Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Shannon’s car was lopsided — the wing peppered with holes, the tyre flat, door hanging open with more holes punched through it.

‘Bob?’

Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he staggered over to the door.

Shannon lay on his back across the front seats, one leg in the passenger footwell, the other dangling out of the car.

‘BOB!’

A large dark stain covered the front of his yellow T-shirt, spreading across the word ‘NORWICH’.

Sodding hell.

Callum clambered around to the driver’s side, hauled open the door and felt for a pulse. Swore. Dragged out his phone and called 999. ‘OFFICER DOWN, I REPEAT, OFFICER DOWN!’

‘And we’re all done.’ The doctor dropped his needle into the kidney dish. ‘Excellent stitches, even if I say so myself.’ A small round Teletubby of a man with a comb-over and Stalin moustache.

Callum just grunted.

‘Now I’m going to write you a prescription for painkillers, but keep off the booze with them, OK? And just in case: get someone to stay with you tonight. Don’t want you dying in your sleep, right? Right.’ He taped a patch of gauze to the back of Callum’s head. ‘While you’re here, we might as well change the dressing on your ear. Nurse, let’s have some disinfectant...’

There was more, but it was just noise.

The treatment cubicle curtains opened and there was Franklin. She’d ditched the black suit and tie for a red lumberjack shirt, blue jeans, and trainers. Flashed her warrant card. ‘Will he live?’

Dr Teletubby stepped back to admire his handiwork. ‘Well, he’s damn lucky she didn’t fracture his skull, but other than that? Probably.’

Callum slid down from the table and picked up his jacket. The sleeves and back were stained brown and black. Some of it his blood, some of it Shannon’s. ‘What about Bob?’

Franklin grimaced. Shook her head. ‘They did everything they could.’

Great.

Dr Teletubby pointed through to the reception area. ‘Go park yourself for ten minutes while I sort out your pills and get you discharged.’

Callum followed Franklin back to the rows of plastic seating and the buzzing vending machines.

She pointed. ‘You want a cup of tea or something?’

‘Any word on Watt?’

‘I’ll get you a tea.’

Soon as she was gone, Callum folded forward till his chest rested against his knees. Wrapped his arms around his head. Pressing them into the gauze taped to the back. Squeezing. Making the stitches scream a sharp bitter song.

Shannon was his fault.

He should never have accepted that lift out to R.M. Travis’s house. Should have made his own way there. Should’ve insisted.

Bloody hell.

Why did everything have to turn to shite? Why did it always have to—

‘Callum? Are you OK?’ Franklin settled in the chair beside his, the warmth of her body seeping through his dirty shirt.

‘No.’

‘Do you want me to get the doctor back?’

He blew out a breath. ‘No. Thanks. But no.’ Another sigh and he sat back up. ‘Sorry.’

‘Here: drink your tea.’

The plastic cup was scalding hot. And the contents tasted every bit as bitter and foul as he was inside.

Franklin put her hand between his shoulder blades and gave them a little rub. ‘You didn’t shoot him, Emma Travis-Wilkes did. She killed her dad, she killed Shannon, and she would’ve killed you too. It wasn’t your fault.’

A nod. More horrible tea.

She gave a little laugh. Shook her head. ‘This has been a great first week at work.’

He turned in his seat and smiled. ‘Welcome to the Misfit Mob.’

‘Oh, Callum, you’re a poor sod, aren’t you?’

‘I’m a bloody disaster area.’

‘No you’re not. You’re a good man, and Elaine was an idiot for throwing that away. Didn’t know a good thing when she had it.’

Franklin’s hand was warm against his back. Her thigh warm against his. Her smile warm and soft. Her lips...

He leaned in, breathing in the scent of her: lemons and jasmine and rosemary. Closed his eyes.

‘Argh! Jesus!’ Franklin’s chair scraped back and she was on her feet. Backing away, staring down at him with her face curdled, as if he’d just coughed up a hairball into her lap.

Heat flooded Callum’s face, prickled across the back of his neck, set his ears on fire. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘What is wrong with you? This is—’

‘I thought there was a thing and—’

‘I’ve got a fiancé!’

‘I’m sorry! I didn’t... Arrgh.’ He curled up in his seat again. ‘God’s sake.’

‘Just because I’m a black woman, doesn’t mean I’m going to jump into bed with every pasty-faced horny bastard who knocks! You’re just like all the rest of them!’

Idiot. Bloody stupid halfwit idiot .

He gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes shut.

Everything. Every single thing he touched.

Franklin’s phone burst into song. Then silenced. ‘What?’

There’d been a thing, hadn’t there? Between them?

Her voice was hard and brittle. ‘Oh, he’s here all right.’

Idiot Callum. Such a bloody idiot.

‘Yes... OK. Right... No, I’ll tell him... OK, bye.’

He took a deep breath. Stood. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable or preyed-on or anything like that. I thought...’

She just glared back at him, arms folded, knuckles pale where she was gripping her phone.

‘I don’t know what I thought. Maybe it was Emma Travis-Wilkes trying to cave my skull in? Maybe that rattled something loose? Whatever. I wasn’t thinking right and I’m sorry. I’m one hundred percent genuinely sorry.’

‘I thought you were different, Callum.’

‘Yeah, well apparently I’m a moron like every other man on the planet.’ He struggled into his filthy jacket. Couldn’t look her in the eye. ‘It’s OK. I’ll get a taxi. Thanks for coming. You don’t have to stay.’

A nurse squeaked up, clipboard in one hand, small white paper bag in the other. ‘Callum MacGregor? I’ve got some painkillers for you.’ She held out the clipboard. ‘Just sign there where the X is...’ A frown. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘No. I just made a complete and utter dick of myself.’ He scrawled his name in the appropriate box, accepted the paper bag. ‘Thanks.’ Then turned and limped out through the doors.

Franklin followed him.

He kept going, out from beneath the canopy and into the rain. Stopped. Turned, both arms held out. ‘I’m sorry, OK? My life’s turned to shit and I’m sorry . That wasn’t about you, it was about me being fucking useless.’ Cold and damp seeped through his filthy jacket. He dropped his arms. ‘Just go. Please. I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one night. I don’t need an audience.’

She held up her phone. ‘That was DS McAdams. The Duty Doctor’s given Emma Travis-Wilkes a clean bill of health. They’re putting her in Interview Four now.’

He turned and walked out into the night. ‘Good for them.’

‘McAdams says you can watch from the viewing suite, if you like?’

Interview Room Four looked bigger on the screen. Not so cramped.

‘Are you sure you want to do this, Emma? These are very serious charges.’ Mother’s mop of bright ginger hair sat in the bottom right-hand corner of the TV, next to McAdams’ hunched back in the bottom left.

Emma Travis-Wilkes shifted in her SOC paper oversuit — sperm-white rather than Smurf-blue — and glanced at the man sitting beside her: dark-blue three-piece suit, grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, little round glasses, pointy sideburns. Mr Slick gave her a tiny nod.