Recycled

In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it.

He certainly did a lot of begging, but I rationed my mercy to a minimum. The screams still echoed in my ears as I began to clamber over the high fence, hoisting my burden up behind me on a rope I had brought along just in case.

I was very busy for a while with the enjoyable task of dismemberment; then I divided up the parts, throwing each one into a separate skip. Considerate of the Council to provide so many containers. I didn't have to use the same one twice. Each time, I jumped into the skip myself and piled stuff on top to conceal the thing I had just added. Eventually it might rise to the surface again. In that case I would just disappear, walking off into the sunset without leaving any footprints.

About to leave, I tripped over something. Worried that I had left one of the parts lying around, I picked the thing up and shone my torch on it. A little wrinkled face peered anxiously up at me from under a little red hat. It was a garden gnome. I started to laugh at the incongruity of it, but I decided impulsively to take it with me for luck.

I should have known better: I should have obeyed my training, which had inculcated in me the importance of disregarding impulses. The very next evening I started to work out exactly how stupid I had been.

'Dave and I went up to the tip today,' said Christopher as we walked up the High Street eating fish and chips from paper bags. I had decided I was old enough to do this without worrying about my self-image.

I accidentally swallowed a chip that was still too hot, and went into the obligatory pantomime of waving hands in front of mouth, choking slightly, and so on. This distracted Christopher, but only temporarily.

'It's a bit weird up there. Garden gnomes all up the sides of the road. If you look at them for too long you start to think they're glaring at you.'

Sometimes I despaired of Christopher: he really was an incurable wimp. On the other hand, at least it showed that he had a vivid imagination – for a redundant archivist.

'Have you ever been in there?' he added idly, crunching a bit of empty batter.

'Does it look like the kind of place I'd hang out?'

'Maybe not...'

'What were you and Dave doing there anyway?'

'We're clearing out some of Mrs Stevenson's stuff.'

'Does Jemima know about this? What if the only thing that's keeping her alive in hospital is the idea of getting home and being surrounded by all her stuff?'

'No, it's OK. She asked Dave to clear out the shed. It's just old dog beds and things.'

'Dog beds. Hmm.'

'If you're not doing anything tomorrow,' he said, 'you can come and give us a hand.'

'Tempting,' I said. 'But I think I've got some drains to unblock.'

'Dave could help you out there,' said Christopher, eating his last chip and folding up the paper neatly. 'He's got a colossal plunger.'

'Has he indeed?'

Christopher actually blushed, then laughed.

'I was thinking,' he said, making a good recovery.

'Yes.'

'About Jemima. Do you think they'll catch whoever did it?'

'They? The police?' I tried not to sound incredulous or scornful, but I realised my tone expressed what I felt.

'Do you think they're even trying?' he persisted. 'Should we – you know – have a go ourselves?'

'No!'

He flinched. Maybe I had been a bit abrupt. I modified my reply.

'No, that would be pointless. We haven't got anything to go on. If Jemima had remembered anything useful she'd have told the police and they'd have followed it up.'

'But they don't really care,' said Christopher earnestly. 'Not the way we do.'

Care? An odd word to use, but perhaps the right one: against my will and contrary to all the rules by which I had lived my life to date, I did indeed care about the fate of the old woman who lay in Kirkcaldy Memorial Hospital with a broken leg and several internal injuries just because some low-life had knocked her down and then repeatedly cycled over her.

I found my fists clenching all over again as I thought about it.

'You could do something about it, Amaryllis,' said Christopher. 'You're good at that kind of thing.'

'I'm supposed to have given up all that kind of thing,' I said. I could tell he didn't believe me.

We didn't see each other for a few days after that. It was slightly unusual for this to happen, in fact some would say we were inseparable – although they'd be wrong; but Christopher had two part-time jobs, and depending on his shifts and my other activities, sometimes our movements didn't coincide for a while.

'I've made some progress!' he announced, running down the road to catch up with me one morning.

'In what way?'

'The cyclist! The one that ran over Mrs Stevenson!'

As I looked at his beaming, shiny face, for the first time since I had moved to Pitkirtly I resented the fact that it was a small town. There was nowhere to hide from your enemies – or from your friends.

'Good,' I said, nodding. 'Well done.'

'I've found a witness. The girl in the fish shop. She spends half her time looking out the window, even while she's serving customers. Especially then... Or maybe it's just me she does that with. Anyway, she was looking out the window that day, and the boy on the bike went past.'

'How do you know it was the right boy on the right bike?'

'She said he was in a terrible hurry and he was on the wrong side of the road,' said Christopher. He had one of his random attacks of politeness. 'Can I carry that bag for you? It looks quite heavy.'

'No, thanks. I'm fine.'

I hoped he wouldn't return to the topic of the cyclist, but of course he did.

'So that's why she remembered him,' he said, walking beside me. He reminded me of a primary school age child I had seen the previous afternoon walking down the road with its mother. The mother had paid very little attention as the child skipped, jumped and chattered beside her. I was that mother.

'Not unusual for a cyclist to be on the wrong side of the road,' I commented to break the expectant silence.

