forget me. Take Robert to the car.’

  ‘It’s OK—’

  ‘There’s two of them.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Mhairi . . .’

  But Mhairi already had Jessie’s jacket unzipped and her arm freed from her sleeve, and was ripping her sweater open at the neck, tearing the buttons from her blouse.

  ‘What about Andy?’ Jessie asked. ‘Is he there?’

  ‘You were right.’

  ‘Is he . . . ?’

  ‘Andy’s inside,’ Mhairi said. ‘There’s a door at the back. He’s alive. That’s all I know. I’ve not had time to check him out.’ She dabbed Jessie’s wound. ‘You’re OK. Looks like the bullet went through.’ She slipped a key ring from her pocket and opened the blade of a Swiss Army knife, then sliced the sleeve from Jessie’s sweater to use as a makeshift sling.

  ‘Didn’t know you were a field medic,’ Jessie said, ‘and a karate queen.’

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

  ‘Want to talk about it over a drink?’

  ‘Or three?’

  Jessie tried a smile. ‘You’re all right, Mhairi. Angus doesn’t deserve you.’

  ‘Fuck Angus.’

  ‘No thank you.’

  Mhairi gave a short smile, and pulled Jessie’s jacket back over her shoulder. ‘That should do until the real medics arrive.’ Then she turned to Robert, touched her lips, and said, ‘Your mum is going to be OK.’

  Robert looked at Jessie for reassurance.

  Jessie tried a smile, but it felt all wrong. Then she reached up with her good arm and pulled him to her. She buried her lips in his hair, and realised that without her son, she had nothing. She shook him with mock anger. ‘You wee rascal,’ she said to him. ‘I told you to stay in the car.’

  He pulled back and frowned at her, as if puzzled by her change in mood.

  But she gave him a cleaner smile, and said, ‘I love you.’

  His eyes filled, and he said, ‘Iloveyoutoo.’

  CHAPTER 50

  Gilchrist pushed himself to his feet and stumbled into Mhairi.

  ‘Leg’s numb,’ he said to her, as she pulled his arm over and round her shoulder, and took most of his weight.

  ‘You don’t have to walk, sir,’ she said. ‘You can sit.’

  If he moved his head, his world spun, and he realised it would take some time before the drugs cleared his system. He was also having difficulty remembering exactly what had happened, although the urge to be on his feet and away from the steading was so strong as to be almost overpowering. ‘I don’t want to sit on that chair,’ he said, pleased that he was able to pronounce his words, even though his tongue felt like a cotton ball.

  He worked up some spittle, shuffled his left foot forward, then his right. The taping had cut off the circulation, and his legs could have been connected to someone else’s nervous system. But just moving around, and breathing without physical restriction, was already doing wonders for his spirit and his strength.

  Still, walking and trying to stay upright required concentration.

  ‘Pretend you’re going for a pint, sir. That’s what my father used to say. The day I cannae walk to the pub is the day they’re gonnie put me in my coffin.’

  Gilchrist chu
ckled. Having a pint or a half. The Scotsman’s answer to all ailments. He tried lengthening his stride – well, pushing one foot further forward than the other. ‘Did he pass away at the bar?’ he managed to ask her.

  ‘Run over by a bus.’

  Gilchrist halted. ‘Sorry, I . . .’

  ‘Only joking, sir. He smoked like a lum, and died of lung cancer.’

  Through the open steading door, the snow lay as white as a sheet under the blue blanket of a cloudless sky. The wind gave a sudden gust, buffeting Gilchrist as he stepped into the cold. If not for Mhairi’s grip, he would have been bowled over.

  ‘Bit chilly,’ he said, breathing in the freezing air, and marvelling at the clarity of the countryside, as if seeing it for the first time through eyes that could focus on the finest of details. Maybe you really had to stare death in the eye before you appreciated life.

  ‘We can go back inside,’ she said.

  ‘Outside’s fine.’

  Gilchrist had come to – he could not remember the moments before passing out – as Mhairi was slicing through the duct tape, and it had taken her several seconds to convince him that Kumar was not going to break through the door and kill them both.

  Once freed, all Gilchrist had wanted to do was get off that chair.

