Two-Way Split (14 page)

He sat up with a start, frantically rubbing his neck. Leeches. He'd dreamed of leeches for sixteen years. Ever since his father… Breathing too fast. Why couldn't he dream about something else for once? Deep breath. Should he write down the dream while he remembered? No, his current therapist wasn't interested in dreams. Some were, some weren't. This one seemed more interested in his early sexual experiences. Slow. Deep. Breath.

First orgasm? Ten years old, standing up in the bath. Makes my knees buckle. Think I've damaged myself. Think I'm going to tell you?

Picking the money off the floor where he'd dropped it, he lobbed it onto the table. He stretched, reached for a smoke. Fuck sex. It wasn't worth getting excited about. Boom fucking boom. His lighter was low on fuel, but after three attempts it finally sparked. He eyed his money through the flame. Fourteen stacks of tens, six stacks of twenties, a single stack of fifties. Not bad for a nutter. Above the table, smoke coiled and drifted. He snapped off the lighter and exhaled through his nose while thirty one thousand tax-free pounds flaunted itself on the table in front of him.

With Carol and Eddie out of the way, the money was all his.

He had a plan, one that might even work. If he got caught, so be it, he'd plead insanity. He wouldn't be short of witnesses.

He'd sat up all night drinking coffee, chain-smoking, watching television with the sound off, listening to news reports on the radio. Time after time he counted the money, flicking through the notes with hands that wouldn't stop trembling. Several times he got up to wash his face. He cleaned his nostrils with both ends of a twist of toilet roll and when that failed to remove the stench he shoved a couple of cotton buds up his nose. Finally he smeared toothpaste around the inside of his nostrils. It stung all right, but it didn't get rid of the stink of the post office cashier's hairspray.

He checked on Carol. She was sleeping like a baby, dreaming sweet dreams about Eddie, no doubt.

When the news report came at five thirty he was slouching on the settee. He wasn't tired. He was thinking, trying to concentrate, locked in the process of making a difficult decision. Weighing up the pros and cons for what was easily the tenth time that night, he concluded once again that it was all over for Carol. It had to be. After all, what did he have to lose now? The newsreader answered him, speaking with utter detachment: "The woman stabbed by a robber in an Edinburgh post office yesterday has died of a wound to the throat. Mrs Hilda Pearce—"

Two words repeated in his head.
Has died.

Scores of scented leeches clung to his face. He stumbled to his feet, stomach muscles contracting. Leeches crawled down his throat, squirmed in his oesophagus, lodged in his lungs, choking him with the scent of Hilda Pearce. He couldn't breathe. His heart thumped. He was dizzy, sick, scared. Was he scared? Really? Yes, he was bloody terrified.

Hilda Pearce had really fucked him up. There was no turning back now.

No more doubt, then. No more denial. Who cared that it wasn't his fault? Accident or not, he was a killer.

The newsreader confirmed it: "—is now a murder investigation."

A killer. Fat black perfumed slugs bloated his belly.

He scurried to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet bowl for minutes on end. His stomach cramped with each spasm, pain causing his eyes to water. When his stomach was empty he puked bile, shivering from head to foot. Afterwards he leaned his sweating forehead against the wall and hugged himself. His gut felt like it had been tied in a knot.

Bile coated his tongue and each time he swallowed, tiny balls of fire scorched his throat. And those words pounded in his head like a second heartbeat.

Has died.

Suddenly he realised his head was hurting where it rested against the wall. He jolted upright. Maybe he'd fallen asleep for a few minutes. But, no, he couldn't have. Not with this much adrenalin shooting through his bloodstream. He wasn't tired. Definitely not. His watch read twenty past seven. An hour and fifty minutes had passed since the news report.

He got to his feet and turned on the shower. If he wasn't asleep, then where had the time gone? Oh, God. Maybe it was happening again. He must have been asleep, if only because there was no other explanation. Clumsily, he started to undress. Naked, he stepped into the shower cubicle and closed the door, standing under the spray, head bowed, hands clasped in front of his chest, while hot needles jabbed the back of his neck. The smell was stronger now. He squirted liquid soap into his palm and lathered his body. He shampooed his hair. Rinsed it.

After he stepped out of the shower he brushed his teeth. He shaved. He lined his nostrils with aftershave. It stung like a bitch.

9:16 am

"What is it?" Ailsa Lillie held the door open with one hand. With the other she shielded her bruised eye.

Pearce ignored her question. "You dyed your hair." Today, her hair was dark brown with a reddish tinge. Yesterday, he seemed to recall, it was uniformly grey.

"Gold star for observation." Her mouth tensed.

"What I meant to say," he said, "is that I like it. You look ten years younger."

"Christ, I must have looked old before." She was dressed in faded blue jeans and a burgundy halter-top. Her feet were bare. Not exactly a winter costume, he thought. He glanced at his bare arms. Who was he to speak? "You going to tell me what's going on?" she asked him.

As he stepped inside, his arm brushed against hers. He said nothing.

Her eyes widened, asking the question again. She rubbed her arm where he'd touched it.

