Hen's Teeth

by Manda Scott

  Through the undergrowth I watched the blood run free from the knife wound on Lee’s neck. It wasn’t flowing fast enough to be fatal. Neck wounds rarely are.

  Good try, but not good enough.

  Andersen had his hand in her hair, her head stretched back over the roof stone, and was leaning over, his eyes above hers. His lips moved but whatever he said was too quiet to be audible. He wasn’t offering help.

  I took another slow, cautious step back. Leaves moved underfoot.

  Gemmell turned towards me, his eyes quartering the wood.

  ‘Andersen. She’s gone.’

  The fox looked up and smiled.

  Leaning back, still with one hand locked in Lee’s hair, he lifted the 4.10 from the side of the cairn and held it against her skull, just behind the ear.

  ‘Count of five,’ he said, just loudly enough for me to hear him.

  ‘One . . . two . . . three . . .’

  ‘Drop it. We don’t want her dead yet.’

  Gemmell. He gives commands as a reflex.

  The smile grew. The gun angled down until the mouth rested on her knee.

  Lee twisted round against his hand, black eyes in a white face, voice raw. ‘Kellen. No. Stay out.’

  ‘. . . four . . .’

  ‘No.’ I stepped forward into the clearing, saw the smile stretch and, sickening, I saw his finger tighten on the trigger . . .

  ‘No!’

  . . . and heard the hammer fall on bare metal.

  Lee had dropped the shells in the river. Andersen never reloaded.

  He knew that and she knew that. Only I forgot.

  I stood at the edge of the clearing, tasting acrid bile in the back of my throat, and knew that I had had my one chance and I had blown it very badly.

  As the fox drew back the gun, still smiling, Lee pulled her hair from his grip and threw herself away from the cairn, towards the mound. Andersen sprang sideways after her in a one-handed tackle and they hit the barrow together in a bruising collision of flesh and earth. The momentum carried them over the ridge and down the other side, to land in a winded heap on the floor of the clearing.

  The man recovered first. He rolled to his feet and stood over her, still holding the gun, teeth clenched and face contorted in a display of temper that was no longer under any control. Kicking her arm into extension, he trapped the wrist with his foot, pinning her hand to the floor of the clearing. Then he reversed his grip on the gun with an impatient flick and, holding the barrel vertically, he slammed the butt down hard on to her open fingers.

  Her scream cut off as she fainted.

  The silence was painful.

  The moon slid the final inch down below the level of the gap and the shadows stretched like prison bars across the clearing. Only the river still moved. The rest of the wood watched in stillness, as it had since the first scream.

  Andersen and Gemmell looked at each other across the open space. Both of them looked at me. I was shaking all over in a fine, uncontrolled tremor.

  ‘Inside?’ Andersen jerked his head towards the farm.

  ‘I think so. And then Dr Stewart can tell us where she put her chickens.’ Gemmell regarded me with a quiet loathing. ‘We will need them, you understand, to rebuild a new flock elsewhere. The rest will, by now, have died in the fire at the farm of our late and unlamented friend, Mr Andrews. Unfortunate but expedient. It has the advantage that it will keep the emergency services occupied for quite some time while removing any significant evidence. I imagine a small fire at a farmhouse will attract minimal attention, although you would be amazed at how much damage a Rayburn can do if filled with the wrong fuel.’ He grabbed the unconscious Janine by one arm and hoisted her up in a fireman’s lift, gesturing curtly for me to walk in front of him.

  ‘It amuses Mr Andersen to think of you taking the same route from this world as did your dear departed friends.’

  On his cue, the unsmiling Andersen slung Lee over a shoulder and moved forward ahead of me out of the clearing.

  We trooped in silence to the wood edge and stopped there at the river’s edge to view the height of the water and the distance of the jump. Too high and too far for a man carrying an unconscious body.

  Without a word, Andersen turned upriver and moved on along the sheep track towards the fording stones by the paddock.

  It was dark on this side of the wood and old branches littered the path, making the walking treacherous. I kept both hands in view, kept my eyes on the ground and concentrated on staying upright. It seemed safest.

