Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

‘You know you can’t do that. I told you: it’s what the police expect. The care home would tip them off soon as you walked in the door, and that would be it.’

‘Yeah...’ She was right. She was always right. Didn’t make it hurt any less, though.

She pats his leg through the duvet. ‘Besides, I passed on his messages, didn’t I? Like a good big sister?’

He polishes off the last crust of pizza and washes it down with a scoof of lager. Stuffs down the belch that comes free with it. ‘But I wish...’ Hang on a minute. ‘Big sister?’

She points at the window. ‘Come look at this.’ Then stands, makes her way over there and leans on the sill.

‘No, wait, what? I don’t have a big sister. Had a wee brother, but he drowned. They found him three days later, down the coast from here.’ All pale and wrinkled. Wee black holes where the fish and crabs had been at him.

‘Come on, Haiden. Indulge me.’

Yeah, cos how can he ever refuse her. It isn’t possible.

He wriggles out of bed, and joins her at the window, takes a sip of his tinny. Course some blokes would be self-conscious, standing there like that, stark-bollock naked with everything on show, but not him. Nah, you spend as much time in the prison gym as he had, you wanna show that bad boy off. Brad Pitt’s a podgy slob in comparison. Aye, and that’s Fight Club Brad Pitt, too.

She points up the hill, where a white Audi’s parked, blocking the track down to the cottage. ‘You see that?’

‘How come you said “big sister”?’

‘That’s the police. They’ve come to get us.’

‘The what ?’ Oh sodding hell. The police. She’s right; who else would block them in like that? Any minute now they’ll be booting in the door, and it’ll be all helicopters, and dogs, and big bastards with batons and guns. Escape! Make a run for it. Go. Go. GO. ‘We’ve got to—’

Something thumps into his back. Not as hard as a punch, more like a...

Then a crackling, ripping noise and shards of white-hot glass tear through his stomach and spine. Oh God...

Mhari leans in and kisses his neck, breath warm against his skin. ‘There we go.’

Everything tastes of hot batteries and raw meat as his throat fills, little red dots on the window as the bubbles pop between his lips.

Oh God...

He grabs for the windowsill and his tin of Tennent’s bounces off the floor, spilling out its contents in a froth of white-edged gold.

‘See, Haiden, they had me too young, Mum and Dad. She couldn’t cope, so I had to go live with her sister in Canada. Then they had you and suddenly they could cope. Strange that, isn’t it? How a wee boy is more “worth the effort” than a little girl?’

Oh God...

His knees don’t work any more. They give up and he hits the carpet next to the emptying tin. Only now the carpet’s slick with red. That’s not coming from inside him , is it? It can’t be: there’s way too much of it. Can’t be him. Please. Please don’t let it be him. ‘I didn’t... It...’

‘Shhh...’ She squats down beside him and strokes his head, like he’s a puppy. ‘It’ll all be over soon. OK?’

‘Why...?’

‘I’d love to stay and keep you company, but...’ She sucks air through her teeth. ‘Police.’ A smile. ‘It’s been fun catching up, though.’ Then Mhari stands, wipes the hunting knife on the duvet cover, slips it into its sheath as she walks from the room.

‘Don’t... don’t leave... me.’

Oh God...

Haiden forces himself over onto his front and grabs at the bed’s legs — dragging himself across the sodden carpet to the door. Following her.

The back door’s open, letting sunlight spill into the kitchen.

Come on, Haiden, you can do it.

He hauls himself along the wall.

Closer.

Come on, you’re not a quitter, are you? No. You’re Haiden Bloody Lochhead!

Oh God...

Can’t feel his fingers.

Every breath stinks of raw meat.

Come on, Haiden.

Into the kitchen, inching his way across the grubby cracked lino to the open door. Getting slower with every heave. Heavier. Till he can’t move any more.

Mhari’s there — marching across the patch of grass that separates the cottage from the cliffs. Not huge cliffs, safe enough to play on with your wee brother: soldiers, storming the gun batteries. She looks over her shoulder and waves at him, then disappears, swallowed by the boiling clouds of broom and gorse.

Please don’t leave me...

But she’s gone.

And he’s all alone.

And soon he’ll be dead.

Logan stared at the dashboard display. ‘She’s his what ?’

‘Sister.’ It sounded as if Jeffers was doing his best to sound all authoritative and reliable, but couldn’t pull it off. ‘The woman you know as “Mhari Powell” is Haiden Lochhead’s sister and “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead’s daughter.’

King looked from the display to Logan, mouth hanging open. ‘But... we saw her get into the car with Haiden and snog the arse off him. It was all caught on CCTV. And the visiting room at HMP Grampian. They were all over each other!’

‘We couldn’t get an exact match, because she’s not on the system, but soon as I opened the search up I found the familial ones. You see, I don’t really do DNA, I’m more of a—’

‘Fingerprint man. Yes.’ Logan reached for the button to end the call. ‘Thanks, Jeffers: you did good today.’ He hung up. ‘She’s Haiden’s sister .’

King whistled. ‘Wow. Talk about the family that plays together, lays together, and slays together.’

‘It doesn’t change anything, though.’

‘I mean, everyone knows the PASL, SPLA, SFFRF, and the rest of them were kinda incestuous, but Gaelic Gary’s kids are humping each other? No wonder we never get independence...’ King checked his watch. ‘Backup should be here by now.’ Drummed his fingers on the dashboard. ‘What if we’ve got this wrong?’

‘Then we look like a pair of idiots and the press sink their fangs in our backsides.’ Which was probably going to happen anyway. ‘Besides, where else would Haiden and Mhari be?’

‘Hmmm... How about that painting on Gaelic Gary’s wall? The stone circle. Haiden’s ex said the whole family were obsessed with stone circles.’

Dear Lord, that was stupid.

‘So, what: they’re keeping their victims in abandoned fridge freezers in the middle of a stone circle?’

‘Yeah, now you say it out loud.’ He checked his watch again. ‘Where the hell are our Thugs?’

And, as if by magic, Steel’s MX-5 appeared in the rear-view mirror. Closely followed by a pair of patrol cars — blue-and-whites flickering off as they climbed the hill. No sirens.

‘Ha!’ King faced front again. ‘OK, the cavalry has arrived. Can we go do this now?’

‘With pleasure.’ Logan put the Audi in gear and hared down the track, slithering to a halt on the parched grass in front of the rusty Mini. Scrambled out of the car with King close behind.

He tried the front door: locked.

King stuck his hand out. ‘Keys.’

‘Why would I have keys for their house? Are you—’

‘ Car keys! Wheel brace in the boot, remember?’

‘Right.’ He tossed them over and King sprinted back to the Audi, popping the boot as Logan braced himself and slammed his foot into the front door, right beside the lock. The whole thing bounced and shuddered, letting loose an echoing BOOM. But it didn’t fly open.

He had another go.

Answer the phone. Answer the phone. Answer the bloody phone...