The meanest Flood

pressure to the wound and dragged Geordie over to the telephone so he could tend to him with one hand while he phoned an ambulance with the other. He pressed each side of the wound gently but firmly together.
    During the fifteen minutes it took for the ambulance to arrive Geordie regained consciousness twice. The first time he complained of cold, asked where his coat was. Sam reached for the coat and covered him with it, at the same time maintaining pressure on the gash of his shoulder. The second time he came around he wanted to vomit.
    ‘What happened, Geordie? Did you meet the guy?’ Geordie looked as though he was going to answer but his eyes disappeared into the top of his head. Then he opened them again and said, ‘He was in her flat, Sam. He was waiting for her...
    ‘I went after him down the street and spun him around. He said something. He brought the axe up and I saw he’s gonna open my head with it... I ducked, Sam. I saw it coming and I ducked and tried to roll away over the pavement.’
    Geordie closed his eyes and held his breath for some moments. ‘I was too slow,’ he said. ‘I got my head out of the way but took it in the shoulder. Sounded like a log splitting. I dunno what happened to him. Next time I looked he’d gone. Then I remembered the flat and somehow got back to you.’
    Tears ran down Geordie’s face and Sam wiped them away with the flat of his hand. ‘You’re OK,’ he said. ‘What was it he said when you spun him round?’
    ‘A word, sounded like Katha. Does it mean something?’
    ‘Katha. I think it’s a meditation. Something to do with the Upanishad.’
    ‘Hinduism?’
    Sam shook his head. ‘It’s older than that, connected with Vedic culture. Ancient stuff, mystery religion. You sure that’s what he said?’
    ‘Katha, yes, that’s what he said.’
    ‘We might be looking for a priest. Some kind of holy man.’
    ‘There wasn’t much holy about him, Sam, not with that chopper in his hand.’ Geordie winced with the pain in his shoulder. ‘He took my binoculars.’ The kid closed his eyes and lapsed into oblivion.
    He was still unconscious when the paramedics arrived and strapped him into a stretcher. Sam held his hand while they carried him down to the ambulance.
    ‘Did you see what happened?’ the paramedic asked, one of those ambling men who segue through life without apology or explanation.
    Sam shook his head. ‘I found him in the street. Is he gonna be OK?’
    ‘He’s lost much blood. Are you coming with us?’
    ‘I’ll follow you,’ Sam told him. ‘Where we going?’
    ‘Ulleval Hospital.’
    ‘Look after him.’
    ‘That’s my job, sir.’
    Sam watched as the ambulance turned into Storgata. Then he legged it along Calmeyers gate to the flat where Holly and Inge Berit lived. The street door had a digital lock with an intercom and he leaned on all the buttons until someone buzzed him in.
    There was a brass and chromium lift but Sam took the winding stone staircase with its mosaic of tiny tiles covering the walls. One of the first-floor flats had a pram outside and the strains of a children’s song came from behind the door, something about a train and a station. Sam followed the stairs to the next landing.
    Vague feeling of déjà vu, not enough to stop him in his tracks but enough to make him falter. Flat five had a small framed Russian icon, the Kazan Virgin and Child, pinned to the wall beside the door, which was slightly ajar. There was the sound of running water.
    Sam knocked, expecting no reply. He pulled the door open and she was there at his feet, her quilted jacket on the floor a few feet away in the entrance to the kitchen. Her Lapp hat with the ear-flaps was between her feet. She wore the high boots she had worn in the Coco Chalet; the same full-length skirt, though it was now raised to display one of her thighs.
    Holly’s head was cloven apart. Something had come down with tremendous force across the hairline, splitting the skin and bone almost to the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were like bottle tops, staring in opposite directions. Apart from that one ugly gash there were no other marks. The single blow had done the job.
    You’ve stayed young, Sam, while I’ve grown old. He had spoken to her a couple of hours earlier. Held her in his arms. She would never grow old now. Someone had made sure of that.
    One of her hands was caught in her hair, the fingers entangled there, as if caught in a spider’s web. But the other hand was