Two-Way Split (12 page)

Her son slapped his hand over the wound. Blood spurted through his fingers. His face was expressionless. "Mum," he said. He said it again. Then he shouted it: "
Mum
."

Robin turned and ran.

1:05 pm

Robin tossed his scrunched up balaclava on the seat beside him.

"I
almost
killed Evelyn Fitzpatrick," Eddie said. "It was easy."

"Point, squeeze, bang," Carol said.

"Yeah." Eddie turned round in the front seat and stared at Robin. "Six fucking times."

"Not the same as stabbing somebody, I'll grant you." Carol crossed her hands on the wheel as she turned off London Road. A police car passed them going the other way. "Not as personal."

"Why don't you shut up and drive?" Eddie said.

Robin didn't know why Eddie was so pissed off. "She was bleeding pretty heavily," Robin said, ruffling his hair. The balaclava had flattened it. "Maybe the ambulance will get there in time."

"Who gives a shit," Eddie said. "We got the money."

Carol had the gall to say, "No thanks to Robin."

"Fuck you." He couldn't believe the bitch. A surge of anger immediately brought sweat to his brow. If he smashed her skull with a brick would there be a satisfying crunch? Shit, he'd kill her now and take the consequences. He still had the knife in his hand. He could – no, what was he thinking? Jesus, he couldn't trust himself. He needed something to occupy his mind. The sports bag, containing an indeterminate amount of cash, was tucked on the floor behind the passenger seat. He said, "I'll count the money."

"Clean up, first," Eddie said. "You've got blood all over your sleeve."

Robin raised his arm and touched the dark stain. It was still wet. "Oh, shit," he said, looking to his right. "It's all over the door." He grabbed his balaclava, rolled it into a ball and started wiping the door with it.

"I wouldn't do that," Eddie said.

He stopped. "Why not?"

"It isn't yours."

"It is." Robin scrutinised the balaclava. "I just picked it up off the seat. Anyway, what difference does it make whether I use mine or yours?"

"Not the balaclava. The blood isn't yours, Twat."

"I know, Eddie. That was a joke, okay?"

"You want to hear something funny?" Eddie faced Robin, lips pulled back in an exaggerated smile. He didn't wait for an answer. "Several strands of your hair will be attached to that balaclava. The act of rubbing it will dislodge some of those aforementioned hairs, which will then attach themselves to the viscous liquid being rubbed." His smile disappeared. "You follow that or should I draw a picture too?"

Robin threw the balaclava aside. "Just trying to clean up."

"Well, all you're doing is spreading your DNA around like a reckless arsehole."

"Something on your mind, Eddie? Go on. Spit it out."

"Spit it out, eh?" Eddie said. He took a deep breath. "Okay, okay." He turned to face the front. "I just wondered why? I mean, I asked you to take her hostage, not fucking kill her? Why couldn't you just do as I asked?"

"I didn't mean to."

"Oh, you didn't mean to. That's all right then. Excuse me if I think it was just a bit unnecessary."

Robin grinned. "The man who shoots people in the legs
for effect
, thinks that I might have been unnecessarily violent?"

"Not quite," Eddie said. "I think you might have been unnecessarily stupid. Either that or you're a prime headcase."

"It was an accident." The car trundled under the bridge at Abbeyhill, Carol keeping well within the speed limit. An advertising hoarding at the Scottish Parliament construction site displayed a telephone number for Crimestoppers.

"You stabbed her, let me get this right, in the neck.
Accidentally
?" Eddie forced a laugh. "Try telling that to the police. Eh, Carol?"

She ignored him. "Lose the knife, Robin."

He'd kept the knife in his hand even while he was trying to wipe Hilda's blood off the door. Blood was beginning to congeal on the blade and the handle felt sticky. "I might need it again."

"What for?" Eddie said. "Another accident?"

"At least put it away, Robin."

He dug the sheath out of his pocket. His hands shook as he slid the knife inside its leather cover. His hands shook as he leaned over and lifted the outside flap of the sports bag. His hands shook as he dropped the knife in the bag and clipped it shut. His hands shook as Carol turned into Holyrood Park.

Salisbury Crags swelled on the right. Couples strolled along the footpath that twisted up the volcanic ridge. Arm in arm. Hand in hand. Arms around one another. Further along, towards Arthur's Seat, couples and kids. Couples and dogs. Couples and kids and dogs. No one walked in Holyrood Park alone. He wondered if Carol and Eddie went walking in Holyrood Park. His hands kept shaking as Carol nosed the car into one of the few available spaces in the car park.

