Eye for an Eye

fingers by a hair.
    He pulled himself to his feet, stumbled against the wall, struggled to stay upright. He stuck a hand out, palmed the wall as the world steadied, then staggered into Beth’s bedroom.
    Empty.
    His breath tore in and out of his lungs in fiery bursts that seemed to pierce his ribs. ‘Beth?’
    Back in the hallway, he kicked at the spare bedroom door.
    ‘Oh, God, Beth.’
    She lay on the bed. Naked. Ankles and wrists tied to the four corners. Mouth gagged. Eyes bruised. Her body heaved with the effort of trying to free herself.
    Gilchrist ripped the gag from her mouth.
    ‘I’m okay I’m okay don’t let him get away catch—’
    ‘Beth—’
    ‘Catch him catch the bastard don’t let him get away catch him catch the bastard.’ She gulped for air, then screamed, ‘Catch the bastard, Andy.’
    Gilchrist slipped her right hand free then stumbled from the room.
    Outside, he looked left, right.
    Shoppers, pedestrians.
    He ran across the road.
    Tyres screeched. A horn blared. ‘You fucking blind?’
    ‘Did you see someone running?’ he asked a woman.
    She backed away from him, almost bumped against the wall.
    ‘I’m with Fife Constabulary,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been attacked. The man who hit me came out of that building.’ He pointed at Beth’s door, saw a scowling face and a finger tap a temple with the power of hammering a nail.
    ‘That’d be thon young man then, so it would,’ she said, looking at him with distress.
    Gilchrist wiped sweat from his brow, surprised to see his fingers smeared with blood.
    ‘Which way?’
    ‘Down by the West Port.’
    At school, Gilchrist had been useless as a sprinter. Too gangly and no muscle mass to fight the lactic acid, his gym teacher had told him. But he was a natural distance runner, with long limbs, light frame and a pain threshold way above the norm.
    He reached the roundabout in front of the West Port and stopped a man walking his Highland terrier. The man’s face reddened and he backed off. When the terrier started to bark, Gilchrist cursed and ran to the next pedestrian.
    Same response. A stunned look that turned to fear, then relief as he moved on. He knew he looked a mess, but he ran on, hands at his ribs where something hotter than a burning poker dug into his side.
    For Christ’s sake. Someone must have seen something.
    ‘That way, mister.’
    Gilchrist spun around, grabbed the youth by his arms, saw he was frightening him, and let go. ‘What did you say?’
    ‘That way.’ The youth’s voice was less enthusiastic. ‘I seen him go that way—’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Down Lade Braes—’
    ‘Who?’
    The youth seemed puzzled. ‘The man you’re chasing, mister.’
    ‘What did he look like?’
    ‘Don’t know.’
    ‘Young old thin fat what?’
    The youth shrugged. ‘Skinny,’ he said. ‘Skinny as a rake. Wi’ long hair, like.’
    ‘Jeans?’
    The youth nodded. ‘And nae jacket.’
    Gilchrist sprinted down Bridge Street but had to pull to a halt at the entrance to Lade Braes Lane. Pain as sharp as shards of glass gouged into his ribs and he concentrated on keeping his breathing shallow. He gripped the back of his neck. His hair felt damp and sticky. He looked at his clothes, the first time he had done so since the attack. His shirt hung out, smeared with blood. He pulled at his shirt collar, felt the material stick to his skin. When he looked at his hands they were as bloodied as a slaughterer’s.
    He clenched his teeth and eased into a jog.
    Every step drove a six-inch nail into his head, twisted the broken bottle deep into his ribs. He groaned for breath. His attacker could have gone anywhere, could have jumped over any of several high walls that bordered the lane, could be running to places unknown.
    He passed the end of Louden’s Close, but his sixth sense forced him on, and he jumped down a set of concrete steps that opened up to a steep lane on his right. A short bridge at the foot of the lane crossed the Kinness Burn.
    Where now? Left? Right?
    His sixth sense took him left.
    He stumbled along a muddy track at the edge of the burn, hands pressed to his side, fingers prodding and testing his ribcage for breaks. But his ribs were in the right place and seemed to spring back when he let go. Maybe torn cartilage. That could take months to heal.
    The track ended at Kinnessburn Road and he turned left again, but had to stop at the bend.
    His lungs burned, his head pounded and his left knee throbbed where the cricket