  The river foamed white across the top of the stones and experience said that the carpeting moss on the surface, once wet, had a grip like oiled marble: treacherous underfoot.

  On the whole, I would rather drown than burn and I can take one of them with me into the black water the other side of the stones. It’s deep there and running fast enough to pull us under.

  Me and one other.

  Only one.

  The red or the black. You can’t have them both.

  Mhaire. She never said it was Lee.

  I hate that woman.

  I bumped into Andersen’s back and realized he had stopped. Stepping sideways, I looking past him and saw movement beyond the fence. Gemmell cannoned into me, cursed and pulled to my left. Cloth slithered on cloth as he lowered Janine to the grass. He stood beside me, staring out across the river to the field on the far bank. The ponies were there, herded in a crowd, like sheep at the shedding pen, stamping irritation. Balder shoved up against the fence and fly-kicked sideways, cracking an unshod hoof into the hard wood of the post.

  A blur of white fur slid round the edges, holding the group together, as a sheepdog does. Tîr. As tricks go, it was amusing, but not, under the circumstances, particularly useful.

  Andersen drew out a knife and tossed it thoughtfully, watching the dog circle back towards the fence.

  He shifted his weight slightly, stepping back with his right foot to open his shoulder for the throw. Lee’s dead weight on his other shoulder pulled him down, not quite on balance. The dog cast round wide, invisible behind a wall of horse flesh, sweeping in an arc towards the fence.

  Only one.

  Wait.

  And wait.

  No dog.

  The herd parted and a figure pushed through between the crowding bodies: a man, mid-height, in full kilted evening dress. Ridiculous and out of place here in the wood. I couldn’t see the hair.

  Andersen altered his balance fractionally, aiming ahead now, not to the side.

  The figure reached the fence and leant forward, resting both hands on the top rail, lazily, as if watching a dog hunt rabbits.

  ‘That’ll do, Andersen.’

  A soft voice with a melting West Highland accent.

  MacDonald. Alone. Unarmed.

  ‘Kill him.’ Gemmell, a reflex command.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him raise his gun arm to fire.

  The red or the black? Do you think you can choose?

  Yes.

  ‘No!’

  I kicked right, at the knee, pitching Andersen off balance, and then, spinning left, cannoned into Gemmell, wrapping my arms round his waist and carried him with me, deep into the swirling water beside the stones.

  Water. Black water. Cold water.

  Cold. So cold.

  Black. Spiralling crazily behind lids held shut by the crashing water.

  And red. Red fire, for the pain.

  Then only black.

  Twelve

  Black. Only black. And red, for the pain.

  The metallic tang of old blood and the warm musk of horse hair.

  The rapid insistent tick of a clock and water dripping on to stone: irregular, irritating, drawing me back.

  A dog panting wetly close by and a warm weight on my feet.

  Teeth, hard on my wrist.

  ‘That’ll do.’ A woman’s voice, almost amused. Warm and motherly. I should recognize that.

  Teeth removed.

  ‘
Is she awake?’ A steady voice with a melting West Highland burr.

  ‘Close enough. Go easy though. Don’t push.’

  A hand on my forehead. Mother, I’m hot. And dripping sweat. The sheets are drenched.

  ‘Kellen?’

  That’s the first time he’s ever said my name.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can you see me?’

  I think so.

  Daylight slanted in through the roof windows of the small room under the eaves.

  Primroses pattern the duvet.

  Rain splashes heavily on to the sill.

  Eyes open.

  MacDonald stood at the side of the bed, back in his full inspector’s uniform, all sharp creases and shiny buttons. He looked gaunt and worried and tired past sleeping.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Tîr lay across my feet, staring at me with her odd caste eyes.

  I remembered.

  ‘Lee?’ My voice was dry, like my mouth.

  The hollows round his eyes deepened and panic wrenched at my guts.

  ‘She’s not dead?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. She’s not dead. Not yet. But she’s lost a lot of blood. Yon bastard had a good try at cutting her throat.’

