Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

What?

There was no one here, just five chest freezers, three of which were smeared with dried blood, one of which was switched on, all of which had words spray-painted on them in bright-red gloss. The stomach-clenching scent of rotting meat. The droning buzz of great big shiny bluebottles. And the singing, of course.

It was coming from a mobile phone, perched on top of the chest freezer with ‘WALLACE’ on it.

‘Vengeance ours, this day, would be, for Henry’s bloody treachery,

Vengeance ours, praise God we’d see, another Scottish victory.’

He picked the phone up, slid his thumb across the screen to open it. Wasn’t locked.

‘But the Devil’s luck, upon us come, with—’

Frank hit pause. Why would Mhari record...

Oh.

Something cold and sharp pressed against his throat.

The room hadn’t been empty after all — she’d been hiding behind the door. And now she was right behind him, holding a massive hunting knife.

Her breath was warm against his ear. ‘Drop the weapon.’

He did and the wheel brace clattered against the filthy floor. Returned the phone to the chest freezer’s lid. Kept his voice level and in charge . ‘OK, let’s not do anything we’ll regret.’

‘Why would I regret anything? I’m not the one about to get my throat slit.’

Don’t think about that. Don’t think about it. You’re in charge. She’s not going to kill you. You’re going to live through this.

She killed her own brother .

King swallowed. ‘It’s not too late to—’

‘How did you find me? This place? How?’

‘I... Haiden told me. Before he died. Look, this isn’t—’

‘I should’ve slit his throat too. Still, I won’t make that mistake again.’

The knife pressed harder into Frank’s neck.

Yeah, she was definitely dangerously unhinged, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t salvage this. Calm breaths. Sound like you’re still in charge, damn it. ‘Come on, Mhari, I’m not your enemy here. You’ve seen the papers, right? I was in the PASL when your dad was in charge. We were friends.’

The only sound was the hum of the working freezer and the drone of the flies.

Then, ‘Yeah, I saw the papers. You betrayed us, didn’t you?’ Spitting the words out. ‘You abandoned the cause, went to work for the enemy!’

She twisted the knife and cold pain snapped across his throat. Followed by a warm trickle.

Oh Jesus, she was going to kill him.

‘Wait! Wait...’ All pretence at being in charge gone, voice rank with the stench of panic. ‘Robert Drysdale!’

‘What about him?’

Many, Many Years Ago

The bothy lurks in darkness, all its windows panned in, the door warped and buckled. It sits in the middle of nowhere — surrounded by rough fields and ditches, the snow-capped peak of Beinn a’ Bhùird lurking in the background. The kind of place where ghosts stalk the moonlit mountainside.

Only the bothy’s about to get itself another ghost...

Frank shifts in the passenger seat, trying not to look at the silhouettes in the broken window. At the dancing torchlight as they go about their business. Belting out some old Corries song about battering the English foe.

‘Oh Jesus...’ He raises the bottle of Grouse and takes a swig, shuddering as it goes down hard and hot. Has another drag on his trembling cigarette.

He’s only sixteen, for God’s sake. Sixteen.

Should never have come here. Should never have agreed to help. Should never have had anything to do with “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead and his gang of mad bastards. But it’s too late now.

One more slug of whisky goes down like burning petrol, souring his stomach.

Maybe, he could do a runner? Climb out of the Land Rover and bugger off into the night. Scarper back to civilisation and never, ever —

A monstrous face appears at the passenger window, teeth bared, eyes wide. Hideous and terrifying. A wee scream bursts its way out of Frank’s throat.

Gaelic Gary grins at him, torch held under his chin to make him look like even more Hammer House of Horror than he already does. ‘Come on, wee man, you’re missing all the fun!’

Frank’s words don’t come out right, bumping into each other in their rush to escape. ‘I... I don’t think... It, it, it’s not... I can’t—’

‘No!’ Gary yanks the passenger door open and grabs a handful of Frank’s jumper, pulling him closer, voice a hard dark snarl. ‘You get your arse out this car and in there, or you’ll be next.’ He tightens his grip and hauls Frank and his whisky bottle out into the night. Their breath mists in the torchlight as he shoves Frank towards the bothy.

Then Gary wraps his arm around his shoulder, voice all warm again. Like they’re best of friends. ‘See, there’s no passengers in a civil war, wee man. You’re either driving, or you’re being knocked down. You don’t wanna be roadkill, do you?’

‘Course not!’

‘Good.’ A squeeze of that massive, powerful arm. ‘Come on, this’ll be the stuff of legends!’ Gary propels him through the bothy door into a manky wee hallway. A bunch of the floorboards are missing and drifts of bird crap lie beneath the house martin nests dotted around the walls, up by the sagging ceiling.

There’s a door straight ahead and Gary boots it open. Pushes Frank over the threshold and into hell.

Oh Jesus. Jesus. Jesus...

Hell is a grubby room, devoid of furniture, with scrawled graffiti on the peeling wallpaper. A broken Belfast sink and rusting old range cooker. Most of the ceiling’s caved in, leaving the roof beams exposed, all the way up to the roof above. But that’s not what makes it hell. Nor is it the pair of singing bastards — both of them heavyset and powerful. Both of them in kilts, hiking boots, and Scotland rugby tops. Both of them singing and laughing. Both of them reeking of whisky. Both of them swinging their torches around like it’s a disco.

No, what makes it Hell is the man .

The man hanging from the rope that’s been looped over a beam in the middle of the room. Face darkening as his legs kick and his body sways. Turning slow as a lump of doner meat in a kebab shop window.

One of the kilts takes a swig from a bottle of Bell’s and roars in the man’s face. Spits in it. Grins. ‘No’ so bloody clever now , are we, Robert?’

Gary gives Frank a push, sending him stumbling against the hanging man. ‘BOYS! LOOK WHO I FOUND!’

A ragged cheer goes up from the kilts.

The spitter turns his grin towards Frank, eyes big and dark like a shark about to bite. ‘Go-an yerself, wee man! ’Bout time!’

His mate shakes a can of spray paint and graffitis a big red capital ‘J’ on the wall — the letter thick, paint dribbling down like fresh blood. Then a ‘U’.

Gary reaches into his coat and pulls out a hammer. Dips his other hand in and produces a plastic bag that jingles and rattles as he bounces it in his palm.

A ‘D’ joins the two spray-painted letters.

‘Hoy, Frank...’ Gary tosses the bag at him.

It bounces off his chest and Frank has to scrabble to grab it before it hits the floor. The contents are jagged and rough. Sharp against his skin. He looks down at the bag.

Oh Jesus.

It’s full of nails. Each of them about as long as his little finger, with a big round flat head.

A wink from Gary. ‘One at a time, eh?’

Oh. Jesus.

The whisky boils in his stomach, threatening to rush up his throat and spatter everywhere.

He can’t do this. He can’t .

But if he doesn’t, Gaelic Gary will kill him. You don’t wanna be roadkill, do you?