Pilgrim Soul by Gordon Ferris

it. Or enjoying the
reminiscence. He was moving silently now, his big feet seeking out each step like a bad actor in a pantomime.
Behind you! cry the kids.
    ‘Did you know the man? Had you seen him before?’
    ‘He come before. He say: Look at gas. I not think so.’
    ‘You were suspicious?’
    ‘I not fool.’ His mouth twisted in a malevolent grin.
    ‘Where did you get the knife?’
    ‘Always have knife.’ He patted his chest where his jacket pocket would be. Suddenly I was glad to meet him in just his grubby vest.
    ‘You live alone?’
    He nodded.
    ‘Were you afraid, Mr Galdakis?’
    He stopped pacing and looked at me, puzzled by the question. He shook his head and grinned at me again.
    ‘I see you broke a chair. Was it a big fight?’
    He shrugged. ‘Not so big.’
    ‘Can you describe what happened?’
    He shrugged again. ‘I come home. Door not locked. I come in quiet. I hear him try numbers.’ He pointed at the dial of the safe. ‘He come out. I hit him.’
    ‘With the knife?’
    ‘Yes.’
    I imagined how Paddy Craven must have felt stepping into the dim hall and feeling the hammer blow of a knife to his stomach. He would have been thrown back into this room with the force of
it.
    ‘He fell in here? Then what? What did you do?’
    ‘I come in. I kick him. I angry.’
    ‘Of course. But why did you use the knife again?’
    ‘My house.’ He pointed at his chest. ‘He thief.’
    ‘You stabbed him
six
times. Did you know that?’
    ‘I angry.’
    ‘Mad.’
    ‘Mad as hell.’
    ‘Did he fight back?’
    He pursed his lips in contempt and shook his head. I stared at him, his bulk and his bad breath filling the room. Anger would take you only so far. After a few stabs you would be operating on
some different emotion. I remembered Sandy’s request.
    ‘Are you sorry you killed a man?’
    ‘Thief!’
    ‘Are you sorry you killed a thief?’
    ‘No.’ He mimicked spitting on the floor. ‘Pig.’ I scribbled a shorthand note.
    ‘You are from Lithuania?’
    He examined the question. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Jewish?’
    He nodded.
    ‘Which synagogue.’
    ‘I no like going.’
    Fair enough. I’m a lapsed Protestant.
    ‘When did you leave Lithuania?’
    ‘When Russians come.’
    ‘At the end of the war?’
    He nodded.
    ‘What was your job? In Lithuania? What did you do for a living?’
    He shrugged. ‘Farm.’
    ‘Now you have two stalls in Glasgow? At the market. Where did you get the money?’
    His broad face creased in thought. ‘I bring little money.’
    ‘Lithuanian money?’
    ‘Gold.’
    ‘Where did you get the gold?’
    Now his brows were corrugated. His response was truculent. ‘Why you ask? I save money. All my life. What this mean? Why police ask this?’
    ‘Did I say I was police, Mr Galdakis? I’m not.’
    As his brain absorbed this he stepped towards me. He moved fast for a big man. ‘Who are you?’
    ‘I’m from the
Glasgow Gazette
. My readers want to know all about you.’
    ‘No! You not tell! You not write ’bout me.’
    His face was a foot from mine, his mouth contorted in anger, his breath a blowtorch. He knocked the notebook from my hands and grabbed the lapels of my coat. My hands were down by my sides. It
left me only one alternative. My head was already pulled back as far as I could from his stench. I jabbed forward. The ridge of my brow caught him full in the nose. He staggered back and fell over
one of the armchairs. He went crashing into the valley between the two chairs and flailed around until he dragged himself upright. Blood was pouring from his nose.
    ‘I kill you! I fucking kill you, bastard!’
    He jumped on to the chair, roaring and screaming. He leaped down at me swinging his meaty fist towards my face. Maybe my head-butt had dazed him. Maybe he was just slow, but I seemed to have
plenty of time to step to one side and punch him on his big fat cheekbone as he blundered past. This time he crashed to the bare floor and lay groaning. I curbed my urge to kick