He couldn't look into her eyes for long. His gaze dropped. Shit. Straight to her tits. And guess what? She wasn't wearing a bra. He looked up and discovered two cracks running along the ceiling, forming a jagged X where they crossed. He felt her hand warming his bicep.

When he lowered his head she jerked her hand away. "How's your daughter?"

"Becky's doing okay," she said, moving quickly down the hall. She turned. "She still sounds like shit and she can't talk for long, but she's improving. I told her about you. She said to say thanks."

"She still in hospital?"

"She's in Glasgow, staying with my sister. Thought she'd be safer there."

"I didn't realise. I assumed she was still—"

"She's been out a couple of days. They only kept her in overnight. Hospital beds are precious commodities."

"Right. Maybe I'll get to meet her sometime."

"Maybe," Ailsa said.

He stole a last glance at the ceiling and strode towards her.  She turned again and he followed her into the sitting room. He felt clumsy in his boots, thinking he was going to tread on her toes. She sat on the settee and he sat next to her. She faced him, feet angled towards each other, big toes touching, toenails flashing red.

Something hard was growing in his chest. He coughed into his balled fist.
Just ask if you can borrow the gun. She doesn't need to know anything else.
"It's my mum," he said. He coughed again. "She was in an accident."

Her face froze. Her hand sprang from her lap and her fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Is she – was it serious?"

He leaned back and stared at the opposite wall. Above the boarded-up fireplace hung a painting. Dozens of ovals, some stretched fat in shades of red, others thin in shades of green, dominated the canvas. Randomly placed black curved lines looked like someone other than the artist had added an assortment of eyebrows. While she stroked the back of his hand with her fingertips, he told her what had happened.

She didn't interrupt once. When he'd finished she said, "I'm really sorry, Pearce. Christ, that's awful. I don't suppose they know who…"

He continued to stare at the painting. His mouth was so dry his tongue was beginning to crack. Something was about to burst out of him. He swallowed.

"Look at me," she said. She shook his hand up and down as she squeezed it. "If there's anything I can do…"

He swallowed again, gently removing his hand from her grasp. Slowly he turned to look at her.

"It's okay," she said, eyes shining like polished jade.

He shook his head. "It's very far from okay." His voice quietened. "I thought I'd feel sad, you know." He paused. "We were close." He locked his fingers together in his lap. "But I don't."

"You will."

"Yeah?"

"Promise," she said. "It might take a while, but it'll come."

"I've waited ten years. I haven't…" He clenched his fist. "I mean, my mother – I ought to be grief-stricken, but I'm not. I'm angry, all right. And a bit tired and incredibly hungry. But," he unclenched his fist, "that's nothing out of the ordinary."

"You're describing a normal reaction."

"I am?"

When she smiled at him he noticed how white her teeth were. "What do you want to eat?"

"Don't go to any trouble."

"I haven't had breakfast yet. It's no trouble."

He got to his feet. "I'll take you out somewhere. Anywhere you like. Pete Thompson's paying."

"Sit down," she said. He flopped back onto the settee. "I'm taking nothing from Pete. Now, what do you want? Eggs, bacon, sausages?" He nodded. "Baked beans?" He nodded again.

"Can I do anything?" he asked, as she bounced across the carpet on the balls of her bare feet.

"Come into the kitchen with me if you want." She stood in the doorway with one knee bent. "Keep me company."

9:29 am

Hilda Pearce's smell was still there, tinged, now, with a sickly sweet putrescence, as if the smell from the mound of black bin bags littering the pavement below had seeped through the narrow gaps in the planks the scaffolders had laid.

Calmer now, Robin turned away from the window. The sound of six-shooters penetrated the wall as his deaf neighbour sat down to watch his first cowboy movie of the day. Robin looked at the clock. Almost, darling. Almost time to go.

Carol had left early, saying she wanted some fresh air, that she'd walk. Likely story. She'd be straight into a taxi, round to Eddie's, shedding her clothes before she was in the door. Did she think he didn't know?

Stubbing out his cigarette, Robin began to place the cash in a leather holdall. He had to take the money with him. If the opportunity didn't arise, it was important that everything carried on as normal.
T
he money's right here. Nothing to get your neck in a twist about. Knickers. Knickers in a twist.
He fastened the bag and carried it into the hall. The peg where his favourite jacket usually hung was empty. He'd thrown it out with the rubbish last night, along with the sports bag.

The black, knee-length overcoat he'd worn only a couple of times still smelled new. He pulled it tight over his chest and fastened the buttons. Returning to the bathroom, he pulled the plug in the sink and the crimson water drained away. He studied the knife. Water droplets gleamed on the blade. It looked clean. At least, it looked as if somebody had tried to clean it. It was unlikely to pass a forensic examination, but who cared? He wiped the knife with a hand towel, then soaked up the residual moisture with a couple of tissues.

In the sitting room, he slotted the knife in its sheath. Before opening the front door he dropped the sheath in his overcoat pocket. His hands were shaking less now, but his legs still felt weak as he ran down the stairs.