Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

He launched himself onto the roof, crouching low, arms spread out as his shoes slithered on the damp slates. A wooden deck wrapped around the side of the smokehouse about ten feet below, complete with tables, chairs, and patio umbrellas. A handful of people standing and staring, some with their mobile phones out, filming something just out of sight.

Callum dropped onto his backside and slid the last three feet. Popped over the guttering and dropped. Landed with a grunt in the shattered remains of a wooden table and broken patio umbrella.

Watt was on his back next to the wall, wrestling with Mr Hand Truck — trying to grab his hands and failing. A fist smacked into Watt’s cheek with a dull slap, sending his head bouncing off the decking.

Then Mr Hand Truck grabbed the patio umbrella’s base: a round lump of cast iron, big as a manhole cover but twice as thick, with a foot of splintered wooden pole sticking out of it. Raised the whole thing above his head like a makeshift hammer, muscles in his arms bunching with the strain.

Watt’s eyes went wide. He snatched his arms in front of his face. ‘NOOOOO!’

Callum dropped his shoulder and charged, hurling himself into the base as it swung down, knocking it sideways into the wall.

Clang .

His hip thumped into Mr Hand Truck, sending him bouncing off the wall too.

A knot of arms and legs.

Some swearing.

Thumps.

Then pain ripped its way up Callum’s leg — bursting out from his inner thigh. ‘Aaargh!’

He snapped around and there was Mr Hand Truck with his teeth buried in Callum’s trousers, about eight inches from his groin. ‘GET OFF ME!’

Callum smashed the heel of his hand into the biting scumbag’s nose. It made a satisfying crunch, and he reared back, eyes closed, blood exploding from his nostrils.

‘Aaargh, you dirty...’ He grabbed his inner thigh. Dear God , that stung...

Mr Hand Truck pitched backwards onto the decking, making groaning foamy noises as little bubbles of blood popped from his broken nose.

Callum was shoved into the wall again as Watt wriggled out from underneath.

‘You!’ Watt hauled out his cuffs, floppy fringe all bent and twisted. ‘STAY DOWN!’

But Mr Hand Truck wasn’t having any of it. He rolled over and fought his way to his feet then lurched off across the decking, scattering tourists all around him.

There was a gap in the railing — stairs down to the grassy river bank.

He staggered down the steps, leaving a trail of red drops on the wooden boards, Watt limping after him.

Callum hauled himself upright. Struggling on his unbitten leg. Gritting his teeth. Making for the stairs in painful hops.

A jetty poked out into the dark-grey water — no more than a dozen feet long, with a couple of rowing boats tied up on both sides. A week of constant rain and the river was in full bore, breaking over the jetty’s uprights, pinning one rowing boat against the wooden posts while the other was stretched downstream pulling its mooring line tight.

Mr Hand Truck stumbled his way onto the jetty, both hands clutched over his nose.

Watt closed the gap. ‘GET BACK HERE!’

‘Urgh.’ Come on, move. Callum limp-hopped down the stairs.

Mr Hand Truck came to a halt at the end of the small jetty, looked back over his shoulder, then jumped into the rowing boat on the upstream side. Which promptly overturned and dumped him in the river. ‘Aaaaaaaargh!’

He disappeared under the roiling gunmetal water. Thrashed to the surface, snatching handfuls of air as if he could pull himself up with them. Disappeared underwater again.

Didn’t come up.

No, no, no, no...

Callum managed a wobbly run, every other step sending rusty shards of metal digging into his thigh.

Watt paced the width of the planks, staring down into the dark water. ‘Sodding hell.’

A huge fountain of spray and Mr Hand Truck burst into view again on the opposite side of the jetty. Coughing, spluttering, and screaming. ‘HELB! HELB!’ Arms flailing.

‘Oh God.’ Watt froze, his voice just audible as Callum lumbered closer — talking to himself. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t do anything stupid... Argh!’ Then he whipped off his jacket and dived into the water.

‘No!’ Callum staggered to a halt on the jetty.

Mr Hand Truck thumped into the other rowing boat. ‘I CAN’T SWIMB!’ His face dipped beneath the water, then he struggled back into the air. ‘HELB!’

And there was Watt — bursting out of the gunmetal water right next to him. He grabbed a handful of Mr Hand Truck’s T-shirt, his other hand catching hold of the boat.

The river made bow waves against them both, rising up and curling away in breaking white spray. Shoving.

‘HELB! HELB!’

Watt bared his teeth. ‘Stop struggling!’

Tattooed arms flailed, whipping up spray, eyes wide, mouth open.

Then CRACK , his elbow landed right in the middle of Watt’s face, snapping his head back and knocking him under the surface. When he burst into the air again, blood made a dark pink slick down his chin. ‘Gagh...’

‘HELB!’ Mr Hand Truck snatched at him, clambering up Watt like a ladder, forcing him down beneath the surface again.

Oh no...

Callum teetered on the jetty’s edge.

Oh God, he was going to have to jump in, wasn’t he? Into the fast-flowing dark-grey water. And hope he came out again alive.

He whipped off his jacket, ripped off his clip-on tie.

‘HELGGgggggggllllbb!’ The river took a firm grip on Mr Hand Truck’s head and torso, yanking him back and around, breaking Watt’s hold on his T-shirt and sending him spinning away into the torrent.

Oh Christ.

Too late. Should have leapt in straight away. Shouldn’t have stopped to think about it.

Watt spluttered his way back to the air, snatched at the boat with both hands as Mr Hand Truck was swallowed by the Kings River.

Should’ve just done it.

Someone swore.

He turned and faced a barrage of camera phones, all pointed at the swollen water. Half the people who’d been out on the decking were leaning on the rail. The other half had made their way down the stairs to the river bank. And they were all filming.

Oh that was just great — the whole fiasco, captured for all eternity and uploaded onto YouTube. So everyone could see him standing there, doing nothing.

Why the hell hadn’t he jumped? He’d hesitated and now someone was probably dead.

Yes, but Watt wasn’t. He still needed rescuing.

Do it.

Jump.

Get your cowardly backside into gear and—

Watt hauled himself up the side of the rowboat and tumbled inside. Lay in the bottom of it, on his back, heaving in great gulps of air. Coughing, both hands clutched over his chest. ‘Arrgh...’

There was no sign of Mr Hand Truck. Nothing but that roiling expanse of hungry water, growling away around the curl of the bank. He was gone.

And this was officially a monumental cock-up.

Callum wrapped one arm around the ladder and reached out with his other. Beneath his feet, the river surged, rain making dimples in the steel-coloured surface that merged and disappeared. Only to be immediately replaced. The rowboat’s mooring line was just out of reach, so he tried again, leaning further out over the rolling water... Got it.

Watt was still flat on his back, soaked through, panting, eyes closed. Blood made a dark smear through his beard — bright red at the corner of his mouth.

So Callum pulled. Hauled. Braced his legs against the ladder’s steel rungs and dragged the boat closer to the jetty, fighting the river all the way. Until the boat bumped against the bottom of the ladder.