Eye for an Eye

some fresh shortbread ready.’
    ‘Right. Okay. Sa?’
    ‘And there’s no need to climb over the wall,’ Mrs Granton added. ‘The front door’s always unlocked.’
    Outside, the wind felt light and fresh and free of the sense of gloom that cloyed the Grantons’ cottage. Gilchrist chose not to speak until they turned onto South Street.
    ‘Tell me, Sa. How can we help the public if they’re not willing to help themselves?’ He shook his head. ‘Abused for all these years by some, some ...’
    He sniffed something in the air. Cigar smoke. A tourist in a Stars and Stripes tracksuit and running shoes stood at the edge of the pavement, newspaper stuffed under his arm, fat cigar tucked into the corner of his mouth.
    Gilchrist fought off the urge to nip into a shop and buy a packet of fags. Just twenty. That’s all. He would make them last, take one a day for the next three weeks. The tourist stepped off the pavement. Gilchrist inhaled, then opened his eyes, surprised to find he had closed them. Was this what his life had come to? Sniffing passive smoke like some tramp trawling bins for food? He had never believed he suffered from nicotine addiction, but at that moment the strength of its grip shocked him. Was physical abuse an addiction, too? Did wife-beaters have an addictive need to bully their victims? If so, Gilchrist despaired at the depth of their turmoil. He started to walk.
    ‘Didn’t you know she was a victim of abuse?’ he asked.
    ‘Not until recently.’
    ‘How recently?’
    ‘Only a few months—’
    ‘I find that hard to believe—’
    ‘What are you trying to tell me, Andy?’ Anger blazed in Sa’s eyes. ‘That it’s all my fault? That I should have found out sooner? You heard her. Bill was a sneaky bastard. He hit where it wouldn’t show. How the hell am I supposed to know, when she wouldn’t even let her own son report it? As far as I’m concerned, that bastard got what was coming.’
    Gilchrist said nothing.
    ‘Did it ever cross your mind that the Stabber might be the best thing that ever happened to this piss-pot of a town?’ she went on. ‘Maybe we should just let him run wild and kill all the abusers in the country. That way we’d be rid of the lot of them.’
    ‘You know that’s not the way.’
    She flinched.
    ‘Look, Sa—’
    ‘Fuck off, Andy.’

CHAPTER 7
     
    He returned before midday and spied on her shop from behind a car on the opposite side of the street. Annoyance flitted over him like flies on his skin. He scratched the inside of his left arm and drew blood from an old scab. An elderly couple stepped into the entrance alcove, and he held his breath as they took hold of the handle and pushed inside.
    The bitch. She had cleaned it up. The thought of her fingers touching his sperm stirred something deep inside him and he felt an overpowering need to see how upset she was. He had changed his clothes and now wore an old white sweatshirt, curry-stained on the left sleeve, and black jeans that hung loose around his waist, and felt sure she would not recognize him.
    Her shop was an upmarket novelty store. Two Laurel and Hardy face masks centred the window. Mobile phones designed as Ferrari sports cars, bars of soap, multi-coloured chameleons, reflected off stainless-steel shelves. A CD rack that looked like some skeletal saxophone hugged the corner.
    Through the glass he saw her talking to a customer. She smiled an easy smile and tucked loose strands of blond hair behind her ears. He gripped the handle.
    Inside, the shop smelled of pot-pourri and was crammed from floor to ceiling with photo frames, posters, face masks. Wooden puppets with glossy painted faces lay lifeless on flat surfaces, or hung limp from hooks in the ceiling. Shelves glittered with ornaments, stainless-steel pieces shaped into objects that looked like bookends, bottle openers, key rings. All of it priced way up there. Jazz segued over the ambient buzz of voices.
    He stood with his back to the counter and studied the shelves. Not much took his fancy, except perhaps the painted motorbike carved from wood, with wheels that spun, handlebars that turned and a minuscule Harley-Davidson logo on the—
    ‘Can I help you?’
    Sebbie’s breath locked in his throat as he stared into grey eyes that levelled with his own. Her height surprised him. For a moment, he thought she recognized him, then teeth as white as sun-dried bone appeared from beneath moist lips.
    ‘It’s handmade,’ she said. ‘I have