this?”
Jack sniffed, and said, “I’ll be all right.”
Gilchrist detected an undercurrent of anger, reminding him of how Jack used to behave as a child when scolded. He and Gail would wait it out, say nothing until Jack’s mood evaporated. Silent, Gilchrist eyed the road ahead.
Jack ran the palm of his hand across his eyes. “I loved Chloe,” he said.
Gilchrist caught the past tense, felt his chest tighten.
“She had this phenomenal talent as an artist. Like she had all this creative power just bubbling inside her, waiting to erupt onto the canvas.” Jack shook his head. “She made my sculptures look incomplete. She had this ability to humble me as an artist,make me realise there was so much more I still have to learn, you know, without knowing she was doing it.” Jack stared off across the golf courses to the dunes beyond, and Gilchrist wondered if he was searching for their winter picnic spot, or remembering it was only January since they had all been together.
“That’s why we argued,” Jack went on. “Sometimes she would just go on at me, urge me to do better, like she knew I had it in me, but I couldn’t get it out. It used to do my nut in. In the end we had this huge row. I just flipped.” He shook his head, and it took a few seconds of silence for Gilchrist to realise Jack had said all he was going to say.
“I’m not sure if trying to ID the hands is a good idea.”
Jack turned to him. “I need to know.”
Gilchrist felt Jack’s eyes on him, and made a conscious effort to speak in the present tense. “Does Chloe have any marks on her hands or fingers like moles or freckles or anything that would provide conclusive identification?”
“Yes.”
Gilchrist felt his heart leap. He had seen no marks on either hand. In fact, both hands looked unblemished. Had he jumped to the wrong conclusion? Were the hands not Chloe’s? For a fleeting moment, his mind nurtured that idea then thumped back with the question he could not answer—why was his name on the note? The victim had to be someone close to him. He struggled to keep his voice level. “Such as?” he asked.
“A scar at the base of her thumb.”
A scar? Mackie hadn’t mentioned any scars .
“Which hand?” he asked.
Jack seemed to think for a second. “Right, I think.”
“You think?”
“No. Definitely the right hand.”
“How big a scar?”
“Half-inch.”
“Crooked? Straight? What?”
“Straight. She cut herself with a palette knife.” He almost smiled. “Don’t ask.”
“Any other marks?”
“On her hands?”
“Anywhere.”
Jack pulled up the front of his sweater. “One of these.”
Gilchrist glanced to the side, but saw only white skin and felt a spurt of surprise flush through him at how thin Jack looked. Skinny verging on skeletal. “One of what?” he asked.
Jack twisted in his seat and fingered a tattoo that stained his skin like a tiny ink blot an inch or so above his belly button. “Love-heart.”
“And Chloe had one, too?” Too late, he realised he had spoken as if she was no longer alive.
Jack seemed unaware of his blunder. “Last Christmas,” he said, lowering his sweater. “To seal our love. Kind of stupid, I suppose. It was Chloe’s idea.”
Gilchrist stared at the road ahead. When he first met Gail, drunk and wild in the Whey Pat Tavern, up from Glasgow on her annual holiday, she had sworn at some American guy with a buzz-cut and two bared arms blue with tattoos and taut with muscles. Gilchrist had escorted her from the pub after that, tried to calm her down. But something about the tattoos had her wound up.
My uncle had a tattoo , she told him. An anchor with a silly rope wound around it .
What’s so bad about that? he had asked.
He hit my aunt .
It hurt to think that when he first met Gail he was taken by her vivacity, her uncut love of life. Nothing seemed too big to take on. The whole world, if they wanted. He had never been able to work out the exact moment Gail
Jack sniffed, and said, “I’ll be all right.”
Gilchrist detected an undercurrent of anger, reminding him of how Jack used to behave as a child when scolded. He and Gail would wait it out, say nothing until Jack’s mood evaporated. Silent, Gilchrist eyed the road ahead.
Jack ran the palm of his hand across his eyes. “I loved Chloe,” he said.
Gilchrist caught the past tense, felt his chest tighten.
“She had this phenomenal talent as an artist. Like she had all this creative power just bubbling inside her, waiting to erupt onto the canvas.” Jack shook his head. “She made my sculptures look incomplete. She had this ability to humble me as an artist,make me realise there was so much more I still have to learn, you know, without knowing she was doing it.” Jack stared off across the golf courses to the dunes beyond, and Gilchrist wondered if he was searching for their winter picnic spot, or remembering it was only January since they had all been together.
“That’s why we argued,” Jack went on. “Sometimes she would just go on at me, urge me to do better, like she knew I had it in me, but I couldn’t get it out. It used to do my nut in. In the end we had this huge row. I just flipped.” He shook his head, and it took a few seconds of silence for Gilchrist to realise Jack had said all he was going to say.
“I’m not sure if trying to ID the hands is a good idea.”
Jack turned to him. “I need to know.”
Gilchrist felt Jack’s eyes on him, and made a conscious effort to speak in the present tense. “Does Chloe have any marks on her hands or fingers like moles or freckles or anything that would provide conclusive identification?”
“Yes.”
Gilchrist felt his heart leap. He had seen no marks on either hand. In fact, both hands looked unblemished. Had he jumped to the wrong conclusion? Were the hands not Chloe’s? For a fleeting moment, his mind nurtured that idea then thumped back with the question he could not answer—why was his name on the note? The victim had to be someone close to him. He struggled to keep his voice level. “Such as?” he asked.
“A scar at the base of her thumb.”
A scar? Mackie hadn’t mentioned any scars .
“Which hand?” he asked.
Jack seemed to think for a second. “Right, I think.”
“You think?”
“No. Definitely the right hand.”
“How big a scar?”
“Half-inch.”
“Crooked? Straight? What?”
“Straight. She cut herself with a palette knife.” He almost smiled. “Don’t ask.”
“Any other marks?”
“On her hands?”
“Anywhere.”
Jack pulled up the front of his sweater. “One of these.”
Gilchrist glanced to the side, but saw only white skin and felt a spurt of surprise flush through him at how thin Jack looked. Skinny verging on skeletal. “One of what?” he asked.
Jack twisted in his seat and fingered a tattoo that stained his skin like a tiny ink blot an inch or so above his belly button. “Love-heart.”
“And Chloe had one, too?” Too late, he realised he had spoken as if she was no longer alive.
Jack seemed unaware of his blunder. “Last Christmas,” he said, lowering his sweater. “To seal our love. Kind of stupid, I suppose. It was Chloe’s idea.”
Gilchrist stared at the road ahead. When he first met Gail, drunk and wild in the Whey Pat Tavern, up from Glasgow on her annual holiday, she had sworn at some American guy with a buzz-cut and two bared arms blue with tattoos and taut with muscles. Gilchrist had escorted her from the pub after that, tried to calm her down. But something about the tattoos had her wound up.
My uncle had a tattoo , she told him. An anchor with a silly rope wound around it .
What’s so bad about that? he had asked.
He hit my aunt .
It hurt to think that when he first met Gail he was taken by her vivacity, her uncut love of life. Nothing seemed too big to take on. The whole world, if they wanted. He had never been able to work out the exact moment Gail
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