Sentence The Onehundredandseventyfifth
By dint of his exhaustion - weary, wayworn and travel-sore, shot in the heart, his body drilled through by the bullet that had penetrated his chest and exited through his back, rising up-the-way as Glaswegians are prone to say - he regarded the pleonasm with such vilipend scorn, that it shrivelled and died almost before it reached his lips! and yet, and yet, seared by the bullet, though his body had all but shut down, and was now suspended in a muffled, sedated inanimaty, strangely, his mind was perfectly clear, his memory intact, and he was able to replay those few seconds when he realized – with a shocking clarity, which was what perhaps might prove to have cost him his life, for he had hesitated, even as he saw Pherson draw his pistol with his right hand, from the shoulder holster he always wore under his left arm, and simultaneously reach with his left hand for the emergency door handle – no hesitation there, he had chosen the seat deliberately and in the short time since boarding, had familiarised himself with the mechanics of taking hold, twisting and pushing for the door to slide back, which, now, without a glance to his left, was what his hand did, and at the same moment, Tavish saw his brother, right hand turning the gun directly towards him, and still he had hesitated, though he knew in his heart what would come, in his heart, yes, that was where the gun was aimed, and before he could react, he who always prided himself on his split-second reactions, but before he could, the door began to open, Pherson's finger tightened on the trigger, the door slid along the
outside of the bus, the crack and flash of the bullet cap being struck and in the instant when the pistol bucked slightly, he saw the bullet travelling fast towards him, he slowed it down in his mind, he saw it spinning from the barrel's rifling, to him it looked anti-clockwise, so it was a clockwise grooving, German, he guessed, and as Pherson's body, so like his own, identically dressed as though deliberately, and then he realised that the conversation below the Hotel window had been staged, there probably – certainly – had been no listener on the pavement, it was all a monologue, learned, rehearsed and performed for his benefit, his and Tabby's, which meant they had been followed to Melrose, and he also realised that the car which his 'collapse' had caused to stop, was too conveniently heading down the High Street, at too slow a pace, the driver too experienced to skid or turn his front wheels away from Tavish, which would have been the normal response to seeing someone fall into one's path, the driver never argued with Tabby about taking the unconscious man to the Hospital, he should have known that you don't manhandled someone into the car, such pulling and shoving could kill them, but he obeyed as Tabby instructed, therefore it was just as Pherson had instructed him, and he overtook the bus just before it reached th Hospital bus stop; that spoke of forward planning, to enable Tavish and Tabby to board the bus, and Pherson knew that Tabby, the younger, fitter, more alert partner in their team, would climb to the Upper Deck, leaving Tavish to Pherson's mercies – Ha! - no mercy, this had all been carefully, intricately, deviously planned and carried out and now here he was, in a state of suspended animation, and, from what he heard of the Doctors' and Nurses' conversations, barely alive, a state that had not been intended, at least, for him and, if he did live, it would be by luck, certainly not by Pherson's judgement; the shot had quite clearly been intended to kill, not maim; and he had also heard that Tabby was lying alongside him, her throat slashed by a shard of window glass, just as Bernie's had been cut by a slashing knife, and he closed his inner eyes, he could not spend more time on this futile replaying and minutely analysing what had happened to him, he had to reach out to Tabby, for they still had a job to do: to find Tammy, wherever she had been taken, hopefully to find Bernie too, and two minds were always better than one, of that certainty he was not in two minds: so within his head, using the capacity of his mind to expand to fill the Universe, he called to Tabby and, distantly, somewhat as though she had her throat constricted – because of the slash, no doubt – which made no sense when working on the astral plane of the Mind, but it was probably a subconscious adaptation to what her body had suffered, a cognitive adjustment to mirror the external, bodily state, and she replied, with his name; and then, somewhere out in that vastness, an echo or a call, but from whence and from who, but it was insistent, as though it had been wandering through this universe for a long time and had almost forgotten how to speak and he knew, don't ask him how, but he knew, and don't ask him if it could possibly be, for he knew it for a certainty, that it was Bernie!
