‘Come up with the other four grand and he’s all yours.’ She opened the back door. ‘Now give me the kid.’
Val grabbed Norman’s arm, tears making the car blur. ‘You can’t let her take him!’
‘I. . .’ Norman bit his lip. ‘I’ve got my redundancy money at the house.’
‘How much?’
He closed his eyes. ‘Enough.’
Kathy closed the door again. ‘OK, let’s go get it.’
Norman drove them down Shalster Road, sticking to the speed limit, not doing anything to attract attention. Past Montgomery Park, across the River Wynd, up into Castleview, then out through the city limits into the darkness.
‘Where the hell do you two live, in a bloody cave?’
Val shook her head. ‘It’s a small cottage, on the other side of the hill. You know, by Dundas Woods?’
‘You bloody would. Teuchters.’
Ten minutes later, the Volvo’s wheels bumped through potholes as Norman coaxed the car up a rutted track into the forest, headlights casting thick shadows that writhed and squirmed through the undergrowth. The jolts made little baby Donald gurn – working himself up to a fully formed howl.
‘How can you live way out here? You never heard of civilization? Jesus. . . If you want to bring my kid up out here it’s going to cost you
Norman stopped the car. ‘We’re here.’
Geddes looked around, pressing her face up against the glass. ‘Where the hell’s the house?’
‘Over there.’ He pointed at a dark shadow lurking between the trees, then flicked on the interior light. ‘Val, you want to stay here while I get the money?’
And that was when Donald started to howl.
‘He’ll be needing his feed. . .’ Val slipped the baby from the sling and held him out to Geddes.
‘No chance. Told you: my nipples are-’
‘Please!’
She groaned at the car roof. ‘Eight grand. Give me the little sod.’
Val handed him over and Geddes hauled up her top, popped out a pale swollen breast, and jammed it in Donald’s screaming mouth. Two gurgles, then silence, then the sound of sucking. She scowled at Norman. ‘What’s the matter, never seen a tit before? Go get my bloody money.’
Blushing, Norman apologized, then clambered out into the night.
It took nearly half an hour for little Donald to stop and by then Geddes was glowering. ‘Missed my bloody train now. And where’s your shitty husband with my cash?’
She thrust the baby back at Val, then tucked her breast back into the saggy bra. A knock on the window and Geddes flinched. ‘Aaagh. . . Dirty bastard’s been standing out there watching the whole time. Probably having a wank.’ She gripped her breasts and jiggled them at him. ‘Take a picture,
The door popped open and Norman leaned in. ‘This is yours. . .’ He smashed his fist into her face. She almost managed to scream before he hit her again, then dragged her out of the car by the ankles.
A rectangle of light spilled from the car’s back door, spotlighting Norman as he dumped Geddes on the ground then walked around to the boot of the car and came back with a tyre-iron.
Geddes tried to scramble away into the bushes, but he grabbed her, held her down, battered her with the tyre-iron. Her body twitched as he beat the life out of it, wet thuds and muffled cracks swallowed by the quiet woods.
Afterwards they sat in the car, Val and her brave Norman, holding hands and gazing down at their new son. He was perfect.
‘See,’ Val beamed, more content than she’d ever been in her whole life, ‘I told you it would work.’
‘Yes. Yes you did.’ Norman leaned over and kissed her, then turned the car around and drove them home.
7: Swans a Swimming
The sky sparkles in the pink glow of dawn: quarter past nine on a cold December morning and the air is crisp. Normally they’d go to the boating lake in Montgomery Park, but today is special. Today they’re going out on the river.
Shrieks and giggles echo out across the dark, sluggish water as the small flotilla of rowing boats pushes away from Dundas House. The girls are noisy and boisterous: all keyed up because they’ve won the regional finals. Next stop: Edinburgh and the Scottish under fifteens’ swimming championship. This is their day and they’re going to enjoy it.
‘Please, sir.’ It’s Sarah Morrison: breaststroke; tall and gangly with long ginger hair and a complexion like bleached bones; just on the cusp of twelve and changing from a confident wee girl into a shy teenager. ‘Are we going to be on The Bellows long?’
James Kirkhill looks over his shoulder at the snail-shaped island in the middle of the river. A pair of dilapidated buildings cling to the rocks and grass, brooding silently. Mourning their missing inmates. The faded blue and white sign still says ‘MACANDREW’S SANATORIUM’, but no-one’s been treated here since the end of World War II. ‘About four hours, plenty of time to do some sketching, take some photos. . .’ He nudged the hamper sitting at his feet. ‘Have a picnic. Why?’
‘Oh.’ She blushes, looks away. ‘I just wondered is all.’
James throws her a wink, even though he’s old enough to be her grandfather. ‘Got to be back in time for a hot date, is that it? Who’s the lucky boy?’
Sarah’s blush goes nuclear and the other two girls in the boat laugh. She mumbles something, and puts her back into the rowing. Her oar slices through the water. Sitting next to her, Danielle takes this as a challenge and matches her stroke for stroke.
‘Slow down, slow down. . .’ James holds up his hands, grinning. ‘We’ll end up in Norway at this rate. Got to give the rest of the team a chance to catch up.’
Danielle. She’s got gold medal written all over her. Popular, mature beyond her years, friendly, attractive, smart, outgoing, and one hell of a swimmer. Give her another four years and she’ll be
Half an hour later they’re tying up at the old jetty, clambering up the stone steps and running all over the island.
James takes a deep breath and makes a loudhailer out of his hands. ‘Be
James wraps the scarf tightly around his neck and sets out for a brisk walk around the island. Trying to keep warm. Eventually he finds a spot in the lee of the staff wing, where the morning sun has melted the frost from the grass. Leaving it a rich and vibrant-
‘And were you alone at this point?’
James Kirkhill looked up from the table, blinking – as if he was trying to remember where he was.
Interview room number six was in the old part of Force Headquarters: peeling paint, stained carpet tiles, a scratched table, and four creaky plastic seats. A storage radiator clunked away to itself in the corner, the smell of burning dust mingling with the sour armpit stink coming from DI George ‘Stinky’ McClain. Not his fault. It was glandular. But James Arnold Kirkhill didn’t seem to notice, just sat there staring at the tabletop.
He was an English teacher at Kingsmeath Secondary: mid-fifties, slightly overweight, trendy oval glasses, and purple bags under his eyes. Wild grey hair and nine pm stubble.
At least he’d stopped crying. According to the DS who’d interviewed him after the accident, the man could barely speak for blubbering.
‘Was I alone? I think so.’ He wrapped his arms around himself. ‘It was the only warm place on the island and I’m . . . well, I broke my ankle a couple of years back and it aches when it’s cold. I was going to read my book.’
