Стюарт Макбрайд: Now We Are Dead

A two-storey atrium dropped away below her, a set of stairs descending to the floor below. Billy Moon was already halfway down them.

Tufty grabbed the edge of the Thorntons shop and swung himself around the corner and onto the Back Wynd Stairs, hammering down them two at a time towards the Green below. Arms out for balance, mouth wide. ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’

Holy mother of Fish that was steep!

The granite steps were worn in the middle, acned with chewing gum, streaked with snotter-green moss and algae, but they were still hard and sharp enough to split a skull like a dropped Pot Noodle.

Across a small landing and down the other side.

‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’

Billy Moon did a weird show-off twirling-jump thing over the edge of the stairwell, dropping onto the edge of a big wooden planter and back-flipping. Trainers squealing on the floor as he slid to a halt, both arms up, hands curled into fists, middle fingers out. Grinning.

Cheeky wee shite.

Roberta lumbered down the stairs.

He was backing away slowly. Actually, no he wasn’t: the arrogant sod was moonwalking away. Letting her catch up a bit.

Well, when she caught up she was going to introduce the pointy bit of Mrs Shoe to the dark and stinky bit of Mr Bumhole!

He made a loudhailer out of his hands. ‘Come on, Granny, you can do it!’

What the hell was it with people shouting ‘Granny’ at her? She was no’ a sodding granny. Nowhere near old enough for a start! As Billy Cheeky Spungbadger Moon was about to find out!

Roberta put on an extra spurt of speed, thundered down the last flight of stairs and out onto the atrium floor.

‘Woooo!’ He turned and barged out through the doors.

She clattered across the atrium and out onto the Green.

A Mondeo estate slammed on its brakes, screeching to a halt on the cobblestones as Billy Moon danced past its bonnet, sticking two fingers up at the driver. Laughing. The Mondeo’s horn blared.

And he was out of there, arms and legs pumping.

Roberta puffed and panted, sweat dribbling down between her breasts and buttocks. A tiny jagged knife jabbing away inside her ribs with every step.

She wasn’t too old for this. She was just... too important.

Chasing cheeky wee scroats was a job for detective constables, no’ detective sergeants.

And where the hell was Tufty when you needed him?

This was his sodding job!

Argh...

Roberta lumbered after Billy Moon, but she was getting slower and he was getting away — looking back over his shoulder as he ran. Laughing. Hooting.

Young, fast, and never, ever going to—

Tufty appeared from behind the eating area in the middle of the Green, one arm out, and THUMP — Billy stopped dead, clotheslined.

His legs shot out in front of him, arse a good four feet off the cobbles, hanging there as if gravity didn’t exist. Then it grabbed hold again and he clattered down, flat on his backpack. Lay there groaning.

She staggered over, bent double, grabbed hold of her knees, and hacked up a lung. ‘Aaaaaargh... Stitch...’

Tufty jumped up and down, like a thin ugly version of Rocky at the top of the Art Museum steps. ‘I has a win!’

‘Idiot... Ahhh... Spungbadgering hell...’ More coughing. ‘Argh...’

He hauled Billy to his feet. ‘William Moon, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the...’ Tufty trailed off as Billy’s bottom lip trembled, then the tears started. Snot making two shiny trails down his top lip.

‘For goodness’ sake.’ Roberta straightened up. ‘Don’t be such a wimp.’

All that brash ‘Aren’t I young, and untouchable?’ bravado had evaporated, leaving a teeny wee boy behind. What was he, ten years old? Maybe eleven at a push?

No’ the big-time criminal he thought he was.

The crying got louder, damper, and snotterier.

Tufty shuffled his feet. ‘Maybe just this once...?’

A ten-year-old boy, bawling his wee heart out on Aberdeen’s cobbles.

Ah, what the hell...

She sighed. ‘Go on then.’

He went through Billy’s pockets, digging out mobile phones and wallets and watches and stuffing them into the backpack. Slipped the backpack’s straps off and hefted it over his own shoulder. ‘I’m confiscating the lot.’

Billy blinked at him and sniffed. Wiped his shiny nose on his sleeve. ‘I’m sorry, Mister.’

‘And stop nicking stuff off people! You want to end up like your mate, Charlie Roberts?’

He shook his head and sobbed some more.

Tufty pointed. ‘Go on then, off you jolly well sod.’

Billy just stared at him. Sniffed again. Glanced over his shoulder, where Tufty was pointing, then legged it — away at full speed, the soles of his trainers flapping, arms swinging. Sprinting into the tunnel beneath the St Nicholas Centre, just like last time.

His voice echoed out from the gloom as he vanished. ‘CATCH YOU LATER, MASTURBATORS!’

And he was gone.

Roberta stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘Why do I get the feeling we’ve just been foolish and deluded?’

A shrug. ‘Probably. Maybe we should—’ The theme tune to The Sweeney belted out from his pocket and he produced his phone. Shrugged at her. ‘What, you’ve got a monopoly on old TV show ringtones?’ Hit the button. ‘Kate?’ A grin. ‘Yeah...’

Ah to be young, stupid, gangly and in love.

He wandered off a couple of paces. ‘Is she? That’s great. Yeah... No... I know...’

Probably organising a threesome.

Roberta dug out her own phone, scrolling through her text messages. Logan’s one was still sitting there.

Jasmine’s party: I can get hold of a bouncy

castle, if you like?

A guy I know has one shaped like a pirate

ship and he’ll do us a deal.

She smiled and thumbed out a reply.

Perfect — it’ll go great with the zombie

theme.

Just make sure you bring a LOT of booze

with you. Going to be a LONG day.

Send.

When she looked up, Tufty was standing there beaming at her. ‘That was Kate. She says Mrs Galloway’s getting out of hospital today. We’re going round to make sure she’s settled into the sheltered housing place OK. Want to come?’

‘Why no’?’

They wandered back towards the Aberdeen Market.

Roberta kicked an empty plastic bottle, sending it skittering across the cobbles. ‘And is Agnes keeping the car, or selling it?’

‘Selling. Even second hand it’s worth about thirty grand.’ He shifted his grip on the backpack. ‘Sarge, about the car?’

Her stomach made a wee rumbling grumbling noise. ‘Ooh. Think I need a little smackerel of something.’

‘Yeah, but the car, the cash, the watch. Big Jimmy Grieve...’ A grimace. ‘Do we owe him favours now? Only I don’t want to owe gangsters favours.’

‘Silly Tufty, Mr Grieve isn’t a gangster, he’s a retired cop. First DI I ever worked for. God, now there’s a man who can drink. I could tell you stories that’d make your pubes go straight.’

‘Oh thank God for that.’ Tufty sagged a bit. ‘Thought it was going to turn into one of those Godfather deals.’ He flinched as her stomach growled again. ‘Back to the station for tea and biscuits?’

‘That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day.’

‘After all, must be nearly time for tenses,’ he checked his watch, ‘we can...’ His eyes widened as he stared at the pale hairy stripe on his wrist. Then pulled up his other sleeve and stared at the wrist on that side. Then back to the first wrist. ‘That rancid little spungbadger’s nicked my watch!’ He charged off towards the tunnel under the St Nicholas Centre. ‘COME BACK HERE YOU THIEVING WEE JOBBIE!’