Eye for an Eye

this?’
    ‘Why don’t you make yourself at home?’
    ‘Who’s this?’ he repeated.
    Granton glanced at it. ‘Don’t you recognize her?’
    Familiar eyes stared back at Gilchrist, sharp and dark. The young girl faced the camera, a stale smile on her face. It was not the smile that had him pulling the image closer, but the pet she held in thin arms, thrust toward the camera like some sacrificial offering. ‘Can’t say that I do,’ he said.
    ‘Try Maggie.’
    ‘Maggie Hendren? Works in Lafferty’s?’
    ‘Ten out of ten.’
    ‘When was this taken?’
    ‘Fuck knows.’
    ‘How old were you?’
    ‘Fucking deaf or what?’
    ‘Have a guess, Alex, before I have to confiscate it.’
    ‘You can’t confiscate—’
    ‘Don’t play buggerlugs with me, Alex.’
    Granton shrugged. ‘Twenty-one, twenty-two, maybe.’
    That would put Maggie at about eleven or twelve. He pulled it closer. It was in good condition, the monochrome image still sharp.
    ‘Whose cat’s she holding?’
    ‘Not mine. Hate the fuckers.’
    ‘Hers?’
    ‘Fuck knows. She used to keep rabbits, guinea pigs, all sorts of pets. None of them lasted long.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Died. Ran away. Fuck should I know? Ask her.’
    ‘What’s wrong with its face?’
    Granton gave the photograph a quick squint. ‘Run over by a car or something. How would I know?’
    Gilchrist flipped the frame over, slid the clips aside, removed the cardboard backing, and pulled out the photograph. He noticed the top edge had been cut off to centre the image in the frame. On the back, in weak pencil in the bottom right-hand corner, was printed
Summer 1982
.
    ‘Mind if I take it?’
    ‘Fucking right I do.’
    ‘Don’t annoy me, Alex, or I might not give it back.’ He slid the photograph into his jacket pocket and retrieved his whisky. ‘Cheers,’ he said, then downed it and held out his empty glass to Granton. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
    ‘Don’t make it any time soon.’
    Gilchrist closed in on Granton so their eyes were level. Beads of perspiration dotted Granton’s thick upper lip. An almost overwhelming surge of hatred flashed through Gilchrist. Alex Granton had been raised to be just like his father, a contemptible misogynist. He pressed closer, and Granton bumped against the piano, knocking over a photograph.
    ‘Next time we meet,’ Gilchrist snarled, and patted his pocket, ‘I’ll be slapping on a pair of these.’
    Outside, the ground sparkled with frost. Gilchrist pulled his collar up, felt the photo tucked in his pocket.
She used to keep rabbits, guinea pigs, all sorts of pets. None of them lasted long
.
    The cat’s disfigured face intrigued him. Had it really been run over by a car? Arson and bed-wetting are two of the triad of predisposing characteristics of serial killers.
    Cruelty to animals is the third.

CHAPTER 16
     
    Beneath me, the body jerks. Then stills.
    I stand, grab the wall for support, run a shaking hand across my chin. My breath pumps in hard gasps that tear cold air in and out my lungs with a force that scares me. My heart pounds as if something is caged in my chest.
    I fight back the urge to run.
    My mind screams at me to stay calm. But I am unable to obey and break into a trot, then I am running. And as I run, I struggle to fight back the panic, comprehend the twisted rationale of what is happening, why I am behaving the way I am.
    But I know the answer.
    I am decompensating. It is what happens when the defence mechanisms of the mind fail to prevent the onslaught of mental disorder, when the mind can no longer stand the strain of what it has to live with, then breaks down.
    And that frightens me.
    I always thought I would never be caught.
    Now I am not so sure.
     
    ‘Morning, Andy.’
    White light exploded at the front of Gilchrist’s brain. He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘What’s the time?’
    ‘Eight o’clock.’
    ‘In the morning?’
    ‘It is indeed,’ said Jack. Another burst of light, less bright, as the curtains were ripped open. ‘Another beautiful day.’
    ‘Not raining?’
    ‘Of course it’s raining. That’s what makes Glasgow such an inspirational city. All that dreich and dreary weather brings out the morbid best in us.’
    Gilchrist risked opening his eyes and gave a hollow cough, a reminder of his life as a forty-a-day smoker.
    ‘Here,’ said Jack. Something flapped onto the bed. ‘You should read this.’
    Gilchrist picked up the
Daily Record
. Two-inch-high headlines, more suited