Two-Way Split

by Guthrie, Allan

  He got to his feet and turned on the shower. If he wasn't asleep, then where had the time gone? Oh, God. Maybe it was happening again. He must have been asleep, if only because there was no other explanation. Clumsily, he started to undress. Naked, he stepped into the shower cubicle and closed the door, standing under the spray, head bowed, hands clasped in front of his chest, while hot needles jabbed the back of his neck. The smell was stronger now. He squirted liquid soap into his palm and lathered his body. He shampooed his hair. Rinsed it.

  After he stepped out of the shower he brushed his teeth. He shaved. He lined his nostrils with aftershave. It stung like a bitch.

  9:16 am

  "What is it?" Ailsa Lillie held the door open with one hand. With the other she shielded her bruised eye.

  Pearce ignored her question. "You dyed your hair." Today, her hair was dark brown with a reddish tinge. Yesterday, he seemed to recall, it was uniformly grey.

  "Gold star for observation." Her mouth tensed.

  "What I meant to say," he said, "is that I like it. You look ten years younger."

  "Christ, I must have looked old before." She was dressed in faded blue jeans and a burgundy halter-top. Her feet were bare. Not exactly a winter costume, he thought. He glanced at his bare arms. Who was he to speak? "You going to tell me what's going on?" she asked him.

  As he stepped inside, his arm brushed against hers. He said nothing.

  Her eyes widened, asking the question again. She rubbed her arm where he'd touched it.

  He couldn't look into her eyes for long. His gaze dropped. Shit. Straight to her tits. And guess what? She wasn't wearing a bra. He looked up and discovered two cracks running along the ceiling, forming a jagged X where they crossed. He felt her hand warming his bicep.

  When he lowered his head she jerked her hand away. "How's your daughter?"

  "Becky's doing okay," she said, moving quickly down the hall. She turned. "She still sounds like shit and she can't talk for long, but she's improving. I told her about you. She said to say thanks."

  "She still in hospital?"

  "She's in Glasgow, staying with my sister. Thought she'd be safer there."

  "I didn't realise. I assumed she was still—"

  "She's been out a couple of days. They only kept her in overnight. Hospital beds are precious commodities."

  "Right. Maybe I'll get to meet her sometime."

  "Maybe," Ailsa said.

  He stole a last glance at the ceiling and strode towards her. She turned again and he followed her into the sitting room. He felt clumsy in his boots, thinking he was going to tread on her toes. She sat on the settee and he sat next to her. She faced him, feet angled towards each other, big toes touching, toenails flashing red.

  Something hard was growing in his chest. He coughed into his balled fist. Just ask if you can borrow the gun. She doesn't need to know anything else. "It's my mum," he said. He coughed again. "She was in an accident."

  Her face froze. Her hand sprang from her lap and her fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Is she – was it serious?"

  He leaned back and stared at the opposite wall. Above the boarded-up fireplace hung a painting. Dozens of ovals, some stretched fat in shades of red, others thin in shades of green, dominated the canvas. Randomly placed black curved lines looked like someone other than the artist had added an assortment of eyebrows. While she stroked the back of his hand with her fingertips, he told her what had happened.

  She didn't interrupt once. When he'd finished she said, "I'm really sorry, Pearce. Christ, that's awful. I don't suppose they know who…"

  He continued to stare at the painting. His mouth was so dry his tongue was beginning to crack. Something was about to burst out of him. He swallowed.

  "Look at me," she said. She shook his hand up and down as she squeezed it. "If there's anything I can do…"

  He swallowed again, gently removing his hand from her grasp. Slowly he turned to look at her.

  "It's okay," she said, eyes shining like polished jade.

  He shook his head. "It's very far from okay." His voice quietened. "I thought I'd feel sad, you know." He paused. "We were close." He locked his fingers together in his lap. "But I don't."

  "You will."

  "Yeah?"

  "Promise," she said. "It might take a while, but it'll come."

  "I've waited ten years. I haven't…" He clenched his fist. "I mean, my mother – I ought to be grief-stricken, but I'm not. I'm angry, all right. And a bit tired and incredibly hungry. But," he unclenched his fist, "that's nothing out of the ordinary."

