Eye for an Eye

The important thing in life is to keep learning, keep creating, keep trying out new ideas, new colours, new materials. Each of us has to keep experimenting in our lives. It’s what makes the human species superior to ... what?’ Jack held out his hands in a gesture of helpless supplication. ‘
What?
’
    ‘Experimenting?’
    Jack shook his head. ‘Hey, Chloe?’
    Chloe joined them, and Gilchrist realized she had stayed in the hallway, not wishing to hear criticism of her work.
    ‘Andy thinks I’m smoking. Tell him.’
    Chloe shook her head. ‘He doesn’t do drugs. Neither of us do.’ She glanced up at Jack. ‘I used to. But I don’t any more.’
    ‘A close friend died of an overdose,’ said Jack, and put his arm around Chloe’s shoulder. ‘And that did it.’
    Gilchrist watched Chloe’s eyes brim with tears, and her face lift up to Jack’s. He kissed her dark lips, and Gilchrist saw how gentle he could be to a woman.
    Jack lowered his arm. ‘Beer?’
    ‘A bit early for me.’
    ‘Nonsense. We haven’t been together since last February. That’s as good an excuse as any.’
    Jack’s words cut. Last February. Had it been as long as that? Nine months? Why had they not seen each other sooner? If Jack had not called about his mother would it have been another nine months? ‘A beer sounds great,’ he heard himself say.
    ‘We’ll go to the Attic. I can show you my new mural.’
    ‘I can hardly wait.’ He caught Chloe’s eye and nodded to the wall paintings. ‘Are any of these for sale?’
    She looked startled.
    ‘I might be interested in this one,’ he said, and brushed a finger over it, almost touching the image. It seemed a shade lighter than the others, the image less disturbing.
    ‘Framed or unframed?’ It was Jack.
    ‘Unframed.’
    ‘What do you think, Chloe?’
    Chloe stared at the painting as if not comprehending that her work could have any monetary value at all. Then it struck Gilchrist that money was not an issue, that she was recalling her thoughts at the time of painting, remembering how damaged her mind must have been to have created a canvas so visually disturbing. A close friend died of an overdose, and that did it. Did what? Got her off drugs? Branded her memory with drug-induced horror so that all she could paint were tortured faces in swirling colours?
    ‘Why don’t you get back to me in your own time?’ he said. ‘Let me know how much.’
    Chloe nodded.
    He turned to Jack. ‘Right, Jack the lad, how about that beer?’

CHAPTER 14
     
    The Attic was a bar in Ashton Lane off Byres Road, reached by a cold staircase that crept up the corner of the building. Windows on the sloped ceiling were covered by a cloth of sorts, and Gilchrist wondered why anyone would want to dull the natural light in a dull city.
    They sat at a high table like a short plank of wood wide enough for only one glass. The window behind them was faced with a metal fence more suited to a garden than a pub.
    ‘To prevent the drunks from toppling out?’ he asked.
    ‘To stop them from taking a flying runner. Apparently some nutter downed four doubles at the bar then did a header through the window.’
    ‘How could he have run from there to here without wriggling past this table?’
    ‘You’ve been a detective too long, Andy.’
    Gilchrist frowned.
    ‘Lighten up, Andy. Hey, what’re you having? My treat.’
    Gilchrist tried a smile. ‘Well, in that case I’ll have a Corona.’
    Jack frowned. ‘Off the hard stuff?’
    Gilchrist shook his head. ‘Don’t want to turn up at Mum’s reeking of beer.’ Chloe’s look saddened, and Gilchrist realized that although visiting Gail was the purpose of his visit, no one had mentioned her until now.
    Jack returned with a Corona, a piece of lime jutting from the neck. Gilchrist poked it in with his finger, and watched the beer froth in response. Chloe took delivery of a tall glass of something that looked like watery milk, and Gilchrist made a decision not to ask. Jack had a pint of real ale that looked dark and flat, and a whisky with ice that looked like a double at the minimum.
    They raised their glasses, or bottle in Gilchrist’s case, and chinked. ‘Cheers,’ said Jack, and took a slug of his pint.
    Gilchrist pressed the neck of his Corona to his lips and watched Chloe take a sip from her glass. For some odd reason, he found himself thinking of Beth and wondering if she could ever put up with Jack and his careless lifestyle and punk-Bohemian