"We're all guilty, Cameron; some more than others, some a lot more than others, but don't tell me we aren't all guilty."
I resist the urge to say, Who's sounding religious now?
Instead I ask, "And what was William guilty of?"
Andy frowns and looks away. "Being everything he claimed to be," he says, sounding bitter for the first time. "William wasn't a personal score, like Halziel or Lingary: he was one of them, Cameron; he meant everything he ever said. I knew him better than you did, when it mattered, and he was quite serious about his ambitions. Buying a knighthood, for example; he'd been giving money to the Conservative party for the past ten years — he gave money to Labour, too, last year and this because he thought they were going to win the election — but he'd been putting respectable amounts into Tory coffers for a decade, as well as keeping an eye on how much the average successful businessman has to donate to ensure a knighthood. He once asked me which charity he'd be best advised to join, to provide the usual excuse; wanted one that didn't encourage scroungers.
"This was all long-term, but that was the way William thought. He was still determined to build a house on Eilean Dubh, and he even had a complicated scheme involving a front company and a threatened underground toxic-chemicals store in the area which, if it had worked, would have had grateful locals practically begging him to take the island. And a few times when he was drunk he talked about trading in Yvonne for a more up-market, user-friendly model, preferably one with her own title and a daddy in serious big business or the government. His non-ethical investment programme wasn't a joke, either; he pursued it, vigorously."
Andy shrugs. "It was just a coincidence that I knew him, but I don't think there was any doubt William was going to turn into a man like the others I killed."
He rolls the bullet around in his palm, eyes lowered. "However, for what it's worth, if killing him screwed up things between you and Yvonne, I'm sorry."
"Oh," I say, "that makes it all right, then." It's meant to sound sarcastic, but it just sounds dumb.
He nods, not looking at me. "He was a very charming but actually quite an evil man, Cameron."
I stare at him for a while; he rubs the bullet between his fingers. Finally I say, "Yes, but you're not God, Andy."
"No, I'm not," he agrees. "Nobody is." He grins. "So what?"
I close my eyes, unable to bear the relaxed, merely mischievous expression on his face. I open them again and look out through the empty doorway, at the water and the land and the ceaseless, wheeling birds. "Yeah. I see. Well," I say, "I don't think there's any point in trying to argue with you, is there, Andy?"
"No, you're probably right," Andy says, suddenly all cheery decisiveness. He slaps both knees and jumps up. He lifts the gun and sticks it down the back of his cords. He hoists the rucksack up and puts it over one shoulder. He nods down at the cellphone lying on the concrete floor.
"Here's your choice," he tells me. "Phone and turn me in, or not."
He waits for a reaction from me, so I raise my eyebrows.
He shrugs. "I'm heading down to the boat now; put the kit bag aboard." He grins down at me. Take your time. I'll be back in ten, fifteen minutes."
I stare at the phone on the littered floor.
"It's working," he reassures me. "Your choice." He laughs. "I'll be all right, whatever. Leave me be, and… I don't know; I might retire now, while I'm ahead. But on the other hand there are still a lot of bastards out there. Mrs T, for one, if that piques your interest, Cameron." He smiles. "Or there's always America; land of opportunities. On the other hand, if I end up in jail… Well, there are people in there I'd really like to meet, too; the Yorkshire Ripper, for example, if it's possible to get to him. I'd need just a small blade, and about five minutes." He shrugs again. "Whatever. See you in a bit."
He skips out into the sunlight and the swirling wind, taking the steps two at a time down to a walkway between two concrete blockhouses. I lean back as he disappears, whistling.
I squat on my taped-together feet and lift the cellphone. It looks charged and connected. I dial the number of my mum and dad's old house in Strathspeld village; I get an answer-machine; a man's voice, gruff and curt.
I switch the phone off.
It takes a minute to get the tape off my ankles. I lift my Drizabone from the floor and dust it down, then put it on.
The coat-tails flap round my legs as I stand in the doorway, Fife to my right, the trees of Dalmeny Park and Mons Hill to my left and the two bridges ahead upstream; one tensed, webbed-red and the other straight-curved, battleship grey.
The firth is ruffled blue-grey, the waves marching away, wind blowing from behind, out of the east. Two minesweepers are heading upstream under the bridge towards Rosyth; a huge tanker sits tall and unladen at the Hound Point oil terminal, attended by a pair of tugs; two huge crane-barges float nearby, where they've been most of this year, installing a second terminal pier. A small tanker is almost level with the island, heading out to sea, low in the water with some product from the Grangemouth refinery. North, beyond Inchcolm, a red-hulled LPG tanker sits at Braefoot Bay, loading from the pipelines connected to the Mossmorran plant a few kilometres inland, position marked by white plumes of steam. I watch all this maritime activity, surprised at how industrial, how continuingly mercantile the old river is.
Above and around, the seagulls bank and ride, hanging in the air, bills open, crying to the wind. The concrete blockhouses, towers, barracks and gun emplacements on the small island are all covered in seagull-shit; white and black, yellow and green.
I rub the back of my head, wincing as I touch the bump. I look at the phone in my hand, breathe in the sharp, sea air, and cough.
The cough goes on for a while, then it goes away.
So, what to do? One more betrayal, even if it is one that Andy seems half to want? Or become, in effect, his accomplice and leave him free to murder and maim God knows who else, a free radical in our systemic corruption?
What is to be done?
Shake head, Colley; look round this concrete dereliction and survey this breezily industrious river, and try to find an inspiration, a hint, a sign. Or just something to take your mind off a decision you're sure to regret, one way or another.
I punch the number into the phone.
Various tones and beeps sound in my ear as I watch the clouds all moving away overhead. Then the connection's made.
"Yes, hello," I say. "Doctor Girson please. Cameron Colley." I look around, trying to see Andy, but there's no sign of him. "Yes. Cameron. That's right. I was just wondering if you have the results through yet… So you have… Well, if you could just give me them now, that'd be… Well, over the phone, why not?… Well, I do. I think it is. Well, it's my body, isn't it, doctor? … I want to know now… Look, let me ask you a direct question, doctor: have I got lung cancer? Doctor… Doctor… No, Doctor… Look, I'd really like a straight answer, if you don't mind. No, I don't think… Please, doctor; have I got cancer? No, I'm not trying to… No, I'm just… I'm just… Look; have I got cancer? … Have I got cancer? Have I got cancer? Have I got cancer?"
The doctor loses his temper eventually and does the smart thing and hangs up.
"See you tomorrow, Doc," I sigh.
I switch the phone off and sit down on the step, looking out to the water and the two long bridges under a blue and cloud-strewn sky. A seal pops its head out of the water about fifty metres out into the waves. It bobs there for a while, looking at the island and maybe at me, then it disappears back into the rolling grey water.