Eye for an Eye

assaulted Beth, then Gilchrist, was no English gentleman, but a scruffy lout with
nae sense o’ hygiene
.
    Gilchrist pushed his sodden hair off his forehead, and shivered. The wet weather seemed to trigger his thoughts. Or perhaps his sixth sense was working at some subconscious level in his brain. His ribs hurt, his head hurt, and he was not sure if the dampness that seeped down his neck was blood or rain.
    How could he have been so blind? Not blind, but stupid. He had never given it a thought. It was the damned cricket bat that had got him going, the one that had beaten him half to death and which used to hang from hooks on the wall in Beth’s spare bedroom.
    He reached Garvie’s house ten minutes or so after seven. The ground-floor curtains were now drawn, so she was at home.
    The drizzle had turned to a steady downpour, the sky as dark as a prison blanket.
    He stopped at the first gate in Gregory Lane. The paint looked new, but the wood rotted near the ground. He gripped the metal handle. How much noise would it make if he burst it open? The wall was too high to climb over with damaged ribs, and a quick look along the lane made him reach his decision.
    He put his shoulder to the gate and gave it a hard thump.
    The lock popped, tearing the screws from the weakened wood. He stepped from the lane, pulled the gate behind him, pressed the screws back into the frame. They held. Far from perfect, but anyone passing in the lane would not notice.
    He wasted no time in pushing through the sodden shrubbery until he found himself crouching behind Garvie’s perimeter wall.
    No choice this time but to climb over.
    Around him, rain pattered gardens that lay mid-winter black. Despite the gloom, crossing Garvie’s garden to the ventilation grille without being seen would be almost impossible.
    Over the wall, he saw Garvie in the kitchen, the motion of her hands suggesting she was chopping vegetables. He pulled out his mobile, called Directory Enquiries, and asked for her number. If she had a phone in the kitchen, he was snookered.
    As the connection was made, Garvie turned, grabbed a hand towel, and left the kitchen. Through the living-room window, he saw her reach for her phone.
    Now.
    He gripped the top of the wall and pulled himself up, almost screamed, then fell back. He heard Garvie say, ‘Hello ...?’ as he slumped onto the wet grass. His breath burst from his mouth in short bursts that burned his ribs. He disconnected and fumbled in his pockets, found the painkillers and poked one out of its foil packaging. And another. From the fire in his ribcage he knew he had damaged his fractured ribs. The pills had been taken too late to prevent the pain from what he was about to do. But they would help later.
    He willed himself back to his feet and peered over the wall.
    Garvie was back in the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of something orange, and guessed she was making a fruit salad. Once again, he placed his hands on the wall, let his arms take the strain, then pulled. He felt the pain increase until it reached some kind of limit. With his hands free and his weight on his elbows, he pressed REDIAL .
    Same scenario.
    This time, as soon as Garvie was out of the kitchen, he slid his legs over the wall and stifled a grunt as he fell onto the grass.
    He got onto his knees, disconnected, and stumbled toward the door. If Garvie reached the kitchen too soon, she would see him.
    His mind screamed,
Now.
    He rolled to the right, away from the kitchen window, toward the ventilation grille. The thick grass softened his landing, but did nothing to cut back the pain that stabbed his side, forcing him to stifle another grunt. He rolled onto his back, pressed hard against the wall, his face only inches from the wire mesh that covered the grille.
    The first thing he noticed was the mesh had been moved. Someone had tampered with it. Was his hunch correct? He gripped the edge of the chicken wire and pulled.
    The back door opened.
    Light flooded the grass and slabs by Gilchrist’s feet.
    He froze.
    Garvie bent down to place something on the back step. From where she stood it seemed impossible for her not to notice his shoes. He fought off the urge to pull in his legs, knowing that the slightest movement would register in Garvie’s peripheral vision. Pain forced tears to his eyes, but he dared not move.
    Garvie straightened up, her sharp profile dark against the backlight from the kitchen. ‘Here, Pitter, Pitter.’
    Something landed with a