Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘No, you don’t have to—’

‘You wouldn’t believe how strange it was, questioning your father. I was such a huge fan when I was a kid.’ Callum marched over and grabbed the sealed rubble sack. Heavier than it looked. And the underside was pale and gritty with frost.

Eh?

Why would defrosted leftovers be cold enough to—

Something solid slammed into the back of his head and the world erupted like a million fire alarms had just gone off at once. Yellow and black spheres popped and crackled across the garage. The freezers. The rubble sacks. He reached out to steady himself and the something solid slammed down again.

Then Callum’s knees buckled and the concrete floor welcomed him with open arms.

The tin of peaches gave a dull bang as it hit the concrete and buckled. Bright red covered the sell-by date, leaching colour back into the ancient label. It rolled around a lopsided circle and came to rest against Callum’s chest.

Garage floor should’ve been cold. All that concrete. But it wasn’t.

Warm and cosy.

Soft and comforting.

Emma’s boots appeared, right in front of his face. Then she squatted down. Stroked his forehead. ‘I’m so very sorry.’ Her bottom lip trembled, eyes sparkling as the tears welled up. ‘But I can’t.’

The boots faded into the distance.

He blinked.

She was unloading the golf bags from the rack by the door — dumping them on the ground. In the gap behind where they’d been was a tall thin metal locker, fixed to the garage wall.

Warm and comfy, lying sprawled on the cosy concrete floor.

She pulled a bundle of keys from her pocket, sorted through them and unlocked the door. Pulled out a shotgun. ‘It wasn’t meant to happen like this.’

A clack sounded as she broke the shotgun open. ‘But that’s life, isn’t it? One minute everything’s fine and the next you’re standing in front of the freezer, looking down at a human head. And it’s looking back at you. And everything you’ve ever known about everything is a lie.’ Emma wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then rummaged in a large leather satchel. Slid two red shells into the shotgun’s breech.

Flipped it closed again.

Clack .

A dull throb bloomed at the back of Callum’s skull. Spreading out in jagged waves.

‘But you just have to cope, don’t you? What else can you do?’ She nodded to herself. Then walked out through the open garage door.

Shannon’s voice came from outside, ramping up from normal person to police officer in the space of six words: ‘What the hell are you... No! Emma, don’t do anything stupid. We can talk about this. Put the gun—’

BOOOOOM...

The squeal of tearing metal, the patter of shattered glass hitting the gravel drive.

‘CALLUM! CALLUM, I’M—’

BOOOOOM...

Silence.

She stepped back into the garage. Sobbed. Stood there bent almost double beneath the weight of it. ‘I... I didn’t want this. I didn’t .’

Clack .

Emma broke the shotgun open again and the two spent cartridges spun into the air, twirling as they fell, leaving thin trails of smoke behind. Pinging as they bounced off the concrete.

This was it.

He was going to die here.

She dipped into the cartridge bag for another couple of shells. Slid them home.

Clack .

She bit her bottom lip. Sniffed.

At least it would be quick.

But she didn’t shoot him. She took a deep shuddering breath and marched through the door that led into the house instead.

Callum forced a hand under himself. Pushed...

Nope.

The throbbing in his head got louder, sharper.

Maybe it was all for the best?

What else did he have going for him?

Crappy childhood. Failed relationship. Ruined career.

The only mark he’d leave on life would be right here on the garage floor. Eight pints of blood. And twenty minutes with a mop and a bucket of bleach would soon get rid of that.

A muffled boom sounded from somewhere deep within the house. Followed by another one.

So get up. Get your useless, lazy , good-for-nothing backside off the ground and do something. What if Shannon was still alive? What if he was lying out there, bleeding to death, because Callum was too busy wallowing in self-pity to get off his arse and help him?

‘Grrrrah...’ He pushed himself over onto his front, then back and up till he was on his knees.

The garage whirled and roared all around him, like being drunk on the waltzers, making his stomach churn.

Be sick later, get up now .

Emma reappeared through the door, her face flushed and shiny, tears glistening on her cheeks. Arms wrapped around the shotgun, like a teddy bear. ‘Why does nothing ever turn out the way I want? Tell me that. WHY HAS IT ALWAYS GOT TO BE EVERYONE ELSE?’ She rubbed at her eyes again. Then curled her shoulders forward and sobbed.

Get up, get up, get up, get up.

Do it now, while she’s distracted.

But his legs just didn’t want to.

She’s going to shoot you. She’s going to stick that shotgun in your face and pull the trigger. They’ll have to scrape your brains off the floor with a shovel.

ON YOUR FEET!

Emma shook her head as the sobbing subsided. She blew out a shuddering breath. Wiped her eyes. Sniffed. Turned back to the gun cupboard and dipped into the shell bag again. ‘I’m sorry.’

Callum grabbed the chest freezer and pulled himself up to his feet.

Clack .

He held a hand out as she turned back towards him. ‘Emma, you don’t have to do this.’

‘Why?’ She stepped closer, raised the gun. ‘Why did you have to come tonight? Why couldn’t you wait till tomorrow?’

‘Emma, the man you shot: Bob. There might still be time to save him.’

‘It would all have been gone by then.’

‘Emma, please, this can still end up OK, I promise.’

Closer.

The twin barrels of the shotgun were huge and dark.

She wiped her eyes again. ‘It would all have been gone.’

Goodbye cruel world.

Callum nodded. ‘I understand. I’m sorry, Emma, it...’ His eyes went wide, staring over her shoulder. ‘Bob!’ Smiling as he stumbled forwards a couple of inches.

She turned.

And Callum lunged.

Shoved the shotgun to one side and hammered his fibreglass cast into her face hard .

She went over backwards, left arm pinwheeling as she fell, gun still held in her other hand.

It went off as her head cracked into the floor, a deafening roar that ripped a huge hole in the Range Rover’s driver’s door, shattering the window, tearing out through the roof.

He half jumped, half fell on top of her, pinning her gun arm to the ground. Smashing his cast into her face again. And one more time for luck.

Reared back as the shotgun clattered free of her limp fingers.

Grabbed the dented tin of bloody peaches and raised it high above his head, ready to crash it down...

A little bubble of scarlet popped from her squint nose. She coughed and more spattered out of her mouth, leaving her teeth stained dark pink.

Callum let the peaches fall back to the garage floor.

She shook beneath him, eyes screwed shut, tears dribbling down the side of her face. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry...’

Wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘Emma Travis-Wilkes, you’re under arrest.’

‘I’m so sorry...’

He dragged out his handcuffs. ‘“There’s no point crying, little girl,” said the Bonemonger with his scissor-sharp smile. “No one will hear you, and nobody cares.”’

Callum lurched out of the garage and onto the driveway. The drizzle was like a soft kiss, cooling and fresh against his face.