Eye for an Eye

said.
    ‘Just as well. I wouldn’t want you to be driving in your condition. I can call a taxi, if you’d like?’
    Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I have someone close by I’d like to check up on.’
    ‘I’ll be here for the rest of the morning,’ she said, ‘if you need anything else.’
    She smiled, and Gilchrist wondered if she would still manage a smile after thirty years of attending to the walking wounded. Perhaps she would become inured to the endless barrage of needless brutality and treat life with the cynicism it seemed to deserve.
    Outside, the morning air lay still and crisp as an Arctic frost. Gilchrist’s breath clouded before him in short puffs, visible signs of how cold he felt. He pulled McVicar’s blanket around his neck and decided to take a taxi.
     
    Sam MacMillan answered the door in a creased plaid shirt that hung over brown corduroy trousers with knees worn as smooth as flannel. White stubble dotted craggy cheeks and wattled neck, the growth at least several days old.
    ‘Thought you were going to call, Sam,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Or were you hoping I’d forget?’
    ‘You’re a right pushy wee bugger getting.’
    ‘Seems to be the only way around here.’
    MacMillan contemplated the bandage around Gilchrist’s head. ‘So, what’s the other guy like?’
    ‘Worse.’
    MacMillan frowned. ‘Can I finish my breakfast? Or are you going to arrest me on my threshold?’
    ‘Finish your breakfast, Sam.’
    MacMillan grunted then shuffled along the hall.
    The kitchen was bright and open, which somehow surprised Gilchrist. Glossy posters and framed photographs of an avian repertoire filled the walls. Two pairs of binoculars sat on an open shelf by the refrigerator. One pair Gilchrist recognized. Beyond the kitchen window, three bird feeders flapped with feathered life in a small walled garden.
    MacMillan screeched a chair up to a light oak table that seemed more suited to a modern house than one centuries-old. He faced the patio window and followed the line of Gilchrist’s gaze. ‘Once they know where to find food,’ he said, ‘they keep coming back.’
    ‘Almost like keeping pets,’ said Gilchrist.
    ‘But without the buggeration factor.’ MacMillan kept his gaze on the activity outside. ‘See that one there? That’s a wren. See it? You don’t find too many of them in town. Had a nest of them a few years back, in that wee bittie privet hedge in the corner. Cats chased them away. Should have shot the buggers.’
    All of a sudden, MacMillan tapped the window so hard that Gilchrist thought the glass would break. The feeders exploded in a wild flutter, three clouds of feathers that burst into the air like smoke. ‘Go on,’ he growled. ‘Get out of it.’ Then he sat back, a scowl bending his lips. ‘Starlings. Bloody pests. You’d think they own the place.’
    One by one the birds returned, the starlings leading, oblivious to the hatred levelled their way.
    Without being invited, Gilchrist pulled a chair opposite and sat. He said nothing as MacMillan bit into a hardened crust of toast as if it was the skull of a starling. Crumbs crackled onto his plate. MacMillan glanced up. ‘You look like you’ve been hit by a bus,’ he growled. ‘And what’s with the blanket?’
    ‘Lost my jacket.’
    ‘It’s chilly to be out without a jacket.’
    ‘Hence the blanket.’
    As if taking sympathy on Gilchrist’s condition, MacMillan said, ‘Help yourself to some tea. There’s another slice of toast in the toaster. If you don’t want it, it’ll no go to waste.’ He thumbed to the window. ‘They’d eat you out of house and home, so they would.’
    The birds had recovered from their temporary scare and were pecking at the feeders with renewed vigour, it seemed. Gilchrist tugged the blanket over his shoulders and rested his elbows on the table. ‘Tell me about Louise, Sam.’
    ‘What’s there to tell? She’s my daughter. Mentally retarded. Lives in a home in the outskirts of Dundee with specialist care that costs too bloody much. Scandalous, so it is.’
    ‘Do you visit?’
    MacMillan looked up at him, then eyed the toast again. ‘Not as often as I should,’ he confessed. ‘But it’s not the kind of place you’d queue up to see.’
    ‘When were you last there?’
    ‘A month ago. Maybe two. You lose track of time at my age.’ He bit into the toast.
    ‘You said your wife left you.’
    ‘She couldnae cope.’
    ‘With Louise?’
    ‘And me.’
    ‘What happened,