Ken McClure - The Anvil

‘Who are you?’ asked the man.

‘I was passing at the time,’ said MacLean. ‘I heard the explosion and saw the fire.’

‘You look as if you could do with some attention yourself.’ said the man. ‘You better come inside too.’

MacLean looked at him without expression and then said, ‘No, I’ll be all right.’ He got back into the car and drove off.

MacLean drove round in circles. Tansy was so deeply in shock that she did not know what was going on around her; he too was in shock but could still function, albeit like an automaton. He obeyed all the rules of the road, observed the speed limit, slowed at every GIVE WAY sign and came to an obedient halt at every STOP command. He had no idea where he was going or why.

When he eventually pulled into the side of the road and looked at his watch it was three in the morning. He put both hands over his face and started to weep.

MacLean’s breathing started to even out; he could think clearly again. The spectre of Carrie’s damaged face was still uppermost in his mind. Of all the hellish quirks of fate it had to be an innocent child who got hurt while he himself remained unscathed. Tansy would recover but Carrie? That was another matter. And even if she did, what would she look like?

It started to rain and MacLean switched on the wipers briefly to clear the screen. He had parked in a quiet street in a residential district on the south side of the city. He could not sit there much longer before unseen eyes behind lace curtains started to entertain notions of informing the police that an uninvited stranger was unpleasantly close to their possessions. He started the engine and moved off slowly, still trying to formulate a list of priorities.

With a bit of luck Der Amboss were going to think that Sean MacLean had died in the fire, at least until their own man failed to return. Even then it might take them long enough to work out what had really happened, provided, of course, that he himself remained out of sight. First he would have to get rid of the car, somewhere where it wouldn’t be found for a long time, preferably never. Next he would need somewhere to stay and that meant money.

MacLean stopped the car again and brought out his wallet. It contained thirty-five pounds. He would need more than that. He remembered the bill- fold he had removed from the pockets of the bomber and searched through his haversack to find it. It contained a hundred and sixty pounds in sterling and five hundred US dollars. That would do for the moment. He looked for ID in the back of the billfold but found none. There had been a leather key holder in the man’s pockets however. MacLean opened the zip and found two Yale type keys. The trademarks on them said that they were of French or maybe Swiss/French origin. There were no clues to identity. He wondered who would be waiting behind the door they opened. A wife? A girlfriend? They would be waiting for a man who would most definitely not be coming home.

MacLean headed out of the city. There were a number of secluded small lochs to the south of Edinburgh, which he knew well enough from the fishing trips of his youth. The plan was now to get rid of the car in one of them. He decided on one with a long track leading away from the road to the waters’ edge. He wanted to be out of sight of the main road in case stray headlights should pick him out.

Choosing this particular loch left MacLean with one major problem to overcome and that was the water-keepers cottage. To reach the loch he had to pass it. In his favour was the fact that the house nestled near the foot of a steep hill. He wouldn’t need to have the engine running to pass it. When he reached the top of the hill leading down to the cottage, he turned off the ignition and the lights and waited for a few moments to let his eyes become accustomed to the gloom then he started to free-wheel down slowly.

His heart was in his mouth as he passed the dark windows of the cottage. The curtains were closed and an old van was parked in front of it. That would help to muffle any sound as he passed. MacLean held the Granada’s momentum in check, praying that the brakes would not squeal or the tyres crunch loudly on gravel. He drifted slowly past and eased his foot off the brake pedal to let the car to run a little more freely. As soon as he had rounded the bend at the foot of the hill he turned the ignition on again, pushed the stick into third gear and took his foot gently off the clutch. The car slipped smoothly into drive.

MacLean followed the perimeter road until he came to the gate he was looking for. He knew that beyond it was a grassy bank about fifteen metres above the surface of the loch. The main attraction was that there was no gently shelving bank here. The water went straight down for forty metres. He parked the car as near the edge as he dared and got out to take a look below. There were no obvious obstacles that he could see in what moonlight there was so he let off the hand-brake and heaved the car over the edge. For one awful moment he thought that it was going to stick, with the ground acting as a fulcrum under its middle but with a little persuasion to the rear bumper, the Ford tipped up and plunged down into the water.

Clouds passed over the moon and MacLean had to wait until it slid out again before he could see that the car was floating. It bobbed gently up and down on its nose. ‘Sink!’ he hissed. ‘For God’s sake, sink!’

Gradually, the water started to bubble and the car stopped bobbing. Very slowly and with great dignity it slipped beneath the surface. There was a brief boiling on the surface as it disappeared then everything was calm again.

MacLean stood up and came to terms with the fact that he was ten miles from the city and had no transport. His clothes were filthy. He was covered from head to foot in soot and ash and mud and he felt as if he had just run a marathon. He looked up at the sky and felt the first drops of rain on his face. All he needed but the truth was that discomfort and pain didn’t matter. They were a welcome diversion from what was going on in his head.

He was close to exhaustion by the time he reached the city. The rain had done much to clean the soot and mud off him but cold and wet had robbed him of what little energy he had left and he was dog-tired. It was the morning rush hour. People were scurrying past but the heavy rain ensured that no one paid him any close attention. He managed to get on to a crowded bus heading towards the centre and got off when he saw the sign for the Royal Commonwealth Pool. It had given him an idea but first he would need to do something about his clothes.

He knew there was a branch of a large chain store in one of the neighbouring streets but came across an Army and Navy store before he reached it and decided it was a better option.

‘Get caught in the rain?’ asked the assistant.

MacLean nodded and attempted a smile in reply. He listed what he wanted and left the shop carrying two plastic bags. He made his way to the Commonwealth Pool and asked for a ticket to the Sauna Suite.

‘Just off the night shift?’ asked the attendant.

MacLean nodded.

MacLean wanted to tear off his filthy, wet clothes but no longer had the energy. He had to take his time and do it slowly. The chrome tap below the showerhead seemed like the key to paradise. He turned it on and let the warm water cascade over him, soothing away the agony of the past few hours. He appeared to be the first customer of the day and entered one of the three Sauna cabins to spread out his towel and lie down on the wooden slat bench. The dry heat invaded his limbs like a healing balm.

When he’d had enough, MacLean showered and wrapped himself in the sheet he had been given. He settled down in one of the loungers in the recovery area and fell asleep. He was still sleeping some three hours later when the attendant did his rounds. By rights, he should have woken the sleeping man to tell him his time was up but the place wasn’t busy; he let him be.