  Mhairi glanced at the corner of the steading, and Gilchrist did likewise. ‘I’ve called for backup,’ she said. ‘And an ambulance. They should be here any time.’

  Robert was on his knees in the snow, stroking his mother’s hair. Jessie’s face was as white as her surroundings. When she saw Gilchrist and Mhairi, she could not resist quipping, ‘The pair of you look like you’re going out on a date.’

  ‘I wish,’ Mhairi said.

  Gilchrist jerked his arm. ‘Why’s Jessie sitting in the snow?’

  ‘She’s been shot, sir.’

  Gilchrist blinked, wondered what he was missing. His mind was not functioning the way it should, and he was struggling to make his memory work. ‘Shot?’ he said. ‘Where?’

  ‘In the shoulder. Looks worse than it is.’

  ‘Take me to her.’

  ‘The snow’s deep.’

  ‘And your point is . . . ?’

  Gilchrist shuffled his feet, tried to turn round, when he heard the distant sound of sirens. And a memory came back to him then, of a man with a knife. ‘Kumar,’ he said.

  ‘He’s handcuffed.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Behind the barn, sir.’

  ‘Right.’ He was sure he was missing something but could not say what. But rather than continue to ask questions and receive answers that failed him, he thought it best to keep quiet.

  ‘You’re shivering, sir.’ Mhairi helped turn him round. ‘We should go back into the steading,’ she insisted. ‘It’s sheltered, and warmer.’

  ‘But not that chair,’ he said, relieved he at least remembered that.

  The sirens were closer now, and Gilchrist caught the blue flashes of a line of police cars – a convoy, it looked like – racing at speed towards the smallholding.

  He blinked, at least he thought that was all he did, and was surprised to find himself inside the steading on his back on the floor, with a paramedic checking his heartbeat. Other parts of his memory seemed to have evaporated too, as if he was watching them on an old film reel that stopped and started out of sequence—

  ‘Close your left eye,’ the paramedic said.

  Gilchrist did as he was told.

  ‘No, your left eye.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, and got it that time, only to have his eye blinded by a pencil torch and irritated by a pair of fingers that pulled at the eyelids.

  ‘Follow my finger.’

  Gilchrist did but seemed not to impress the paramedic.

  ‘We’ll take him to Ninewells for observation,’ the paramedic said to a tall man with blond hair, who appeared beside them, as if from nowhere.

  Had he passed out again?

  Against the black overcoat with its upturned collar, the man’s face looked as pale as the snow. Even from where he was, Gilchrist could tell the man’s crown was thinning. Then his memory returned as Stan peered down at him.

  ‘Help me up, Stan. There’s a good lad.’

  ‘No can do, boss. You look too peely-wally to be on your feet.’

  ‘You sure you’re not looking in a mirror?’

  Stan grinned, and leaned closer. ‘His full name is Kumar al Baradi, per his British driving licence. But that’s likely an alias. He also has driving licences in the names of Kumar Bretford, Kumar Blumenthal, and Kumar Brukowski.’

  Gilchrist noted all first names Kumar, and surnames beginning with the letter B. Did that mean anything? Or did it just make it easier to remember if you lived under permanent deception? But just the mention of the case was doing wonders for his memory. Faces flickered before him, and he felt his heart slump at the recollection of Bill and Eilidh—

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find other aliases when we look through his home,’ Stan said.

  ‘You know where he lives?’

  ‘His mobile phone. It’s a gold mine. Addresses, bank accounts, phone numbers . . .’

  When Stan said nothing more but just looked down at him, Gilchrist said, ‘What have I missed?’

  ‘Phone numbers?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Your number is in Kumar’s mobile.’

  ‘Why?’ Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I don’t remember talking to him.’ Had he? Or was his memory still failing him?

  Stan shrugged. ‘Our technicians will try to recover data.’

  An image flashed into Gilchrist’s mind of Kumar tearing open a bag. ‘There was another body,’ he said. ‘Over by the wall.’

  Stan nodded. ‘Craig Farmer. Shot through the back of the head.’ Stan paused, then said, ‘We also recovered Farmer’s mobile and SIM card. Your number’s on there, too.’

