Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

There were three incoming texts, though. All from Elaine.

Oh.

‘And a great writer too. That’s why the album was so successful — the source material was just so great.’

Callum’s thumb hovered over the first one.

Might be a better idea to just delete them, rather than sit here reading all about how it wasn’t her fault and he had no right to judge her...

‘So you can imagine how awful it was when we started losing him, yeah? How painful it’s been watching Alzheimer’s eat Ray. How this horrible disease is consuming the guy we all loved.’

The male presenter sat forward and oiled out a sympathetic expression. ‘But you decided to do something about it, didn’t you?’

Callum selected the first message:

What the hell is wrong with you?

How could you DO that to Reece?

I’m at the hospital because of

YOU!!!

‘Yeah, so me and the lads got together and we said, “We can’t just let this happen to Ray!” So I got onto the organisers of the Tartantula music festival, in Oldcastle, and told them, how about we do some sort of benefit...’

The second message wasn’t much better:

You broke three of his teeth!!!!

I used to know you, Callum, but I

don’t now. You can’t come back

from this. Know what? NEVER come

back again.

‘... came up with the idea of getting all these modern bands to join in and help us raise money for Ray’s care and, you know, to help research into Alzheimer’s too. And these young guys have been great, it’s going to be a terrific gig.’

Number three:

I can’t believe I ever loved you.

‘The feeling’s mutual.’

‘And if you can’t get up to Oldcastle on Sunday, don’t worry: we’re gonna record the whole thing and it’s gonna be this great live collector’s edition CD thing and on downloads or whatever it is you kids do these days.’ Another laugh.

Callum deleted the lot, then added her mobile number to his phone’s barred list.

‘And every penny’s going to—’

He killed the TV with the remote and slouched back to bed.

Dotty’s voice cracked through the kitchen like a whip. ‘You’re up!’

Callum didn’t look up, just stayed where he was: slumped at the small table, wrapped around a bitter mug of milky coffee while his stomach growled and gurgled. ‘Why did you let me drink so much?’

‘Don’t look at me. According to Hedgehog you’d had about half a bottle of whisky by the time I got there. Not to mention all the beer. You owe him about seventy quid and an apology.’

Seventy quid?

Oh God...

A groan broke free and Callum sagged even further. ‘What happened to my bike?’

‘You left it at the Bart.’ A warm hand rested on the small of his back. ‘I know this sounds terrible, but you know what it’s like with a murder enquiry, so...?’

He wouldn’t be taking a couple of days off after all. ‘Mother wants me back at work.’

‘Ah. No.’ Deep breath. ‘They want you to come in and formally identify your mother’s remains today. I know they’ve got the familial DNA match, but they still need someone to come down the mortuary and confirm that it’s her. Sorry.’

Of course they did.

He straightened up. ‘Yeah.’

Dotty wheeled Keith back towards the door. ‘How’s the hand?’

He held it out.

‘Ooh. Right.’ She made a hissing noise. ‘We probably better get you to A-and-E first.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to A-and-E?’ Dotty manoeuvred her wheelchair in front of him, blocking the corridor.

‘Let’s just get this over with.’

Clearly, whoever built Castle Hill Infirmary hadn’t given a toss about the bowels of the building looking like what bowels usually contained. Down here, in the sub-basement, they didn’t bother with all that fancy terrazzo flooring, calming paintings, and institution-green walls. The floor was concrete with a scuffed line of black paint down the middle, the walls brick and breezeblock. And instead of a fancy-pants suspended ceiling with moon-surface tiles, bundles of cables and pipes snaked their way through the gloom. Because putting in enough lightbulbs to actually see by was just pandering to people. Much better to leave the corridor looking like something out of a horror movie.

It was warm down here too, the air heavy with the weight of the building above, thrumming and ticking and clicking with distant hospital sounds.

‘Callum?’

He blinked. Puffed out a breath. ‘I’ll get the hand seen to when we’ve finished. Promise.’

A nod, then Dotty spun her wheelchair around and squeaked off down the corridor. ‘We’re thinking of getting a carryout tonight. I fancy a Thai, if you want to join us?’

Callum limped after her. ‘Dotty?’

‘What, you don’t like Thai food?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Nah,’ she let go of Keith’s rim and waved a hand over her shoulder, ‘it’s only takeaway, no biggie.’

‘And not just for taking me in last night, for everything . You were the only one who didn’t treat me like a deep-fried jobbie when I joined the Mob.’

‘Yeah, well, I need someone to raid the vending machines for chocolate, don’t I? Not like Wanky Watt the Wrinkled Willy-Wart is going to do it.’

The corridor took a sharp right, only a single working lightbulb to deflect the darkness. A sign on the wall was barely visible, ‘MORTUARY →’.

‘Maybe you should give him a chance?’

‘What, Watt? I’d rather give him a boot up the backside.’

‘He risked his life yesterday for a nasty wee scrote who’d tried to kill him. And it wasn’t an automatic, gut-reaction, jump-straight-in thing, either: I could see him thinking about it. He knew it was stupid and dangerous, but he did it anyway.’

‘Hmmm...’ She followed the little black line. ‘He’s still a moaning dick, though.’

‘Oh, totally . But wouldn’t you be if you were him? If you had to wake up with that face every morning?’

A pair of double doors loomed up on the right, lit from above by a small fluorescent tube that buzzed and flickered. They’d mounted metal bumper plates on the dark-green wood — presumably to protect it — the surface covered with dents, gouges, and scrapes. Unlike living patients, the dead didn’t mind if you used the trolley they lay on as a battering ram.

Dotty let Callum do the honours. He held one side open as she wheeled herself inside, then followed her into that familiar dark-brown reek of human waste and disinfectant. Each breath hung in the air, like a ghost, before dissipating away into the cold.

The mortuary looked about two hundred years overdue for a makeover. Its floor was covered in black tiles, cracked and uneven, the walls with filthy ivory-coloured ones, stained like a smoker’s fingers. Three stainless-steel cutting tables sat in front of a wall of refrigerated drawers, the other walls lined with metal work surfaces. Glinting in the harsh overhead light.

A tall man in pale-blue scrubs and white wellies worked a mop along the floor tiles, pushing a mini tidal wave of grey-beige water around. Ponytail dangling behind him, high forehead almost as shiny as the cutting tables.

Only one of them was occupied.

The body was huge and tallow pale. Naked. On its back. Thick bloated arms and legs. Dark wiry pubic hair like a mini forest, nestling at the end of a gaping wound that stretched all the way down from his collar bone. Skin peeled back, front of the ribcage removed, torso hollow and glistening. Beard like a bear, but blotchy and yellowed around the mouth. Thick bands of bruises around his wrists and ankles.