shears to gain access to the internal organs. ‘Actually I want to be a forensic pathologist,’ said Sherbourne. ‘That’s my goal.’
His goal? thought Bannerman. He wants a life spent among mutilated corpses, headless torsos, semen stained clothing and last night’s vomit? That’s his goal? ‘I see,’ he said.
Sherbourne was about to drain the blood from the neck of the corpse when Bannerman stopped him. ‘Not that way,’ he said. ‘If you want to be a forensic pathologist you have to remember that signs of injury can be very hard to detect even after strangulation. You have to be very careful how you drain the blood. Watch.’ Bannerman took the knife from Sherbourne and made the incision for him.
‘Thank you!’ said Sherbourne enthusiastically. That’s exactly the kind of tip I need.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
Bannerman returned to his office upstairs wondering about the younger generation and why he himself had become a pathologist. He wasn’t sure that he could remember clearly.
TWELVE
Stobmor
February 4th.
‘You’ll be late again if you don’t get a move on!’ cried Kirstie Bell.
‘So you’ve said!’ retorted her husband. ‘At least a hundred bloody times, woman.’
‘Don’t you swear at me Andrew Bell, I’m not one of these fish factory tarts. Just you mind your tongue around here.’ Kirstie Bell moved away from the table but continued her diatribe while washing dishes. ‘When I think of the men I could have married, I should have listened to my poor father. He always said you’d amount to nothing. He wanted me to marry Jock Croan, he did, and you know what? He was right. I saw Jock the other day and do you know what he was driving?’
Andrew Bell continued to eat his breakfast without heeding the question.
‘A Volvo, that’s what,’ announced Kirstie in triumph. ‘A brand new Volvo.’
‘And what have we got? Answer me that,’ demanded Kirstie.
Bell continued to eat, deliberately making a slurping sound with his spoon.
‘A 1979 Vauxhall Viva, that’s what, with more rust than paint!’
‘You know what Kirstie?’ said Andrew looking up from his plate. ‘What?’
‘I bet Jock Groan’s wife has got an
‘Don’t you sneer at me Andrew Bell,’ raged Kirstie. ‘You’re just jealous. You just can’t bear to see other people getting on in life, that’s your trouble! I don’t know why I bother. I work my fingers to the bone to make the place look nice and what thanks do I get? None, that’s what.’ Andrew slurped his milk again. ‘You are disgusting!’ snarled Kirstie. Andrew slurped all the louder. Kirstie was suffused with anger. She took it out on the pot she was cleaning.
Andrew looked at her out of the corner of his eye and suddenly felt a mist of regret wash over him. Who was the snarling virago with the angry red face? She was so old. Whatever happened to the girl with the smiling face? The girl whose sexuality had captivated him thirty years ago, the girl whose pouting breasts and proud buttocks had fired his fantasies and kept him awake at night until she had finally brought them to fruition in his mother’s back bedroom, one Saturday night, after a dance in the town hall. May had been born nine months to the day, six months after the wedding. Could this shapeless mass in the faded towelling robe be the same Kirstie? he wondered. Even her voice was different. This creature made a harsh, low pitched noise from a throat ravaged by cigarette smoke. She continually whined and sounded resentful. The real Kirstie had a sweet, soft voice, one that could tease and excite, one that could promise so much by saying so little. And her eyes! That was another thing. Kirstie had lovely clear eyes. This woman had nasty little pebbles set in crows’ feet and underhung with folds of scrawny skin. This woman wasn’t Kirstie! This woman was some kind of usurper who had taken Kirstie’s place!
She was a witch. That’s what she must be! An evil witch who had taken Kirstie’s place and who was going to drive him mad unless he did something about it. She was the cause of all the headaches he’d been having! It was becoming clear now! They weren’t headaches at all! She had been putting spells on him, making his head hurt, driving him to distraction with her sorcery!
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ asked Kirstie. An air of uncertainty had crept into her voice. Ts it your head again? Are you ill or something?’ she demanded, trying to regain the upper hand.
‘Ill? Me? No I’m not ill…’ said Andrew quietly, ‘I’ve just realized …’ He got up slowly from the table.
‘Realized what?’ snapped Kirstie. ‘You’re not making any sense, and if you don’t get a move on …’
‘You’re not Kirstie.’
‘What are you blabbering about. If I wasn’t Kirstie I wouldn’t be married to you and living in this pigsty would I? Stop looking at me like that. Did you hear what I said? I said stop it!’
Bell, who still had his porridge spoon in his hand suddenly jabbed it hard into Kirstie’s face and she fell to the floor, her hand pressed to her cheek over a cut that had opened up under her left eye. Her eyes were wide with shock. ‘You … hit me,’ she stammered lamely. ‘Have you gone raving mad?’
‘You’re not Kirstie,’ breathed Andrew as he looked down at the figure on the floor with expressionless eyes. He picked up the milk bottle from the table and raised it above his head.
Kirstie covered her eyes and started to scream but it was cut short by the base of the bottle smashing down into her mouth. The force of the blow was enough to break most of her front teeth and impale her lips on the jagged stumps that were left. Andrew brought the bottle down hard again and it broke on Kirstie’s skull.
Still holding the broken neck of the bottle. Bell swept the jagged edge of the glass back and forward across his wife’s face until she was completely unrecognizable. ‘You are not Kirstie,’ he repeated in an urgent whisper. ‘You are not … Kirstie.’
Finally exhausted by his efforts. Bell stood up and looked down at the featureless body on the floor that had been his wife. ‘A witch!’ he whispered. ‘A witch! … must burn the witch!’
With a sense of purpose that never wavered, Bell set about building a funeral pyre for his wife. He removed the reservoir from a paraffin heater in the hall and poured the contents over her body. He soaked cushions taken from the settee in similar fashion and propped them up around her. A tablecloth and towels were added and then Bell broke up two dining chairs to provide wood for the bonfire. When he was satisfied with the size of the pyramid, he collected his jacket from the peg in the hall and put it on. ‘Late for work,’ he murmured. His last act before throwing a lighted match on to the bonfire was to turn on the gas in the kitchen.
The suddenness of the conflagration took Bell by surprise. One moment the little yellow flame was arcing through the air like a comet through space, the next the whole room seemed to erupt in yellow flame accompanied by thick, black, sooty smoke. He put up his arm to protect his face and backed out of the door, closing it behind him. ‘Burn witch, burn!’ he muttered as he set off down the stairs. He was going to be late. MacKinnon was going to go on at him again. Why didn’t they understand about the headaches? Why didn’t they?
‘So you finally consented to turn up!’ exclaimed a thick set man with sparse red hair as he saw Bell come through the front door of Stobmor Engineering. ‘This is a garage not a holiday camp! This is the third time this week you’ve been late and George Duthie has just phoned to say that the new starter motor you put in his Escort yesterday won’t start it this morning. He’s screaming blue murder. What the hell’s the matter with you?’
Bell brushed past the angry man as if he wasn’t there. This only served to increase MacKinnon’s anger. The harangue continued. ‘I said you’d be out to the farm to fix it properly today. I also told Hamish Lochan that the welding job on his van would be done by noon so you’d better get a move on!’
Still without acknowledging the other man’s presence, Bell continued about his business as if on automatic pilot. He walked to the back of the