  "You're describing a normal reaction."

  "I am?"

  When she smiled at him he noticed how white her teeth were. "What do you want to eat?"

  "Don't go to any trouble."

  "I haven't had breakfast yet. It's no trouble."

  He got to his feet. "I'll take you out somewhere. Anywhere you like. Pete Thompson's paying."

  "Sit down," she said. He flopped back onto the settee. "I'm taking nothing from Pete. Now, what do you want? Eggs, bacon, sausages?" He nodded. "Baked beans?" He nodded again.

  "Can I do anything?" he asked, as she bounced across the carpet on the balls of her bare feet.

  "Come into the kitchen with me if you want." She stood in the doorway with one knee bent. "Keep me company."

  9:29 am

  Hilda Pearce's smell was still there, tinged, now, with a sickly sweet putrescence, as if the smell from the mound of black bin bags littering the pavement below had seeped through the narrow gaps in the planks the scaffolders had laid.

  Calmer now, Robin turned away from the window. The sound of six-shooters penetrated the wall as his deaf neighbour sat down to watch his first cowboy movie of the day. Robin looked at the clock. Almost, darling. Almost time to go.

  Carol had left early, saying she wanted some fresh air, that she'd walk. Likely story. She'd be straight into a taxi, round to Eddie's, shedding her clothes before she was in the door. Did she think he didn't know?

  Stubbing out his cigarette, Robin began to place the cash in a leather holdall. He had to take the money with him. If the opportunity didn't arise, it was important that everything carried on as normal. The money's right here. Nothing to get your neck in a twist about. Knickers. Knickers in a twist. He fastened the bag and carried it into the hall. The peg where his favourite jacket usually hung was empty. He'd thrown it out with the rubbish last night, along with the sports bag.

  The black, knee-length overcoat he'd worn only a couple of times still smelled new. He pulled it tight over his chest and fastened the buttons. Returning to the bathroom, he pulled the plug in the sink and the crimson water drained away. He studied the knife. Water droplets gleamed on the blade. It looked clean. At least, it looked as if somebody had tried to clean it. It was unlikely to pass a forensic examination, but who cared? He wiped the knife with a hand towel, then soaked up the residual moisture with a couple of tissues.

  In the sitting room, he slotted the knife in its sheath. Before opening the front door he dropped the sheath in his overcoat pocket. His hands were shaking less now, but his legs still felt weak as he ran down the stairs.

  He stepped outside. Dirty cotton wool clouds filled the sky. He slung the holdall in the back seat of the car and tilted the rear-view mirror. Why did he do that? There was no need, since the mirror was exactly as he'd left it. Carol hadn't been anywhere near the car, so he didn't need to adjust the mirror. Neck in a twist? He had to keep it together. He took a deep breath. Keep him at bay.

  Six feet in front of the car, four pigeons were pecking at the ground. When he turned on the ignition, three flew off. He revved the engine and the remaining pigeon's head bobbed up and down. Briefly, its wings fluttered. For a moment, it looked as though it was about to hop forward, but it stayed where it was, unwilling to relinquish its roadside snack.

  Robin stepped out of the car and walked towards the bird. "I need you to get out of the way," he said. "What's the matter? Y
ou got a death wish?"

  The pigeon shook its head and took off, hardly flapping its wings. Effortlessly, it hovered into place on a nearby lamppost and cocked its head.

  Robin returned to the Clio and squeezed himself into the seat. His new coat was heavy. His arms felt clumsy, like weights were pressing down on them. The fabric was making his wrists itch. Do it. He bounced his palms off the steering wheel. Do it, do it, do it. He pulled out from the kerb. Neck in a twist? That would be a bit of a bloomer.

  He remembered nothing of the drive to Eddie's flat. Suddenly he was there, crawling along Polwarth Gardens, searching for a place to park. As usual there was little choice and the fact that he didn't want to park too close to the flat further reduced his options. He found a space big enough for the Clio at the end of the road. He reverse parked and cut the engine. Slumped in his seat, he had an angled view of Eddie's second floor flat. If he leaned forward he could see the tenement block's bright red entrance door. Carol was up there right now. Sucking Eddie.