'She remembered the look on his face. And the school uniform.'

'School uniform?'

'He should have been in school,' said Christopher, as if that proved anything. 'It was only three o'clock in the afternoon. He shouldn't even have been in the High Street at all.'

'Well that's easy then,' I said, forgetting myself for a moment and entering into the spirit of the thing. 'We'll just get a list of all the kids who were playing truant that day – it'll only be the size of War and Peace.'

I hadn't noticed the latent smugness in Christopher's face. He let me finish and then said, 'It was Pitkirtly High School. Jock McLean knows the school secretary.'

'He would.'

'This is where we need you. We've got the list now, and there are only two boys on it.'

Fortunately Christopher was too impressed by his own cleverness to take any notice of my expression, which, if it reflected my thoughts correctly, was a bizarre mixture of puzzlement and panic. He rushed on further into his fantasy world. If there had been orcs in the way, he would have scattered them before him as if he wielded a magic sword.

'Jock says he can't get involved because of his background. And Dave's been going to and from the hospital every day. He thinks he's the only one keeping Mrs Stevenson going. He won't take any chances on getting into trouble. So that leaves you and me. And I don't know anything about kidnapping.'

He looked at me with big trusting eyes. Why hadn't I noticed before how dog-like he was in his misplaced trust, his bouncy enthusiasm and his clumsy devotion? Why would anyone want to kick him?

'I don't do kidnapping,' I said. 'And I wouldn't advise you to do it either.'

I turned my back on him and walked up the road a little way and into the nearest shop. It was an old-fashioned barber's, perhaps the only one left in the world. A barber, with a disquieting resemblance – in my mind, at least – to Sweeney Todd, came towards me from some dark hinterland. He was wiping his hands on a towel. I expect I only imagined the blood.

'Can I help you, sir – sorry, madam?'

The door pinged behind me. I turned my head to see Christopher walking into the shop. I was trapped between the two of them.

'This man wants his head shaved,' I said to the perplexed barber. Christopher's expression went from his habitual vague half-smile to anxiety and then blind panic as the barber ushered him to a chair.

I laughed. If I knew Christopher, he would emerge from the shop with his head shaved rather than face the embarrassment of explaining to the barber that he didn't really want it done. This should be amusing. I popped up to the pound shop to get him a beanie hat for when he came out into the cold air.

Of course, after doing that to him, I had to make up for it by getting hold of one of the boys. He happened to be sitting in the café where, I had noticed before, all the kids of his age went, only not necessarily during school hours. He tried to run away at first, but when I explained I wasn't interested in harming him, just in buying him a smoothie of his choice, with the chance of a toastie if he wanted, he agreed, especially since the other option was to be frogmarched back into school and attract the unwelcome attention of the attendance officer or modern equivalent thereof.

The boy was spotty, sulky and scared.

'It wasn't me, it was him. He's away,' was all he would say. 'Don't take it out on me, pal. He's gone.'

'So you've no idea where he might have gone,' I said, summarising.

'No... Except – '

'What?' I asked, maybe a bit too sharply. He flinched and muttered very quickly,

'He sometimes stays with his granny. In Lochgelly. He could be there.'

'Know the address?'

'No.'

'Know anybody who might know the address?'

'No.'

I sighed.

The boy leaned forward, sucked up the last of his banana smoothie with a final hollow intake of air, and started to get to his feet. Christopher didn't try to stop him. Christopher hadn't done anything useful during this interview except to pay for the smoothie. If I had been a ruthless kidnapper and brutal interrogator, I wouldn't have chosen him as an accomplice. Fortunately I didn't fall into either category.

'His bike's gone too,' said the boy and made a swift exit from the café.

'Well?' said Christopher. 'What are we going to do now?'

'You choose.'

'Go to Lochgelly? Knock on all the doors? Do you know how big Lochgelly is?'

'Haven't a clue.'

He glared at me as if it was all my fault. Whereas it wasn't, or at least not entirely.

'Wouldn't the police have found him if he'd gone to his granny's?' he suggested.

'They'd have to be looking for him first, wouldn't they? They probably never even spoke to the girl in the fish shop or trawled through the school registers.'

'Maybe I should have told them about that so they could follow it up,' groaned Christopher. 'What's got into me? What made me think I could do it all myself?'

I shrugged. 'Don't ask me... You didn't think the police cared enough? You didn't have anything better to do? Anything I can do, you can do better...'

He gave me an uncomfortably shrewd look. 'Jemima Stevenson is your friend too, Amaryllis. You don't seem to be taking this very seriously.'

I laughed. 'Oh, I am, Christopher. You've no idea.'

His eyes narrowed. 'What exactly have you done?'

'What do you think I've done?'

I got up and left the café. A few moments later he caught up with me on the way down towards the river. I looked at his striped beanie hat and chuckled to myself. It was so not his style.

'Seriously, Amaryllis, what have you done?'

'Nothing!'

We reached the river front and walked slowly along towards the old harbour. The air was clear, and we had an excellent view of the oil refinery at Grangemouth.

