Стюарт Макбрайд: Now We Are Dead

Barrett shook his head. Harmsworth grunted. Lund stuck her chin in the air: ‘Hell no!’

‘We’re going to make a sodding difference, aren’t we?’

The response was a bit more enthusiastic this time. Dark mutterings and nods from everyone.

‘We’re going to show those felchmonkeys what real police officers can do!’

‘Yeah!’

They were all on their feet now.

‘Jack Wallace isn’t getting away with it any more. We will find him in the bushes! We will find him in the nightclubs. We will find him in the streets and we will never surrender!’

Lund gave her a big-throated, ‘WHOOOO!’

Barrett burst into applause. ‘Damn right!’

Tufty punched the air. ‘Testify!’

‘Hurrah, etc.’ Harmsworth sat back down again. ‘Can we eat the buffet now?’

‘Oh all right then, you unpatriotic sod.’ Steel rubbed her hands. ‘So: who’s in charge of the kitty? Your Aunty Roberta’s got a thirst on her the night.’

Tufty stuck one finger in his ear and moved over to the other side of the lounge, by the pool table. Kept his voice all smooth and sober. No slurring or sounding drunk at all. Nope, nope, nopeitty, nope. ‘So, I was just wondering what you were doing tomorrow?’

A slow song slunk out of the jukebox and Lund was up dancing on her own. Wiggling and doing stuff with her hands that bordered on the obscene without ever actually crossing over.

‘Tomorrow?’ PC Mackintosh had a sort of doubtful sound in her voice, like she wasn’t really certain what tomorrow was, or why some weird guy had phoned to ask her about it.

‘It’s DC Quirrel, by the way. From the crematorium?’

‘Yes, I know. You’ve said that three times already.’

‘Sorry. I’m not drunk or anything, we’re just celebrating a little. Because of the tractors.’ He was blowing it. He was definitely blowing it. Abort. ABORT! ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have called. I’m... Sorry.’

‘I’m off seeing my mother tomorrow till five. After that I’m doing my laundry. You can come over and help me fold, if you like?’

Tufty’s chest went all tingly and big. ‘Cool. I would. Yes. Cool.’

‘Good. Bring wine.’ There was a small pause. ‘How are you with ironing?’

They weren’t a bad bunch of spuds, really. Her team. Her minions. Her henchmen. And one henchwoman. Roberta smiled as Barrett placed a full shot glass in front of each of them. Even Harmsworth wasn’t that bad once you got to know him. And as long as you didn’t have to spend too long with the misery-faced old bugger. And could tell him to sod off and go be depressing somewhere else.

‘OK,’ Barrett knocked on the table, ‘we go on three. Not three and go, on three. OK? OK.’ His smile was getting a bit fuzzy at the edges, his eyes too. ‘One. Two. Three!’

They all snatched up their shots and hammered them back. Thumped their glasses down on the table again.

The floral-bitter-chemical hit punched its way down through her chest, breath like a gas leak awaiting a match. ‘Hoooo!’

Lund drummed on the table with her palms. ‘More tequila!’

‘You heard the lady.’ Barrett dug a handful of change out of a Ziploc bag. ‘Come on, everyone: another twenty quid each for the kitty.’

Because let’s be honest, two hundred and fifty quid didn’t go far split between five. Even at the Flare and Futtrit’s special Police Scotland discount mates’ rates.

And the night was still young.

Tufty poked her. ‘You’re snoring.’

But it didn’t make any difference, Lund just stayed where she was: slumped back in her chair, mouth open, making raspy chainsaw-in-a-metal-dustbin noises. Mind you, she wasn’t the only one who’d had a bit much.

Look at Harmsworth — one arm wrapped around Steel’s shoulders, shoogling her from side to side. ‘No, I mean it. I love you. I do.’ Another shoogle. ‘You’re the best DS in the world.’

Steel nodded. ‘That’s... that’s very true. I’m—’ A hiccup. ‘I’m lovely.’

Tufty nudged Barrett. ‘I think Owen’s a bit squiffy.’

Barrett didn’t look up from the pair of chicken legs he was playing with — making them do the sword dance around a pair of crossed sausage rolls. ‘Hippity, hoppity, hippity hop.’

‘Did I tell you about her hair, Davey?’ Tufty nudged him again. ‘Police Constable Mackintosh’s hair is like... is like that wheat field at the start of Gladiator . Only... only not full of dead people.’

‘Hippity, hoppity.’

Tufty thumped his hand down, making the sausage-roll swords jump. ‘Sambucas! We should do... should do flaming Sambucas!’

‘Oops.’ Every time they tried to pour Lund into the taxi, she poured right back out again.

Didn’t seem to bother her though, she just kept on singing as Harmsworth and Barrett scooped her up off the car park tarmac:

The sun was slouching its way down to the rooftops, making everything all brown and yellow and orange — like an ancient photograph from the seventies.

They bundled her into the back. ‘Stay. Stay...’

She started to slump doorwards:

‘OK.’ Barrett clambered into Lund’s taxi. ‘Wait, we come too... Come on... come on, Owen.’

Harmsworth climbed in too. ‘Whee!’

Owen thumped the door closed, cutting her off.

The taxi pulled away, the three of them waving out of the back window as it drove off, leaving Tufty and Steel all alone in the car park.

Steel patted him on the shoulder, the other hand out, palm up in front of him. Wobbling on her wobbly feet. ‘No. Come on, gimme your keys.’

He squinted one eye shut. ‘But—’

‘No. Keys! ’ She patted him again, harder this time. ‘Friends don’t let friends drive... drive drunked.’

That made sense.

‘Oh. OK.’ He dug the keys out of his pocket and dropped them into her palm. Lurched a little to the side and back again. Was OK, though: no one noticed. No one, no one, no one. Tufty reached out and patted her on the shoulder. Cos it was only polite. ‘Owen’s a miserable poohead.’

‘He is indeed.’

‘But!’ Tufty held up a finger. ‘But he’s right. He is . You’re a very lovely defective sergeant. You are. Yes you are.’

A solemn nod. ‘I am.’ She wobbled a bit more. ‘And you... you are a lovely defective connsable.’

‘That’s why... That’s why we’re gonna catch Jack Wallace.’

‘DAMN RIGHT!’

‘Shhhh!’ Tufty had a quick check to make sure no one was eavesdropping. ‘We gonna... gonna come up with a plan and... and nab him red-handed.’

‘Right up the arse!’

‘Right up the...’ Tufty frowned. ‘Wait, wait.’ He pointed a finger at her clenched fist. ‘I don’t has a car here! Those... Those are your keys.’

‘Oh...’ She handed them back. ‘Maybe we should taxi?’

‘And... and I will see you to... to your door, because... is gentleman.’

Steel smiled, nodded, then let loose a window-rattling belch.

The taxi parked outside a big granitey house on a tree-lined granitey street. The sort of place investment bankers and hedge-fund doodahs probably lived. Up above, the sky faded from dark purple to wishy-washy blue, streetlights glimmering between the trees.