He seemed faintly amused by the woman’s open mouthed look of horror and then gestured to Sandra with his covered gun hand. ‘Right, ye. That’s enough o’ the Florence Nightingales.’
She realised she had no choice but to follow him, although first she needed to accomplish the main purpose of her plan. Another woman among the group of spectators handed her a thick woollen cardigan, and she rolled it into an elongated ball and eased it underneath the boy’s head. As she leaned over him, she kept her back to MacFarland and made sure he couldn’t see her face or hear the words she whispered into the lad’s ear. ‘I’m in big trouble. As soon as I’ve gone, get someone to call the police.’
The blankness of the boy’s expression made her doubt that he’d understood her or grasped what she wanted him to do, but she got to her feet, MacFarland’s pistol jabbing her repeatedly in the lower back as she walked away. ‘One more wee trick like that and yir gone. Ye get me?’ he said. ‘Oh and dinnae think I give a shite if some other poor bastard gets taken out in the process, ‘cos I don’t.’
So she’d been right about his total lack of scruples, and she knew she was wasting her breath when she reminded him that this was a public street and it was broad daylight so the likelihood of him getting away with it was pretty slim. – She’d contemplated using the phrase “scot free” but had decided against it.
She heard the now familiar snort of laughter and then: ‘Aye, but that’s the beauty of it though. Public place? Broad daylight? Nobody’s expecting a shootin’. They’ll just think it’s a car backfirin’, and whoever sees ye drop will just think ye fainted or somethin’. By the time someone actually notices the blood, I’ll be well on ma way.’
Sandra had to admit to herself that he might well be right, so she decided not to give him any more reasons to carry out his threat – for now at least – and they walked on in silence until they arrived at her car.
‘This is it,’ she said, regretting that she hadn’t had the foresight to have stashed a spare gun or even a can of mace in the glove compartment.
Inside the car, Milly had seriously overheated and was panting heavily even though they had left all of the windows slightly open. As soon as she spotted Sandra though, she began to perform the canine equivalent of a triple Salchow with double backflip.
‘What ye daein’?’ MacFarland said when Sandra’s hand moved towards her jacket pocket.
‘Key?’ she said. ‘I need it to get into the car? – Anyway, you frisked me back at the hotel if you remember.’
‘Okay, get on wi’ it.’ He watched closely as Sandra reached inside her pocket.
Her fingertips grazed the leather fob of the car key before she withdrew her hand, and she made sure he could see her empty palm. She tried the other pockets in her jacket and then in her trousers, feigning an increase in frustration after each unsuccessful search.
‘Oops,’ she said when there were no more pockets to explore. ‘Seems I must have left it back at the hotel.’
‘Yir kiddin’ me, right?’
Sandra noticed a slight movement of his gun hand under the jacket and stretched her arms out to the side. ‘You can always frisk me again if you don’t believe me.’
MacFarland’s eyes darted up and down the street. ‘Put yir bloody arms doon, will ye?’
She did as she was told, the irony not lost on her that he seemed reluctant to be seen feeling her up in public even though he clearly had few qualms about shooting her dead on the spot. It also occurred to her that now he knew where the car was, he had no further need to keep her alive. She knew it was a gamble, but if the key ploy worked, she thought that even he would probably opt for the relative privacy of the hotel room before he blew her brains out. If that was the case, she’d be safe for a little while longer at least, and during that time a better means of escape might actually present itself.
He seemed to be hesitating about what to do for the best, so Sandra gave him a gentle verbal prod. ‘Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure it was in my bag.’
MacFarland continued to dither, probably playing some version of Kim’s Game where he was trying to remember whether he’d seen the key amongst the heap of her belongings on the bed.
‘Phone a friend?’ said Sandra, feeling now that whatever revenge he intended to exact couldn’t get any worse, so she may as well derive the maximum pleasure from winding him up.
Her remark seemed to jolt him into making up his mind. ‘Just shut yir damn hole and get moving,’ he said, and she felt the jab of the pistol, this time in the region of her left kidney.