Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Besides, if he went home he’d have to explain what happened to Elaine. My earlobe and that gristly bit above it? Oh, nothing much: they were bitten off by a junkie. But at least my HIV test came back negative. Elaine? Hello, Elaine?

He shrugged. ‘At least this way I get the overtime. Need all we can get with Peanut on the way. Do you have any idea how much it costs to raise a kid these days?’

Finally the roundabout onto the main road crawled into view. Buses and eighteen-wheelers sending up huge drifts of spray, drenching the smaller cars.

‘Urgh.’ Franklin crawled the car forward, bumper inches away from the people carrier they’d been stuck behind since leaving the hospital. ‘All it ever does in this sodding town is rain.’

‘Sometimes.’ He drew a frowny face in the mist that crept up the passenger window. ‘Did they get any sense out of Brett Millar?’

‘Still off his face on mushrooms.’ Franklin tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, syncopating with the windscreen wipers. ‘They even tried giving him a shot of Narcan; didn’t make any difference though.’

‘Yeah, well magic mushrooms aren’t opioids, are they? Not surprised it didn’t work.’

‘At least they tried.’

He drew angry eyebrows on the frowny face. ‘So we’ve got Ben Harrington dead in the bath, Brett Millar’s so high he can orbit the International Space Station, and Glen Carmichael is missing... You know what I think? I think the three of them aren’t serial killers, they’re victims. You saw how emaciated Brett Millar was. He’s been starved.’

‘When did you ever meet a fat junkie? Maybe he’s...’ Franklin closed her eyes and swore. ‘Benjamin Harrington. We’ve still got to deliver the death message.’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Callum peered through the rain-smeared windscreen.

Traffic was solid northbound, so getting over Calderwell Bridge was going to be a nightmare. He checked his watch. ‘No point even trying till rush hour’s gone. Stick to the plan: at least it’s moving southbound.’

Assuming he hadn’t just jinxed it.

‘What if they find out from the radio, or some scumbag journalist doorsteps them?’

‘They won’t .’ Fingers crossed, anyway. ‘We pick up Dr McDonald and we head to the flat in Castleview. By the time she’s finished poking around, rush hour will have died down and we can sling past Ben Harrington’s parents on the way back to the station.’

Franklin edged them closer to the car in front, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. ‘Of course, the real question is: if Brett Millar’s running about all over Blackwall Hill, out of his head on magic mushrooms, where’s Glen Carmichael?’

‘He’s already dead.’

‘AAAAAAAARGH!’ The bucket sails through the musty air and bursts against the wall. Water makes a comet’s trail, soaking into the bricks.

Where the hell is he?

He should be right there — chained to the wall, but he’s not.

Instead, the chain sits on the ground, coiled like a snake. Venomous and treacherous. Useless. Four screws lie in the dirt, still in their Rawlplug shells, torn from the mouldering brickwork, letting the tie-up ring come free from the wall. It’s still fixed to the end of the chain by its padlock. The traitorous useless chain.

‘You had ONE JOB!’

He grabs it up and hurls it away into the gloom. It clangs and clatters against the long-dead boiler, hissing its way into a deceitful pile.

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

All that time. All that energy. All those sacred herbs wasted .

Weeks and weeks of work. Gone, just like that.

He grinds his teeth, whole body trembling, blood surging in his ears. Whoom. Whoom. Whoom ...

How could he be so stupid?

Once Upon A Time

There’s a jackdaw hanging on the fence behind the house. Like a little black kite, caught on its own strings. Wings outstretched. Beak hanging open. Eyes like marbles that’ve been rolled too many times on rough concrete and gravel, till they’re all white and scratched.

The jackdaw is dead.

Everything dies.

He reaches out and touches its feathers. They’re cold and soft.

Sometimes things die because they’re old, or ill, and sometimes they die because Father makes them dead. Sometimes they get hung from the fence with wasp-eaten wooden clothes pegs. And sometimes they get buried in the cold dark ground.

Justin stands in the kitchen, sniffling. Outside the sun is going down, making the fields look like they’re bleeding.

The fields are bleeding and the house is full of smoke.

And Father howls his anger at the walls. Using it like a stick to beat the smoke with. Only the smoke doesn’t break as easily as Justin.

The kitchen door bursts open, bouncing off the wall, making the mugs and plates rattle in their cupboards. Father stabs a finger at him. ‘It’s those bloody jackdaws again!’

Justin doesn’t move.

‘Building their sodding nests in the bloody chimney...’ His face is dark as the smoke, teeth shining like sharp white stones. ‘Get the ladder.’

‘I...’ Justin licks his lips.

Father’s hand is like a claw, fingers digging into Justin’s arm, squeezing so hard it sends needles and pins and knives stabbing all the way up into his shoulder.

‘Aaaaaagh!’

‘You’re making your mother cry . Can you hear her? Can you?’ He shakes Justin, making his teeth clack together. ‘CAN YOU HEAR HER?’

Faint, muffled sobs come from downstairs, working their way up through the floorboards like sad little seedlings looking for light. But there’s no light up here, only blood and smoke.

‘I’m sorry, Father, I’m sorry.’

Another shake. ‘Then don’t make me tell you again.’

A nod. Teeth biting his bottom lip. Blinking back the tears.

Father lets go and Justin runs . He runs out the back door and round the side of the house to the garage. Fights with the slippery doorknob. Stumbles into the darkness, wiping tears from his cheeks.

The ladder is bigger than he is, but he gets it down and hauls it out into the back garden. Sticks it up against the wall, so it reaches way up to the guttering. Shuffles his feet on the damp grass, his breath pink and cloudy in the fading light.

Father steps out onto the path. Looks at the ladder. Then looks at him. ‘Well?’

Justin stares at his trainers.

‘Up you go.’

‘But the jackdaws hate me.’

‘Of course they hate you. You’re destroying their home and killing their babies.’ Father smiles his nastiest smile. ‘Why would they like you?’

‘They’ll peck my eyes out and I’ll fall off the roof and I don’t want to—’ The fist is nearly too fast to see, but it smashes into his cheek like a hammer, snapping his head away, making him stumble and fall across the damp grass. The world sounds like symbols and drums. Then all the air whoomps out of him as Father’s boot smacks into his tummy, lifting him off the ground and spinning him over onto his back. Rats gnaw through him, their little pink tails burning his insides.

He rolls over and curls up into a ball. Cries.

And finally, Father squats down beside him. ‘Hey, come on, slugger. Dry your eyes, champ.’ Gentle hands wipe the tears away. ‘There we go. All better.’ He helps Justin to his feet. Brushes the grass and dew from his jumper. ‘You good?’

Justin nods. Don’t tremble. Don’t cry.

‘Course you are: big boy like you.’ He guides him over to the bottom of the ladder. ‘Now up you go, and don’t forget to kill the babies, OK? OK.’

He stands at the top of the stairs. Father must’ve left the basement door open again, and a bare lightbulb casts sharp shadows on the rough brick walls.