  Robin clutched the knife in his pocket. Could he do this?

  On the pavement opposite, a young woman turned and shouted at a toddler lagging several feet behind, splashing in a puddle. The toddler bent his head and shuffled forward. She waited. When he was close enough, she grabbed his arm and shook him. He didn't react. She smacked him. Still he didn't react. She yelled at him and smacked him harder. He started to bawl.

  A bus trundled past and stopped at the end of the street. Nobody got out. A skinny teenage girl in flared trousers got on.

  A light drizzle began to dot the windscreen. Cars buzzed past in swarms. Mother and toddler vanished into a newsagents on the corner of the street. Robin took the knife out of its sheath and scraped the blade over the fine hairs on the back of his hand.

  Yes, he could do this.

  When he looked up again, Carol was standing in Eddie's doorway. Very clever. They both knew how punctual Robin was. She'd timed it well. If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn she'd just arrived.

  9:47 am

  The kitchen was hot and smelled of fried sausages.

  Ask her for the gun. Pearce finished his fourth piece of toast and marmalade and said, "No more. I couldn't."

  Ailsa poured a fresh cup of coffee. When she leaned forward, he saw down her front. Oh, Jesus. Stop staring at her tits. He moved his plate to the side, adding it to the small pile already assembled, shuffling the knives and forks around until she sat down again. Ask her. Her chair was at the side of the little table. She crossed her legs and her foot dangled inches from his shin.

  He added some milk from the carton and took a sip of coffee. "I need your gun," he said.

  "Don't be stupid."

  "Give me the gun, Ailsa."

  "Look, Pearce, I know—"

  "If you don't give me your gun, I'll pick one up somewhere else."

  "It's not that easy."

  "You found one no problem."

  "I've got a dark past. I used to know some bad people."

  "What am I? A saint?"

  "I don't know who you are." She brushed her newly dyed hair out of her eyes. "What are you going to do with it?"

  He took another sip of coffee. He stared at her, holding her gaze. She really did look much younger. "Kill somebody."

  "For Christ's sake." She looked away, tongue sticking through slightly parted lips. Her eyelashes fluttered, then her tongue slid back in her mouth. "That's really stupid. Why?"

  "You need to ask that?" He cradled his mug in both hands. He pressed his palms together, imagining the mug breaking like a skull in a vice.

  "Let the police handle it."

  "Let's say Thompson had gone too far." He eased the pressure on the mug, picked it up and drank the rest of his coffee. "Let's say he had killed Rebecca. What would you have done?"

  "I can't think about that, Pearce."

  "Twiddled your fingers while Thompson laughed at you? Sat around doing nothing while the police went through the motions of looking for your daughter's murderer? You think they give a shit?" He paused. "You already have the gun. You're halfway there. You're only missing the ammo. If Thompson had killed Rebecca you'd have found a way to get some bullets, wouldn't you?" When she didn't reply he asked her again, "Wouldn't you?"

  Slowly she nodded her head.

  "Help me, Ailsa."

  "Oh, God, Pearce."

  "I'm taking the gun," he said. "If you want to give me a name or a phone number for the ammo, I'd be grateful."

  She slumped forward as if her neck was broken. "Ben doesn't give out his phone number."

  "That his name? Ben? Ben what?"

  "That's all I know. Anyway, I doubt it's his real name."

  "Where can I find him?"

  She raised her head. Her eyes were closed. "I'll tell him what you need."

  He said, "When?"

  She opened her eyes. "Pass me your mobile."

  He handed it to her.

  "This is a bad idea." She started to dial. "You'll end up in prison. Or worse." She punched in the last number and held the phone to her ear. "Alice?" Her voice carried a false gaiety. "Yeah, fine. Joe-Bob around?"

  Pearce carried the dishes over to the sink.

  "Aha. I'll try again in twenty minutes."

  He turned on the tap and tested the temperature with his thumb. "You seriously expect me to believe that there's someone living in Edinburgh called Joe-Bob?"

  "How do you know I dialled an Edinburgh number?" She laid the phone on the table.

  "Of course," he said. "I was forgetting. Glasgow's famous for its Joe-Bobs."

