Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘No. That’s perfect. I’m stopping.’ The car pulled into the lay-by, bumping and rolling along the holey road, caravan lurching away behind it. ‘There.’

Mum didn’t sing along with the lady on the radio: she just sat there, in the passenger seat, with her arms folded, staring out of the window.

Dad’s voice was stretched and twangy, the way it went before someone got spanked for being naughty: ‘Alastair, do you need a wee too?’

‘No, Dad.’

‘Callum?’

‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’

‘Get out, Callum.’

He scrabbled with his seatbelt, pulled on his flip-flops, and pushed the door open. Hopped down onto the car park’s holey surface.

The toilets were a low grey rectangle, sitting in front of a line of trees. Filth streaked the walls and the guttering sagged in the middle. Someone had sprayed ‘TORY SCUM OUT!’ across the Ladies. There weren’t any outside doors, instead a bit of wall was missing at both ends of the building, open and gaping. A cave, full of shadows and horrible smells.

Up above, the sky was dark as an angry cat.

Mum nudged Dad. ‘Don’t just sit there — go with him.’

‘He’s not a baby, Nicola. If he wants to go to the toilet he’s damn well big enough to go on his own.’

Callum wiped his damp palms on the legs of his shorts.

Maybe he didn’t need to go after all?

Maybe he could hold it in all the way home?

But that great big balloon just above his willy didn’t want to hold it in. It wanted to pee it out, all down his leg if he didn’t—

The car horn blared, and he jumped. Turned.

Dad scowled at him through the driver’s window. Alastair grinned from the backseat.

Swallow. Turn.

You can do this, Callum.

You’re a big boy now. Big boys can go to the toilet on their own.

He took a deep breath and crept into the Gents. Into the gloom. Into the manky-vinegar stink of old wee.

White tiles covered the walls, the lines in between them all dirty and yellow. Thick scratch marks ran across the brown floor, like something heavy had been dragged from one of the cubicles. Four of them huddled along the left wall, one with its door all splintered and hanging off. Urinals on the wall opposite. Sinks at the back.

A dripping tap went plink, plink, plink .

Callum hurried across to the urinals, unzipped his shorts and stood on his tiptoes.

Nothing happened.

Come on. Come on. Come on.

‘Hello, little boy.’ The voice was big and heavy, thick and slimy. Like a huge slug. ‘You’re a pretty little boy, aren’t you?’

A thin stream of yellow piddle splashed into the urinal, wobbling up and down because Callum couldn’t stop shaking.

‘Such a pretty blond little boy.’

The Slug slithered closer, breath all heavy and panting.

‘Please, my dad—’

‘Shut up. Don’t spoil it.’ Closer. ‘Are you a good little boy?’

Callum stood there, with his shrivelled willy in his hand. ‘Please.’

‘Mmm, I’ll bet you are.’ The Slug was so close now his butter-minty breath washed over Callum’s face. ‘This is going to be our little secret. If you tell anyone, I’ll know. And I know where you live and I’ll come get you. I’ll kill your mummy and daddy and I’ll punish you. Understand?’

He nodded. Bit his bottom lip to keep the tears in.

‘Good.’ A warm slimy tongue licked its way up Callum’s cheek, slow and minty and wet. ‘Now you’re going to be very quiet and come with—

‘Nah, course Labour’s gonna win next year.’ A man stumbled into the toilets, voice echoing back from the tiles. ‘Stands to reason, don’t it?’

Callum flinched.

The warm sticky breath disappeared and the slimy slug trail on his cheek went cold. Now the only thing left was the plink, plink, plink of the dripping tap and the jaggy sour smell of wee.

He fumbled his willy back into his pants. Zipped up with shaky fingers.

‘They better win.’ Another man — dressed in the same checked shirt and scruffy jeans as his friend — long hair dangling down round his face, cigarette poking from the corner of his mouth. ‘Can you imagine another four years of these bawbags?’

No sign of the Slug.

Callum’s breath shuddered out. He sagged for a moment. Then scuffed across to the sinks and washed his hands. Scrubbed a wet hand across the cold patch on his cheek. Dried himself on a greying curl of fabric hanging from the towel machine.

Stepped over to the exit.

And froze.

What if the Slug hadn’t gone away? What if he was out there, just waiting for him? Waiting to grab him and take him away and punish him and he’d never see his mummy and daddy ever again and it would be horrible and...

The stabby pain was back. He hurried to the urinals, up on his tiptoes again, making little grunty noises as the wee went down the drain.

Then washed his hands again, cos Mum didn’t like widdly hands in the car.

Both the guys in the grungy clothes were laughing at some joke about two nuns and a donkey that made no sense at all. Peeing and peeing and peeing like they’d drunk a whole bathtub full of Fanta. They didn’t wash their hands either, just lit up cigarettes and sauntered out the exit with their hands in their pockets.

Callum wiped his sweaty hands on his shorts again.

Plink. Plink. Plink .

The sound of a car faded into the distance.

It would be OK. It would.

Dad would get angry about how long he was taking and come get him.

Then he’d shout at Callum, and maybe spank the back of his legs, but he’d scare the Slug away and everything would be OK again.

It would.

Callum swallowed.

Shifted from foot to foot in his gritty flip-flops.

Come on, Daddy. Come on...

It’d been ages now.

What if they’d got fed up, driven off and left him?

What if they’d forgotten he was here, in the toilets?

What if they never came back?

What if the Slug did ?

Oh no...

Callum hurried outside.

Dad’s car and the caravan were still there.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

He’d never be naughty, ever again. He’d do everything Mum asked him. He’d tidy his room. He’d even be nice to Alastair the bumhead.

A rumble of thunder, off in the distance, mingled with the traffic noises from the road.

He ran fast as a rabbit to Dad’s car and grabbed the door handle. But it just clunked up and down. The door didn’t open.

Alastair must’ve locked it. Well, he was going to get a dead arm soon as Mum and Dad weren’t looking. It wasn’t funny : locking people out of the car when there was a horrible Slug slithering about trying to steal little boys like something horrid from a fairy tale.

Callum knocked on the window.

Tried the handle again.

Still locked.

Stood on his tiptoes, and peered in through the glass.

The bumhead wasn’t on the back seat. Or in the footwell.

‘Mum?’

She wasn’t in the passenger seat. And Dad wasn’t behind the wheel. The car was empty.

‘Hello?’

Another boom of thunder, loud enough to make him jump. They’d left him. They’d run away and left him.

How could they leave him?

Callum’s bottom lip trembled.

He backed against Dad’s car. ‘Dad?’

They couldn’t have left him. They couldn’t .

It wasn’t his fault he needed a wee...

‘Mum?’

And what if the Slug came back? A drop of rain burst against the lumpy tarmac.

What if the Slug was waiting for him?

‘Please...’

Another drop. Then another. And another. Thumping down on the car roof like the feet of a tiny monster. Soaking through his hair and his T-shirt.