Stuart MacBride: A Dark So Deadly

Brown hair with grey at the roots. Naked, except for a grey cardigan that was threadbare at the elbows and cuffs. Knees covered with scratches and bruises.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just slumped there.

Callum cleared his throat. Fumbled his slippery sick-covered fingers to the chain around his neck. Then worked his way back along its length to where it fastened to a ring, bolted to the wall. Gave it a pull.

Nope.

Key.

Get the key.

And how the hell was he meant to do that, chained to the basement wall?

Upstairs, the muffled voices went quiet, as if someone had turned off the radio. Then a solid thump rattled the floor above.

Oh God.

He wiped his fingers on his once-clean, once-dry, shirt.

There was a creak, followed by the sound of something being dragged down the stairs. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

McAdams appeared around the boxes, shuffling backwards, bent double, pulling Mother by the armpits. She was limp, on her back, one shoe dangling off as he hauled her over to the mattress.

He struggled her into place, then sat back on his heels, wiping his forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but you couldn’t have picked a worse time.’

The chain clattered and rattled as he wrapped it around her neck, fastening it with another heavy padlock and slipping the keys into his pocket.

‘But it’s OK. It’ll all be OK. You’ll see.’ He leaned forwards and kissed her on the forehead. ‘It’ll be better than OK.’

Callum slumped against the wall. Groaned.

McAdams turned. ‘I know this isn’t what we planned, Callum, but we’ll make it work. And now we’ve got a New Mummy to look after us and love us and keep us safe. Isn’t that great?’ He nodded. ‘But, you need more tea, don’t you? Right.’

Another groan.

Wrinkles deepened between his eyebrows. ‘Have you been sick?’

Callum’s head lolled to the right, making the walls pulsate again.

‘Oh dear. Never mind. It’s OK. It’s not your fault.’ McAdams stood and walked over. Hunkered down right beside him. Took out a handkerchief and wiped Callum’s mouth. ‘It can be a bit harsh at first, but the tea’s good for you. It purifies your body and your mind. It’ll make you ready for divinity.’ He brushed the damp hair from Callum’s forehead. ‘They’ll worship you, you’ll be a god. You’ll be a— Gllllk!’

Callum’s good hand slammed into McAdams’ crotch. Took a firm grip and squeezed , twisting the contents of McAdams’ pants like he was opening a jar of pickled onions.

There was a wet, strangled, scream, then McAdams collapsed to the floor and coiled into a little trembling ball, sobbing while Callum squeezed and twisted.

The words were lumpen and saggy, but Callum forced them out anyway. ‘Say hello to... The Claw !’

Mother was breathing, but there was already a lump growing on the back of her head.

Callum unlocked the padlock from the chain around her neck. ‘Boss? Can you hear me?’

He gave her a small slap on the cheek, but it didn’t help.

She was still breathing though, that was the important thing.

The lady in the grey cardigan flinched when Callum touched her. So definitely still alive.

‘It’s all right, I’m a police officer. See?’ He pulled out his warrant card. ‘Can you tell me your name?’

Her eyes were wide as a rabbit’s, waiting for the oncoming car.

‘Hello?’

Nope.

Callum unlocked her too, but she scuttered away, squeezing herself into the corner of the room, arms wrapped around her knees. Staring out at him from beneath her greying fringe, with those glittering rabbit eyes. Probably off her face on McAdams’ magic mushroom tea.

And that just left the man himself. Still curled up on the basement floor, wrapped around his tortured groin.

Good.

Callum hauled both of McAdams’ wrists behind his back and slapped on the cuffs. ‘Andrew McAdams, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the—’

‘Don’t you want to be a god?’ Face flushed and shiny. Tears and snot shining on his cheeks. ‘Why? What’s wrong with you?’

‘You’re going to prison, Andy . It’s over.’

He stared. ‘It’s not too late, I can fix this. I’ll get you some more tea. You can be a god, Callum. You can watch over us all. You can fix everything that’s wrong!’

‘You’re a psycho nutbag, and you’re going to spend every last miserable day you’ve got left being someone’s bitch in a six-by-six cell.’

And at that, McAdams threw his head back and laughed. Not a fake laugh either, a full-on belly laugh. ‘I’m dying of cancer, you idiot. I’ve got weeks to live. You think they’ll lock me up? I won’t even stand trial and you know it.’

‘I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act—’

‘You still don’t get it, do you? All you’ve done is stopped me saving everybody’s lives. We could have fixed everything. And you ruined it!’

‘—because I believe you to have committed an offence punishable by imprisonment—’

‘But you know what? It doesn’t matter if I die, now. No one ever remembers the cops or the victims, they only remember the serial killer. I get to live forever .’

Callum licked his lips. ‘You get to die in prison.’

‘They’ll write books about me — Sunday Times bestsellers. They’ll make films about me. Maybe even a TV series. They’ll talk about me in hushed whispers when they tuck their children into bed.’ A grin. ‘Andrew McAdams. Imhotep. Immortal.’

The walls throbbed in time with Callum’s heartbeat.

Kill him.

It was the only way.

Arrest him and he’d barely see the inside of a courtroom.

Kill him.

Make it look like suicide — just like McAdams had done with Finn Noble — so everyone would think he just couldn’t cope with the cancer. Then get rid of anything incriminating in the house, so no one would ever find out that he murdered all those people. Don’t let him take anything from this.

Don’t let him win.

McAdams grinned up at him, eyes like polished buttons. ‘They’ll worship me, I’ll be a god!’

‘No.’ Callum tightened his good hand into a fist. ‘No, you won’t.’

‘Ow! Get off me.’ Mother slapped the paramedic’s hands away. Tried to stand. Got pushed back onto the wheelie-stretcher thing that took up nearly one whole side of the ambulance.

‘You’ve got concussion. Do you want to die? Doesn’t bother me: I get paid either way.’ The paramedic held out the disinfectant and the wad of gauze again. ‘Now, are you going to sit still, or not?’

The ambulance’s blue-and-whites spun in the downpour. Throw in the three patrol cars, all with their lights going, and the crime scene was transformed into a very damp, very miserable disco.

Callum climbed up into the back, joining them. ‘That’s Cecelia and her Smurfs of Doom just arrived.’

Mother nodded. ‘Tell them I want— Ow!’

‘Well sit still, then. And you’re going to need stitches.’

‘I don’t need stitches.’

‘God’s sake.’ The paramedic handed his gauze and disinfectant to Callum. ‘Try to talk some sense into her.’ Then he hopped down from the back and walked off under the eaves of the house. Took out a packet of cigarettes and lit up.

Callum peered at the back of Mother’s head. ‘Yeah... you’re going to need stitches.’

‘I can’t believe Andy hit me. He hit me!’ She looked away. ‘How’s Beth?’

‘They’ve taken her straight to A-and-E. No idea how long he’s had her chained up in the basement, but she’s gone full-blown psychotic episode.’