  ‘Andersen? But she wasn’t bleeding that badly.’

  ‘Aye, well, he had another go after you went in the water. She bled well enough when he was done.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the Western. They’re still transfusing her now. If she’s fit tomorrow, they’ll take her into surgery and have a look at her hands . . .’ He frowned painfully and looked the other way.

  Her hands.

  I remembered and wished that I hadn’t.

  MacDonald saw it. ‘She’s a mess, Kellen. Her hands are a mess. What were they after?’

  Dangerous. I nearly told him the truth.

  I shrugged and then stopped, suddenly, as paralysing pain shot through me out of nowhere.

  ‘Revenge,’ I said, when I could speak again, which was true. And then, ‘The others?’

  ‘Yon lady friend’s fine. Physically, anyway. Underneath, I would say she’s seen things she’d rather not have seen.’

  ‘She’s not keen on the sight of blood.’

  ‘No. Not when it’s yours, at any rate.’

  ‘The rest?’

  ‘Andersen’s dead.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I shot him.’

  What?

  ‘But you weren’t armed.’

  ‘Of course I was. I just wasn’t carrying it where it could be seen. And I still wasn’t fast enough to stop him using his knife.’

  Which is why his eyes look like that. He thinks he’s responsible.

  ‘Don’t let it get to you, man. If you hadn’t turned up, we’d all be a lot worse off.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Definitely. What happened to Gemmell?’

  ‘He’s still alive. Just. Neither of you quite succeeded in killing the other. Not for want of trying though.’ He looked faintly exasperated, a teacher with an errant pupil.

  ‘He didn’t try to kill me.’ Even to me, I sounded defensive.

  ‘Is that so? What do you think this is, then?’ He reached up and touched a surgical pad that was taped to my left shoulder, spanning from collar bone to earlobe. If I tipped my head on one side, I could feel the rough gauze of it against my cheek.

  I moved my arm experimentally and laser points of sheer agony flared out in waves. The blackness rolled in again.

  When I opened my eyes, he was leaning over me, pressing a wet hanky to my forehead. Even in the police they teach them more first aid than that.

  I asked the question with my eyes because I still hadn’t breath for speaking.

  ‘Gunshot. Single wound, small-calibre. If you jump a man with a gun, Dr Stewart, you can expect to get shot at.’

  Now he sounds just like my father, trying to be angry and not knowing how.

  I tried to look contrite. ‘Sorry.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, you’re not.’

  True.

  ‘What happened to Gemmell? I wasn’t trying to kill him. Really. Just stop him killing anyone else.’

  ‘He’s alive but he’s not what you’d call compos mentis. He cracked his head on a rock on the way down the river. Apparently his brain looks like porridge on the scan and there are clots in places there shouldn’t be. He’s on a ventilator in intensive care. The doctors are being pretty coy, but I get the idea they don’t think he’s going to come round in a hurry. I’ve put a lad by the bedside in case he wakes up and wants to say anything interesting.’

  He looked at me carefully and said nothing.

  They can keep a man going on a life support system for years these days. He could be ninety before he dies.

  That one lives for ever.

  I shook my head, but carefully, because it hurt. ‘Forget it. He won’t wake up.’

  ‘Aye, I thought maybe not.’ He dragged his gaze away and looked out of the window at the rain. ‘I’ll leave the lad with him for a day or two anyway, just in case. It’ll do him good to see the inside of a hospital for a bit.’

  The room began to blur. I closed my eyes, trying to focus and failed. My mouth felt like old carpet. Somewhere, I could smell coffee.

  ‘Is there a drink?’

  He reached a glass from the bedside table. Water.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No. Not yet. Doctor’s orders.’

  ‘But I’m a doctor.’

  ‘That doesn’t count. It’s water or nothing.’

  He held it for me to drink, rocking my head forward to the glass. He would have made a good nurse.

  When I lay still again, he backed away until he was perched against the window-sill, a shadow against the wet grey sky. ‘Can you hear me, Kellen?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I think so.

