Hand for a Hand

by T. Frank Muir

  “Shh.” He tilted his head to the side. “Listen.” He had gained his night-sight, but in the darkness all he saw were shapes. He peered to his right, to his left, twisted his head over his shoulder as—

  Another shuffle.

  He stared to his right, to the packing box on the floor.

  A shuffle. But not a shuffle. More like.…

  A scrape? From what?

  A mouse? A rat? Something else?

  Nance had heard it, too. He knew from the stiffness in her posture, the way her body turned to the wooden crate on the floor.

  “Maureen?”

  Silence.

  “Maureen? Are you there?”

  Another scrape.

  By the box on the floor.

  Beneath the box on the floor?

  Nance beat him to it. She thudded the box out of the way and was tugging the carpet, peeling back the damp material. He thought she was ripping it into shreds, until he realised a rectangular piece had been cut from it. He gripped a corner, pulled it back—

  “Bully warned me about you.”

  Gilchrist felt his body turn to ice, his blood to water. If he’d had anything in his stomach he would have dropped the lot there and then.

  Light exploded in his brain like a kick to the teeth.

  He had time only to cover his eyes and turn away from the boot coming his way, so that it caught him only a glancing blow on his ear. He roared as pain shot through him, and rolled into the darkness, hand pressed hard to the side of his head, half expecting to feel a bloody mess where his ear had once been.

  But it was still intact.

  A beam of light chased him as he dived to the side, felt the thud of something heavy and sharp shiver the floorboards by his head. A deep curse, a guttural scream, then a flurry of light around the room as the flashlight clattered to the floor.

  Gilchrist lunged for it, felt the wind of something brush his ear, heard the metallic clatter on the wall behind him. He picked up the flashlight, trapped the shape of two figures in its beam, caught Nance beneath a raised arm, a sharp point—

  He threw the flashlight.

  The room flickered as wild as lightning then fell into darkness with a grunt as the flashlight bounced off bone. He heard the thud as the body hit the floor and had time only to dive at where he thought the figure had fallen.

  Cuffs out. “You’re under arrest,” he shouted, then the hard clip of metal as he slipped them over a bony wrist.

  “Fuck off,” and a fist as hard as stone hit him on the jaw.

  His head jerked and he almost lost his grip on the cuffs as another hammer blow hit the side of his head. In the blind darkness and the close struggle Gilchrist knew he could not trap the man’s free arm long enough to cuff it, so he clipped the cuffs to his own wrist.

  “Got you, you bastard.”

  He felt himself dragged to his feet, surprised by the animal strength of the man. He fought to grab the loose arm as it hit him on the neck like a poorly aimed rabbit punch, and felt his breath leave him as a knee came up between his legs. He smelled the stale tobacco stink of the man, felt the roughness of stubble, the wet spray of spittle as the voice by his ear cursed and spat.

  But cuffed together, the man was going nowhere.

  Arms as thin and strong as steel ropes wormed their way around his ribcage.

  Gilchrist tucked his left foot behind a leg and pushed.

  They hit the floor like a loaded sack.

  He heard the air go out of the man, but before he could overpower him a hand slapped onto his face, and fingers as hard and sharp as steel claws dug into his skin.

  Light again. A dancing beam.

  “You’re under arrest.” Nance’s voice, high, unsteady. “Fuck off.”

  A roar, a grunt, and before Gilchrist could move, the man had rolled on top of him, then over, body twisted to the wall.

  The dancing flashlight caught the blade of the hunting knife at the same instant Gilchrist saw Jimmy Reid’s fingers fold around the hilt and the knife rear into the darkness above his head.

  “No!” he shouted, and caught the grim smile of victory as the blade flashed down at him.

  Chapter 40

  THE KNIFE THUDDED into flesh.

  But not Gilchrist’s.

  He heard Nance gasp, felt her body go limp, and realised she had dived at Reid and taken the blow meant for him.

  Fire flashed through his mind.

  Reid shifted his weight.

  Nance’s body tumbled off, and Gilchrist knew Reid had pulled the knife from her back. No time to think. Only to move.

  And move now.