  Gilchrist had a vague recollection of something at Crail harbour but could not pull it up. ‘The gun,’ he said. ‘I think it’s Farmer’s.’

  ‘Why?’

  Gilchrist dabbed the side of his head, at a lump above and in front of his ear. His hair felt clotted, and when he looked at his hand, he was surprised to see blood. ‘I don’t know,’ he said to Stan. Then he closed his eyes, and opened them again, and waited until his world steadied. ‘I tell you, Stan, I don’t know how anyone can function on drugs.’

  ‘They don’t. That’s the point.’ Stan turned his head at the sound of a woman’s voice, then said, ‘Catch you later, boss.’

  The stop-start film reel kicked in again, and when he next blinked Dr Cooper was by his side, holding his hand, squeezing his fingers. ‘How’s my boy,’ she said.

  Gilchrist surprised himself by squeezing back. Maybe it was the word boy or the sight of a woman which fired his brain, but some part of his memory surged back to him.

  ‘Where’s Jessie?’ he asked. ‘And Robert?’

  ‘Jessie’s being transported to Ninewells. She’s lost a lot of blood but all her signs are stable. They’ll probably keep her in for a few days.’ Cooper smiled down at him, then turned to the side as a pair of paramedics pushed a gurney alongside and fiddled with the settings.

  ‘Whoah,’ said Gilchrist.

  ‘We have the ambulance outside,’ one of the paramedics said.

  ‘I’ll walk,’ he said, and pulled on Cooper’s hand. ‘Help me up.’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Definitely. I don’t like being horizontal.’

  ‘Pity,’ Cooper said. ‘I like you horizontal.’

  Gilchrist frowned, not seeing the joke, and wondering if there even was one.

  Cooper helped him to his feet and steadied him by placing her arm through his.

  ‘I could get used to this,’ she said.

  Through the open steading door, the place thrived. Radio static crackled. An engine revved. Lights flashed. Voices mumbled. Bodies shuffled past. Busier than Market Street at the Lammas Fair,
he thought.

  As Cooper helped him into the ambulance, she said, ‘Mr Cooper called this morning.’

  Mr Cooper rang a bell, brought back memories. ‘Called?’ he said.

  ‘He’s leaving me.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I was hoping that might please you.’

  He looked at her and smiled, and a memory of golden hair slipping through his fingers, tumbling over his face, flashed into his mind. ‘I think it does,’ he said to her.

  She placed her hand by her ear. ‘I’ll give you a call.’

  Gilchrist had time only to nod before the door closed.

  CHAPTER 51

  Two days later

  Ninewells Hospital

  She was asleep when Gilchrist arrived.

  He tried not to waken her, give her a few more minutes of rest, but she opened her eyes as he was removing the cardboard wrapping.

  ‘For me?’ she said.

  ‘Thought I’d bring them in to brighten up your day.’

  She tilted her head, lifted her chin. ‘Let me smell.’

  He held the flowerpot out to her.

  She closed her eyes as she inhaled. ‘How did you know I love hyacinths? Did Robert text you?’

  Gilchrist shook his head. ‘My daughter loves them too,’ he said. ‘Their fragrance always reminds me of New Year.’

  ‘Is Robert OK?’ she asked.

  ‘He’ll be in later with Angie.’

  Jessie slumped back into the pillow. ‘He’s too young to see what he saw. I hope he won’t be haunted.’

  ‘Kids are more resilient than we give them credit for.’ He returned her look. ‘It’s you I’m worried about.’

  ‘Me? I’ll be on my feet in a day or so. Don’t know why they won’t let me out.’

  ‘You’ve been shot.’

  ‘In my shoulder. Not my foot.’

  Gilchrist pulled the conversation back on track with, ‘Do you remember saying you wanted to leave?’

  Jessie frowned. ‘Leave what?’

  ‘The job. St Andrews. Scotland. You never spelled it out.’ He tried to give her a smile of reassurance but her eyes danced with his, as if she was preparing to challenge him. ‘You were doped up,’ he explained, ‘but even so, it’s your subconscious releasing these thoughts.’