Стюарт Макбрайд - Now We Are Dead

‘Tufty,’ Steel put the cap back on the Smirnoff, ‘give it a rest, eh?’

He stuck out his free hand, miming stabbing someone. ‘—but I tripped him up, and Eric’s got this massive pointy knife, and Terry’s trying to strangle me cos I banged his head in the fridge—’

Steel threw a scrubby sponge at him. Missed. ‘Tufty!’

‘—but Susan wriggles free and she’s got this set of antique golf clubs—’

‘CONSTABLE QUIRREL!’

‘And POW! Then—’ The second sponge found its mark, bouncing off his chest — leaving a rectangular damp patch on his shirt. ‘Hey!’

She dried her hands. ‘Give it a rest, OK? Just lived through it: don’t need a blow-by-blow replay.’

‘Oh...’ His shoulders dipped a little, then he took a deep breath and rattled it out as quick as possible: ‘Then she shouts, “Fore!” And WHANG! Right up the fairway. Gave him a hole in one. Popped it open like a squished grape.’ Tufty sat back, smiling. Clearly pleased with himself for making it all the way through to the end. Then frowned. ‘I’m feeling a bit dizzy. Is anyone else a bit dizzy?’

The garden stretched away back into the darkness, the short grass scattered with kids’ toys. Bright plastic landmines waiting for the unwary foot. The lonicera was in bloom, filling the air with the sticky scent of warm honey.

Steel had parked herself at the picnic bench by the Wendy house, puffing away on her e-cigarette, making her own strawberry-scented fog bank.

Logan lowered a hot mug in front of her, then settled onto the bench-seat opposite. ‘Horlicks.’

‘Hmph.’ She leaned forward and sniffed at it. ‘Could at least have put some whisky in there.’

He stared up at the trees. ‘Are you OK?’

‘OK?’ A small laugh, then a slurp of Horlicks. ‘Someone threatened to rape my wife, sell my kids to paedophiles, and stuck their dick in my mouth. What do you think?’

‘On the plus side, he’s never going to do that again. Jack Wallace’s raping days are over. If he ever gets out of prison, the tattered stump you left him with isn’t going to trouble anyone.’ Logan snuck a glance. She had a very nasty smile on her face. ‘You know they probably could’ve sewn it back on again, right?’

‘I’m never going to moan about Susan spending all her time on the golf course again.’

‘If they’d found the bit you bit off.’

‘You should’ve seen her, Laz: she was magnificent. An Amazon with a six iron. Wonder Susan!’

A huge furry cat sauntered out of the darkness, big grey tail like a plume of smoke behind him. He wound his way around Logan’s legs, then did the same with Steel. Purring. Hopped up onto the picnic table on large white paws.

Steel rubbed at his ears. ‘You hungry, Mr Rumpole? Are you?’

‘There’s going to be an internal investigation — don’t really have a choice after all the carnage here tonight — but it’s nothing to worry about. Promise.’

‘Who’s my hungry little boy?’ She stood and picked Mr Rumpole up with a grunt. ‘Pfff... Ooh, you’re a fat wee sod.’ He hung in her arms: a bag of fur, smoky tail twitching as she carried him through the French doors and into the kitchen. Plonked him down on the breakfast bar.

Logan picked both mugs up again and followed Steel inside. Cleared his throat as she dug a sachet of cat food out of a cupboard and ripped it open. ‘Roberta, I—’

‘Don’t. OK?’ She didn’t look at him, just squatted down and squeezed the food into Mr Rumpole’s bowl. ‘I know.’

‘But—’

‘You didn’t clype on me because you’re a traitorous bastard. You clyped on me because I was wrong. I should never have framed Jack Wallace, no matter how much of a rapey scumbag he is. I screwed up. If I’d played by the rules he wouldn’t have come here. I put Susan, Jasmine and Naomi in danger.’ She stamped on the bin’s pedal and dropped the empty sachet in. ‘You were right and I was wrong.’

Roberta Steel admitting she was wrong?

Dear Lord, that was a first.

He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m really, really sorry it worked out the way it did.’

‘Me too.’ She sighed, then turned to face him. Opened her arms wide, voice catching a little on the words ‘Come on then, you big girl.’

He hugged her and she squeezed back so hard it made his ribs creak.

Steel sniffed. Let go of him and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. ‘Gah...’

Logan smiled. ‘A hug and tears? You’re just a big softy, aren’t you?’

‘If you ever tell anyone I just did that, I’ll castrate you too.’ She reached into her pocket and dropped a little shrivelled bloody chunk of flesh on top of the cat food. Picked Mr Rumpole off the breakfast bar and set him down in front of his bowl. ‘Dinner time.’

He wolfed the lot down as they watched in silence.

When it was all gone, Steel clapped her hands. ‘Right. Now, how about we break out that whisky?’

‘COME BACK HERE!’ Roberta shoved through a clot of halfwits in hoodies and puffy trainers.

‘Hoy, watch it, Grandma!’

‘“Grandma”, nice one, Baz.’

Morons.

Union Street was almost solid with shoppers — old, young, men, women, rich, poor, and all of them IN THE SODDING WAY!

That red hoodie was getting further away, barging past families and oldies while she was mired neck-deep in a swamp of idiots.

Billy Moon glanced back over his shoulder and hooted at her, stuck his tongue out, then wheeched around the corner onto Market Street.

Cheeky wee sod.

She gritted her teeth and ran after him.

Tufty helped the old guy to his feet. Grey hair and damp eyes — the iris ringed in pale grey. Marks & Spencer ready meals littered the pavement all around them, a bottle of red smashed to curls of green glass. ‘Are you OK?’

‘He got my wallet and my phone!’ The man waved a shaky fist across the road, where Steel and Billy Moon’s red hoodie and black backpack were rapidly disappearing downhill. ‘You wee shite! I’ll tan your arse for you!’

‘Stay here.’

And Tufty was off, sprinting across the road, ducking and dodging the traffic to the other side. Steel and Billy Moon were legging it down Market Street, but Tufty had a clever. Instead of following them he turned the other way, running up Union Street towards the Trinity Centre.

It was time for a cunning plan.

Billy Moon jinked right, clattering down the stairs and into the Aberdeen Market shopping centre — a grey slab of a building with about as much charm as a litter tray.

He burst through the doors, trainers squeaking on the floor.

Roberta grabbed the stainless-steel handrail and swept around and down, after him. Through the doors and into a labyrinth of wee booth-type shops.

She hauled out her phone and thumbed the screen as she ran.

‘Control Room.’

‘Where’s my sodding backup?’

Past places that unlocked mobile phones or flogged novelty balloons or sold underwear in six-packs.

‘I’ve told you already: we don’t do backup for shoplifters!’

Useless Spungbadgers.

She stuck her phone away again, whooshing past a homemade-jewellery shop, one selling ancient electrical equipment, tattoos while you wait, a greengrocer...

Billy was just visible up ahead: laughing, shoving through people, leaving a wake of fallen pensioners and their spilled shopping.

Arrrgh...

Roberta leaped over an auld wifie sprawled amongst a dozen packs of lacy pants as a clutch of ‘HAPPY HEN NIGHT!’ balloons — at least half of which were shaped like willies — bobbed against the ceiling tiles.

And past. Around the corner.