  He gripped his cuffed wrist tight with his free hand, pulled his legs up and rolled heels over head. He heard a grunt of pain, a hard gasp of surprise. He tightened his grip, rolled in toward Reid, felt the pain as his own elbow twisted, the strain on his wrist as the cuff bit into his skin. His contorted move had Reid at a disadvantage. But he needed to move quickly. He pulled himself to his knees, felt Reid try to resist as he shoved his arm up his back.

  Reid roared, “My arm.”

  Gilchrist pushed higher, heard the dry crunch of gristle tearing and the high-pitched scream like a pig being burned, then felt the loss of power as the strength went out of the guy.

  On automatic now, he unclipped the cuff from his own wrist, pulled Reid’s other arm behind his back, and clicked the wrists together. He pushed away, brushed the floor with his hands, found what he was looking for, and turned it on.

  A beam of light shot out from his hand.

  A quick flash at Reid to show him lying on his stomach, face twisted in pain, arms behind his back, the hunting knife with its serrated edge within easy reach.

  Gilchrist kicked it to the corner.

  He found Nance six feet away, on her front, her right shoulder a bloodied mess. But she was moving, pulling herself forward like some dying animal. He kneeled beside her, placed the flashlight on the floor, eased her jacket from her shoulder.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered.

  “I wasn’t planning to.”

  He grimaced at her humour, but could tell she was hurting. He pushed his fingers through the bloodied cut in her blouse and ripped the material apart. In the flashlight’s beam, the wound was wide, as if the blade had plunged into skin and been tugged back. But he saw, too, that it had not cut any major blood vessels, and that her sports bra was helping to hold the flesh together, keep the wound tight.

  He pulled off his jacket, gripped his shirt, and almost tore it from his body. Shirt in teeth, he ripped off a sleeve and whipped it under her arm and around and over her shoulder. And again. He tied a quick knot. Could be better, he thought, but it would stanch the flow.

  From behind, he heard a grunt.

  Reid had twisted onto his side, his body long and lean, crawling out of the shadows like an alligator from a night swamp. From the way he was shifting, Gilchrist knew he was trying to find his feet.

  Not so fast.

  Gilchrist took one step, two, and booted him in the face. Reid grunted and slumped to the floor. Gilchrist stomped down hard on Reid’s torn shoulder and almost flinched from the animal roar. “Stay put,” he growled, then retrieved the flashlight.

  The patch in the carpet had been cut and stitched like a proper opening. He could see the trapdoor, but no handle. He found Reid’s knife in the corner of the room and used it to jemmy the trapdoor open.

  He pulled the wooden frame up and off and threw it to the side, stuck his head into the dusty underfloor space. He danced the beam beneath the floor, almost cried out in anguish as it flickered over four bare walls.

  He pulled himself upright, shone the flashlight into Reid’s eyes. “What have you done with her?” he shouted, and saw from their puzzled reflection that he was missing something.

  Back under the floor.

  This time he saw it.

  What he had taken at first glance to be a solid wall was a piece of sheetrock cut to fit the space and jammed in to
stay upright. He lowered himself through the opening, bent double in the tight space, pulled the sheetrock back, and exposed a small door.

  Padlocked.

  He thudded the heel of his fist against it. “Maureen?” But he heard nothing. He gripped the padlock and tugged. The hasp was secure. He thumped the door. “Maureen?” And again. But the wood was solid. Out with the knife, thudded down and behind the hasp, in as hard as he could, then pulled.

  He grunted with effort, but the knife slipped free.

  Down again. Harder that time. He tugged, felt the hasp pull from the wood, the screws or nails or whatever was holding it in draw out from the rough grain.

  Slipped again. Damn it.

  Another stab. Missed. Again. Got it that time.

  He gritted his teeth, pulled hard, held it, pulled harder—

  The hasp ripped off with splintering wood.

  He opened the door, shone his flashlight in, saw her body curled in a foetal position, not moving, and knew from the way she was lying with one arm out that he was too late. He scrambled through the opening, his voice coming at him in whimpers he failed to recognise as his own.

  He reached her, lifted her, cradled her in his arms, and watched in horror as her head lolled back and eyes as lifeless as death stared at nothing.

  Oh, dear God, dear God.

