Стюарт Макбрайд - Now We Are Dead

The taxi driver looked back over his shoulder. ‘That’ll be fifteen quid.’

Steel fumbled with the door and staggered out, sticking Tufty with the bill.

Which was typical.

He dug his wallet free and handed over the cash. Doing it nice and careful so everyone would know he wasn’t drunk at all. ‘Is fifteen.’

The driver took it. Counted it. Then gave him a good hard stare. ‘Here, Min, I hope you’re no’ planning on taking advantage of that poor drunk auld wifie.’

‘Oh God , no.’ Tufty clambered out into the warm evening sun.

Steel whirled around on the pavement. ‘Am not auld wifie : am LESBIAN!’ She threw her arms out, crucifix-style, probably copying Tommy Shand. Then stood there, wobbling, in her dungarees and flouncy red chiffon top.

The taxi driver rolled his eyes. ‘Police officers are the worst drunks...’ He did a neat three-point turn and headed back towards town.

Bye, bye.

Tufty squinted up at the big granitey building. Something wasn’t right. ‘Do I live here?’

‘No... No...’ She lurched over to him, stiff-legged like a robotic chicken. ‘My house. But... but we’ve got whisky .’

He held up a finger. ‘Say it proper.’

‘We does has a whisky?’

‘Yay!’

‘Shhhhh!’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Secret. Now gimme... gimme keys.’

He dug them out and Steel took a while skittering a brass Yale one around and around the lock, before finally clicking it home.

She eased the door open and crept inside. ‘Shhhhh!’

Dark in here. No lights.

But the orangey glow filtering in from outside was enough to lift the gloom a teeny bit. It was a highfalutin hallway with a big wooden staircase on one side and lots of holiday photos all over the other. Steel and a pretty blonde woman in swimsuits and shorts and flip-flops and... Oh dear. That one was Steel in a bikini, pulling some sort of Marilyn Monroe pose — all pouty and suggestive.

Shudder.

Bad enough this afternoon, when she’d stripped off for the communal hosing down, but at least she wasn’t trying to act all sexy and you couldn’t really see any...

Oh, complete and utter shudder .

It was like catching your granny in stockings and suspenders trying to seduce the milkman.

Tufty slapped a hand over his mouth. Didn’t say that out loud, did he?

Steel lowered her keys into a bowl by the coat rack, then turned and grinned at him.

Oh thank God for that: he hadn’t.

‘And... and Tufty said, “Let there be light.”’ He reached for the switch, but she slapped his hand away.

‘No!’ Her voice rasped out in a smoky whisper: ‘Is... secret and quiet! Unnerstand? No telling Susan. Shhhh...’

Ah. He nodded. ‘Shhhh...’

‘Good.’ She patted him on the cheek. ‘You go kitchen and... and get glasses. I go kiss Jasmine and Naomi goodnight. And... maybe have a pee...?’

Peeing was good. But before he could ask where the room was for peeing in she was lurching upstairs, clutching onto the wooden handrail like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Have to pee later, Tufty. Glasses now. Pee later.

Okeydoke.

He took a deep breath and crept deeper into the house.

Kitchen? Where are you little kitchen? Come to Uncle Tufty...

Oh, there it was: at the end of the hall and left a bit. Down a couple of stairs.

And it wasn’t a little kitchen at all, it was Godzilla massive. Big shiny work surfaces gleaming in the light that filtered through the French doors and kitchen windows. A garden lurking in the twilight outside, complete with swings and a climbing frame. Ooh, that’d be fun. Hadn’t... hadn’t been on a climbing frame in ages .

No. Don’t get distracted. Find the whisky glasses.

Right.

He reached for the light switch, then snatched his hand back.

Naughty Tufty. Secret, remember?

Stealthy time. He dug into his jacket pocket and came out with his LED torch — long as a finger but much, much brighter. The narrow white beam swept the tiled floor and oak kitchen units. A breakfast bar and a table with six chairs. A dishwasher whooshing and buzzing away to itself. A great big American-style fridge freezer covered in truly terrible kids’ drawings.

Was that meant to be a pirate Tyrannounicornosaurus Rex? Where was its parrot? Eh? Where was it? Kids these days.

Wait a minute, why was he...?

Oh, right: glasses.

‘Come out little glasses, don’t hide from Uncle Tufty...’

The cistern refilling hissed out of the bathroom as Roberta eased the door shut. Adjusted her dungers. That was the great thing about dungarees — lots of room. And they didn’t creep down the whole time taking your pants with them. Should wear them all the time.

Bit of a cliché, but they were comfy.

Unless you sat down too fast.

Right: time to be all motherly and sober-ish.

She tiptoed her way down the hall to a pink door with a big sign stuck right in the middle of it: a skull and crossbones grinning away above, ‘JASMINE’S EVIL DUNGEON OF DOOM!’

It creaked a bit as she eased it open, but the figure beneath the Skeleton Bob duvet cover didn’t stir. Had to be one of the best rooms in the house, this one. No’ all chintzy and floral and stuff. A funky mix of decor and ornaments — like My Little Pony does Game of Thrones — all just visible through the gloom.

Jasmine lay on her side with a thumb in her mouth, one arm wrapped around Mr Stinky the teddy bear. All loved bald around the ears.

Roberta crept in and kissed Jasmine on the forehead. Then kissed Mr Stinky too, so he wouldn’t feel left out. Then put a finger to her lips and shushed him, just in case.

Slipped back out of the room again.

Never mind Susan’s Great Hazlehead Ladies Challenge Cup, Roberta deserved one for Mother of the Motherfunking Year. Right. One daughter down, one to go. Then it was whisky time!

She tiptoed over to the door opposite: bright orange with ‘NAOMI’S ROOM’ on it. Her fingers were inches from the handle when a floorboard creaked behind her.

Then a man’s voice. ‘Did you miss me?’

She put a finger to her lips. ‘Shhh... I told...’

Oh sodding hell .

That wasn’t Tufty.

That was Jack Wallace!

She spun around, snarling, fists ready to—

Something hard smashed into the side of her head, making the whole house rock and throb. Warm behind her eyes. Knees no’... wouldn’t...

Then the hall carpet jumped up and grabbed her.

Thump.

Darkness.

There was a thump upstairs.

Kneeling on the kitchen floor, Tufty wobbled his torch beam up at the ceiling.

And she had the cheek to tell him to be all secret and quiet? Charging about up there like a randy elephant on a pogo stick.

Well, as long as she was getting the whisky.

He lowered the torch back to the little cupboard. Glasses gleamed at him, caught in the hard white glare. ‘Whisky, whisky, whisky, whisky.’

Be careful — don’t break any. Careful as a careful fish.

Tufty eased two tumblers out, like they were nuclear fuel rods. Closed the cupboard door and stood. Crept across to the breakfast bar.

The tumblers clicked against the granite worktop.

‘Whisky, whisky, whisky...’

Uh-ho.

His Tufty sense was tingling.

There was someone behind him, wasn’t there? Someone—

‘Peekaboo.’

Something whistled through the air and he jerked left, turning.

Whatever it was it battered into his shoulder instead of his head, sending barbed wire digging into the muscle.

A shadow-shape of a man loomed in the darkness, features just a hint of nose, mouth and glasses. Tufty broke them with his fist, snapping the scumbag’s head back with a very satisfying grunt.