Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Haiden sags against the dirty linoleum. Lying on his side in a slowly expanding puddle of red.

Please, answer the phone...

Please ...

Every breath is a short, spiky thing, getting colder with each gurgling lungful.

And then her voice comes from the phone’s speaker. ‘Who is this?’ Cindy.

He tries to tell her, but the only sound that comes out is the crackle of popping blood bubbles.

‘Oh very, funny. A dirty phone call with heavy breathing. Well you can take your pitiful little cock and shove it right up your—’

‘Cindy.’ Forcing the word out. ‘Cindy it’s... it’s me.’

‘Haiden.’ She says his name with all the warmth of a frozen turd. ‘What have I told you about calling me?’

A muffled boom comes from somewhere round the front of the house, but it’s too late to worry about that now. Far too late. For everything.

‘Is... is Marty... there?’

‘You threw away your visiting rights when you started seeing that Mhari bitch. You threw them away when you got arrested again!’

Tears fill his eyes, making the kitchen blur. ‘Cindy... Cindy, please .’

‘Have you been drinking?’ A sniff. ‘You know what? I don’t care. You can cry and beg and whine all you want: you’re not going to infect my son with your lies and failure and garbage.’

Another boom.

The phone slithers out of his hand, clunks onto the blood-slicked linoleum beside his head. Can’t pick it up again — his hands don’t work any more. Nothing does.

‘Please... please, Cindy...’

Her voice is faint, but still there, sneering out of the phone’s speaker ‘You’re weak. You’ve always been weak. You’re pathetic. Enjoy France, you useless bastard.’

‘Tell Marty... tell Marty... I love...’

The screen flashes ‘CALL ENDED’ at him. She’s hung up.

Hot tears roll down Haiden’s cheek, the word barely a whisper: ‘Him.’

Another boom from the front of the house, this one ringed with splintering woody noises.

Maybe it’s time? Yeah. Maybe it’s...

The frame finally gave way and the door bounced off its hinges, tumbling down into the hallway.

Logan stepped aside and King rushed the entrance, wheel brace held up, over his shoulder, as if it was an extendable baton. Ready to crack someone.

He followed, pushing through a tiny porch into a hallway-cum-living-room with tired green wallpaper and an exhausted brown couch. A saltire flag pinned up above the fireplace, a rampant lion on the wall opposite. No TV. A bookcase full of Oor Wullie and The Broons annuals. And a thick line of dark red along the carpet by the wall, emerging from the open bedroom door and disappearing into the open kitchen one.

That was a lot of blood.

King did a quick three-sixty, checking the living room. ‘Clear!’

Logan checked the bedroom — old-fashioned and dear God that was a huge puddle of blood by the window. He ducked down and checked under the bed. No one there. ‘Clear!’

‘Logan!’ King’s voice. ‘Logan it’s Haiden Lochhead! He’s been stabbed. Jesus...’

Out into the living room again.

King’s feet were visible through the open kitchen door, the soles shiny with blood. ‘Haiden? Can you hear me?’

OK, King had the kitchen; that left two more rooms. Logan threw open the door to a small bathroom — chipped enamel tub, stained avocado toilet, a threadbare towel. ‘Clear!’

The last door opened in another bedroom, this one with wooden bunkbeds, the mattresses naked and stained tobacco-brown with sweat. ‘Clear!’

He joined King in the kitchen. Wood panelling lined the walls, painted a revolting shade of spearmint green, and playing host to about a dozen framed photos of chickens and pigs — the colours faded to muddy orange. A rickety table with the Audi’s wheel brace sitting on top of it. An old white fridge and ancient electric cooker. A door lying open, showing the fiery yellow broom and crystal blue sky. Haiden lay on his side in front of it, completely naked, one leg curled up, the other stretched out, face pale and shiny where it wasn’t stained dark red.

His back was clarted in gore, a black slit, about two inches wide, below his right shoulder blade. More blood around his mouth and down his chin. And then bubbles popped between Haiden’s lips... He was still alive .

‘Haiden?’ King stared up at Logan — his suit scarlet-soaked all down the sleeves — then down at the bleeding body. Grabbing his waxy shoulder and shaking it. ‘Haiden, stay with me, buddy, OK?’

Logan pulled out his phone and dialled Control. ‘I need an ambulance, and I need it now!’

‘Haiden? Can you hear me?’

‘Roger that, Inspector, where do you need it?’

‘Haiden? You’re going to be all right.’ King was getting louder. ‘We’re getting help, OK, Haiden?’

Logan stuck a finger in his ear and retreated to the living room. ‘Ceanntràigh Cottage, Cruden Bay. We’ve got an I–C-One male, stab wound, heavy blood loss.’

‘One second... Right we—’

Whatever came next was drowned out by King, shouting now: ‘WHERE ARE THEY, HAIDEN? WHERE DID YOU HIDE PROFESSOR WILSON AND THE OTHERS?’

Logan made for the far side of the room, where three small windows looked out over the curl of parched grass and the North Sea beyond. ‘Say again?’

‘They’ve dispatched the air ambulance, it’ll be with you soon as they can.’

He glanced at the kitchen: King was bent over Haiden, ear pressed close to the burbling scarlet froth coming out of Haiden’s mouth, as if he was taking a final confession.

‘Tell them to hurry.’

The hole where the front door used to be rattled as Steel and Tufty burst into the room, stabproofs on, truncheons and pepper spray at the ready.

Steel slithered to a halt, teeth bared. ‘Where is the daft wee shite?’

Tufty swept the room. ‘Clear!’

As if Logan and King hadn’t already done that.

Four uniformed officers battered in after them, kitted out in full riot-police body armour, complete with gauntlets, shin and elbow guards, helmets with face shields, batons drawn. They pretty much filled every available inch of the living room. Stubby and her Thugs.

Stubby flipped up her face shield and peered into the bloody kitchen. Then furrowed her dark hairy eyebrows at Logan. ‘Is the property secure?’

‘Mhari Powell’s missing.’

Tufty stuck his head into the bathroom. ‘Clear!’

Logan pointed out through the little windows. ‘Search the clifftops, she can’t have gone far. And watch out: she’s armed!’

A nod from Stubby. ‘Greeny: you and Ted, out front. Glen: you’re with me.’ And with that they thundered off again.

Tufty tried the spare bedroom. ‘Clea— Ow!’

Steel hit him again. ‘Cut it out, you prawn-flavoured arsemagnet.’

‘Only doing my job.’ Rubbing his arm. ‘And that hurt , thank you very much.’

She stood in the kitchen doorway, looking down at King and Haiden. ‘What a cocking mess.’

Now there was an understatement.

Then King sat back on his haunches, shook his head, and stood. ‘He’s dead.’

Logan closed his eyes, massaging the ache growing in his forehead. ‘Sodding hell.’ So close. If they’d kicked the door in five minutes earlier, they might have saved Haiden. Instead, they were all royally screwed.

When Logan opened his eyes again, King was wiping his bloody hands on his shirt.

He stood there, staring down at Haiden’s body, then huffed out a shuddering breath, picked up the wheel brace, face a sickly green-grey colour as he turned and stumbled out through the door, into the sunshine.