'I'm going to have to tell the police,' said Christopher. I knew he was offering me a chance to own up to what I had done, but I shook my head. If the police came knocking at my door, fine. Well, not fine, but I would deal with it. I tried not to think about the implications for our friendship.

Christopher came round that evening and offered me a chance to flee the country. 'I've told them. They'll be round any minute.'

'I don't run away – not from the police, anyway.'

'But this is serious, Amaryllis.'

'I know it's serious. That's exactly why I won't be running away.'

He picked up the gnome I had brought back as a souvenir, which was still sitting on the worktop where I had left it that night, and idly traced its beard with one finger.

'You could get into serious trouble,' he persisted.

'Do you think I don't know that?'

If the police hadn't arrived just then, I would probably have been in even more serious trouble for battering him to death with the gnome. When they told me what they thought I had done, I laughed.

'Do you really think so? Is that what Christopher said?'

'Mr Wilson took us to meet the boy,' said one policeman. 'He saw you going off up the road with his friend. Then he heard screams in the distance, and he hasn't seen his friend since.'

'Where did you go, Ms Peebles?' said another. 'Where did you take that boy?'

'What did you do with him?' said the first one. They made a very wooden double act, I must say.

'I know where they went,' said Christopher suddenly. We all turned to look at him. He was staring at the gnome as if he had seen a ghost. 'The gnome. She got it from the tip. She took the boy to the tip and – ' his voice went very low and dramatic, 'only one of them came back.'

'The tip?' said the first policeman.

'I think they like to call it the recycling centre these days,' I said. I picked up my jacket and started to put it on. 'And don't forget the bicycle.'

'The bicycle?' said the other policeman.

'That's the key to the whole thing,' I said. It was almost time to stop pretending and tell them what had really happened.

'Why don't you tell us what really happened, Ms Peebles?' said the first policeman.

'Why don't I show you?' I said.

We set off up the road. On the way, I told them about Jemima Stevenson and the boy on the bicycle. They didn't say anything; had heard it all before. By this time I knew Jemima was making a good recovery; Big Dave no longer kept vigil day and night at the hospital; she would be coming home soon to enjoy the benefits of a clutter-free shed. The police perhaps felt they could close their files and nobody would notice. I didn't want them to do that.

We arrived at the tip. In daylight, I could see what Christopher had meant. The men who worked there were in their own little world. Gnomes lined the path that led round the area, and salvaged sun-loungers awaited a fine day with little traffic when the workers could rest their weary limbs and admire their close-up view of the skips.

The police were unpopular for closing the place down, even temporarily. I watched as the forensic team clambered all over the rubbish.

They found most of the pieces eventually and set them out on the concrete near the packaging bins. Two wheels in plastic bags, a set of handlebars, a chain and so on.

'Here!' shouted one of the recycling centre workers, who were watching from behind the row of gnomes. 'These handlebars should go in metals, not wood.'

'Sorry, I'm sure,' I muttered.

'And you're not allowed plastic bags in the containers,' shouted another one.

'Thanks for your very helpful advice,' I called back.

'I'd pipe down if I were you,' said one of the policemen, kicking one of the wheels in disgust. 'You're already in trouble for wasting police time.'

'Be careful with that wheel,' I told him. 'It's probably got forensic evidence on it.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Fabric from an old lady's coat, that kind of thing,' I said. 'Why do you think I put them in plastic bags?'

He sighed. One of his superiors came over. 'Where's the boy, Ms Peebles? We've just wasted most of our remaining budget for the month, and all we've found is this.'

He kicked one of the wheels.

'Be careful, that's evidence,' I said.

He glared at me, 'Tell us what you've done with the boy.'

'I haven't done anything with him. Last time I saw him he was sitting over there – ' I indicated a spot on the grass verge just outside the tip area – 'screaming at me because I was taking his bike to bits. By the time I'd finished , he'd gone.'

'Where?'

'I'm guessing Lochgelly. That's where his granny lives, apparently. Has he been reported missing?'

'Well – no.'

'Well then.' I shook my head at him and started to walk away. Just outside the tip, standing on the grass verge, stood Christopher.

'Where do you think you're going?' shouted one of the policemen. But nobody came after me. I guessed they never wanted to see me again. I hoped they were bundling up the pieces of bike to take back to the lab for analysis. That hadn't been my original intention – I had just wanted to scare the boy and make sure he didn't do anything like that again ever – but if they wanted to look for evidence, that was fine with me. As far I was concerned, frightening the boy out of his wits would do more good than five hours of community service or whatever pathetic sentence he might receive if he was left to get his just deserts from the legal system.

'I'm sorry,' said Christopher. 'I thought – I wasn't sure what you'd done.'

'You were right. I had done something. No worries.'

'You can't just say no worries, Amaryllis. I've shattered the trust between us. I've betrayed you.'

'Don't make a fuss, Christopher,' I said, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm and guiding him down the road again. 'It's better you don't trust me anyway. There are things I'm capable of that you can't even begin to imagine.'

Behind us, the police were packing things up; ahead, we could see the streetlights patterning the dark river with ripples of silver.

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