Doug Johnstone - Hit and run

She handed a card to Billy. He took it without taking his eyes off Jeanie. The dog was sniffing the air, as if sensing the electrical currents out there.

The vet scribbled in a pad. ‘Here’s a prescription. It’s phenobarbital pills. You’ll need to give her three a day. Your dog is epileptic.’

‘Epileptic?’

‘It’s quite common, especially amongst pedigree dogs due to inbreeding. It mostly affects intelligent breeds like collies. It shouldn’t be life-threatening, but you’ll need to manage the condition for the rest of her life. We can monitor dosages and so forth once things have settled down. These pills have a very high rate of efficacy at controlling seizures, so she has a good chance of a long and happy life.’

Billy nodded dumbly as the vet handed the prescription to him.

‘You’ll get a leaflet with the pills detailing possible side effects. Look out for drowsiness and lack of co-ordination, especially in the first few weeks, although that should wear off as she becomes used to the medication. There is a longer-term risk of liver damage, but that’s nothing to worry about at the moment.’

Billy’s head pulsed and he felt dizzy. The vet got up to leave, but Billy stayed on the floor, the prescription limp in his hand. Jeanie came over towards him warily, sniffing the piece of paper as if it might be food.

Zoe saw the vet out.

Billy reached out for Jeanie. ‘Come here.’

She leaned in and let herself be held. Billy pulled her close and buried his face in her fur, sucking up the smell of her.

Jeanie slept all morning and half the afternoon. Zoe got her prescription then headed to the office. Charlie was out already on a split shift. Billy switched his phone off and stayed in the darkened room with the dog, watching her chest swell with every breath, soaking up the feral smell from her body.

When she finally came round he sandwiched a pill between two dog chocolates and gave it to her. She didn’t seem lethargic or confused. He wondered if she had any memory of the previous night. He fed her and gave her some water, then took her out.

The sun was still beating down on everything, bleaching the world. This weather couldn’t last, not in Scotland. He headed up the Radical Road; it was like a scab that needed picking.

From up high, the heat made the Pentlands fuzzy in the distance. A low haze meant he couldn’t see the Bridges. He kept his eye on Jeanie the whole time. She seemed fine. He thought about what was going on in her brain in the fizzling synapses, the surges of rogue energy. He’d spent a while earlier looking up epilepsy in dogs, but no amount of clinical blurb on the Internet could equate to the horror of watching his dog helpless and writhing on the floor.

He sucked in a deep breath and looked down. Queen’s Drive was open again, cars blurring up and down past the small clump of trees.

He took out his phone, but didn’t switch it on. He looked at his hands. Barbed-wire cuts, gorse-bush scars, nettle stings and now dog bites. They were fucked-up maps of his life. If only he could decode the information in those scabs and sores, maybe he could find a way out of this.

He switched his phone on. Three messages. Zoe asking after Jeanie. Charlie saying that Jamie Mackie had discharged himself post-op against the surgeon’s wishes. Rose asking where he was, and telling him that the Whitehouses were having a memorial service for Frank tomorrow morning at Greyfriars Kirk.

Greyfriars, Jesus, just about the most distinguished church in the city. The preserve of politicians and public figures. That’s what a life of crime got you, the most respectable send-off imaginable.

He stared at his phone. No message from Adele. His fingers moved over the keys until he heard the tone. Three rings then she picked up.

‘Billy.’ She was whispering.

‘Hey there.’

‘It’s not a good time.’

‘Why not?’

‘Wait a second.’

He heard footsteps, muffled voices, more footsteps. He imagined Dean and Adele together, her olive skin against his pasty flesh.

‘What is it?’ She sounded urgent, scared.

‘I wanted to speak to you.’

‘Jesus, Billy, you can’t just call me up whenever you feel like it. Don’t you understand my situation here?’

‘What about my situation?’

‘What about your situation?’

Billy stared out over Edinburgh. The castle looked tiny from here, on its stumpy little throne. Below him, the bushes rustled in a light breeze.

‘Never mind.’

‘Look, I’m in the middle of something here.’

‘I bet.’

‘You have no idea.’

‘Are you sleeping with Dean?’ It felt as if someone else had asked it, but it was his voice all right.

‘Fuck off. How dare you ask me that.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Billy wondered what the hell he was doing. ‘I want to see you.’

‘Not today.’

‘Got your husband’s memorial to plan?’ He hated the way his voice sounded.

‘As it happens, yes.’

Billy looked at Jeanie. There was something different about her. She was staying closer to him, not venturing as far amongst the grass and gorse. She was clinging to him.

‘I have something to tell you.’

‘What?’

‘Detective Inspector Price has asked me to try and get the truth out of you about Dean’s alibi for the Mackie shooting.’

‘Oh yeah?’ A lightness crept back into Adele’s voice. Billy’s heart sang when he heard it.

‘Yeah.’

‘Pump me for information, is that the idea?’

They were flirting again.

‘Something like that.’

‘Isn’t that supposed to be his job?’

‘He was impressed with my Standard piece. Thought I could get inside you.’

‘Really?’

‘Under your skin.’

There was a pause on the line. ‘Maybe you can.’

There was noise in the background, a door banging.

‘I have to go. Maybe see you tomorrow at the memorial service.’

She hung up.

He looked down. Jeanie was sniffing at his shoes, circling his legs so closely that he could feel the warmth of her body through his trousers. He knelt and gave her a hug.

The graveyard was a jumble of ancient moss-green stones. Morning sunlight played through the crevices as mourners in designer black made their solemn way to the kirk. Despite the sun, a dankness hung amongst the graves, hundreds of years of history weighing down the air like mist. A handful of paparazzi lurked outside the church entrance, snapping at scowling faces. Two outside broadcast vans were parked further away, reporters preparing pieces for camera.

Billy walked alongside Rose. He had Jeanie on the new lead, and she trotted along close by his side.

‘I still can’t believe you brought that mutt,’ Rose said. ‘We’re working here.’

‘I didn’t want to leave her on her own.’

Rose shook her head. ‘The great crime reporter, with Greyfriars Bobby along for the ride.’

A minister in black robes came out and pleaded with the photographers and journos to move away from the entrance. They didn’t budge. The two thugs Billy recognised from the Whitehouse place came out and asked more forcefully. Everyone shuffled down the path and on to the grass.

A steady stream of mourners was still going in, the sound of camera clicks mingling with murmured conversation.

‘God, will you look at them,’ Rose said. ‘Councillors, businessmen, advocates. I never realised Frank Whitehouse had so much of the city in his pocket.’

‘Why would they care, now that he’s dead?’

‘Sucking up to Dean. There’s a power vacuum and the last thing these clowns want is any disruption to routine. They don’t want psychos like the Mackies in charge of things, so they’re showing solidarity with Dean, presuming he’s going to take over the mantle.’