Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

McAdams buried his face in his hands. ‘For God’s sake.’

‘Rosalind?’ Mother wandered over and collected her hurled pen.

‘Every traffic car, community warden, uniform, and special constable is keeping an eye out for Monaghan’s grey Peugeot Bipper. He must’ve parked it somewhere, but so far no one’s spotted it.’

‘Dorothy?’

‘He shouldn’t have called me fat! It’s not my fault I’m in a wheelchair, is it? You try exercising when you’re stuck in one of these things.’

‘Please, Dorothy, we’re all tired. How did you get on?’

‘The council’s sent through a list of all properties currently registered as empty for council tax purposes. It doesn’t include buildings considered uninhabitable.’

‘What about some sort of Monaghan — Jeffries connection?’

‘Still looking.’

‘Callum?’

He pointed at his screen. ‘I’ve been through the planning department’s records and there’s no sign of anyone applying to build a new smokehouse for over forty years. And the last one was converted into, and I quote, “a stylish four-bedroom family home, with off-road parking, outdoor hot tub, and a well-appointed garden” two years ago.’ Callum frowned up at the map of Oldcastle pinned to the wall above the kettle. ‘Look, according to Voodoo’s CCTV search, Monaghan’s grey Peugeot Bipper came from somewhere east of Caven Street, Logansferry, and disappeared some-where north of the Royal Williams Hospital in the Wynd. We could try narrowing our search by getting rid of anything in between?’

Franklin pulled a face. ‘Risky — he might’ve dropped them off en route.’

‘True.’

Mother thumped down into the only vacant chair. ‘Urgh... Ashlee’s going to be dead by the time we get there, isn’t she? Assuming we ever find her.’

The only sounds were the humming computers and someone squeaking past in the corridor outside.

In the end, it was McAdams that broke the silence. ‘We’ll find her. We just have to hope she can hold on till Watt’s religious time-wasters get back to us.’ He hopped down from the desk. ‘In the meantime, we go home. Get some rest. There’s sod-all we can do here till we get that list.’

‘Mmsrrry...’ Ashlee’s head rolls back against the metal tank. The chains clank and click. The walls thrummmmmm in the darkness.

Every muscle aches. Not just from being sick all the time, but from... don’t know. Just aches.

‘Mmmy. Mmmmy mmsrrry...’

Her mouth barely moves now, all crusted and covered in scabs. She can taste them on the tip of her dry tongue. Split and bleeding, then scabbing over, then splitting again.

Probably all the salt in the water.

It’s gritty between her fingers, makes a tidemark of pale-grey crystals around the tank, makes the water undrinkable, no matter how thirsty she is.

‘Mmsrrry...’

And she is sorry. Totally, totally sorry.

Sorry she let him in. Sorry she was such a crappy friend. Sorry she was such a crappy daughter. Sorry she was ever born.

But it’ll be over soon.

There was this TV show a couple months ago, all about how stupid people died in the woods and deserts and up mountains and at sea and crap like that. Places no one with even one quarter of a brain would go. The woman with the utterly ugly anorak and frizzy hair was banging on about being adrift in a lifeboat, or something. And how there was all this water, but you couldn’t drink it, or you’d die.

Cos of the salt.

It does something to your insides and you die of thirst even though you’re drinking water. Even if you throw it up again, it screws with your kidneys and you die.

But you’re going to die anyway, aren’t you?

Cos not drinking anything screws your kidneys and you die.

Her throat is like the road outside the house on a hot summer’s day, all dark and sticky, and every horrible breath is like ripping off a sticking plaster.

Maybe dying’s not so bad?

Got to be better than this.

Her head lolls to the side, and there’s Mum. Still slumped with the chain around her neck. Still not moving. Cos zombies aren’t real, are they.

It’s better being dead, isn’t it, Mum?

Yes it is. It’s a relief, to be honest with you. After all the years of struggling and fighting, trying to make ends meet. Trying to make friends. It’s nice just to have a bit of a rest.

That’s good.

You should try it too, Ashlee. You’ll like being dead. Nothing hurts any more.

I will, Mum.

No more lying in that dirty bathwater.

No more.

Maybe you should have a wee drink? That’ll make you die of dehydration quicker, won’t it? Like they said on the programme? After all, what’s the point of hanging on? No one’s going to come and save you.

I know, Mum.

It’s just you and me, alone in this stinky room that reeks of smoke and puke. And I’m probably going to start smelling a bit soon too. Sorry about that.

It’s OK, Mum, you’re dead, you can’t help it.

Thanks, Ashlee. You’re a good girl. And I love you, I always have. Now, why not have a little drink.

So thirsty...

It’s OK, no one’s looking.

Ashlee lets her head fall further and further, until the salty water stings her broken lips. It’s bitter and horrible and wet and sour and fiery and soothing and—

Her stomach clenches and the water sprays out again, frothing from her mouth, burning out of her nose. A hacking cough rattles her back and forth against the metal tub. The chains clink and jitter. The water slops around her in waves.

And finally the coughing fades and she sags, panting in those sticking-plaster breaths in her hot-tarmac throat.

Then, like someone turning on a kettle, whatever’s in the water pops and fizzes through her. Getting louder as it boils. Pushing up into her skull and making the insides float. Up and up. Until all the colours sound the same.

He said she was going to be a god, but then he left and never came back.

She’s not going to be a god, she’s going to be trapped here for all eternity. In the dark. In this filthy metal tub. With this chain around her neck.

I’m sorry, Ashlee. I’m sorry, sweetheart.

Why can’t she just die?

‘OK, thanks, John.’ Callum hung up and slipped his phone back in his pocket.

Thin morning light seeped through the battleship clouds, making the back garden mud glitter and shine. Would have thought, after all this rain, the smell of smoke would’ve dissipated, but if anything it was stronger than ever, oozing from the burned-out house like fog.

The brambles were gone, but a little village of blue SOC tents had taken their place, arranged almost at random across the garden, each one with ‘PROPERTY OF SPSA SCENES EXAMINATION BRANCH — OLDCASTLE’ stencilled in white on the side. The nearest had, ‘TENT F’ added to the end.