Eye for an Eye

sight.
    He steps back.
    In the rain, his eyes sparkle. But I know the look of fear.
    ‘For God’s sake,’ he hisses. Then he recovers. ‘Who the hell are you?’
    I lower my anorak, let him see my face.
    ‘You?’ he says.
    The car crowns the ridge. Headlights flicker between the trees by the forestry fence, twin beams that jump through the rain like jiggling flashlights. Then they steady and pierce the sodden darkness and sweep the driveway.
    For one confusing moment the lights blind me. I blink, decide to strike.
    The car horn blares again, this time a rat-a-tat-tat.
    ‘What the—’ Patterson stares off toward the forest.
    Too late.
    I lower the stave, slip it from view.
    The horn rat-a-tat-tats again, closer now. Headlights dance behind the trees.
    Patterson glances at me and steps back, as if aware all of a sudden of how close I am to him. He brushes a hand over his balding pate and growls, ‘What are you doing here?’
    I smile at him. I want to whip the stave out from under my anorak and drive it deep into the socket of his left eye. But the car is so close I can hear the metallic rattle of its suspension, the splash of puddles at its wheels.
    My mind is in turmoil. Should I strike? Or wait?
    But I feel such a burning need that I know I have to do it. I decide to do it. And to do it ...
    Now.
    The night explodes with light.
    The car swings our way.
    Patterson looks to his side.
    I freeze. The stave is out, and I wonder for one crazed moment if I should plunge it into his ear, kill him that way.
    ‘Who the hell is this?’ he growls, and moves to the gate.
    I return the stave to its hidden pocket, and pull up my hood as twin beams bounce toward us. Now I know I will have to kill to survive.
     
    Gilchrist drew the Merc to a sharp halt that had his tyres scattering gravel. He did not switch off the engine and kept the lights on at full beam and the wipers running.
    He opened the door and stepped out.
    From where he stood, he could make out the stocky figure of Patterson and next to him, in shadow, someone smaller. He was unable to see the face, but he knew who she was. She wore an anorak with the hood up. Just as MacMillan had described.
    Something fluttered in his chest.
    He had the Stabber.
    He stood with his hands at his sides, not wanting to move for fear of breaking the moment and letting loose a disaster. Drops of rain ran down his collar like beads of ice. No one seemed willing to speak, until Patterson snarled, ‘Gilchrist?’
    ‘That’s me.’
    ‘What in God’s name are you doing here, man?’
    ‘I need to speak to you. Right now.’
    ‘Now? On a night like this?’
    ‘Especially on a night like this.’
    ‘What about? Dammit.’
    Patterson’s failure to decipher the meaning of his words, or detect any danger, annoyed Gilchrist. He struggled to keep his tone level. ‘Could I ask you to come over to my car?’
    ‘No. Dammit. Say what you have to say, Gilchrist, then get the hell out of it before we all catch our death.’
    The Stabber shifted her stance. Doubts flashed into Gilchrist’s mind. Surely she was not going to carry out her grisly act in front of him. Or was she? Surely she did not know he had figured it out. Or did she? But the longer he talked to Patterson, the sooner she would realize it was over for her. Of that he was certain.
    God only knew what she would do then.
    Gilchrist pulled the gate open, but did not enter the garden. Nothing stood between the three of them.
    ‘Well?’ said Patterson. ‘I’m waiting.’
    From behind him, Gilchrist heard the angry hiss of water on the exhaust pipe, the sleepy beat of the windscreen wipers. His own faint shadow lay over the ground before him, falling between Patterson and the Stabber like some physical divide between life and death. He turned to the Stabber and smiled at the irony of it all.
    ‘It’s raining,’ he said.
    ‘Lord above us,’ muttered Patterson.
    As if to confirm the accuracy of Gilchrist’s statement, the Stabber held out both her hands, palms up. But Gilchrist knew she was trying to lull him into thinking she was unarmed.
    He focused on her eyes. ‘Like you,’ he said, ‘I love the rain.’
    ‘What the hell are you talking about, man? Dammit.’
    Gilchrist ignored Patterson. ‘When I was a little boy,’ he said to the Stabber, ‘whenever it rained, my mother would recite a rhyme to me. She would almost sing it to me. Rain, rain, go away / Come back here another day. Then she would run her