  No.…

  Chapter 41

  THE SMELL OF urine still hung in the cold room.

  Gilchrist glanced at his watch—11:27. He removed her photograph from his jacket pocket, the same one he had passed around. Dark eyes smiled at him, filled with the youthful promise of life. He rubbed his thumb across her face and startled as the door opened.

  A guard pushed at Bully as he shuffled in.

  Gilchrist thought Bully had aged, as if a few more days in jail had added years to the man. Bully scowled as the guard shoved him onto his seat and shackled his legs to the floor. Then the guard stood and backed up to the door.

  Bully’s face broke into a cruel smile. “My oh my. How the mighty have fallen.”

  Gilchrist knew he looked a mess. His left cheek was swollen and bruised. Common sense told him he would need to have it x-rayed. His leather jacket was slashed at the sleeve where Reid had plunged his knife but failed to cut flesh. Underneath, his one-sleeved shirt was missing four buttons and stained with a mixture of his and Nance’s blood. The knees of his jeans were caked with dirt. He placed Maureen’s photograph on the table, as if laying down a trump card, then stood with his back against the opposite wall.

  “You masturbate to my daughter,” Gilchrist said.

  Bully blinked, as slow as a reptile.

  “You masturbate to my princess.”

  “Your princess?” Bully coughed a laugh. “I hear your princess is a good ride.”

  Gilchrist pushed off the wall and paced the short length of the room, eyes to the floor, away from Bully, always away, he thought, and felt wonder at the fear the man was able to instil in him. “We’ve contacted the Spanish authorities,” he said to the floor. “Suggested it would be appropriate to impound your villas.” He glanced at Bully. “They do that for drug-associated crimes these days.”

  The chains rattled.

  He concentrated on the floor, did not want Bully to read anything from his eyes, to see how he scared him, even now. The chains clattered as Bully shuffled in his seat.

  “We’ve also been in contact with your solicitor, Rory Ingles.”

  “You’ll be hearing from Rory,” Bully growled.

  “Word on the street is that you think you’re getting out in two years.”

  “Sooner, now you lot are fucking it up.”

  Gilchrist kept pacing. “I’m not here to argue that point.”

  “What the fuck’re you here for then? To give me new wanking material?”

  Gilchrist stepped to the table with a speed that almost had Bully tensing. He grabbed the photograph. “You could do yourself a favour,” he said, and held it up for Bully to leer at. “And confess.”

  “To what?”

  “That you ordered Chloe’s murder. My daughter’s, too. That you devised the whole scheme, the body parts, the notes, the kidnapping, all to satisfy your sick psycho needs.”

  Bully looked pleased to find himself back in control. “Not a fucking clue what you’re on about,” he said.

  “That’s a pity.” Gilchrist slipped Maureen’s photograph into his pocket, safe from Bully’s lecherous eyes. He started pacing again. “We’ll just have to let Jimmy tell us, then. Won’t we?”

  Bully hawked phlegm from the back of his throat. “In your dreams, big man.”

  “No dreams. Try nightmares.” He gave Bully a passing glance. “Yours.”

  Bully smiled, an ugly grimace that settled somewhere between confusion and anger. “Jimmy’ll tell you fuck all. He knows what would happen to him when I get out.”

  Gilchrist stopped. He faced Bully. “Don’t you mean if you get out?”

  Bully’s eyes tightened. His lips pursed. Sweat dotted his upper lip. “Wait till I talk to Rory,” he growled.

  “Won’t do you any good.”

  Bully’s eyes flickered, as if he knew something was going on but could not figure it out. “You’re at it,” he said.

  “Oh, Rory’ll be talking to you all right. But it won’t be about getting out in two years. More like breaking the news that you’ll be spending the rest of your life in prison.” He eyed the bare walls, faced the slit-window. “In this miserable hell-hole. Without the remotest chance of parole.”

  “What the fuck’re you on about?”

  Gilchrist leaned forward. That close, he could smell the prison stench of the man. If confinement and desperation had a scent, that was what he was smelling. “Oh princess, by thy watchtower be,” he said.

  Bully gave a smile of victory. “You worked it out yet?”

