Free Shadow of the Serpent by David Ashton

then collapsed back.
    God help him, he was like a gaffed fish.
    ‘Well now, what have ye got to say for yourself?’ he demanded fiercely. Well he meant it fierce but it came out more like snuffed mutton.
    ‘I wish it had been me who suffered the blow.’
    ‘So do I, son. So, do I,’ muttered Cameron. ‘But for some reason the Almighty thought otherwise.’
    Another spasm took him and the young man stood helplessly by, like a mourner who didn’t know where to lay the plate of funeral meat.
    ‘Shall I fetch the nurse?’
    ‘For God’s sake no! She’s a Paisley woman, what comfort is there in that?’
    The constable gently mopped the soaking brow again.
    ‘I am truly sorry,’ he said.
    ‘Sorry? Sorry’s not good enough!’ Cameron glowered up, his pupils dark with pain. ‘Now you listen to me, the next time I close these eyes o’ mine, will be the last. I’m not opening them another go.’ His gaze went inwards and his voice lost power.
    ‘Too much suffering, Jamie. I’ll be giving up the ghost. Now here’s what you must do. You must tell our noble commander Lieutenant Moxey that I am to be buried with full honours and attendance.’
    ‘I’m not sure the lieutenant will pay much heed to me,’ the constable replied. ‘But I’ll stand in front of his face until he does so.’
    Damn the boy, and damn this dying, George would have enjoyed teaching him the craft.
    ‘Just mention a bawdy-hoose, name of the Happy Land. Then ask after his wife. He’ll do it.’
    By God he would, the dirty auld leglifter – ever since his good woman had taken to her bed with a wasting disease he’d been at it like a fornicator reborn.
    ‘Now, on the day, the burial day, you must pray for rain. Buckets of it.’
    Cameron laughed painfully at the look on the boy’s face.
    ‘Rain?’

    ‘Aye. The high heid-yins, the powers-that-be, will all be standing there. I would wish a long service, a deep-ribbed minister who loves his own words, and the east wind blowing a sleety lash in their faces so they all may catch their death of cold.’
    This time the laughter racked him so deep with pain that he had to stop even his last pleasure. Down to the real business. He beckoned the constable in close and pointed to a small mother-of-pearl box which lay on his bedside table.
    The young man brought it to him with due solemnity as if it contained the ashes of his ancestors.
    ‘That box was a nuptial gift to my own good mother, pity it wasnae a gun tae shoot my father on the wedding night,’ the sergeant announced heavily.
    ‘Then ye wouldnae be here,’ said the constable.
    Damn the boy again. Damn his gallows humour. Damn the tears stinging at his eyes. He didnae wish to disgrace himself, let the boy see strength. Strength was everything.
    Cameron fumbled for his eyeglasses, stuck them on his nose, opened the lid with impatient trembling fingers and took out … a fragment of thin black cloth.
    ‘Ye remember this?’
    ‘I do. From the murdered girl. In her hand.’
    ‘That was the bond, Jamie. Between us. We looked at death thegither then. Now, we do so once more.’
    He put the fragment back and pressed the box into the constable’s hand.
    ‘It always irked me, the vicious bastard, I never brought him in to kiss the hangman’s rope. Poor wee lassie, it was her first time a-whoring, did ye know that?’
    ‘I was there when her brother told you.’
    ‘So ye were, so ye were,’ the sergeant’s eyes began to droop and with an effort he prised them open again. Behind the thick glasses, magnified, they blinked like an owl.
    ‘It was in all the papers, you ‘member that?’
    ‘I do indeed,’ replied the constable.
    A silence fell. Cameron stared into space and the young man produced a headline from memory.
    ‘A Lamb to the Slaughter,’ he quoted solemnly.

    Cameron’s head jerked back as a shaft of pain burnt through his body. He looked up at the constable.
    ‘The case is yours. One day you will solve it. I charge you so.