"Take your coat off, for God's sake," Eddie said. "You can't go home with that shit all over your sleeve."

"She tore the coat. I heard the lining rip."

"Stick it in the bag with the money."

Robin started to unbutton his coat. "I'm going to freeze."

Carol said "Diddums," and turned off the engine.

Maybe he would beat her to death with his bare hands.

Eddie lit a cigarette, offered Carol one, and then Robin.

Robin shook his head. "Truth is," he said, wrestling with his coat sleeves, "I feel a bit sick."

"Oh, Petal." Carol pulled a sad face.

Robin freed his arms, unzipped the bag and stuffed his coat on top of the stacks of banded notes. Closing his eyes, he visualised Hilda with blood gushing out of the puncture wound in her neck. Slowly, her face changed to Carol's. He opened his eyes and smiled. "So," he said, "what time are we meeting tomorrow?"

Eddie frowned while he sucked on his cigarette. Holding the smoke in, he said, "Make it ten o'clock, if that's okay." After a moment he exhaled, a single wisp of smoke trickling out of his open mouth. "I wouldn't mind a bit of a lie-in."

1:07 pm

Kennedy's boss said, "Fuck me."

About a dozen people had come running out and now they were milling around the post office entrance as the emergency services started to arrive. Some of them seemed distraught, whilst others were sitting on the pavement, shocked into an appearance of utter calm. Kennedy squinted through the open doorway. Inside, a man in a bloodstained t-shirt supported a woman's head in his lap, his hand pressed against her neck. Blood ran down his elbow and dripped onto the floor. Next to the counter a woman lay on the floor. Half-a-dozen men carrying fierce-looking weapons and wearing body armour advanced into the post office in a kind of choreographed pattern. He couldn't see past them without getting out of the car and it was too cold for that. "What are we going to do?"

"About what?"

"Them. Greaves and co. His
party.
"

"I'll need to think about that."

"What's there to think about? We know who they are, what they've done, their names, addresses." Kennedy paused. "We have to tell the police."

"There are other factors to consider. Let me think about it."

"Mind if I smoke while you're thinking?"

"Not in the car."

Kennedy thought about stepping outside and shivered. "Why don't we follow them?"

His boss shook his head. "Other plans. Anyway, as you said, we know where they live."

 The armed police had moved away from the entrance. Kennedy could see the man again, the front of his t-shirt almost completely red.  The woman in his lap didn't move.

1:09 pm

She looked dead.

Pearce squeezed her hand. Cold and clammy. No response. Not so much as a feeble twitch. His voice cracked when he asked, "When will you know?"

The medic shook his head. "Can't say. She's lost a hell of a lot of blood."

Pearce stared at the medic's hands. Disposable gloves. Fingers dipped in the spillage from his mother's neck. "What are her chances?"

"Given the circumstances, she's doing as well as can be expected."

"That's not an answer." Her eyelids fluttered and Pearce squeezed her hand again. "Please tell me."

The medic sighed. "She's very weak."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"I'm doing all I can. Just hold her hand."

"'Scuse me, son."

Pearce felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to see an old man grinning madly at him, bad teeth bared in a face like a weathered skull.

"Just wanted to thank you," the old man said. "I was caught inside when…" He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Anyway. Just wanted to say thanks for rescuing us from those pair of cunts. No telling what they might have done." He paused, grinning again. "Sorry about your mum. How is she?"

Pearce turned away from the old man. His mother's eyes were still closed. He wondered if they'd stay that way.
No, it can't happen again. It's not an option. I can't lose her.
"I don't feel like talking."
She'll be okay.

"No bother, son," the old man said. "Best of luck, eh?"

1:12 pm

At least the police had the decency to leave him alone for a while. He guessed they'd spoken to several witnesses who'd confirmed he wasn't a suspect in either the robbery, the shooting or his mum's stabbing.  He was a still a major witness, though, and they'd want to speak to him at some point. It was no surprise when a detective sergeant said he'd follow the ambulance and ask Pearce a few questions at the hospital, if that was okay.

Pearce asked if he had a choice.

1:13 pm

Dry air scraped his throat.

A crowd had gathered. Dressed for winter in hats, scarves, gloves. Breathing hard. Breath gathering in clouds above them. Near the front, Pearce spotted a man in a Santa costume. A butcher stood in his shop doorway with his arms folded across his dirty blue and white striped apron.

Traffic had come to a standstill.

Nothing moved. Silence pounded in his ears.

Pearce followed the stretcher towards the nearer of the two ambulances. He felt guilty when he let go of her hand.