Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Callum pointed at the remaining stack of paper. ‘Haven’t got to the end yet, but five quid says there’s nothing in there about getting his balls crushed by The Claw, then being arrested, charged, remanded without bail, or an epilogue where he gets stabbed twenty-three times in the throat by the very disturbed young man from the cell next door.’

‘Thought it was nine times?’

‘Artistic licence.’ Callum marked his spot on the page. ‘And, apparently, Tod Monaghan was nothing to do with it.’

Her eyes went wide. ‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Nope. According to chapter forty-two, McAdams just took advantage of the fact Monaghan was dodgy, dead, and in no position to complain about mummified human remains being planted in his living room. Turns out “Justin” sacrificed a god to make it look like Imhotep had drowned himself in Kings River, so we’d stop looking.’

‘What about Finn Noble?’

‘Haven’t got to that bit yet.’

‘Wouldn’t it be lovely if every murdering wee scumbag wrote their confession out as a novel?’ She picked up a sheet of paper and read aloud: ‘“There’s a jackdaw hanging on the fence behind the house. Like a little black kite, caught on its own strings.” That’s cheery.’ The page went back on its pile. ‘So, are you coming tonight, or not?’

Callum shrugged. ‘Don’t see why not. I might even have a bash at karaoke.’

‘Just seems... weird , doesn’t it? Mind you, I suppose the signs were there — no sane person spouts haikus and bits of doggerel all the time.’

‘Hmm.’

‘And that thing he did, where he pretended he was doing a literary critique of his own life? Not right in the head.’

‘Looks as if McAdams was right, though: he didn’t make it to the end of the book after all.’

‘Still, I suppose...’ She frowned, then pointed at Callum’s warbling phone. ‘Are you going to get that?’

Might as well. He picked it up. ‘Hello?’

A small pause. ‘Piggy?’

Not again . ‘Willow, we’ve talked about this. It’s “Uncle Callum”, not “Piggy”.’

Silence.

Franklin raised her eyebrows, then made a letter T out of her two index fingers and pointed at the kettle.

He gave her a thumbs up — not easy with his right hand still in the cast, but she seemed to get the idea. ‘Willow, are you there?’

‘Piggy, I need... Mum needs you to come over.’

‘I could probably pop past later on, after work? We could maybe get a pizza or something?’

‘No, Piggy: got to be now , yeah? It’s urgent, like.’

He sat up. ‘What happened: is it your dad? Is he hitting her? I can get a police car there in five minutes.’

‘No! Nah, no. It’s not Dad. That prick comes here, me and Benny gonna kick his little bitch arse for him. Gonna kick it good.’ But the bravado didn’t sound as brash as it usually did. It sounded brittle. Shaky.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Just do it, yeah?’ A muffled voice in the background was too low to make out. ‘Gotta go.’ And she hung up.

Callum tapped his pen against the desk.

Franklin waved at him. ‘We’re out of teabags. You want coffee instead?’

He stood. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got to go out for a bit.’ Then struggled into his jacket. ‘Don’t fancy a hurl, do you?’

‘Can you see the pile of work I’ve got on my desk? Every single sodding case McAdams ever worked on, and I have to review the lot.’

‘Come on, it’ll only take twenty minutes. Thirty tops.’

‘Another one of your “wee errands”, is it?’

‘The woman my brother beat up wants to see me. Apparently it’s urgent.’

Franklin smiled. ‘Maybe she wants her teddy bear back?’

That was a point. And it wasn’t as if they needed it now.

‘Why not?’

‘So I was thinking, maybe curry?’

Callum shrugged, taking the Mondeo around the Calderwell Roundabout and into Kingsmeath. ‘Bit unusual for a wake, but yeah. Sounds good. Get a bit of ballast in us before we hit the Bart.’

Sunlight glittered back from the satellite dishes and double glazing that graced the houses lining the road. Not a cloud in the sky. Even the river was settling back to its normal sedate sludgy grey.

Franklin nodded. ‘I know Dotty’s getting in some sausage rolls and wee scotch eggs, but I always end up feeling cheated if I don’t get a proper dinner.’

‘Can’t go wrong with fish and chips.’

‘True.’

And it’d be quicker than going out for a curry, so there’d be plenty of time to finish reading McAdams’ book before heading out to celebrate his death. Would be good to get it finished. Move on to something else. Something a bit less... deranged and murdery .

Wonder if anyone would publish it?

Might be an idea to see where they stood, legally, with that one. Suppose the rights would belong to McAdams’ wife.

Left, up Munro Place. Over the top of the hill and down the other side.

Maybe they could publish it and all the proceeds could go to the victims’ families? Or would that just be fulfilling McAdams’ little fantasies of immortality and success?

Callum slowed for the turning onto Manson Avenue. What if they—

Franklin hit him on the arm.

‘Ow! What was that for?’

‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?’

‘Curry then karaoke.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘That was five minutes ago. I was talking about Mark wanting to get back together again. Maybe take a trip to Thailand, or New Zealand.’

‘Thought he was “an entitled dick who didn’t respect you as a human being”? And I’m quoting there.’

‘I don’t know why I bother telling you anything.’

‘You were the one who said it.’ Callum pulled up outside number 45. The block looked pretty much as horrible as it had the last two times, only now the weeds crowding the front garden were bigger. About time Irene cashed her dirty big cheque from Alastair and traded up for somewhere better.

‘I’ve always wanted to go to New Zealand.’

‘Mark’s a dick. You know it. I know it.’ Callum climbed out of the car, then reached into the back for the teddy bear lying on the passenger shelf. ‘ Everyone knows it.’

She caught up to him halfway along the path. ‘The most exotic holiday we ever had was a three-day trip to Belgium. And that was only because he had to go to a conference.’

‘So, what: you’re going to take him back, shag him, laugh at his horrible jokes, all because he’s going to take you to New Zealand? You do know what they call women who only sleep with men to get things, don’t you?’ Callum stuck his thumb on the doorbell, setting it ringing deep inside the house. ‘Because it isn’t nice.’

‘Oh go bite your own backside.’

‘At best, you’d be a gold digger, and at worst—’

The door opened, and there was Benny, in his blue tracksuit and backwards baseball cap. His eyes were small and pink, ringed with red. Cheeks shiny. A glittering trickle of snot on his top lip catching the sunlight. He held up his arm. ‘Uncle Callum!’

‘Benny, are you OK?’

He looked up at them, bottom lip wobbling, then turned and ran back inside.

Franklin raised an eyebrow.

‘He’s a bit... odd.’ Callum stepped over the threshold. Raised his voice. ‘Miss Brown? Irene? Hello?’

‘All kids are odd. They don’t stop being odd till they hit their twenties, and even then it’s—’ Franklin’s phone launched into ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’. She sighed. Dug it out. ‘Mark? Is it important, because I’m in the middle of something... I’m not being “like” anything... No, I’m...’ She rolled her eyes at Callum. ‘Yes. But you remember what I do for a living, don’t you?’