Anger, Andy, anger. No point in staying cool now; Mr Cool will get his fucking head blown off. Be Mr Angry; anger is your only weapon. Anger kills, cool is vulnerable. Yes, let Lawrence fucking Scotland be Mr Cool.
'Okay.' The man spoke quietly but the word was like a shout, knifing its way into his thoughts in the gloom of the kitchen. 'It's time to go. Time to meet your maker, Mr Martin. Come along quiet now; be a good lad and I'll give you the Last Rites.'
'Fuck you and your rites, you blasphemous bastard,' the detective snarled.
'Ahh,' said Scotland, 'that's what you're going to be is it? Defiant to the end. I had one of those once, in Armagh; only he wasn't, not to the end. He was one of them who had seen the brains flying out. At the end he was blubbering like a baby, not facing the gun, turning away and getting his head blown all over the place. I pissed on him afterwards; it was the only time I've ever done that. Before today, that is.'
'You'll piss yourself before the morning's out.'
'That's it. Keep it up, keep it up. Now, listen, this is what's going to happen. We're going outside, and we're getting into your car. I've got the keys from your jacket. If you think about making a noise when we get outside, then I'll shoot you in the back of the head. After that I'll drive to the Scotsman office and give myself up to them; that way your man Skinner can't kill me. That way it all comes out in Court.'
'What if they're outside now, waiting?'
'Then you'll be dead; me too probably. But we both know they're not, or we'd have heard by now. Come on.'
With surprising strength he hauled Martin to his feet, and pushed him towards the door. In the hall, the detective stumbled.
Do it now! a voice said. Go for him!
No; no room, gun cocked. No chance.
He picked himself up, and stepped outside, into Falcon Street.
'See?' said Scotland. 'No bastard here.' He opened the front passenger door of the white Mondeo, and jammed the gun into the middle of Martin's back, forcing him forward, awkwardly, his hands still tied, numb, behind his back, and on to the seat. Lightning fast, Scotland ran round to the driver's side and climbed in. Then, holding the gun to his captive's head with his left hand, he reached over and pulled the seat belt around him, fastening it, rendering him virtually immobile.
He started the car and grinned at the policeman wickedly. 'You know where we're going, don't you?'
'I can guess. I promise you one thing, bastard; I won't shit myself like you did.'
'You will, you know. They all do.'
Scotland put the car into gear and drove off, unhurried and steadily, out of Falcon Street and on to Gilmerton Road, turning left, heading for the City by-pass. He picked it up at Sheriffhall and headed west. Martin glanced at the car clock; it was six-twenty. Even on a Friday morning, the traffic at that time was minimal; no rescue vehicles, that was for sure.
They turned off at the Lothianburn Junction, then took the fork which led to Biggar, and eventually to the M74 and Carlisle. They would not be going that far, though, Martin knew. Still driving steadily, Scotland took the first turning to the right off the Biggar Road, a narrower country track, which climbed upwards into the Pentland Hills. After two, maybe three miles, they came to a car park, small but secluded, a clearing in a dark woodland area. They turned in and came to a halt.
'We walk from here,' said the man with the gun.
'Good, you fucker,' Martin hissed. 'I want to see how big your balls really are.'
'I've got to hand it to you, Mr Policeman.' Click; and the seat belt came undone. 'So far you're talking a good game.' Scotland climbed out of the car then opened the passenger door, hauling his prisoner out. 'Go on, that way. Take that path through the woods. Remember though, I'm right behind and I'll shoot you in the back if you do anything daft. I won't kill you, not yet, I'll just knock a piece of you out, but it'll be fucking sore.'
Not in the woods, Martin found himself praying. Don't let him do it in the woods. All wrong, not enough room. But they walked on, until the forest came to an end, giving way abruptly to open hillside, behind a fence and a sign which read,
'Warning. MoD Property. No admission. Live firing possible.'
'Live firing fucking certain,' said Scotland, gleefully. 'Go on, through it.'
The fence was three wire strands; no obstacle. Even bound, Martin slipped through, easily, his executioner following. 'Up the hill.'They climbed carefully, for the hill grass was suddenly thick in places, up towards a summit which turned out to be merely a crest, hiding another steep trek. On they trudged for, Martin judged, more than half an hour, mostly upwards, sometimes round the hillside, but always with purpose. Scotland knew exactly where he was going.
At last, they climbed another short slope and came to a rough, rock-strewn clearing; looking at it, the policeman guessed that it might have been an old crater, from a shell, or even a bomb.
'I've been here many a time since,' Lawrence Scotland murmured. 'Thinking about Alec Smith, wishing I could get him up here, crying on his knees. But I knew I never could; guys like Smith, the fanatics, the crazies, are always on their guard. And then you came to me.'
'What if I hadn't been alone?' Martin asked. The thought had never occurred to him, not once.
'There wouldn't have been more than two of you. I'd have killed the one back there at the Drum and brought the other one straight here.' The detective felt a chill as he thought of Sammy Pye and those performance-review forms; they had saved a life.
'Well, big deal, arsehole. It's worked out for you. Now let's get on with it.'
'Hah. You can't be that keen to die, Detective Chief Superintendent.' Mocking now; it was beginning. God, this buggers hard to rattle. Got to, though; got to. Martin aimed a clumsy kick at him.
'Watch it, pal,' the man called out, stepping back lightly, out of range, 'or I'll kneecap you. I saw that done once, you know, in Ireland. Fucking brutal it was; often they lose a leg after it. No, you just stand there, like a good polisman and it'll be less painful for you.'
A slow, exultant, smile. 'You know what we're going to do, don't you?'
Anger, Andy, Mr Angry. Anger is your weapon; your life depends on it.
'Of course, I fucking know,' he roared, forcing a laugh, which for an instant seemed to take the man by surprise. 'I've always wanted to play this game. Come on, show me some stuff.'
Scotland shook his head, and took a pace back.
Come closer you bastard. Need you closer.
He was much faster than Martin had expected, as he broke the breech of the pistol, emptied six bullets into his hand from their chambers, replaced just one, snapped the breech shut and spun the magazine.
Fuck. Too quick, not a chance to move.
Panic now as the gun came up: cold, clammy, terror. Pressure on bladder. Don't let go whatever you do. Keep your eyes open, look down the barrel. Take the bullet in the forehead if you have to. Inching closer, staring past the gun into Scotland's icy eyes, heart pounding, hammering, faces in the way. Dad, Mum, David, Alex, Bob, Karen, Sarah, Rhian, Jazz, Karen… Heart bursting, head swimming, he's squeezing the trigger…
Nothing; only a click, an incredibly loud, almost deafening click, then a rushing in his ears. Sudden numbness, sudden explosion of sweat, sudden relief. Brains are still there, but they're not working. What to do? Stay Angry. Unsettle the bastard, if you can.