Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

Logan let him rattle on. Why burst his little bubble?

‘Going to honeymoon in Vegas. Maybe get married there too? What do you think? Elvis Presley now pronounces you man and wife... or is that too cheesy?’

‘Pretty cheesy.’

‘Sometimes cheesy is good.’

The traffic ground to a halt again at the junction with Union Terrace. On the other side of the road a gaggle of schoolgirls — all wearing the green jumpers and tartan skirts of Albyn School — waited for the cars and buses cutting across Union Street to give way to the little green man.

They laughed and joked, smoked, listened to iPods, sent text messages to their friends, peered in shop windows...

Logan frowned. Then slapped Rennie on the arm. ‘Look!’

‘What?’ The constable glanced across the road. ‘Jesus, never figured you for a dirty old man.’

‘No, you idiot: her . The one with the red and green brolly. Blonde. Does Laura have a little sister?’

‘Eh? No, she’s...’ Rennie was staring at the girls again, face going pale. Without the makeup, tiny skirt and hoiked-up boobs, Laura didn’t look quite the same as she had in the pub the other night, but it was definitely her. ‘Ffff... oh... Fuck!’

‘What do you think? Sixteen? Higher? Lower?’

‘Fuck!’

‘Not so much your pretend kinky schoolgirl, as an actual schoolgirl.’

‘FUCK!’

‘You were saying something about dirty old men?’

The intensive care ward was quiet, just the hum and ping of machinery to break the gloomy silence. Insch was wired up to a bank of equipment, little round sticky pads on the pale pink expanse of his chest; an oxygen mask strapped over his mouth, misty with condensation; another pulse monitor on the end of his finger.

The inspector’s wife, Miriam, was sitting by his bedside, sniffing into a handkerchief, looking twenty years older than she should have.

Logan stopped at the end of the bed. ‘How is he?’

She looked up, saw who it was, then went back to staring at her husband. ‘They’re waiting to see if... he needs to be stronger, or they can’t operate.’

‘We...’ Logan gave an embarrassed cough, and held up the massive get-well-soon card in the shape of a teddy bear. ‘Everyone signed it. We...’ Another cough. ‘You know he’s too damn stubborn to give up.’

‘It all went so wrong...’

Brilliant evening. Spectacular. Like a hole in the head.

Vicky clambered out of the car and plipped the locks. Sodding Marcus and his sodding parents and this sodding, GODFORSAKEN DINNER PARTY tomorrow night. All over town looking for organic sodding lamb in the rain... If Marcus wanted roast lamb with sodding baby vegetables to impress his sodding parents, he could sodding well get out here and help her unload the car.

She tried the front door, but it was locked. ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ As if anyone was going to break in while he was there — and she knew he was in: his car was in the drive and all the lights were on. She tried her key, but it wouldn’t turn. The idiot had left his key in the lock.

Vicky leant on the doorbell. ‘Come on Marcus! Answer the sodding door!’

She took two steps back and scowled up at their three bedroom semidetached rabbit hutch. He was probably in the toilet making smells and reading Dilbert, or one of his ‘postmodern-ironic’ lads’ mags. Yeah, young ladies getting their boobs out. Very post-sodding-modern.

‘MARCUS!’

Nothing.

‘Sodding hell.’ She turned and stomped back down the drive. Fine, if Captain Useless wasn’t going to help her, she’d just have to— She heard the door unlocking behind her.

Vicky turned, hands up in mock rapture. ‘Halleluiah!’

Only there was nobody there. The lazy sod had unlocked the door and disappeared back into the house. You know what? Fine . She’d unload the car on her own, and if Marcus thought he was getting any sex for the next month he was going to be very disappointed. He could go have a postmodern-ironic wank for all she cared.

She threw her handbag over her shoulder, grabbed as many carrier bags as she could manage and staggered back up the drive, her high heels clicking on the wet lockblock. In through the front door. The television was on: some pretentious latenight discussion programme droning on about a book no one would ever read. Why couldn’t he watch the sodding Simpsons like a normal person? That’s what she got for marrying someone called Marcus .

She stomped down the hall, calling, ‘They’re your sodding parents, you know. You could help!’

No response.

Typical. She pushed through into the kitchen/dining room. He was such a useless... She stopped. Eyes wide.

Red.

Everything was red.

There was red everywhere.

The smell of hot copper and sea salt.

Raw meat.

Something that used to be a man was laid out on the kitchen table. In bits. She could... she could...

Clunk.

The front door closing.

Snick .

The front door locking.

RUN!

Vicky didn’t look back, just dropped her shopping and charged straight though the kitchen, heels skidding on the blood-slicked linoleum. She grabbed the patio door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked. Sodding Marcus!

Key in the lock. KEY IN THE LOCK!

She turned it and yanked the door open, throwing herself out into the night... which wasn’t dark for long as the back garden security light glared into life.

She slipped and fell, sprawling across the wet grass, and for a moment she was looking back into the kitchen. And came within an inch of wetting herself. It was him, the man from the papers: butcher’s outfit, Margaret Thatcher mask, knife.

Marcus’s head was staring back at her from under the table.

Vicky scrambled to her feet, grabbed her handbag, and ran.

Down the garden, heels sinking into the sodden turf. She wrenched the damn shoes off, leaving them behind.

Past the shed.

She could hear Him : the Flesher was coming after her.

She clambered over the back fence, ripping her jacket as she tumbled down the other side and into a gorse bush, not caring if the thorns tore her skin, just as long as she lived to see tomorrow.

She ran, tearing down the little gully that separated her street from the next one in the development, screaming ‘HELP ME!’ at the top of her lungs. Until she realized that gave the man chasing her something to aim for.

She concentrated on putting as much distance between them as possible instead.

Mobile phone. She had a mobile phone in her handbag. She had to call the police.

The Flesher crashed through the undergrowth behind her.

Vicky took a sudden dive to the left, into the grass, scurrying behind a huge whin bush. Holding her breath. Praying.

She could see him: a faint silhouette against the orange-grey clouds.

Phone. Where was her phone? Where was her sodding, bloody, fucking phone?

Vicky tipped her handbag out into the wet grass and felt her way through the contents: compact, tampons, purse, brush, credit card wallet, bits of paper, more bits of paper, more BITS OF BLOODY PAPER. Comb. Lipstick. PHONE!

She flipped it open and the screen sent out a little bloom of light. She slapped her hand over the thing, trying to hide the glow. Praying he wasn’t looking this way. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus...

Nine. Nine. Nine.

Come on, come on...

‘ Emergency services, which service do you require? ’

‘Police.’

‘ I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak up, you’re very faint .’

Vicky cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered ‘Police!’ as loud as she dared.

Now all she had to do was tell the man on the other end who was after her, where they were, and—