Eye for an Eye

know it was him,’ she whispered to him. ‘I knew he’d come back.’
    Gilchrist shook his head. ‘It’s more likely an act of random vandalism,’ he assured her, ‘completely unrelated to the incident in your shop.’ But as he said his silly words of comfort, he knew that her prediction had come true.
     
    Gilchrist spent over an hour obtaining estimates for the repair to Beth’s car, which ranged from £1200 to a more reasonable £450 at a small garage next to a betting shop, then returned the car to the open area at the side of her flat. By the time he pulled up at Jack’s it was two minutes before midday.
    He stepped into the damp Glasgow air, overnight bag in hand. The sandstone tenement building stood timeworn grey in the dull city light. The front door had been painted since he’d last been there six – or was it nine? – months ago. The wood shone black and wet. Grey city. Black door. No wonder Jack’s art was morbid.
    He buzzed the entrance intercom, and Jack’s voice said in quick response, ‘Hey, Andy. In you come.’
    The door clicked, and he entered a cold stone close with green and red tiles like glossy wainscoting that ran all the way to the concrete staircase. His footsteps echoed like hammer hits in a tunnel.
    Jack’s flat was on the third floor. A shape as grey as a ghost moved beyond the frosted glass. Then the door opened.
    ‘Andy, hey, man. In you come, in you come.’
    Jack surprised Gilchrist by giving him a hug that crushed the air from his lungs. Then Jack looked him up and down, arms out by his sides, and Gilchrist feared he was going to be crushed again.
    ‘Hey, you look great, man. On a diet?’ Jack stooped. ‘Here. Let me take that.’
    Gilchrist tightened his grip. ‘I can manage.’
    Jack chuckled. ‘I see you haven’t changed.’
    Gilchrist frowned.
    ‘Is the Pope a Catholic? Is my old man stubborn?’
    Jack stood back to let Gilchrist enter, and shouted down the hall, ‘Hey, Chloe, come and meet the old man.’
    A slender figure dressed in black, with fair, shoulder-length hair and a white face with a purple gash for a mouth, stepped out the first room on the left.
    She held out her hand.
    ‘Chloe Andy Andy Chloe.’
    Gilchrist took hold of her hand. It felt thin and weak, and he kept his grip loose.
    ‘Hi,’ she said, and a smile lit up her eyes and told Gilchrist she could be attractive if she abandoned the grunge look.
    ‘I’m the old man,’ he said. ‘But call me Andy. Everyone else seems to.’
    She gave a nervous giggle. ‘Call me Chloe.’
    ‘This way, Andy.’
    Gilchrist followed Jack into a bedroom that contained a king-sized bed with a cream duvet and an unusual headboard constructed of coloured pipes. A chest of drawers painted dark pink stood in the corner. White walls exhibited a number of unframed oil paintings, swirls of bold colours and twisted shapes that hinted of tortured eyes and screaming mouths.
    Gilchrist lowered his bag to the floor. ‘What happened to the grey look, Jack? Life is unattractive. It forces us to look inside ourselves to find our own colour. I think that’s what you said.’
    ‘A phase we all go through.’
    ‘And the earring?’
    Jack fingered his earlobe. ‘Present from Chloe.’
    ‘Talking about presents. Here,’ Gilchrist said, and unzipped his bag. ‘I got you this.’
    Jack frowned at what looked like a gift-wrapped shoebox.
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘A present.’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘For you.’ As Jack tore at the wrapping, Gilchrist’s mind pulled up an image of Gail handing out Christmas presents from under the tree. Their lives had seemed full of so much promise then.
    ‘Cool,’ said Jack, and held up a model Harley-Davidson.
    ‘I couldn’t afford a real one,’ said Gilchrist.
    ‘Hey, thanks, Andy.’
    Gilchrist felt the warmth of a flush on his cheeks. ‘Are the paintings yours?’ he asked.
    ‘Chloe’s.’
    From the whorled mass of yellows and greens, Gilchrist thought he could make out a skull with yellow whirlpools for eyes. He never claimed to be an art aficionado, but he saw a distinctive style to the painting, a precise pattern in the brush strokes, and an almost tactile sense of horror that both surprised and attracted him.
    ‘What d’you think, Andy?’
    Gilchrist nodded.
    ‘She’s good, Andy. I keep telling her.’
    ‘All Chloe’s?’
    Jack nodded to the metal headboard. ‘Except that.’
    Gilchrist tried to hide his disappointment.
    ‘You don’t have to like it, Andy.