Field of Blood

It was a subtle shift of position: his hand dropped an inch, his thumb and forefinger coming together around the tendon on her elbow. Her stomach heaved at the pain, flooding her mouth with saliva, and she arched backwards, trying to release his grip. Garry Naismith loomed, smiling gently at her lips, leaning over as if he might kiss her.

“I see women like you all the time.” He squeezed again. “But ye won’t refuse me this time.”

His free hand rose at his side. Beyond the veil of pain radiating from her elbow, she was aware of his fingers curved comfortably around a dull, matte egg. She didn’t realize it was a rock until the cold stone weight of it hit the back of her head and the night came down.

She wasn’t dead. It was daylight, and she was bent over from the waist, moving forwards across a gray pavement, black woolly tights wrinkled around her ankles, unsteady feet tripping over each other. An arm was hooked under her armpit, supporting her weight, guiding her by the elbow. Her scalp was hot and damp, and she had to concentrate hard to work out that the itching on her hairline was caused by the woolly hat he had pulled onto her head.

Another pair of feet coming towards them. A lady’s shoes: brown, sensible, and a blue shopping bag. The woman spoke, and the supporting arm spoke back, making a joke of it. Paddy slumped forwards and was yanked upright. They moved on.

It was darker. She was sitting on something soft, slumped to the side at an angle that made her side and back hurt. The floor beneath her feet rumbled. She was in a taxi and he was at her side, still holding her elbow, his nimble fingers ready to pinch if she did anything. Imagining the future felt like wading through hot sand, but she tried: they were traveling, on their way to somewhere she would never leave. Her mind yearned to slip back into the warm water, but she fought hard to stay conscious. Slowly she dropped forwards, her chin gently pressed against her knee, and she saw on the floor the squashed end of a cigarette. Meehan never gave up. He spent seven years in solitary confinement, was despised and vilified, and still he never gave up. Using the muscles on her back, she pulled her head up a little.

“Heb,” she shouted, but her voice was weak and toneless.

His fingers twitched and a spasm of white-hot pain convulsed her body.

“Aye, pal,” he said loudly, talking to the driver. “Dead drunk, daft cow.”

“Heb.”

Garry Naismith laughed loud and long, covering the sound of her whimpering until she slid forwards and gave in.

The searing pain at the back of her head seemed to have lifted a little. She was looking down at a sidewalk from a great height, falling forwards face-first, and then a sudden stop into his strong and steady arms. Behind her the taxi door slammed hard, and she lifted her eyes to see an empty hanging plant basket by a familiar front door. She stood taller and saw a long, empty road, steep front gardens opposite, and a crumbling garden wall across the street with graffiti on it. FILTH OUT. They were at Naismith’s house in Barnhill, but the grocery van was gone from the pavement. The police must have it.

The police. The thought made her come alive, but the police weren’t here. The police had been here and weren’t coming back. They had their man and the case was closed.

He opened the gate and quickly pulled her across the paved-over ground. The red slabs had settled unevenly and there was a curb to be negotiated at every step. He lifted her by her armpits to the front door, pulling out his key as he approached and opening it in one swift movement. By the time she thought to call for help the door was shut behind her. Garry Naismith grabbed the crown of the hat and yanked it off. A warm dribble of blood tickled as it ran down the back of Paddy’s neck.

The hallway carpet was pink, the walls a cold gray, and Paddy knew it was the last time she would see it if she didn’t do something. She threw her head back.

“Callum Ogilvy!” she shouted, so loud it startled them both.

Garry stopped still.

“He’s my cousin,” she said, conflating their relationship. “You raped him and made him kill that boy.”

Naismith slapped her across the back of the head, sending an electric pain down her spine. She fell onto her side and he put his foot on the side of her face. When she spoke she found that her voice was a breathy whisper.

“You raped him, didn’t ye?”

“Those weans came to me.” She heard him thump his chest with his fist and was glad she couldn’t look up to see his face. “They came looking for me. They needed me. No one else gave a fuck about him, and let me tell you, that dirty wee bastard James needed no convincing. He wanted things I’d never thought of. Even brought his pal with him.”

She could imagine poor, fatherless Callum doing anything he could to impress Garry- Garry with a job, Garry with a cool earring, Garry with a clean house and a van full of sweets outside the door. It must have been a safe place to go, the Naismiths’, a relatively clean place. If she were Callum she’d have come here with his friend. Boys that age craved heroes.

“Wasn’t Callum’s idea to take the baby, though, was it? That was you. Was it Thomas’s a

He didn’t speak. She felt the weighty seconds drag by and imagined him raising his hand above her, raising a baseball bat, raising a knife. His foot came off her face, and she glanced up to see his tortured smile.

“Do you think of Thomas on his a

“I think about Thomas all the time.”

“Why did you kill him?”

“Never said I did.”

“I’m not asking for a confession. I just want to know why.”

He shrugged. “It was an accident. When we were playing.”

“And Henry helped you cover up?”

“He wanted to be a good dad. A better dad. Better than Dempsie.”

“And he did that by throwing your wee brother’s body onto the railway line to be cut in half? He was willing to kill me to protect you, and now he’s confessed to everything? Why would he feel that guilty about you?”

“You”- he had his eyes shut, and his booming voice managed to drown her out-“don’t understand how it is between men. Women don’t understand. There’s no point in explaining.”

“He did it to you, and you did it to them? Is that how it is between men? Did you get them to kill Brian so they’d be like you? So you’d have something over them, the way Henry held Thomas’s death over you?”

He stood up suddenly, flaring backwards, and took her forearm with both his hands, dragging her backwards up the stairs, bumping her awkwardly like a big cardboard box. Paddy knew that upstairs was not going to be good for her. She scrabbled her feet, trying to grab hold of something, looking for a banister to jam her feet in, but it was a sheer wall.

Garry yanked her up, almost pulling her arm out of its socket, bumping her heavily on her hip and buttocks. She couldn’t catch her breath enough to speak until they got to the top of the stairs.

“What about Heather Allen? She hadn’t done anything to you.”

“We made a mistake.” Garry let go of her and lifted a sunshine-yellow lamp off the hall table. He was sweating. “Got the right girl this time, though, eh?”

He brought the lamp down heavily onto her head, and she passed out.