  Gilchrist wanted Bully to think he had the upper hand. He wanted him to hold on to that belief for as long as possible, so that when he eventually told him the pain would be all the greater. For a moment he wondered if he had become as cruel as Bully, if recent events had snapped his mind and changed him. But what Bully had done to Chloe, to Maureen, violated all sense of conscience. And Gilchrist knew he could never be that cruel.

  “Confess,” he said to Bully. “Tell me how you commanded your brother to kill two women for you.”

  Bully smiled. “After I talk to Rory. Maybe I’ll think about it. How does that sound?”

  “I’ll give you one last chance.”

  Bully chuckled. “You just fucking crack me up, Gilchrist. You know that?”

  “We found the coffin.”

  Bully froze. Something dark shifted behind his feral eyes. Disbelief, perhaps. Or rising vitriol.

  “And your secret stash.”

  Bully worked his jaw. From the look in his eyes he could have been chewing nails.

  “Street rates put it at around thirty million, give or take a million or two.”

  Bully strained forward.

  “We’ve got Jimmy, too.”

  The chain clattered as Bully shifted his feet. “You’re at it, Gilchrist. You’re fucking at it. I know you.”

  “Do you?”

  Bully let Gilchrist’s question hang in the air. Then he growled, “Jimmy’s told you fuck all. I know Jimmy. He’d tell the fuzz to fuck off.”

  “And Maureen, too,” Gilchrist added. “We found her.”

  Bully tried a tight grin. “Now I know you’re at it.”

  Gilchrist returned to his place on the opposite wall. He stared at the pockmarked face, at demonic eyes that glared at him with madness, and felt a gut-sickening hatred simmer and boil and fill him with an almost irresistible desire to pull Bully across the table and bludgeon him to death with his bare hands. He fought against the moment, felt it pass, then in his softest voice said, “Maureen’s in Stobhill Hospital.”

  The chains rattled. Bully clenched his fists.

  Gilchrist felt his lips pu
ll into a grin, then onto a heartfelt smile that tugged at his mouth and reached his eyes and made him want to laugh. “Despite what you had that psycho brother of yours do to her,” he said, “to my daughter, to my princess, she survived.” Barely, he thought. But alive, thank God. Alive. “She’s expected to make a full recovery.”

  “Lies,” hissed Bully. “It’s all lies.”

  Gilchrist slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket and removed a folder of photographs. “Jimmy’s no longer afraid of you.”

  “I’ll kill that bastard if he says a word.”

  “And do you know why Jimmy’s not afraid of you?”

  Bully’s knuckles whitened. Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth. “Jimmy knows he’ll be dead fucking meat.”

  For a moment, Gilchrist wondered if Bully knew Jimmy had terminal cancer, or even if he cared. “Because Rory Ingles, your brief, your high-paid big-shot solicitor, on first-name terms, has now been hired by your brother, Jimmy.”

  “Lies.” Clenched fists crashed onto the table. “Fucking lies.” Bully reached for Gilchrist, but his fettered legs held him back.

  Gilchrist threw the folder of photographs onto the table. It split open. Coloured images spilled out, sliding across the metal surface like a discarded pack of cards.

  Bully glared at them.

  “Taken early this morning,” Gilchrist said. “At police headquarters in Pitt Street. Take a good look.” He watched Bully finger through them. “That one is Rory talking to Jimmy, convincing him his best chance for a deal is to turn Queen’s evidence.”

  “Lies,” Bully hissed at the images. “Fucking lies.”

  “And here was me thinking the camera never lies.”

  Bully looked up. Anger danced like madness in eyes that burned. “Fuck you, Gilchrist.” He slammed his fists to the table, swept the photographs to the floor. “Fuck you. It’s lies. All of it. It’s lies. Fucking lies.”

  Gilchrist felt his lips pull into the tiniest of smiles. He nodded to the guard, who opened the door.

  A short man with a balding head and thickening waist walked in, his pinstriped suit pristine next to Gilchrist’s dishevelled figure. “William Thomson Reid,” he said in a voice that sounded bored, “I am charging you with complicity in the murder of Chloe Fullerton, and conspiracy to abduct and murder Maureen Gillian Gilchrist. Charges will also be brought against you for drug-related offences.…”