  ‘Chief Inspector Laidlaw’s assigned this end of the case to myself and WPC Philips.’

  ‘Oh.’ How nice.

  ‘There isn’t much left to do. We know more or less who did what. Ms Caradice has told us what Professor Gemmell said in the clearing. And the lab at Medi-Gen’s been a goldmine.’

  ‘The farm . . .’ Wild smoke and dead horses loomed through the haze in my head.

  ‘The farm’s fine. The fire didn’t take. They started it in too much of a hurry. Between that and the lab, there’s enough there to keep the lads in white coats happy for years.’

  ‘So . . .’

  ‘There’s just one or two loose ends . . .’ His voice came from the end of a tunnel, a long away off. Like a dream.

  ‘Mmm?’ Not a bad dream. Just not very real. Difficult to hold on to.

  ‘The Chief Inspector’s car . . .’

  Oh, bloody hell.

  ‘He found it in the shed. Young Elspeth picked up some of Andersen’s fingerprints on the wheel and she thinks he may have stolen it to use as a getaway car for afterwards.’

  ‘She’s a very . . . resourceful woman . . .’

  ‘She is. Don’t forget.’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  I’m hallucinating. MacDonald’s disembodied smile hovers over me like a rustic Cheshire Cat, while the rest of him floats backwards out of the room.

  Sleep came in snatches, light and feverish. I dreamed of Mhaire Culloch taking me to her council flat in the South Side, to a big room with black curtains, and of me helping her to mend a set of tall white flag poles that had broken in the wind. We bandaged them tight with splints up the side and then she took the blood from my wrists and painted the bandages red, like maypoles.

  Later, someone began to run a red-hot poker backwards and forwards through the muscles of my shoulder. Voices muttered in the background. I fought through the layers of hot, sweaty mist to the clogged air of the bedroom.

  When I opened my eyes, Janine was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding my hand on her knee, peeling the pad away from my shoulder. The curtains were closed and the bedside lamp was on.
Her hair shone oddly in the artificial light. A litter of dead mugs on the bedside table said that someone had been drinking a lot of coffee recently.

  She looked up and saw me watching her.

  ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Is it? What are you doing?’

  ‘Changing this.’ She finished unpicking the micro-pore from the edges of the dressing. The final piece of gauze came off with a tug that made my eyes water.

  By twisting my head carefully, I could see the hole. Angry and red, with burn marks round the outside. Close-range, small-calibre, high-velocity missile. Lucky it wasn’t buckshot or I’d be dead.

  Dead.

  ‘Lee?’

  ‘They’re in theatre with her now.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘So far as I know.’

  She fished a pad of damp cotton wool from a bowl by the bed and wiped it smoothly around the edges of the wound. The poker changed to white hot and skittered across my back.

  ‘That hurts.’

  ‘I thought it might.’ Her voice was brisk and businesslike. Not exactly oozing sympathy. Maybe I didn’t deserve any.

  She began to lay on a fresh dressing. It was cooler if nothing else. The poker became a small heated flat iron running rhythmically over the skin.

  ‘Are you cross with me?’

  ‘Not any more than usual.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’ I think it’s good. I remembered the promise. ‘Do you want to talk?’

  ‘Not while you’re still away with the fairies, I don’t. We’ll talk when you know what you’re talking about, which isn’t yet.’ Leaning over, she kissed the top of my head. A sisterly kind of a kiss. The kind of kiss that leaves doors open for later. ‘Just get well, will you? Then we can all go back to a normal life.’

  Maybe.

  She taped down the last edge of the bandage and then looped her fingers through mine to swivel my arm off her knee and back on to the bed.

  The fire soared in tracks all the way from my fingers to my spine. I shut my eyes and watched comets flare across the blackness of the closed lids.

  Later, a long while later, when my bladder had been threatening to burst for eternity, I hoisted myself out of bed and along the landing to the bathroom. It was further away than I had remembered.

  The dog followed me along the corridor and sat outside the door, looking miserable.