Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

But revenge for what?

‘When I heard he’d cut his throat, it didn’t surprise me. He’d been stroking his neck all day.’ Hine leaned forward suddenly, his voice rising. ‘And to his dying day he insisted you set him up! You and your friend!’

Jack turned towards the bench, ready for trouble. But Rebus wasn’t worried.

‘Look at me and tell me you didn’t!’ Hine spat. ‘He was the best friend I ever had, the kindest, gentlest man. All gone now, all gone...’ Hine held his head in his hands and wept.

Of all the options open to him, Rebus knew which he favoured — flight. And that’s exactly the option he took, Jack working hard to keep up with him as he fled across the grass, back towards Melville Drive.

‘Wait up!’ Jack called. ‘Hold on there!’ They were halfway across the playing-field, in the twilit centre of a triangle bordered by footpaths. Jack tugged at Rebus’s arm, tried to slow him. Rebus turned and threw the arm off, then swung a punch. It caught Jack on the cheek, spinning him. There was shock on his face, but he was ready for the second blow, blocked it with a forearm, then threw a right of his own — no southpaw. He feinted, made Rebus think he was aiming for the head, then landed one hard into yielding gut. Rebus grunted, felt the pain but rode with it, took two steps back before launching himself. The two men hit the ground in a roll, their blows lacking force, wrestling for supremacy. Rebus could hear Jack saying his name, over and over. He pushed him off, and came up into a crouch. A couple of cyclists had stopped on one of the paths and were watching.

‘John, what the fuck are you doing?’

Teeth bared, Rebus swung again, even more wildly, giving his friend plenty of time to dodge and launch a punch of his own. Rebus almost defended himself, but thought better of it. Instead, he waited for the impact. Jack hit him low, the sort of blow that could wind a man without doing damage. Rebus doubled over, fell to hands and knees, and spewed on to the ground, spitting out mostly liquid. He went on trying to cough everything out, even when there was nothing left to expel. And then he started crying. Crying for himself and for Lawson Geddes, and maybe even for Lenny Spaven. And most of all for Elsie Rhind and all her sisters, all the victims he couldn’t help and would never ever be able to help.

Jack was sitting a yard or so away, forearms resting on his knees. He was breathing hard and sweating, pulling off his jacket. The crying seemed to take for ever, bubbles of snot escaping from Rebus’s nose, fine lines of saliva from his mouth. Then he felt the shuddering lessen, stop altogether. He rolled on to his back, his chest rising and falling, an arm across his brow.

‘Christ,’ he said, ‘I needed that.’

‘I haven’t had a fight like that since I was a teenager,’ Jack said. ‘Feel better?’

‘Much.’ Rebus got a handkerchief out, wiped eyes and mouth, then blew his nose. ‘Sorry it had to be you.’

‘Rather me than some innocent bystander.’

‘That’s pretty accurate.’

‘Is that why you drink? To stop this happening?’

‘Christ, Jack, I don’t know. I drink because I’ve always done it. I like it; I like the taste and the sensation, I like standing in pubs.’

‘And you like sleep without dreams?’

Rebus nodded. ‘That most of all.’

‘There are other ways, John.’

‘Is this where you try to sell me the Juice Church?’

‘You’re a big boy, make up your own mind.’ Jack got to his feet, pulled Rebus to his.

‘I bet we look like a couple of dossers.’

‘Well, you do. I don’t know about me.’

‘Elegant, Jack, you look cool and elegant.’

Jack touched a hand to Rebus’s shoulder. ‘OK now?’

Rebus nodded. ‘It’s daft, but I feel better than for ages. Come on, let’s go for a walk.’

They turned and headed back towards the Infirmary. Jack didn’t ask where they were going. But Rebus had a destination in mind: the university library in George Square. It was just closing as they walked in, the departing students, folders huddled to chests, giving them plenty of room as they walked up to the main desk.

‘Can I help you?’ a man asked, looking them up and down. But Rebus was walking around the desk to where a young woman was bowed over a pile of books.

‘Hello, Nell.’

She looked up, couldn’t place him at first. Then the blood left her face.

‘What’s happened?’

Rebus held up a hand. ‘Brian’s fine. Jack here and me... well, we...’

‘Tripped and fell,’ Jack said.

‘You shouldn’t drink in pubs with stairs.’ Now she knew Brian was all right, she was regaining her composure fast, and with it her wariness. ‘What do you want?’

‘A word,’ Rebus said. ‘Maybe outside?’

‘I’ll be finished here in five minutes.’

Rebus nodded. ‘We’ll wait.’

They went outside. Rebus went to light a cigarette but found the packet crushed, its contents useless.

‘Christ, just when I could do with one.’

‘Now you know how it feels to give up.’

They sat on the steps and stared at George Square Gardens and the buildings surrounding it, a mishmash of old and new.

‘You can almost feel all that brain power in the air,’ Jack commented.

‘Half the force has been to university these days.’

‘And I bet they don’t go swinging punches at their friends.’

‘I’ve said I’m sorry.’

‘Did Sammy ever go to uni?’

‘College. I think she did something secretarial. She works for a charity now.’

‘Which one?’

‘SWEEP.’

‘Working with ex-cons?’

‘That’s it’

‘Did she do it to have a dig at you?’

Rebus had asked himself the same question many times. He shrugged.

‘Fathers and daughters, eh?’

The door swung open behind them. It was Nell Stapleton. She was tall, with short dark hair and a defiant face. No earrings or jewellery.

‘You can walk me to the bus stop,’ she told them.

‘Look, Nell,’ Rebus started, realising that he should have thought this through, should have rehearsed, ‘all I want to say is, I’m sorry about you and Brian.’

‘Thanks.’ She was walking quickly. Rebus’s knee hurt as he kept up.

‘I know I’m unlikely material as marriage guidance, but there’s something you have to know: Brian’s a born copper. He doesn’t want to lose you — it’s killing him — but leaving the force would be a slow death in itself. He can’t make himself leave, so instead he’s trying to get into trouble, so the high hiedyins will have no alternative but to boot him out. That’s no way to sort a problem.’

Nell didn’t say anything for a while. They headed for Potterrow, crossed the road at the lights. They were headed for Greyfriars, plenty of bus stops there.

‘I know what you’re saying,’ she said at last. ‘You’re saying it’s a no-win situation.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Please, just listen to me.’ Her eyes were glistening in the sodium light. ‘I don’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting for the phone call, the one that tells me there’s bad news. I don’t want to plan weekends off and holidays away only to have them cancelled because some case or court appearance takes precedence. That’s asking too much.’

‘It’s asking a hell of a lot,’ Rebus conceded. ‘It’s a high-wire act without the safety net. But all the same...’

‘What?’

‘You can make it work. A lot of people do. Maybe you can’t plan things too far in advance, maybe there’ll be cancellations and tears. When the chances come, you take them.’

‘Have I wandered into a Dr Ruth show by mistake?’ Rebus sighed, and she stopped walking, took his hand. ‘Look, John, I know why you’re doing this. Brian’s hurting, and you don’t like to see it. I don’t like it either.’ A distant siren wailed, down towards the High Street, and Nell shivered. Rebus saw it, looked into her eyes, and found himself nodding. He knew she was right; his own wife had said the same things. And the way Jack was standing, the look on his face, he’d been here before, too. Nell started walking again.