Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘Yes, of course, the feet, duh, sorry got distracted. Do you think we should all have name badges, because I think we should all have name badges...’ Her voice faded into the distance, swallowed by the background growl of the extractor fans as Powel led her away.

Callum stuck two fingers up at the DCI’s back.

I thought they were supposed to fire you.

Dick.

And how could she not remember him? He remembered her . Mind you, she did stand out a bit, what with her whole ‘Day-Pass-From-The-Asylum’ shtick.

Still, it was nice she’d been interested in his mummies, because no one else seemed to give a sod.

Callum folded his arms. Searched the room for Franklin and her amazing exploding temper. She was standing in the corner, scribbling away in her notebook as the APT finished washing down the swollen corpse.

So, could be worse. At least he wasn’t marinating in the Marmite stench of a decomposing body, like Franklin. No, his remains just smelled of... What?

Callum leaned in and took a sniff, but it was just the usual ever-present stink that permeated the mortuary: bleach, bowels, and decay. Which was odd — when they’d opened the car boot yesterday there’d been a distinct smell of wood smoke. And a hint of it back at the tip, with Mummy Number One too. Unless this was Mummy Number One. Kind of difficult to tell them apart.

He inched closer and tried again.

The scent was still there, lying under everything else. Like the old armchair his grandad used to smoke his pipe in. Puffing away, getting the scent of sandalwood and cherry deep into the leather.

Someone cleared their throat behind him. ‘Can I help you?’

He flinched up. Smoothed down his thin plastic apron. ‘Just...’ Warmth tingled in the tips of his ears, as if he’d been caught snogging the remains instead of just sniffing them. ‘Callum MacGregor, I’m Senior Investigating Officer.’

‘Oh aye?’ She was a large woman, compact and powerful looking. The kind of person that could pick up a fridge and beat you to death with it. Her green scrubs looked fresh out of the packet, but her arms looked fresh out of Barlinnie — covered in DIY tattoos. She leaned on the chunk of machinery she’d been wheeling across the mortuary floor. ‘You sure?’

‘ Yes . Are you Ms Compton?’

She flexed her muscles. ‘Lucy.’

‘OK, Lucy.’ He pointed at the body. ‘Does this smell of wood smoke to you?’

She pulled down her mask, revealing a mole at the corner of her mouth. Sniffed. ‘Oak. And...’ Another sniff. ‘I’m going to go with beechwood.’

‘What about the other one?’

Lucy shifted the machinery over to the other cutting table, bent over the curled body and filled her nostrils. ‘Definitely beechwood and oak. This one’s a lot stronger.’

That would be the one from the car boot. Maybe lying about in the tip for God knew how long masked Mummy Number One’s natural smell?

The APT went back to her trolley and pushed it next to the cutting table. Clunked on some sort of footbrake, then fiddled about with pins and levers until a big C-shaped arm swung out from the main unit. It had a box on either end, each about the size of small microwave.

‘Right.’ She handed him a heavy blue apron. ‘Stick that on and we’ll get some X-rays done.’

‘X-rays?’

She looked at him as if he was a very thick little boy. ‘Well we’re not going to actually post mortem them, are we? They’re mummies . Priceless relics of a long-dead civilisation. Cause of death isn’t going to do you a hell of a lot of good, is it? Or are you planning on climbing into your DeLorean and travelling back to ancient Egypt with an arrest warrant?’

Yeah, she had a point.

‘Now,’ the APT pointed at Mummy Number Two, ‘help me get it sitting up and we’ll see what we can see...’

‘I know it’s not nice, but you need to eat it. It’s good for you.’

The spoon is cold against his cracked lips, its contents hard and gritty.

He’d raise his hands and bat the spoon away, but his arms don’t work any more. They don’t even float in the water, just sink into its filthy depths to lie against the steel tank. Nothing works.

Can’t even hold his own head up.

So the Priest holds it up for him, a warm hand on the back of his neck.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll help.’

The other hand forces his mouth open, then pours the grit inside.

It sits there, in his mouth, like tiny stones. Sticking to his tongue and cheeks. Making him gag and cough. But there’s not enough breath left to shift anything.

The walls are louder now, singing at the top of their splintered lungs: ‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god. They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god. They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’

Their voices send a tremor rattling through him, shaking his teeth, making his ribs ache.

‘Shhh...’ A hand strokes his forehead. ‘Shhh...’

Then a kiss.

‘I think it’s time, don’t you?’

Oh God please let it be time to die. Time for the pain to go away. Please .

‘They’ll worship you, They’ll worship you...’

‘Come on.’

The water falls away and he’s being carried, arms and legs swinging in the cool air, rivulets of brackish water falling to the floor. There’s almost nothing left of him now. Nothing but skin and bone.

‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’

The singing walls swim and pulse around him, worshipping. And finally he makes the transition into the other room. The one where the fish hang in silent prayer.

Even the walls are quiet in here. Reverential. Waiting for the blessed relief.

Soon he’ll be dead and all this will be over.

‘Here we go.’ Gentle hands lay him on the stone floor.

High up above, a sliver of grey sunlight dances with dust motes. Spiralling and swirling.

There’s a pressure on his ankles, but not much more than that.

Then the squeal of wood on wood and his legs raise themselves off the ground, then his hips, his back, and finally his head leaves the earth. He sways gently, ascending to heaven with his arms dangling either side of his ears.

Swaying and rising.

Up and up into the darkness.

Up and up into death’s comforting embrace.

He opens his mouth to say thank you, but all that comes out is a cascade of little gritty pellets.

The Priest smiles up at him, a thick rope held in one hand. ‘You’ll be a god...’

A god of skin and bone.

‘And one more...’ Lucy stepped back and the machinery buzzed again. Then clunked. ‘OK, all done.’ The muscles in her arm rippled as she pushed the portable X-ray machine’s arm out of the way, making the tattoos dance. ‘Now all we have to do is download the data, format it, and you’ll get your glimpse into the ancient past. Might take a while, though.’

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Thanks.’

A grin. ‘Who did you piss off?’

‘Hmm?’

‘To get lumbered with this. No one asks for a PM on a thousand-year-old mummy unless they’re being punished for something.’ She flipped off the footbrake. ‘So who did you piss off?’

Callum forced a smile. ‘Pretty much everyone.’

‘Thought so.’ Lucy took hold of the handles and shoved, setting the X-ray kit rolling. ‘You can wait here, in the smell, or you can come through to the IT lab. It’ll be warmer. With seats.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Wise choice. Oh, and on the way? There’s a drinks machine in the APTs’ lounge, I’ll have a hot chocolate.’

Cheeky sod.

A dull buzzing thrum ran through the lab, mingling with the soft whirr of desktop computers, and the ping-click-ping-click of a small electric heater.