Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

‘Nah, I want to check in with the team first.’ He pointed away towards the car park. ‘Go on, away with you. I’ll get someone to run me back to HQ.’

‘Fair enoughski.’ She sauntered across the road, leaving a steam-train cloud of vapour in her wake.

Logan waited till she’d climbed the stairs and disappeared inside, then sighed. Turned around and went in search of a lift.

Their MIT office... well, Logan ’s MIT office now — at least until the top brass came in at seven and assigned someone to replace DI King — was virtually empty. A couple of saggy-faced support staff hammered away at the HOLMES suite, adding in details from Ceanntràigh Cottage and Renfield House to the database.

The rest of Divisional Headquarters was like a mausoleum, though, not even the distant dubstep whub-whub-whub of a floor polisher to break the sepulchral silence.

Logan perched on the edge of a vacated desk and frowned up at the whiteboard nearest the door. The one he’d printed the word ‘WALLACE?’ on in big green letters.

Who, or what was ‘Wallace’?

One of the support staff got up from behind her desk, stretched, and slouched over to the laser printer as it burrrred and chugged. Picked a sheet of paper from the output tray. Handed it to Logan.

She didn’t do a very good job of stifling her yawn. ‘There’s no one called Wallace come up in the investigation — searched for first and last names, aliases, and addresses. Did every variant spelling and potential typo I could think of too. Sorry.’

Bugger it.

Logan nodded. ‘Thanks.’

She shrugged and went back to her computer, leaving him with the piece of paper that said exactly what she’d just told him, only in fewer words: ‘NO MATCH FOR “WALLACE” IN SYSTEM.’

He dumped it in the wastepaper basket and frowned up at the whiteboard again.

Wallace.

It wasn’t a random word, it couldn’t be. It meant something to Mhari Powell.

But what?

Maybe she meant William Wallace?

But he was a national Scottish hero. Three Monkeys, The Devil Makes Work, Spite, Judas — they were all pejoratives. Betrayals and punishments. No way she’d lump William Wallace in with that lot.

So ‘Wallace’ had to mean something else.

Wallace. Wallace. Wallace...

‘Who are you?’

The Transit van rattles and pings as Mhari pulls into the car park and switches off the headlights. This time of night, the only other vehicles belong to the overnight staff — going by the manky Citroën Picasso and the tricked-out Renault Clio, that would be Stupid Steven and Grandma Mags — abandoned near the main doors for a quick getaway when their shifts end.

Mhari takes the ancient Transit and parks it in the corner nearest the residents’ wing. Where Grandma Mags won’t be able to see it from reception.

She pulls on her black leather gloves and slips out into the warm night. Dressing like a ninja probably isn’t necessary, but it’s traditional, isn’t it?

Not as if Mags pays any attention though. Could drive a herd of buffalo through here and she wouldn’t notice.

Look at her, sitting behind the desk with her head buried in a breeze-block sized Stephen King, all lit up by the reception lights, because she doesn’t see why she should have to sit there in the dark. Not that it’s all that dark. Four in the morning, but the sky’s already slipping from navy to eggshell blue. Be sunup soon.

Better get a shift on.

Mhari jogs along the side of the building, past the dark windows of the residents’ lounge and around the corner. Pauses at the staff break room. The window’s open a crack, letting a faux-Scottish accent ooze out. One with more than a hint of the down-under about it. Banging on about freedom and battering the English army.

She peers in through the window and there’s Stupid Steve — big and burly, with a spade-shaped forehead, slouched in an armchair in front of the telly, one hand tucked into the waistband of his trousers, mouth moving silently as he recites the words in time with the film. Hollywood karaoke, for the permanent wanker.

Mhari keeps going, around the rear of the building, till she finds the fire exit she wants. The one that’s just down the corridor from where she needs to be. The one that’s never alarmed.

She jimmies it open with a wee wrecking bar in about thirty seconds and slips inside.

Course the other benefit to using this particular fire exit is that the nearest security camera faces the other way. And it’s not like they splurged on a fancy one that moves, either.

A wheelchair sits in a small recess opposite, blocking the door marked ‘LINEN CLOSET’. She wheels it down the corridor to her dad’s room: ‘SAOR ALBA’ even thought it should be ‘ALBA SHAOR’. Still, that’s men for you.

She lets herself in.

The reading light is on above the bed, bathing its occupant in warm golden light.

He’s asleep, flat on his back, with an oxygen mask on his face. Much paler than last time. Skin like paper stretched over a thin bone frame, tinged blue and purple and yellow. As if his whole body’s one big bruise, fading out of life. Even his tartan pyjamas look ready to die.

Mhari reaches out and takes hold of his foot. Gives it a soft shoogle. Keeping her voice down. ‘Dad? You ready to go?’

‘Mnnnghnn...’ He shifts a bit, then settles into the pillows again.

She gives him another shoogle. ‘It’s time, Dad.’

He blinks, fumbles his way to consciousness. Face pinched, looking around like he’s never seen the room before. ‘Gnnn...? I’m... What?’

Poor old soul.

‘I understand, Dad. Come on, we’ll get you sorted.’

She pulls the horrible blue blankets off of him and piles them up on one of the visitors’ chairs, positions the wheelchair by the bed, sticks the brakes on, then scoops her arms around his chest — under his arms. Up close he smells sour and sickly sweet, all at the same time.

In his heyday, “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead was a huge man, powerful, terrifying. But there’s so little of him left, it’s like he’s made of balsa wood. She lifts him into the wheelchair and covers him up with the blankets again. Clips the oxygen tank onto the support struts. Does the same with the morphine drip.

‘Haiden? Haiden, are we going home?’

‘No, Dad.’ She kisses him on his papery forehead. ‘We’re going somewhere much, much better, remember?’

He nods, eyelids drooping as she makes him comfortable. And soon his breathing is shallow, but regular. She wheels him out through the door.

Down the corridor.

Turn at the emergency exit and...

Damn it.

Stupid Steve is right outside the door, standing there, facing away from the building, smoking a joint and fiddling with his phone. Paying no attention to anything but himself.

Mhari sets the brakes on Dad’s wheelchair again and slips her hunting knife from its sheath. Sharp and glittering. Then creeps across to the other side of the emergency exit and flattens herself against the wall.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Stupid Steve finishes his joint, pinching out the tiny roach and sticking it in a wee metal tin — the kind you get breath mints in. He puts his phone away, spits out into the dawn, turns and steps inside again.

Stops dead and frowns down at the wheelchair and its occupant. ‘How did you get out here?’ A sigh. A shake of the head. ‘Bloody crips. Crips and old farts, far as the eye can see. Pfff... Come on then, you old git, let’s get you—’

She steps up behind him and puts the knife to his throat. Twists it a little, so he knows what it is.