  "Joe-Bob lives in Haddington, if you must know. And it's a nickname. He hates country music." She moved towards him. "And, no, I've no idea what his real name is."

  "Joe-Bob?" He squirted a generous coating of washing-up liquid over the dishes.

  "Honest to God." She was standing next to him, resting her buttocks against what was probably the cutlery drawer.

  "So where does he fit in?"

  "Friend of Ben's. He'll set things up for us."

  "Why can't we set things up ourselves?" He turned off the tap.

  "Ben doesn't work that way."

  "What, he only talks through an interpreter?" He grabbed a plate and wiped a streak of baked bean sauce off it.

  "Ben sells weapons." She folded her arms. "He's careful who he talks to."

  He rinsed the plate and slotted it in the drying rack. "How come you know this guy?" She looked down at the floor. "Sorry," he said, plunging his hands back into the soapy water. "None of my business."

  Her hand moved across her face. Her fingertips traced the curve of her eyebrow. "Joe-Bob used to be my dealer."

  Water splashed onto the linoleum as Pearce grabbed her wrist. His fingers were slippery. Soapsuds popped on the back of his hand. His forearm itched as water trickled towards his elbow. She yelled and wrenched her hand out of his grip.

  "What's wrong with you?" She balled her fists. "Huh? You want to see my track marks, is that it?" She spread her fingers and brought her arms together, exposing their white undersides. She clenched her fists again. "Well?"

  He examined her veins. They looked normal. "I don't see anything."

  "You don't get track marks from smack, Shithead. You smoke it."

  He nodded. "You ever mainlined?"

  She shook her head.

  "Ever tempted?"

  "Of course." She looked at the floor. "Despite seeing what it did to my friends." She raised her head. "Christ, what is this?"

  "You clean, now?"

  "What do you think?"

  "You said Joe-Bob used to be your dealer. That could mean you've stopped taking drugs. But it could also mean you've found a new dealer."

  "I don't want to talk about this any more."

  Pearce tipped the water out of the basin.

  "You asked how I knew Joe-Bob," she said. "Now you know and I hope you're happy."

  He looked for a towel to dry his hands.

  Sh
e watched him for a minute, then reached under the counter, pulled a dishtowel off a hook and tossed it to him. "I thought you were nice."

  He dried his hands, folded the towel in half, folded it again and placed it on the counter next to the sink. "You saying you'd prefer it if I didn't care what you stick in your veins?"

  "It's none of your business."

  "Right."

  "Anyway, I told you, I've never injected." She padded towards the table and sat down. "I never did much smack, even. Joe-Bob ran a sideline in Temgesic. That was my poison."

  Pearce's knowledge of Temgesic came from two sources. In a random drug test during his time at Barlinnie two percent of the prison population had tested positive for Temgesic. That was an impressive one point five percent more than cocaine. Also, his sister had used Temgesic more than once to tide her over to her next fix. In both cases the explanation for his source of information was too personal to reveal to a woman he'd only just met. No, that wasn't it. Ailsa would find out about his past one way or the other. Either he could tell her or she'd read it second hand, splattered all over the papers. No way the press would miss the opportunity to cash in on an ex-jailbird headline. Well, in her own sweet words, it was none of her business. He forced himself to frown.

  "Pills," she explained. "Buprenorphine. Synthetic morphine. Heroin substitute, basically. With an intensely euphoric side effect. Joe-Bob used to get a steady supply from addicts who got them on prescription to help wean them off heroin. Never worked, of course. Temgesic just became a kind of currency. Part exchange for a fix."

  "And you bought these pills from Joe-Bob?"

  "For a while, yeah."

  "But you don't any more."

  "Do I look like a junkie? Anyway, he doesn't deal these days."

  "Gone up in the world?"

  She nodded."Ben's lieutenant."

  Pearce picked up his mobile and handed it to her. "Want to try him again?"

  9:56 am

  Eddie closed the toilet door with his foot. He fastened his belt as he walked along the short corridor and opened the sitting room door. Sinatra was singing "L.A. Is My Lady." Eddie joined in briefly, breaking off when he saw the gun. He swiped it off the table, knocking Carol's handbag spinning. It toppled, dropped to the floor, and he said, "What's my gun doing here?"