Two-Way Split (25 page)

11:37 am

Halfway down the first flight of stairs Don heard the front door open. Footsteps rushed towards him. The door slammed. There wasn't time to turn back. He had to hope the visitor was a resident, not Eddie or, worse still (unlikely though it might be), reinforcements from Lothian and Borders finest. He climbed down to the first floor landing and waited. A bandaged hand appeared on the railing and then he saw the blonde hair.

Don didn't wait to say hello. He ran towards his former assailant, his right fist connecting with Eddie's jaw. Eddie hadn't seen him, hadn't expected the blow. His knees buckled and he sagged against the railing, face raised in a look of surprise. Don hit him again. Same place. Eddie slumped to his knees. Don would have liked to stay for a while longer, but flight seemed the more urgent of his conflicting desires. Or maybe not.

Eddie had whacked him on the head with his gun and given him a savage headache. For which, Don decided to hang around for a while longer and kick Eddie in the stomach a couple of times. He took aim and belted him hard. He was about to kick him again, when Eddie launched his fist at Don's gut. He missed his target but managed to catch Don a glancing blow on the thigh. Don reeled backwards until the wall stopped him. Eddie was trying to drag himself to his feet when Don bounced off the wall and kicked him in the face. Blood spurted from his lip. Don nodded in approval.

He'd love to stay longer. Another time, though. It wasn't sensible to be here. Breathing heavily, he stumbled down the stairs.

When he opened the front door, the light hurt his eyes. His head was pounding and he felt dizzy. He jogged towards the end of the road before looking behind him. No sign of Eddie. He hadn't appeared in the doorway. Don stopped long enough to tear a couple of pills from the packet in his pocket. The cold air had helped clear his head, but it still throbbed. Swallowing the pills, he broke into a run. He sprinted fifty yards, looked behind him and eased down. Still no one there. But was he safe? He slowed to a fast walking pace and after a while his heartbeat steadied and his breath came easier. Just as he began to congratulate himself on his successful escape, he heard a shout behind him.

He froze. When he looked over his shoulder, Eddie was twenty-five feet away and gaining by the second. Blood was smeared across his mouth. His teeth were bared in a demented grin and he was bellowing like a distressed bull. "…killed her. You killed her, you crazy bastard." He was waving a gun in his bandaged hand.

So Eddie had dragged his beaten body upstairs and seen Carol Wren in all her posthumous glory. He was pissed off, armed.

Don's feet pounded the pavement with a force that jarred his brain. Wind whipped his eyes and made them sting. He dashed around the nearest corner, adrenalin surging through him. Couldn't give Eddie a steady target. Lungs bursting, Don took the first left. Straight on. Across the road. Left again and he was almost on Morningside Road. He clenched his fists in relief. People. Safety. He looked over his shoulder.

Eddie was twenty feet behind now, blood-smeared face rigid. His hand was in his pocket, hiding his gun. Grief did strange things to people.

Which way? Don turned left, towards town. He walked as fast as he could manage without attracting strange looks from passers-by. Eddie's presence behind him was like a weight pressing between his shoulder blades. Every few feet, he snatched a glance over his shoulder. Eddie was matching his speed. The homicidal maniac was still grinning, crooked teeth pink. Pedestrians were stepping out of his way without having to be asked.

Past the Bruntsfield Hotel. Breathing evenly. Holding the distance. A sudden break in the crowd. Fewer pedestrians. Don speeded up. Broke into a jog. He didn't know how good a shot Eddie was.

Of course, Eddie had it all wrong. He wasn't thinking. Had the situation been reversed, had Don been chasing Eddie with a weapon, Don would have fired it, thereby causing the pedestrians to drop to the ground and give him a clear shot. That's what any man with a modicum of intelligence and a decent-sized pair of balls would have done.

Don heard the crack. It sounded like a firework. Somebody screamed and a chill spread through Don's bones. He turned and looked at Eddie. The headcase was shooting at him. In a crowd. He'd bring the cops – Jesus! A couple of feet to the left, a chunk of wall leapt into the air. All around, people were flattening themselves on the pavement. Traffic ground to a halt.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
Eddie had a clear shot.

Don ran. The skin on his back felt as if it had been bundled into a heap in the centre of his spine and twisted tight around a stick. Where it felt tightest, that's where he imagined the bullet entering. Bruntsfield Road led downhill all the way to Tollcross. He kept picking up speed until he staggered and almost fell. His legs were going to give way if he didn't slow down, but fear kept him moving at a sprint, weaving a path through countless shopping bags, prams, buggies, hurdling a suitcase, narrowly missing a post box, a rubbish bin, a kid in a wheelchair. Outside the Cameo cinema, he barged into a small crowd and got an elbow in the stomach that sent him spinning, winded. Somehow he stayed on his feet. He heard laddish jeering but didn't dare look behind him. No more gunshots, though, and no police sirens. Where were the cops when you needed them?

Someone was knitting a jumper with his intestines. Just for fun, someone else was snapping his ribs with a bolt cutter. Eddie was going to pay. This wasn't enjoyable any more.

He had to stop eventually. He decelerated and came to a halt at a cash machine, bending over, resting his palms on its surface while he sucked in deep breaths. His lungs burned. He coughed. His nose was running. He coughed again. His stomach shook like a bag of loose stones. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and spat on the pavement by his feet as sweat ran down his back. He puffed his cheeks out. Breathed in.

