Eye for an Eye

bat had tried to reconfigure his kneecap. He leaned forward, gripped his leg, and through his jeans felt the swelling to the side of his knee. His world spun again, and he had to cling to the metal railing. He eased the weight off his left leg and at that moment heard something scuffle behind him.
    Claws gripped his ankles. Heaved up. And over.
    He was flying through the air before he understood that his grip had been torn from the railings.
    He thumped onto his back.
    He lay there, winded, mouthing for air like a landed fish, his senses only peripherally aware of a hard fluttering, raucous quacking, the feathered panic of flapping wings and slapping feet.
    He had been lucky. His fall had missed the shallow water with its hard stony bed. Mud from a sodden bank squelched through his fingers as he struggled to fight off the darkness.
    Before he slipped into unconsciousness, he was aware only of a white face peering down at him.

CHAPTER 25
     
    I think of the killing place. I think of his home.
    I have studied the layout of his drive, the way the hedge overhangs the slabbed path to the front door, how the gate is hidden from the living-room window. I know where he will park his car. And I know where I will hide. He will be surprised when he sees me. But he will trust me as I walk up to him.
    I know that from experience. They all do.
    That is their fatal mistake. It will be his, too.
    Heavy rain is forecast for tonight, worsening to sleet that may turn to snow, unusual for this time of year. Tomorrow it will be December. But tonight Mark Patterson will lose his life.
    Tonight Mark Patterson will become number eight.
    I have never killed in the snow. I smile.
    Perhaps we will have a white Christmas after all.
     
    Gilchrist came to seconds later. He knew it was only seconds because several ducks were still paddling away from him with that neck-forward action, as if undecided whether to fly or swim.
    He looked up at the railings. The black bars fluttered like wings. Then steadied. The white face was gone.
    He took a long blink, not sure if he felt disappointed or relieved. He tried to sit up. Fire scorched his ribcage. He slumped back, took a few shallow breaths and decided he felt relieved. He pushed to his feet, felt his legs buckle, and sank to his knees. He tried to stop from toppling by throwing both arms forward, but splashed face-first into the shallow waters.
    He lay there, head twisted to the side. The water by his face felt refreshing. He swabbed the bloodied gunk from his hair, then thought of all the wildlife fornicating and crapping, and pushed himself upright.
    This time, he managed not to fall, and slumped against the stone wall at the opposite side of the burn. The top of the wall lay at shoulder level and he wondered how he would pull himself out. But he reached up, tried a leap, slipped a leg onto the flat and heaved himself up.
    He lay there, gasping for air, and realized with stunning clarity that the job was becoming too much for him. That is, if he still had a job. He remembered his phone and cursed for not calling earlier. He rolled onto his back and retrieved his mobile from his jacket. He pressed CONNECT , and the light came on. A small miracle. He dialled 999, requested police and ambulance, provided a brief description of what had happened, and gave Beth’s name and address. Then he eased himself to his feet and stumbled along Dempster Terrace.
    It never failed to amaze him how quiet the side streets could be, despite the busy town centre no more than a couple of rows of houses distant. Back gardens spilled down the hill to congregate their bushes and shrubs behind low walls like dams that prevented them from pouring into the burn. Windows glittered in the sunlight. He thought he saw movement at an upper window on the house two along, but could not be sure. Maybe someone in one of those houses had seen his attack. But that was a job for others.
    By the time he reached Beth’s, two police cars, with blue and yellow Battenberg checks, were parked on the pavement, lights flashing.
    Gilchrist pushed toward the front door.
    ‘Excuse me, sir?’
    Gilchrist watched the young constable’s face shift from surprise to concern then on to puzzled recognition as he pushed past him.
    Entering the hall, Gilchrist was struck by how filthy he was. The rancid smell of the burn clung to him like sour body odour. He slipped off his shoes and dumped his jacket on the floor. His jeans were caked with mud, his