Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

As she looked at the woman in the mirror she saw the mouth close in a tight line. Don’t be so stupid , the voice scolded her. They were never innocent, trawling the streets for the flesh of young women. And then the face before her dissolved as the tears began to fall once more.

Back in the bedroom she sat at the dressing table and lifted a hairbrush. As each stroke pulled the tangles straight she began to relax once more. She had done nothing wrong but rid the city of some of its vermin. Her only guilt lay in failing to find Carol’s killer. And Tracey-Anne’s.

She frowned again as a thought came to her. Tracey-Anne had known about the white car. The girl had made those two calls to let her know it was around the drag. Why would she have endangered her life by choosing to get into that particular vehicle? She blinked away the thought, remembering that the poor junked-up girl had not always behaved in a rational manner.

What was important now was to find the right man. Her eyes fell on the unopened case. Somewhere in its depths lay the pistol wrapped neatly inside a cashmere sweater. It was waiting for her. Just as it had been the night she had found it, tossed under that wardrobe in an east end flat. She had picked the Starfire up in one gloved hand, its silver blue steelwork winking at her, daring her to take it for herself. And she had. Her fingers curled more tightly around the hairbrush, recalling the feel of the gun in her hand as she pulled the trigger, hearing again that awful blast, seeing the expression of shock on the man’s face.

Yes, she told herself, smoothing down her hair and noting with satisfaction that her cheeks were dry: yes she could do this thing again, even though there was nobody to tell her when a white car might be circling the city streets. She could do it again. And again — until she brought Carol’s killer to a justice of her own.

Edward Pattison smiled to himself, blissfully unaware that it was only a matter of hours from now when all smiles would stop together , as the poet, Robert Browning, had put it, the expression of murderous intent hedged about with cunning euphemism. Pattison was no poet, however, nor a lover of poetry. Politics had thrust him into quite a different sphere of creativity and now, as Scotland’s newly appointed deputy first minister, he was enjoying the sort of power over his peers that the ‘Last Duchess’ of Browning’s poem would have recognised. Sitting here, on the front row of the debating chamber, Pattison knew that he was a presence to be reckoned with, his smile more for the cameras that were recording the debate than for any of his colleagues. Changing his colours for those in the current ruling party had been seen by the media as pure opportunism and Pattison had never denied it; well, not in so many words. And he had a way with words, was able to charm most of the reporters who came into his orbit with titbits of parliamentary gossip and free tickets to red carpet events ( Don’t tell the others , he’d whisper as he sat with them in the Garden Lobby. Just make them jealous .)

So far Pattison’s progress had been remarkable. From being one of several Labour Party members of the Scottish parliament, he had defected to the Nationalists and found his reward in the upward curve of success. Deputy Leadership was not enough, however, and as Pattison let his eyes slide across to the woman who currently headed up both party and country, he considered his next step towards the ultimate goal. Felicity Stewart’s ruddy complexion, weathered by years of country pursuits, was not going to grace the press pages for much longer if he could help it, Pattison told himself. He’d already dropped hints about their leader’s drinking habits, some of which had been taken up by the redtops. A canny word here and an allusion there had sown seeds that were beginning to bear fruit.

Glancing at his diary, Pattison read what his agenda consisted of for the remainder of the week. A meeting in Glasgow with Visit Scotland personnel then a dinner at the City Chambers tomorrow for a delegation on educational business that would take him through until later that evening. He’d already told his wife, Cathy, he’d be staying over in the west and his long suffering secretary had booked him into the Central Hotel as usual. His smile deepened as he considered his options: an hour or so of forbidden fruit in the city, perhaps? He was taking the Merc anyway, so why not? It was risky, of course it was, and tomorrow was Friday the thirteenth, his diary told him, but Edward Pattison had never really been a superstitious man, trusting instead to his own abilities.

Pattison uncrossed his legs as a familiar warmth stole through his nether regions, his mind now completely distracted from the facts and figures being thrashed out by the Labour member currently on his feet. As the clock on the wall measured its relentless progress towards Pattison’s final hours, the man himself could only wish that time would pass more quickly so that he could indulge his hidden desires.

It was an irony that would never be discovered, however, by those who were to report on his death, or by the ones who were left to ruminate over what might have become of his life.

It gave her a frisson of pleasure to create her disguise. Gone was the serious-faced professional, a brittle frown scoring lines between eyes the colour of faded leaves. In its place she admired the curving brows above eyelids painted like an Egyptian queen’s, haughty yet provocative. She’d dressed with her customary care, zipping the pelmet of skirt against her bare thighs, feeling the metal teeth cold and ragged upon her skin. After the first night she had chosen to wear black. That red skirt had beckoned like a flag but now she wore confidence as though it were a primary colour.

Tonight boots replaced the sandals, their thin metal heels beating a sharp rhythm across the marble tiles of the hotel bathroom. Killer heels, she thought with just a hint of a smile. Slung across her low cut blouse the fashionably large bag held everything she would require. It had been easy to find a taxi back to the city centre from the vicinity of a railway station but she knew better than to lead her next victim to a similar place. That was why her bag contained a pair of well-worn running shoes. Together with the gun that was now nestling between the folds of a rolled-up tracksuit.

There was a dent in Edward Pattison’s lower lip, bitten into a dark pink tooth shape of indecision. Would he or wouldn’t he? It was a question he asked himself purely because of an irritating conscience, not from any worry that it might prove a matter of life and death.

Pattison could almost read the thought bubbles emanating from his head.

‘Go for it,’ the horned beast leered at him.

‘Think of Cathy back home,’ countered the one with the halo.

Pattison gave a defeated sigh. He’d never been one for harps and nightgowns. And Cathy wasn’t exactly a saintly wife either, he reminded himself, eyes narrowing in a bitter little frown. With a tilt of his head the second bubble burst into the ether leaving only traces of what he imagined to be a diabolic chuckle.

He spotted her under the lamp, a slim girl, taller than Cathy (he cursed himself for making comparisons) with luxuriant shoulderlength hair. Something about the way she held herself made him drive around the square for a second look. It was running the risk of being caught on any CCTV cameras that might be working, Pattison knew, but risk served to add an extra spice to the thrill of it all. Under the street light he noticed the raw carelessness of her expression as if she was daring anyone to stop. Daring them to ask, to do what it was she knew they wanted. It was at once seductive and compelling. Even as he let the window open silently he could feel a swelling in his groin.