Стюарт Макбрайд - Now We Are Dead

Tufty nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry, but you say he was wearing a mask?’

Tufty checked his notebook, with his back to the lay-by, reading by the pool car’s headlights. ‘So: that’s one Incredible Hulk; one Iron Man; three Spider-Mans... Spider-Men? no, definitely Spider-Mans; an Asterix the Gaul; two Batmans; one of “those horrible Ninja Turtle things”; and, for some unknown reason, a Peppa Pig too.’

The car’s engine was running, radio on, volume turned up, newsreader booming out her local reports, but it still couldn’t cover the disturbing sounds coming from the bushes at the side of the road.

Steel groaned. ‘Oooooh... that’s better.’

‘... outside the Music Hall from six tomorrow.’

‘Oooooohhhhh... Bit steamy, mind.’

Urgh. The shudder rippled all the way through Tufty wearing cloggity boots. ‘Too much information!’

‘Complaints are pouring in after farmers threatened to bring Union Street to a halt this weekend in protest against the proposed changes to farm subsidy payments.’

‘Should’ve nicked some toilet paper from that last place.’

A man’s voice growled from the car’s speakers. ‘We’re sorry it’s had to come to this, but the government’s left us no choice. If farming’s going to survive in this country, we need this sorted now!’

Tufty stared straight ahead. ‘Could you not have just gone when we were there?’

And the newsreader was back. ‘Finally, miscarriage of justice victim, Jack Wallace, is to sue Police Scotland for what he calls its gross negligence and culture of lies.’

‘Oh don’t be such a girl, Tufty. The bladder wants what the bladder wants.’ Steel emerged from the bushes, wiping her hands on her trousers. ‘Better out than in.’ She froze, staring at the car as Jack Wallace came on the radio.

‘The only way Police Scotland are ever going to change is if we, the people, stand up and sue them. They think they can get away with murder and I’m here to say, “No, you can’t!”’

Steel snarled at the car. ‘Dirty wee shite.’

The newsreader took over again. ‘Police Scotland have declined to comment at this time. Weather now, and there’s sunshine on the way this weekend as high pressure...’

‘Turn it off.’

Blackburn glittered in the darkness — ribbons of yellow streetlight coiling around each other, windows glowing as people settled down to a night in front of the telly. All visible through the windscreen of their wheelie-bin pool car, parked on the outskirts of the dormitory town. Only ‘town’ was stretching it a bit. If you sneezed while driving through the place you’d miss half of it.

Roberta let out a long, slow breath. Sod this for a game of soldiers.

She took her feet off the dashboard. ‘I’m calling it. This was a complete waste of time. Why on earth did I listen to you?’ A quick backhand to the arm had him flinching. ‘ You are a detective constable of Very Little Brain!’

‘Ow! Hey, no fair...’

She was gearing up to hit him again, when her phone launched into the theme tune from Cagney & Lacey . The caller ID was enough to make everything taste bitter and coppery. Like sucking on a dirty penny. ‘TRAITOR BASTARD’.

Tufty pointed. ‘You going to answer that?’

‘How did you work out tonight was wanking night?’

‘Might be important.’

She turned in her seat to face him. ‘It’s no’ important. It’s that tosser McRae.’

‘Oh... OK. Well, when I figured out there was probably two shift patterns involved I put one set on one side and one set on the other and shoogled them about till there was a match with the nights he... I thought you wanted to know this?’

Roberta stared past him, through the driver’s window at a little path that snaked away from the road, skirting the back gardens at the edge of Blackburn. There was a shape in the darkness, just visible in the pale grey moonlight that oozed its way through the clouds. A figure, picking its way through the gloom. ‘Over there. By the trees.’

Something must’ve triggered the security light in the garden beyond, because it cracked on.

The figure froze. A man, middle-aged, paunchy, parka jacket with the hood pulled up. Two steps and he was in the gloom again.

Roberta narrowed her eyes. ‘He look suspicious to you?’

Course he did.

She declined the call on her phone and stuffed it in her pocket. Clambered from the car. Closed the door without making a sound.

Her breath fogged around her head.

Tufty got out of the driver’s side and joined her. Standing there in plain view like a vast twit. At least he was bright enough to keep his voice down: ‘What now?’

The guy in the parka jacket was hunched over, fiddling with something at groin height.

She whispered, nice and quiet. ‘Think I owe you a fish supper.’

They crept across the road, sticking to the cover of the whin bushes that grew like massive rustling beasts along the pavement. Closer. Closer.

What was he fiddling with? Please be his willy. Please be his willy...

The moon broke through the clouds — full, heavy, and round — casting its ghostly light over everything.

Closer ...

Then her phone launched into Cagney & Sodding Lacey again.

The wee man gave a little squeak, flashed a glance over his shoulder at them, then ran .

Tufty jumped up from his crouch. ‘Come back here!’

Idiot.

She hit him again. ‘Don’t just stand there!’

He lurched into a run, giving chase. Getting faster with every stride.

That was more like it.

She hammered after him, following their pervert across the road, away from the streetlights and back gardens. Over a drystane dyke and into a stubble field. Into the brown, heavy scent of wet earth that squelched beneath her feet.

Moonlight turned the world into a shadow play — silhouettes in shades of blue and grey, the trees: spidery ink blots. Shining patches of silver where puddles reflected back the lunar glow.

The masturbating wee turd had a head start and he was fast, but Tufty was faster. Closing the gap.

Water sploshed up Roberta’s leg as she charged through a hidden puddle. ‘Gahhh!’ Cold. And wet. Slippery too.

A handful of sheep stopped doing whatever it was sheep did at half nine on a Monday night to watch the three of them squelch past. Tufty almost on him. Roberta bringing up the rear. ‘Sodding horrible, muddy, clarty, slippy...’

The filthy sod jinked left, then right, just as Tufty made a grab for him.

Tufty’s hands closed on sod-all. A brief squeak of terror, and he windmilled his arms, trying to stay upright. Then went splattering down in a dark muddy patch, skidding to a halt flat on his back with his arms and legs in the air like a tipped-over tortoise. ‘Aaaaargh!’

The pervert glanced back at the muddy scream, which was why he didn’t see her cut right in front of him, one hand out to snatch at the parka’s hood. She grabbed a handful of furry collar and dug in her heels.

‘Ulk!’ His feet kept going forward, but the rest of him stayed where it was, suspended in mid-air for a breath... before slamming down into the mud with a wet squelchy thump . Right on his backside at Roberta’s feet.

She loomed over him, grinning. ‘Your Womble Whapping days are over, sunshine!’

Tufty dragged their prisoner back across the squelchy field, over the drystane dyke, across the road, and under a streetlight. Ooh, yeah. Tufty was filthy . No’ just a wee bit grubby, but completely and utterly clarted in mud. All up his back. And most of his front. Kind of a funky smell about him too...