By dint of his exhaustion - weary, wayworn and travel-sore, shot in the heart, his body drilled through by the bullet that had penetrated his chest and exited through his back, rising up-the-way as Glaswegians are prone to say - he regarded the pleonasm with such vilipend scorn, that it shrivelled and died almost before it reached his lips! and yet, and yet, seared by the bullet, though his body had all but shut down, and was now suspended in a muffled, sedated inanimaty, strangely, his mind was perfectly clear, his memory intact, and he was able to replay those few seconds when he realized – with a shocking clarity, which was what perhaps might prove to have cost him his life, for he had hesitated, even as he saw Pherson draw his pistol with his right hand, from the shoulder holster he always wore under his left arm, and simultaneously reach with his left hand for the emergency door handle – no hesitation there, he had chosen the seat deliberately and in the short time since boarding, had familiarised himself with the mechanics of taking hold, twisting and pushing for the door to slide back, which, now, without a glance to his left, was what his hand did, and at the same moment, Tavish saw his brother, right hand turning the gun directly towards him, and still he had hesitated, though he knew in his heart what would come, in his heart, yes, that was where the gun was aimed, and before he could react, he who always prided himself on his split-second reactions, but before he could, the door began to open, Pherson's finger tightened on the trigger, the door slid along the
outside of the bus, the crack and flash of the bullet cap being struck and in the instant when the pistol bucked slightly, he saw the bullet travelling fast towards him, he slowed it down in his mind, he saw it spinning from the barrel's rifling, to him it looked anti-clockwise, so it was a clockwise grooving, German, he guessed, and as Pherson's body, so like his own, identically dressed as though deliberately, and then he realised that the conversation below the Hotel window had been staged, there probably – certainly – had been no listener on the pavement, it was all a monologue, learned, rehearsed and performed for his benefit, his and Tabby's, which meant they had been followed to Melrose, and he also realised that the car which his 'collapse' had caused to stop, was too conveniently heading down the High Street, at too slow a pace, the driver too experienced to skid or turn his front wheels away from Tavish, which would have been the normal response to seeing someone fall into one's path, the driver never argued with Tabby about taking the unconscious man to the Hospital, he should have known that you don't manhandled someone into the car, such pulling and shoving could kill them, but he obeyed as Tabby instructed, therefore it was just as Pherson had instructed him, and he overtook the bus just before it reached th Hospital bus stop; that spoke of forward planning, to enable Tavish and Tabby to board the bus, and Pherson knew that Tabby, the younger, fitter, more alert partner in their team, would climb to the Upper Deck, leaving Tavish to Pherson's mercies – Ha! - no mercy, this had all been carefully, intricately, deviously planned and carried out and now here he was, in a state of suspended animation, and, from what he heard of the Doctors' and Nurses' conversations, barely alive, a state that had not been intended, at least, for him and, if he did live, it would be by luck, certainly not by Pherson's judgement; the shot had quite clearly been intended to kill, not maim; and he had also heard that Tabby was lying alongside him, her throat slashed by a shard of window glass, just as Bernie's had been cut by a slashing knife, and he closed his inner eyes, he could not spend more time on this futile replaying and minutely analysing what had happened to him, he had to reach out to Tabby, for they still had a job to do: to find Tammy, wherever she had been taken, hopefully to find Bernie too, and two minds were always better than one, of that certainty he was not in two minds: so within his head, using the capacity of his mind to expand to fill the Universe, he called to Tabby and, distantly, somewhat as though she had her throat constricted – because of the slash, no doubt – which made no sense when working on the astral plane of the Mind, but it was probably a subconscious adaptation to what her body had suffered, a cognitive adjustment to mirror the external, bodily state, and she replied, with his name; and then, somewhere out in that vastness, an echo or a call, but from whence and from who, but it was insistent, as though it had been wandering through this universe for a long time and had almost forgotten how to speak and he knew, don't ask him how, but he knew, and don't ask him if it could possibly be, for he knew it for a certainty, that it was Bernie!
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