Craig Robertson - Random

It was to be the last marriage. I’d settled on that before picking up the paper. No reason. Just a random choice. Those at the end of the alphabet were at a distinct and dangerous disadvantage but that was life. Sinclair

Gardiner

The marriage took place at Iona Abbey on

20th February 2010 of Brian, son of the late Archibald Sinclair and of Elspeth Sinclair,

Arran, and Mary Anne, daughter of

Ian and Anne Gardiner, Inchinnan.

The newly wed Brian Sinclair and Mary Anne Gardiner. Brian and Mary. Mr and Mrs Sinclair. By the time the glorification of their union appeared in the Herald they had enjoyed thirteen days of wedded bliss.

It struck me that the right thing to do would be not to separate Mr and Mrs Sinclair. Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder. Matthew 19:6.

The thought struck me but I dismissed it. God and I were no longer on speaking terms. Mr and Mrs Sinclair together would pose far more problems. The rights and wrongs of separating them paled beside the practicalities of what had to be done. Brian and Mary were both obstacle and stepping stone.

So, Brian or Mary? Husband or wife?

I was ambivalent but thought I should redress the unfairness of the alphabetical disadvantage.

And behold, there are last which shall be first, and there are first which shall be last. Luke 13:30.

God and I did not speak any more but I still remembered his words. It would be Brian. Mrs Mary Sinclair, wallowing in the blissful ignorance of the newly wed, would soon be a widow.

These days I had only misery to share. It burst out of me now.

Brian Sinclair was a runner. Twice a day, every day, he left the house at Inchinnan overlooking the White Cart and headed onto the hill behind it where a path cut a trail through the woods. I didn’t know how far he ran but he was gone a good hour each time and seemed to pick up a very decent pace. He was very fit, which was a bit of a worry. Not necessarily a major problem but definitely an issue.

Thankfully the new Mrs Sinclair was not a runner. Their inseparability did not seem to extend to staying fit together.

I’d parked half a mile away and positioned myself in the shadow of a tree that let me view their house without being seen.

I waited. And waited some more.

I was wearing jeans and walking boots, a shirt and waterproof jacket. In the back pocket of my jeans was a rolled-up newspaper. I didn’t care much for papers or the people who wrote them. I’d known journalists. I hadn’t liked them. Pretending they are your friend. Just there to help. Only wanting to tell your side of things. Then when they write stuff you didn’t say, put it in ways that you didn’t mean, then it isn’t their fault. The editor wanted it that way, the sub-editor wrote the heading, nothing to do with them.

But, of course, once it is in black and white it is gospel. Once it is plastered across the columns of a newspaper everyone believes it to be fact. It is so true that the pen is mightier than the sword but it’s not the only way a newspaper can be a weapon.

I felt the weight of the rolled-up paper in my back pocket and was reassured by it.

I waited.

Eventually the door opened and I saw Brian Sinclair wave before closing it behind him. He began to run. He didn’t have the dog with him. That meant it was time.

I gave him fully five minutes then made my way away from the house and circled it before joining the path and walking deep into the wood.

It was a fairly steep climb but I was fit enough. I’d already worked out that I wanted to be far enough in that only one person was likely to pass me. Not so far that it would take me too long to get out again.

When I got to the point I’d picked out, I sat and waited. It wouldn’t be long.

My timing was good. I’d been sitting no more than three minutes when I picked up the sound of running. He was on his return route.

It was a scratch that became a roar. Feet through leaves. Feet across packed ground. Getting closer. Louder. Scrunching towards me.

My heartbeat matched his stride as it closed in on me. I felt cold. No, hot. Heart thumping. Blood pumping. Hot through the ice that filled my veins and froze my heart. I was hot cold. Freezing hot.

Then there he was. He rounded a corner and was no more than ten yards in front of me. I hadn’t seen him so close up and he was taller than I’d thought. Maybe six foot two. Cropped, fair hair. Honeymoon tanned. Happy.

He smiled when he saw me. That threw me but only slightly. For a long time now, strangers smiling at me had struck me as odd. Strangers were strange to me. I knew it was just me though. I’d lost my reason to smile. Lost my reason.

But Brian Sinclair didn’t think like me. He liked people. He smiled at strangers. Or perhaps I wasn’t completely unfamiliar to him. He had a look that suggested he might have seen me before. And of course he might have.

I had watched him for a month. Watched from afar. I had seen him leave the house over the river. I had seen him arrive at his dental practice. I had seen him set out on his run. I had seen him return.

I had seen them walk, hand in hand, whispering, laughing. I had seen them walk the springer spaniel. Sometimes it was Brian, sometimes Mary. Most often it was Mr and Mrs Sinclair together. They liked togetherness. They were wrapped up cosy in it.

But then I knew what they didn’t.

As Brian Sinclair stood there, the look on his face was one that said ‘Hey, I know you. I’m not sure where from but I do know you, don’t I?’

I wasn’t particularly pleased about his recognition but soon it wouldn’t matter.

Sinclair saw me holding my ankle. I was sitting on a boulder, the right leg of my jeans pulled up to the calf.

Of course, I hadn’t sprained it. Brian thought I had.

Are you OK? he asked. I said I was – in a voice that said I wasn’t.

He looked around. What did he expect to find? A crutch, a doctor, an ambulance? He wanted to help. Brian was a nice guy.

I’d already taken the newspaper from my back pocket. It was rolled-up tight but I wrapped it tighter still. Brian might have seen it but thought nothing of it. He couldn’t see that the paper was weeks old.

He kneeled by me and said he’d take a look at my ankle.

He was talking. Words about help. About being careful. About ankles. I didn’t take them in. I only heard noise.

My eyes were on him. On his throat. I gripped the newspaper tighter. Then even tighter.

My breathing was heavy, I knew it. I was sure he’d just put it down to my supposed fall. I hoped he couldn’t hear my heart.

He was closer, trying to lever me up. His head was by mine now. It was nearly time but I couldn’t rush it. I would only get one chance. If I messed it up it was all over.

The newspaper was hot in my hand.

He took hold of my ankle, checking it for me. He was about to find out that it wasn’t swollen. I saw the puzzled look on his face. He was about to ask, about to doubt.

I knew it was as much about accuracy as strength. I would get as much force behind it as I could but it was more important that I caught him in the soft of the throat. It is all about tensile strength. It makes a newspaper as good as a hammer. It makes it near lethal.

His eyes were just turning up towards mine when I stabbed at his throat with the paper. It caught him full and hard, driving against his larynx. It knocked him off his feet. If he’d looked puzzled before then he was bewildered now. His eyes streamed, he clutched at his throat, he gulped and coughed.

I got above him quickly and placed the end of the paper a couple of inches off his forehead. I used the flat of my hand as a hammer and drove the paper against his skull. He passed out with nothing more than a groan.