Eye for an Eye

shirt bloodied. But other than strip to the skin, he would have to live with it for the time being.
    Beth was seated on the living-room sofa. A woman Gilchrist recognized as PC Jane Browning sat next to her, police jacket and cap off, starched blouse laundered white. Browning glanced at Gilchrist as he stepped into the room. She seemed unfazed by his appearance and the nod she gave him was one of recognition rather than permission to come closer. Then her legs turned in toward Beth, and her fingers twiddled with the patterned quilt that covered Beth’s shivering body.
    Beth looked up at him then, her eyes seeking an answer to her unspoken question, and all of a sudden Gilchrist felt out of place, as if he was violating some private moment. He gave a tiny shake of his head, telling her he had failed, then watched in utter helplessness as she buried her face in her hands and her shoulders heaved in short silent sobs. Browning pulled Beth into her and gave Gilchrist a glance that told him she would take it from there.
    Defeated, he left the room.
    ‘Boss.’
    Stan emerged from Beth’s bedroom, Sa behind him.
    ‘Holy shit, boss.’ Something swept across Stan’s face, the beginnings of a joke, perhaps. ‘Want to step outside?’ he offered. ‘It’s less ...’
    ‘Smelly?’
    ‘You said it.’
    Standing on the pavement, with no jacket or shoes, a shiver gripped Gilchrist’s body.
    ‘I’d invite you into my car, boss. But under the circumstances ...’ Stan’s gaze roamed over his face. ‘Jesus, boss. He’s made a real mess of you.’
    ‘He?’
    Stan gave a twisted smile. ‘You called it in.’
    Gilchrist nodded. He’d forgotten he’d mentioned Beth’s assailant was a man. Maybe the blow to his head was worse than he thought.
    ‘Let’s have a look,’ said Stan, and probed his fingers at the base of Gilchrist’s skull. ‘I wondered whose hair was on the cricket bat. Now I know.’
    Gilchrist gasped, almost pulled away.
    ‘Sorry, boss. Just pressing.’
    ‘Well, press lighter, will you?’
    ‘You’re going to need stitches, I’m afraid. Best guess, ten or so. Quite a gash you’ve got back there.’
    Stan came round to the front again, and Gilchrist had the oddest sensation that fingers were still pressing and prodding and fiddling with his wound, as if Stan were in two places at the one time.
    Then Sa was facing him, her face pale. ‘She says she wasn’t raped, Andy. She says nothing happened.’ The words were spoken almost as if Sa was disappointed. ‘I don’t believe her. She’s hiding something. Can you give a description of the sick bastard?’
    Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I saw his shoes.’
    ‘His shoes?’
    ‘Trainers. White.’
    ‘Is that it?’
    Gilchrist nodded, ashamed by his failure to catch the man. ‘Have you asked Beth?’ he tried.
    ‘As I said, she’s hiding something.’
    All of a sudden, Gilchrist felt leaden, as if his limbs had lost their power to support his body. He turned to Stan, but the pavement seemed to shift then tilt up at him. Stan’s hand slapped hard under his armpit. ‘Steady, boss.’
    ‘Stan ...’
    ‘Looks like I’m going to have to seat you in my car after all.’
    ‘I think ...’
    ‘Sa,’ Stan shouted. ‘Give me a hand.’
    Together they manhandled Gilchrist into Stan’s car and strapped him in. Sa threw in Gilchrist’s jacket and shoes and slammed the door as Stan floored the pedal. Gilchrist fought off the almost irresistible urge to close his eyes and go to sleep. But halfway along South Street, he slapped the window.
    ‘Stop the car.’
    ‘Steady on, boss, you’ve had a right—’
    ‘Stop the car, Stan. Stop the car.’
    Stan pulled his Ford Mondeo over and ratcheted the handbrake like a learner driver. ‘You going to throw up?’
    Gilchrist fumbled for the door lock, but his fingers felt as if they belonged to someone else. He twisted around in his seat and stared behind him. He had caught something, some innocent action or movement, some thing that had flashed like a bolt of lightning deep into his mind. He looked back at the passers-by, struggling to see what had triggered his thoughts. But his mind was leaden now, conscious only of Stan’s hand on his shoulder, tugging, his peripheral vision tunnelling, darkness swelling. He heard humming in his ears, like a whistling wind.
    Then Stan’s voice came back to him.
    ‘... to the hospital, boss.’
    ‘The man,’ said Gilchrist. ‘The old man.’
    ‘What old