He looked back up the hill. No commotion. No Eddie. Had he given up? Was he hurt? Had the police caught him? Was he hiding? Too many questions.

A bus pulled into a stop nearby. On shaky legs, Don walked over and joined the queue. He fumbled in his pocket for change. Eddie had left him exactly three pounds and eighty-five pence. Nice of him. Don dropped eighty pence in the coin slot, tore off his ticket and took a seat. He waited for Eddie to appear. Waited for him to flash his bloodstained, crooked grin. Waited for him to walk up the aisle to the seat where Don huddled. Waited for him to pull the trigger of that ugly, black gun. Waited for him to end it all. But Eddie never appeared.

The bus pulled away and Don carried on living.

Three squad cars drove past.

When Don looked out the rear window, he saw Eddie sauntering past the cinema entrance, hands stuffed in his pockets, head down, coat collar turned up, hiding his injured mouth. The police cars didn't stop.

As the bus pulled away, Eddie melted into the crowd.

12:56 pm

Pearce held the door open for her. "After you," he said.

Ailsa ducked her head under his arm and he followed her inside, detecting a faint trace of paint fumes. The facing wall, sunflower yellow, looked freshly painted. A five-tiered chandelier hung from a high, stark white ceiling. A stained-glass window cast shimmering yellow and red lights onto the wide wooden staircase that wound downstairs.

She led the way, heels clicking on each scarred step. She had decided he wasn't dangerous after all. But that didn't mean she had become supportive. Not by a long shot. After he had explained to her how Muriel had died, how he'd found her too late to save her, how he'd killed Priestley, her dealer, Ailsa just shook her head and refused to comment. For ages, she said nothing. Didn't ask about prison. Nothing. Sat there with her arms folded, staring at the wall, scrutinising that stupid picture of hers, the one with the scrawled-on eyebrows. Occasionally, she shook her head.

Pearce wondered if he should tell her the rest. Chances are, he'd have killed Priestley anyway, but he would never know how much difference the police information had made to his subsequent actions. Muriel had been dead for two days when he found her. Dead and naked, lying on the floorboards of an abandoned flat in Wester Hailes. The door was open. The police told Pearce that his sister's body showed signs of recent sexual activity. When pressed, they said that recent meant, "within the last twenty-four hours." After ten years, it was still hard to put into words.
Somebody had sex with my sister after she was dead.
How could you chat about that?

He said, "Say something."

She looked at him. "Why? You need my approval?"

It wasn't the drug dealer who fucked Muriel's dead body. The piece of shit responsible for that particular act was never caught and probably never would be – luckily for him. No, it was too long ago now. Nonetheless, Pearce held the dealer responsible. Priestley had supplied the poison that killed her. She died to make him rich. His greed had slowly fucked her to death. Did Pearce need Ailsa's approval for killing him? He laughed out loud.

"You don't, do you? You don't care what I think." Her eyes looked glassy. "You're going to go ahead with this stupid plan."

He said nothing.

"What can I say to stop you?"

He remained silent.

"You're using me, Pearce. I don't know that I want to be used."

 "I'm not forcing you to do anything." He resisted an urge to reach out a hand and touch her hair. Instead, he rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. "Give me the gun and you'll never see me again."

"Christ," she said. "You haven't got a clue." She got up, went through to her bedroom and returned with the pistol. "Here."

He slipped it inside his belt, the butt flat against his spine. He pulled his t-shirt out of his jeans and draped it over the gun. He took a couple of steps towards the door, the gun digging into his back. He nudged the barrel slightly to the left. It was far from comfortable, but it would have to do.

She said, "I'm coming with you."

"It's okay. You were right. I'm using you."

"Sod off, Pearce. You're not meant to agree."

He narrowed his eyes. "I'm lost."

"You sure are," she said. "Never mind, I'm coming with you. But under protest, understand? I'm not happy about this."

He rubbed his chin. "Why don't you let me go on my own?"

"Joe-Bob won't give you the time of day."

"Call him. Tell him you can't make it. Introduce me over the phone."

"He won't buy it."

"Try it and see."

"I want to come with you." She looked at her feet. "If I don't, I've got no chance of changing your mind."

"You've got no chance anyway."

"Can't stop me trying."

He sighed. "So you don't think I'm dangerous any more?"

"Not to me." She looked at him, hands clasped together in front of her chest, tears staining her green eyes. "I want you to stay around for a while. Is that too much to ask? I want to get to know you, I want you to get to know—"

"Get your coat," he said. "We're going to be late."

She'd been quiet during the subsequent bus ride. Eyes closed, palms pressed together, hands clamped between her knees, she'd pretended to sleep. He hadn't disturbed her.

As he opened the door to the cellar bar, she said, "Go easy on Joe-Bob."

"Can't promise."

"Try to remember that he's not a drug dealer any more."

The interior was dark and noisy. A long horseshoe bar split the centre of the room. Jammed against the wall, the snout of a small cannon protruded beyond the deep surround of a green marble fireplace. A coal-effect gas fire warmed the smoky air and above the fireplace hung a shield, a claymore and a kilt. Sketches of old Edinburgh were scattered along the walls.