Louise Welsh - Death is a Welcome Guest

Magnus flung his own machine into a hedge and threw himself after it. The Audi skidded across the road, narrowly missing Jeb’s still moving bike, and pitched to a halt in a cloud of burning rubber, facing the direction it had come from. The door of the car opened and the driver got out. Magnus’s first thought was that he was just a boy. Magnus shouted, ‘Help me get the bike off him,’ and started to run to where Jeb lay trapped half in, half out of the ditch.

His second thought was that the driver wasn’t a boy, not really. He was short and slightly built, but he was dressed in a palette of summer pastels that suggested rounds of golf with business cronies, followed by vodka and tonics in the clubhouse bar. The man grinned and his face creased into lines that were at odds with youth. There was something familiar about the aged-young face. Magnus realised that it reminded him of an old-fashioned ventriloquist’s dummy one of the comics on the circuit had used as a prop. It was a horrible object, prone to obscene observations its handler would never have got away with. Time seemed to falter. Magnus took a step backward and the driver reached into the car.

Jeb let out a shout that broke the spell and Magnus started towards him again. ‘Help me get this bloody machine off him,’ he shouted at the man. Jeb must have managed to reach the motorbike’s ignition because the engine died and its wheels faltered to a halt. There was a smell of oil and petrol and Magnus thought how easy it would be for the whole thing to go up. ‘Are you all right?’

He lowered himself into the ditch. Jeb was curled as far forward as the motorbike would let him, clutching at his right leg. His face was twisted in agony.

‘Don’t worry,’ Magnus said, his heart hammering in his chest. ‘We’ll get it off you.’

Jeb said something fast and urgent, but his voice was hoarse and Magnus could not make out the words. He put his gloved hands on the scorching metal, trying to work out how best to lift the bike free, without doing more damage. ‘Fucking…’ Jeb’s voice was a struggle of pain and phlegm. ‘Fucking… fucking…’

‘It’s okay.’ Magnus tried to soothe him. ‘We’ll find a chemist’s, fire some painkillers into you.’

The best option might be to take the bike apart, he decided. Remove its panniers and handlebars, its saddle and wheels and then see where they could go from there.

‘Fucking…’ Sweat spangled Jeb’s forehead. His words were growing in urgency. ‘Fucking look behind you!’

Magnus turned. The yellow Audi’s boot was open. The puppet-faced man had taken something from it and was coming towards them. At first Magnus thought he had reached the same conclusion about dismantling the bike and had found a tool to do the job, then he saw the glint of the blade and realised it was a machete, or did he mean a Samurai sword? There was a man in Stromness who had killed his best friend with a Samurai sword that had hung blamelessly above the couch in his sitting room for years. Magnus’s mind was racing. He pulled off his motorcycle gloves and reached for the rifle strapped to his back, but it snagged on something and he could not pull it free. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…’ Now it was Magnus who was swearing. Jeb said nothing, but his breaths came fast and heavy, like a horse after a gallop along the sands. Magnus pulled at the rifle again. This time it came free, but the man had reached the edge of the ditch.

He said, ‘You’re the vandals that slashed my tyres,’ and raised his sword high.

Magnus was fumbling with the gun. Fuck! He had shot almost as many rats as Hugh, but now his fingers were groping for the safety catch.

‘Shoot him,’ Jeb whispered. ‘Fucking shoot him.’

And the man’s head exploded.

The spray of blood, bone and brain was warm; body temperature , Magnus thought. He wiped a hand across his eyes, trying to clear the redness from his vision, and felt a wild, hysterical urge to laugh. He stared stupidly at the gun in his hands, knowing that he had not pulled the trigger, but unable to comprehend what had happened. He looked at Jeb. His face was red, as if someone had peeled the skin from his flesh. His eyes were trained towards the road above. Magnus followed his stare. A tall man in a clerical collar and army fatigues walked to where the driver lay slumped at the side of the road. He prodded the body gently with the toe of his boot, though there could be no doubt that the man was dead.

‘Do you mind?’ The vicar, if he was a vicar, nodded at Magnus’s rifle. He had a Yorkshire accent and his voice was soft and slightly apologetic, but the gun that had killed the driver was still in his hand. Magnus placed his rifle on the edge of the ditch and raised his hands in the air. ‘Thank you. I’d like your friend’s weapons too please. Don’t worry.’ He smiled as if he had not just blown the top of the driver’s head into a blizzard of shards. ‘It’s just a precaution.’

Magnus’s hands were shaking and it was difficult to slide the rifle from Jeb’s back, but he managed it. He had intended to ignore the gun tucked inside the leather jacket, but to his amazement, Jeb offered it up. The man raised his eyebrows as if he were also surprised.

‘That makes me wonder what else you have on you. Check his socks for skean-dhu, please.’ Magnus avoided Jeb’s eyes as he took the Bowie knife from its sheath and laid it beside the other weapons. ‘Thanks.’ The man put the revolver into one pocket and the knife into another. He laid the shotguns in easy reach on the bonnet of the Audi and turned his attention to Jeb. ‘How badly hurt are you?’

‘I don’t know.’ Jeb’s voice was compressed by the weight of metal lying on his chest. He had wiped some of the sweat and blood from his face and his skin was pale beneath the bloodstains. His mouth grimaced, but when he spoke he sounded detached, as if he were discussing someone else. ‘I’ve smashed my leg.’

Magnus could smell cracked earth and greenery beneath the butcher-shop stench of blood and brain. The gunfire had scattered the birds, but the chaffinches were singing again. Chip, chip, chip, chooee, chooee, cheeoo . A robin landed on a bush and tilted its head to one side. Its black button eyes seemed to take in the scene: the dead body with its ruined head, Jeb pinned beneath his motorcycle, the army cleric rummaging in the boot of the custard-yellow Audi. Magnus bent over and was noisily sick in the ditch. The robin flew off, chirping a warning call.

‘Our luck’s in.’ The stranger lifted a tow chain from the boot of the Audi. ‘The car’s driver was a belt and braces man.’

Jeb’s eyes were glassy. His words came out in painful starts. ‘I thought slashing that bastard’s tyres would keep him off our backs, but I forgot he had all the time in the world to get himself a new car and track us down. I guess he got lucky.’ The grin tightened. ‘If he’d taken another road he would have missed us.’

‘The road less travelled,’ the priest said, beneath his breath. He fastened one end of the tow chain to the Audi and swung the other end down into the ditch towards Magnus who fastened it to the bike.

Pulling the motorcycle free of Jeb was easier than Magnus had expected. When it was safely up on the bank the man slithered into the ditch beside them. Jeb’s motorcycle trousers had stood the test of the accident. They were badly scuffed, but un-torn. The man squatted in the ditch, took the Bowie knife from his pocket and carefully slit the leather from hem to knee. He examined the damaged leg with a gentle efficiency that made Jeb swear between gritted teeth and Magnus ask if he was a doctor.

‘I suspect I’m the nearest thing to one you’re going to get, but no. I just picked up a few things along the way.’