He starts to walk away, remembers the knife, but there's nothing he can do that would not be obvious. He gives her a strange look, then walks from the room.
This is an odd guy; she decides to not waste time thinking about it. There is a jacket to be searched. She picks it up, is about to put her hand into the outside pocket, when she notices what rests in the inside. Just the butt of the knife, that's all she sees, but it is enough. She drops the jacket back onto the chair.
If this guy had been a hard man or a ned — the fact that she would not have invited him back in the first place notwithstanding — she could have understood him carrying a knife. Might even have expected it. But not this man. Nothing hard about him, and the threat is all psychological. He is strange, troubling. Possessed of something other than sanity.
She stands up, no time to think, and makes her decision.
He stands in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. Trying to imagine he's someone he's not, but doesn't know who he wants to be. Lover. Killer. Both. He wants to be someone with confidence. Jo crushed him, made him feel so small. He'd been a different person before Jo. She'd ruined him. It was time to get the old man back, the old confidence. Once he had confidence, it didn't matter, didn't matter what he did. He could kill with confidence and he could make love with confidence. He could go out there, right now, and he could hold her and he could see what he felt like doing right at that moment.
She had asked him back, she had been attracted to him, she had been drawn in by him. Why not make the most of it?
A final look in the mirror — into confident eyes — then he heads back out into the hall. Expecting her to still be standing in the sitting room, but she is gone.
'Margaret?' he calls out. The front door is closed, her wine lies on the small table beside the glass of water. 'Margaret?' again. No reply.
He checks the kitchen. Has the thought that perhaps she has gone into the bedroom and awaits him, naked, prostrate, ready and beckoning. Desperate.
He walks over to his jacket and picks it up, realising as he does so that it is not as neatly hung as he'd left it. He finds the knife, searches the other pockets for his wallet. Nothing has been taken, but if she went through his jacket, she knows about the knife. Shit. He looks round.
'Jo?' he shouts. 'Where are you?'
He lifts the knife and runs into the bedroom. He flicks the switch, the unclean room is bathed in harsh light. He notices the giant poster of Manhattan on the wall, but Jo is not there. Runs back out into the hall, then goes through every room in the house, every possible hiding place. It is a small flat; it doesn't take him long.
She's gone.
He seethes. This has tipped the balance between all those personalities raging inside. He stands in the middle of the lounge, and pointlessly looks at his watch. He must have been in the bathroom for at least three or four minutes. How far could she have gone?
Far enough.
There is no possibility that he can wait for her to return. She could have gone for the evening, and in his rage he kicks at one of the seats. Picks up a vase and throws it at Wallace and Gromit. Catches Gromit on the ear. He picks up the small table and breaks the legs of it on the floor.
Suddenly he explodes in an orgy of violent rage, room to room, breaking and smashing. Massive destruction. He swears as he does it, curses Jo for bringing him to this. Sees her face when he looks in the mirror, smashes his fist into the glass. His hand comes away bloody, but he doesn't notice the pain. Picks up a lamp in both hands, the clay breaks beneath his grip, such is his wrath. Attacks the mattress with the knife, stabbing violently, eyes closed, furious slashing. The mattress becomes Jo, her face wielding to the strength and vicious fury of his attack. He's screaming at it, screaming at Jo as he tears her apart, the knife ripping through her flesh, every muscle twitching and firing and blazing, Jo's face being slashed to bloody pieces. Sometimes the words fucking Jo form in amongst the screams, but mostly it is a wordless howl of rage.
There is a knock at the door.
He stops. A piece of glass from a picture frame tinkles to the ground, a light, friendly sound. A sound like Christmas. He stands in the still of the bedroom, breathing heavily, sweat on his face. It is near dark, the lights having yielded to his fury, the flat dimly illuminated by the street lamps outside.
Gentle tapping at the door again. Insistent. He is curious. It is not the knock of an angry neighbour. It insinuates itself into the room. Still he does not move, listening to the beating of his heart, pondering what to do.
The quiet knock at the door continues; his curiosity triumphs over trepidation. He walks back through the hall and sitting room to the door. Is the visitor still on the other side? Imagines he can sense them, feel them breathe. It is a man. Some other lover of Jo's perhaps.
He turns the handle, the lock clicks, the door opens. He looks out into the dark, surprise registering on his face. He knows this man, doesn't understand. Backs off, but leaves the door open. His visitor smiles, walks into the room. Closes the door behind him; the click of the lock the only sound.
20
It's a typical Boxing Day. Grey, cloudy skies, the threat of rain, mild and miserable, not even a chill in the air. A day with nothing to recommend it, the barrenness of it made all the more stark by the night before, the second consecutive night of fabulous passion.
Driving along the Loch Lomond road on the way to Arrochar. The loch looks bleak and humourless, the surrounding hills lost in the low cloud. In the winter it is unutterably depressing, and in the summer, when it looks good, half a million people swarm from Glasgow to check it out. There's usually about one day in late March when it's worthwhile.
Other things on my mind. Spectacular sex with Peggy. Then we sat up in bed for three hours, reading Calvin amp; Hobbes. A perfect evening, which finished up with the expected result — she asked me back. Not in a direct, unsubtle, come on back Hutton, kind of a way, but the suggestion is out there, hanging, waiting for me to pluck it out of the air. And I'm at a loss.
Two days ago I would have jumped at it. Now, because of a night with Charlotte Miller — another man's wife, a woman completely out of my league — I hesitate. I'm being an idiot but I can't do anything about it. I know I'm not about to lure Charlotte away from her boring suit of a husband, but there exists the possibility that I end up in her bed again. Go back into the bosom of the family and that door is closed.
I was nervous going into work this morning. Waiting to see what her reaction would be towards me, waiting for a sign. As it was, she never showed up. Things were pretty quiet, and at shortly after ten I made my excuses and set out for the unclean hole that will be Crow's abode.
So, general confusion on the women-front — no change there — and I try to think about what to say to Crow. But I can't. No idea how to confront him.
Drive into Tarbet, dull and empty, and up the hill past the Black Sheep. Its doors optimistically open, two sad cars parked out front.
Know I can't just come down here for a chat, that I have to force something from Crow. Also know that he will be a reluctant interrogatee. Why should he be anything else? If Edwards was telling Bathurst the truth, Crow isn't going to go volunteering the information to a member of the force who wasn't part of their gang. Have also considered the possibility that Edwards was bullshitting, in the mistaken hope that he would impress Bathurst — he was drunk, after all, and desperate. Consequently, I know I can't barge in there and start smacking Crow about.
Down the hill, turn the corner, past the hotel and into the village, such as it is. Loch Long looks as grey and depressing as Lomond, the mountains on the other side completely obscured above a few hundred feet. Keep wondering what I'm going to do with any information I come up with; keep wondering how I'm going to tell Peggy that I'm not coming back; wonder if I should go back anyway, or what part Charlotte Miller will play in the decision. I don't know, and I should stop thinking about it.
Round the head of the loch, up a small side street, pull up in front of the house. Mind on the job, but I can
