No!
I’m being so stupid, so trusting, so blind.
He never wanted children. Not really. He was lukewarm about the idea, at best. He saw it as something to give to me, to shut me up. It probably would have suited him to give me a baby to look after; it would have been a distraction for me, while he bedded “Nikki”, pleasured her as she desired...
No, no, no!
God, how could I be so stupid?
He doesn’t want me to have children! They would only complicate matters for him, make leaving me more problematic... most expensive. His twenty-six thousand pounds wouldn’t go too far then...
This serpent of thought is now alive and feeding hungrily. Within seconds it is all that there is in her soul.
He made me abort Belle. He said that it was for the best, but whose best?
He made me murder her.
She might have been beautiful, like that little girl. Sweet and passive and somehow luminous in her innocence.
All so that his life would be easier, so that he could screw around.
He will say that he is leaving me because he wants children and I haven’t given him any.
Gilly looks down at the phone, decides that it is time to call for help.
There is yet another creak from the wheel.
Gilly looks down at Greg. He is only half conscious.
“Greg?” she calls.
He responds slowly, first of all looking around, only raising his eyes after a while. His face contains pain, his voice is husky as if he has phlegm in his throat.
“Yes?”
“I’ve rung for help.”
“Thank God...”
“She may take some time to get here.”
He does not realize what she has said for a few seconds.
“She? Who do you mean?”
Gilly smiles.
“Nikki.”
She enjoys the look on his face, savours it for a moment, then in a single movement grasps the plank of wood that is jamming the wheel.
“I hope she’s in time,” she says.
She pulls the plank free and the wheel at once begins to turn. Greg screams but it is a very short scream, ended abruptly as he is taken beneath the water and then wedged against the bed of the stream.
As Gilly walks out of the cottage she sees the little girl again. She is sitting on the wall of the bridge talking to a woman. The woman is laughing and joking with her, clearly her mother.
Gilly walks across to them to experience their shared pleasure.
I will have a child one day. I will be free of this curse.
I am the same as I always was.
I am the same as I always was.
Out of the Flesh
Christopher Brookmyre
Restorative justice, they cry it. That’s what happens when wee scrotes like you get sat doon wi’ their victims, mano a mano, kinda like you and me are daein’ the noo. It’s a process of talking and understanding, as opposed tae a chance for the likes ay me tae batter your melt in for tryin’ tae tan my hoose. The idea is that us victims can put a face tae the cheeky midden that wheeched wur stereos, and yous can see that the gear you’re pochlin’ actually belongs tae somebody. Cause you think it’s a gemme, don’t you? Just aboot no’ gettin’ caught, and anyway, the hooses are insured, so it’s naebody’s loss, right? So the aim is tae make you realize that it’s folk you’re stealin’ fae, and that it does a lot mair damage than the price ay a glazier and a phone call tae Direct Line.
Aye. Restorative justice. Just a wee blether tae make us baith feel better, that’s the theory. Except it normally happens efter the courts and the polis are through wi’ their end, by mutual consent and under official supervision. Cannae really cry this mutual consent, no’ wi’ you tied tae that chair. But restorative justice is whit you’re gaunny get.
Aye. You’re shitin your breeks ’cause you think I’m gaunny leather you afore the polis get here, then make up whatever story I like. Tempting, I’ll grant you, but ultimately futile. See, the point aboot restorative justice is that it helps the baith ay us. Me batterin’ your melt in isnae gaunny make you think you’re a mug for tannin’ hooses, is it? It’s just gaunny make ye careful the next time, when ye come back wi’ three chinas and a big chib.
Believe me, you’re lucky a batterin’s aw you’re afraid of, ya wee nyaff. Whit I’m gaunny tell you is worth mair than anythin’ you were hopin’ tae get away wi’ fae here, an’ if you’re smart, you’ll realize what a big favour I’m daein’ ye.
Are you sittin’ uncomfortably? Then I’ll begin.
See, I used tae be just like you. Surprised are ye? Nearly as surprised as when you tried tae walk oot this living room and found yoursel wi’ a rope roon ye. I’ve been around and about, son. I never came up the Clyde in a banana boat and I wasnae born sixty, either. Just like you, did I say? Naw. Much worse. By your age I’d done mair hooses than the census. This was in the days when they said you could leave your back door open, and tae be fair, you could, as long as you didnae mind me and ma brer Billy nippin’ in and helpin’ oursels tae whatever was on offer.
We werenae fae the village originally; we were fae the Soothside. Me and Billy hud tae move in wi’ oor uncle when ma faither went inside. Two wee toerags, fifteen and fourteen, fae a tenement close tae rural gentility. It wasnae so much fish oot ay watter as piranhas in a paddlin’ pool. Easy pickin’s, ma boy, easy pickin’s. Open doors, open windaes, open wallets. Course, the problem wi’ bein’ piranhas in a paddlin’ pool is it’s kinda obvious whodunnit. At the end of the feedin’ frenzy, when the watter’s aw red, naebody’s pointin’ any fingers at the nearest Koi carp, know what I’m sayin’? But you’ll know yoursel’, when you’re that age, it’s practically impossible for the polis or the courts tae get a binding result, between the letter ay the law and the fly moves ye can pull. Didnae mean ye were immune fae a good leatherin’ aff the boys in blue, right enough, roon the back ay the station, but that’s how I know applied retribution’s nae use as a disincentive. Efter a good kickin’, me and Billy were even mair determined tae get it up them; just meant we’d try harder no tae get caught.
But then wan night, aboot October time, the Sergeant fronts up while me and Billy are kickin’ a baw aboot. Sergeant, no less. Royalty. Gold-plated boot in the baws comin’ up, we think. But naw, instead he’s aw nicey-nicey, handin’ oot fags, but keepin’ an eye over his shoulder, like he doesnae want seen.
And by God, he doesnae. Fly bastard’s playin’ an angle, bent as a nine-bob note.
“I ken the score, boys,” he says. “What’s bred in the bone, will not out of the flesh. Thievin’s in your nature: I cannae change that, your uncle cannae change that, and when yous are auld enough, the jail willnae change that. So we baith might as well accept the situation and make the best ay it.”
“Whit dae ye mean?” I asks.
“I’ve a wee job for yous. Or mair like a big job, something tae keep ye in sweeties for a wee while so’s ye can leave folk’s hooses alane. Eejits like you are liable tae spend forever daein’ the same penny-ante shite, when there’s bigger prizes on offer if you know where tae look.”
Then he lays it aw doon, bold as brass. There’s a big hoose, a mansion really, a couple ay miles ootside the village. Me and Billy never knew it was there; well, we’d seen the gates, but we hadnae thought aboot what was behind them, ’cause you couldnae see anythin’ for aw the trees. The owner’s away in London, he says, so the housekeeper and her husband are bidin’ in tae keep an eye on the place. But the Sergeant’s got the inside gen that the pair ay them are goin’ tae some big Halloween party in the village. Hauf the toon’s goin’ in fact, includin’ him, which is a handy wee alibi for while we’re daein’ his bidding.