Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Callum crossed his arms. ‘What’s this, more “friendly” advice? Cos I’m not in the mood.’

Elaine cleared her throat. ‘I was sorry to hear about your mother.’

‘Callum, I know the timing’s horrible, but it was going to be horrible whenever it happened.’ Powel put a hand on Elaine’s shoulder.

‘Yeah, well, there’s never a good time for your mother’s head to be found in a carrier bag, is there?’ He reached for a dry pair of jeans. ‘Anything else?’

A sniff, and Elaine finally dragged her eyes up to look at him. ‘Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.’

‘I just want to get dry and changed, OK?’

‘Reece has left his wife.’

‘Good for him. But he’s not staying here. Barely enough room for the two of us as it—’

‘I packed you a bag.’

Callum froze. ‘You packed me a bag?’

‘It...’ She rubbed a hand across her pregnant belly. ‘God, why do you have to be like this?’

‘I’m not being like anything! What do you mean, you packed me a bag? Why the hell would I need a—’

‘It’s not your child, OK?’ Her voice was loud and trembling. ‘Peanut isn’t yours, Callum. He’s Reece’s. Don’t you get it?’

The world shrunk to a tiny silent pinprick.

Then blood crashed against the pebble beach. Nails dragged across the caravan’s aluminium hull. Thunder roared .

Callum blinked. ‘He’s what?’

‘Don’t you get it? I was making do. Reece was never going to leave his wife and you were better than nothing. But that’s all changed now.’

‘Are you kidding? Are you—’

‘I love him, Callum.’

Heat rushed through his body, pins and needles crackled between his shoulder blades, fists curled so tight his knuckles burned. ‘This was all lies? Peanut isn’t... I was better than nothing ?’

‘For God’s sake, Callum, listen to yourself.’

‘I was good enough to raise someone else’s kid, though, wasn’t I? Good enough to lie to!’

Powel squeezed past Elaine, putting himself between them. ‘All right, that’s enough. I need you to—’

‘You manipulative, two-timing, backstabbing, lying—’

‘I said that’s enough, Constable!’

‘I took the blame. For you!’ He pointed at Powel’s child, growing in her belly like a tumour. ‘For that . And it wasn’t even mine?’

Her voice trembled. ‘What was I supposed to do?’

‘I FLUSHED MY WHOLE CAREER — FOR YOU!’

Powel’s open palm thumped into Callum’s chest. ‘I’m not telling you again.’

And the thunder roared.

Callum grabbed two handfuls of Powel’s shirt, yanked him forwards and off balance, then slammed him into the bedroom wall, hard enough to knock framed photos off their hooks. Did it again, harder. Cracks rippled out through the plasterboard where Powel’s head crashed into it with a splintering thump.

Kill him.

Callum let go with one hand and smashed his fist into Powel’s face. More cracks in the plasterboard as his head bounced.

Kill him.

Elaine screamed, the sound cutting through the thick air like a bone saw. ‘GET OFF HIM!’

Powel’s eyes rolled up, mouth drooping open.

Kill him.

Getting heavier in Callum’s hands.

Kill him.

Callum let go and Powel slumped to the carpet.

KILL HIM!

He drew back a foot, to kick the bastard’s head in and—

‘STOP IT!’ Elaine grabbed at his arm, tried to pull him away. ‘LEAVE HIM ALONE!’

Callum stumbled, turned, fist curling up...

She glared at him, tears rolling down her cheeks, face flushed and distorted. ‘GET OUT! YOU’RE NOT WANTED, UNDERSTAND? YOU WERE NEVER WANTED!’

He lowered his hand.

Blood crashed on the stony beach.

She covered her eyes. ‘Please. Just... go.’

Callum grabbed his battered old case and marched out, scooping up his wet shoes and soggy jacket on the way. Slammed the door behind him. Stood on the landing, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. Dragged in a deep, jagged breath.

‘Callum?’ The door at the far end of the landing was open, just a crack, still on the chain — Toby’s jaundiced face barely visible in the gap. ‘Is everything OK? I heard screaming.’

‘No. Not it’s not, “OK”.’

He turned and marched down the stairs, suitcase clatter-thumping its way along behind him, past open doors on the second floor — everyone peering out to see what was going on from a safe distance.

Callum unlocked his bike and hurled it out of the front door into the rain. Did the same with the suitcase. Pulled on his wet shoes and jacket, then stormed out after them.

Thursday night in the Bart wasn’t much busier than the Wednesday.

Three auld biddies in the corner booth were playing dominos. A couple having an argument over by the pool table. A fat beardy bloke, playing with his mobile phone and glancing at the door every two minutes. Probably wondering how long he should give it before admitting defeat and accepting that he’d been stood up.

Callum fed another four pound coins into the jukebox with his left hand, pressed a few buttons and lurched back to the bar as Radiohead’s ‘Exit Music from a Film’ oozed out from the pub’s speakers again. Ignoring the groans from everyone else. Feeling no pain.

He tipped back the whisky in his swollen right fist and clunked the empty glass back on the bar. Winced. OK, maybe some pain. But there was an easy way to fix that: ‘Same again.’

Hedgehog Dundee sucked a breath in through his teeth then let it out in a long slow hiss. A round wee man with an oversized goatee, shiny face, and long straggly hair, he looked as if his blood was about sixty-four percent cheese. ‘Not that I’m ungrateful for your patronage, Constable MacGregor, but you’re rather undermining the happy-go-lucky atmosphere we strive for here at the Dumbarton Arms.’

‘Double Grouse, no ice or... or water. Pint of Cham-pi-on.’ Had to focus a bit to get the word ‘Champion’ out, because something had gone wrong with his tongue, but it was the thought that counted.

‘And while “Exit Music from a Film” is a well-constructed song, and clearly reminiscent of Gustav Mahler’s later work, the fact that you’ve played it fourteen times in a row is beginning to take its toll on the other patrons’ joie de vivre .’

‘An a... an a packet of piggled... onion.’ He wobbled his way up onto a barstool.

‘Especially as you preceded this tribute to a somewhat lesser known Radiohead song about suicide, with a dozen playings of REM’s “Everybody Hurts”.’ Hedgehog reached beneath the bar and came out with a folded sheet of paper. Placed it in front of Callum. ‘This might be more beneficial to your state of mind than the further consumption of alcohol and depressive songs.’

It was a leaflet for the Samaritans.

Callum drained his pint and thumped the empty glass down right on top of the thing. Squinted one eye shut to keep everything in focus. Put on his best police officer voice: ‘Hedgehog, I’m going to give you... you a choice. You can either get me my drinks... drinks an crisps, or... or I can call a friend at Food Standards Scotland...’ OK, that sounded a bit slurred, but they were difficult words after five or six pints. And double whiskies. ‘I’ll... I’ll get them to come down here an... an give your kitchen the kind of... examination that’d make... make a proctologist’s eyes water.’

A sigh. Then Hedgehog turned and pressed a tumbler up beneath the optic of Famous Grouse.

Damn straight.

No one wanted a visit from the Cheese Police.

The whisky went on a coaster in front of him, followed by a foamy pint of dark brown beer, and a silvery green packet.