A few more steps and he could see inside the room. A figure sitting on a chair. He peeked in. The figure had tape on his face. It was Bob. He looked at Bob and Bob stared at him before his eyes pivoted slowly to the side of the window. Where was Spiv? Where was Pam? Bob stared at him again, and again directed his eyes towards the side of the window. The house was made from wooden panels and plasterboard – not suited for this terrain, and it had grown damp, and was in need of repair. Aid calculated. The doorway lay ajar. Light from the fire flickered, and in places he could see it flickering on the walls - holes, gaps. Not suited for this climate even. Aid peered in again. Bob quickly glinted his staring eyes across towards the side of the window again.
There was urgency this time in Bob’s eyes. Aid had to act quickly. The light flickered through the wall where gaps lay and a shadow made slowly for the door. Someone was waiting for him, and by the look of Bob, would not be wasting time with niceties.
Aid stepped back and leaned silently on the car.
His mobile phone was in his pocket, soon in his hand and thrown towards the decking at the front door. The art of deception. It clunked and skidded towards the front door. The shadow moved for the door. Aid was in the car, the light shone for what seemed like an age above his head, but enough time to find the key in the ignition. He turned it. There was life in the engine. There was no visibility as the frost covered the windscreen. But Aid needed no reminder of where he was, or any landmark to tell him where he was going. He had no time to think of anything except what he needed to do.
Foot down. First gear. Accelerate. Forward. Head down was just instinctive as metal sped forward 20 metres and met with wooden panels. Met with glass shattering from house windows and, over the revving of the engine, there was a scream.
The car continued to rev as it was forced to stop by the staircase. Aid continued to press his foot down for moments after, before raising his head to look at the damage - before raising his head to look around for Pamela Watters. Muffled screams come from the room to the right. He eased the car door open, taking out more plasterboard paneling and wooden frames left hanging from the impact.
Aid rubbed his shoulder, where a dull aching pain had emerged, and stepped out of Marie’s car. It didn’t look good. Well, Bob wouldn’t be driving it home anyway. It was a car that had ceased to be. The floor was covered with planks and dust, dust floating around the night air and the wind failing to help out as it gusted briefly to provide more cover. But just within the limits of Aid’s visibility there lay a body. It lay on the stairway in front of the car. He stood and looked. Had he killed her? Did that make him just like her? Aids head was spinning, but he hurried on to see to Bob.
Bob’s eyes were red with tears and angst. The dust made Aid cough and he wafted it about, wincing as his shoulder gave him pain again. Seatbelt. Should have belted up.
‘Bob, you OK?’ Bob nodded, staring at Aid. Maybe there was a smile beneath that tape. Maybe there was just relief that he was not going to be another murder statistic in Scotland.
Aid urgently ripped the tape off Bob’s mouth and then turned to see Spiv lying with bloodied top. He moved over to him and knelt at his side.
‘Spiv? Do you hear me?’ Aid tapped his cheek. Then felt for a pulse.
‘I think he’s OK man. He was breathing a few minutes ago. Thanks Aid. Fuckin Hell. Thanks.’ Bob sat, still tied to the hair. Aids eyes darted around the room.
‘You got her good, man. I saw her fly up in the air when you battered in. I had no idea what the fuck you were going to do. I mean she was going to fucking have you man. She was going to have us all.’
Aid started to look about the room.
‘I need something to cut the ties’
‘There’s a knife’
‘Where?’
‘Table?’
Aid looked around the room. Spilled coffee cups and scones lay scattered across the glass table. Butter dish. Jam.
‘I don’t see it.’
‘Can you get these off me?’
Aid hurried behind Bob’s chair and found a bit of loose tape hanging. He starts to pull at it, but it ripped before the first arm could be freed.
‘Fuck!’
‘What is it?’
‘Thing snapped.’
He continued to pull and tug at the tightly wrapped tape. Eventually he found another loose end and, within a few moments, Bob was able to get his left arm out.
‘Cheers mate.’ Bob twisted himself round, and tugged at the tape on his right arm, while Aid tried to slacken the grip of the tape around his legs.
The tape ripped. The two friends breathed hard, tugging and pulling. Their hearts pounding, breathing nervously as the adrenalin buzzed in their ears, they were two men mutually intent on liberty. To save Simon Deuchar and to get out of here. The floor creaked as someone approached. Neither man sensed the new danger – the approach – the thrust – the gleam of blade. Not until Bob screamed out.
Aid pushed Bob’s chair over to prevent a further frenzied attack, but now the headlights or the glint from the firelight were on him, as the knife flew towards him. He ducked down behind the sofa and ran along behind it - but this unwanted visitor was relentless in her pursuit. Pam Watters was out of control.
Another throw. The knife caught the chair and Aid lunged at this girl whom they had welcomed as one of their own. Her eyes were different. Hate filled and beady, staring and anarchic. She grabbed Aid to pull away from him. The knife is dislodged from her hand and is thrown across the couch. Aid could now only think of stopping the madness and threw his 16 stone frame directly at Pamela Watters.
The scramble was untidy, but Aid was only reacting to the situation. He had to think fast. They rolled on the wooden floorboards and across the rug which wrinkled and finally knocking over the remains of the afternoon tea prepared earlier. The silence was deafening. What words could change anything? There could only be one winner. Aid felt it had to be him.
He lay across Pam’s body, as she squirmed
‘Get off you fat shit. I’ll kill you. I’m going to kill you’
Aid tried to suppress her, but punches rained in on his nose and eyes. He winced again as a foot released itself from beneath him and Pam freed herself with a kick to Aid’s shoulder. He lay in pain momentarily and looked up to Pam who stretched her hand back to the knife and picked it up.
There was a pause - a definite pause as she stood there. Was this the end? Does everything slow down when it’s nearly over? Her premeditation, her composure now collected again as she shrugged this mishap off. She was ready to go again. Aid looked up at Pam. Pam looked down at him and raised her arm, her hand clenching the ram horned knife handle. Aid closed his eyes and thought about his Mon - his Monica who he loved so much - his family - his little girl and her elder brother - the man hugs, the Saturday morning TV, Namir in the 2.40 at Haydock, drinks with friends.
It might have been slow motion. How Bob got those remaining ties
