Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

They killed the sirens as they passed the swimming pool, just the flashing lights to warn Saturday afternoon shoppers out of the way — not wanting to give Jimmy Souter too much advance warning.

‘Kelley?’ Heather whispered into the darkness. ‘Kelley, can you—’

The door creaked open, spilling light into the cell, catching Heather kneeling on the mattress, holding onto the bars. She tried to duck, but it was too late: He was standing in the doorway staring at her, the front of His butcher’s apron stained dark red.

She turned to ask Kelley... but Kelley wasn’t there — Heather was alone in the little metal cocoon.

There was a wheelbarrow sitting in the dirt corridor behind Him, and Heather could make out a tuft of blonde hair poking over the edge, white and red bones sticking up into the dank air.

‘Oh God...’ How long had she been asleep?

The Flesher pointed at her, then at His stomach, head tilted to one side in question.

Heather’s eyes went back to the wheelbarrow. ‘Is that... is that Kelley?’

The Flesher shook His head and pointed a blood smeared finger down the corridor. Where PC Screams-A-Lot had been. He did the stomach thing again.

‘Yes, I’m hungry.’

He nodded, stepped back outside, picked up the barrow’s handles and walked it out of view. The wheels squeaked away into the silence.

‘ Do you think He’s killed her? ’ Duncan stepped through the bars, pausing on the threshold to look up and down the corridor.

‘I...’

‘ Be a shame, that. She was nice .’

‘ Maybe ,’ said Mr New, ‘ He’s put her in the policewoman’s cell? ’

‘ Why would He do that? Unless He’s going to kill and eat her? ’

‘ Good point .’

‘He can’t: she’s my friend!’

‘ Now, now, Darling, ’ her Mother said, ‘ No point crying over spilt milk, is there? Or blood .’

Heather clamped her hands over her ears. ‘She can’t be dead!’

‘ Why not? We are .’

Tears. ‘She can’t...’

‘ You know ,’ said a new voice, one Heather hadn’t heard before, ‘ you’ve still got the knife ...’ And suddenly Duncan, Mother, and Mr New were gone.

She turned, but there was no one there. ‘Hello?’

Just the empty metal cell.

Heather slid her hand underneath the mattress for the forgotten knife. The blade shone pale blue in the dim light that filtered in from the corridor outside.

‘ There you are ,’ said the voice, ‘ all you need to do is slip that into His guts when He comes back .’

‘I’ve never killed anyone...’

‘ If He’s hurt Kelley, doesn’t He deserve to die? ’

‘But I’ll be trapped in here.’

‘ Oh, I’m sure He has the keys on him... In fact, is it even locked? You’ve not checked for ages, have you? ’

Heather’s eyes drifted across the bars to the heavy Yale padlock. ‘Who are you?’

‘ Who do you think I am? ’

And suddenly Heather knew. ‘You’re the Dark.’

‘ The knife, Heather. That’s how it works. If you want to be my favourite, you have to use the knife .’

‘But...’ She stepped across to the small gate set into the bars and reached up for the padlock. The Dark was right: it wasn’t even locked.

Heather sat down on the mattress, the knife cold and vibrant in her hands. The Dark wanted her to do it. Kill the Flesher and be the favourite. Save Kelley. Take His place at the top of the food chain. Live forever in the Dark...

A clunk and He was back, carrying a plate of food that smelt delicious. Liver, onions and creamy mashed potatoes.

He stepped up to the bars and Heather tightened her grip on the knife.

The abattoir car park was nearly full. The sounds of cattle and sheep echoed out from round the back of the huge building, where the unloading docks and pens were. Alaba Farm Fresh Meats was back in business. The convoy slipped past and up the small road on the other side — the one flanked with five dilapidated and deserted houses: their windows boarded-up or broken; gardens overrun with weeds and yellow grass; their red sandstone walls stained and blackened, glistening in the headlights.

The vans bounced to a halt on the potholed road. Then the doors were flung open and armed officers piled out, charging up to number three in the growing gloom.

Logan sat in the car with his fingers crossed, watching as the firearms team took their positions. Alec and his minder from the BBC bringing up the rear.

Warped plywood sheets covered the downstairs windows. The door looked as if it hadn’t been touched in twenty years — the paint blistered away by weather and time, until there was nothing but grey wood left. The portable battering ram sent it flying inwards.

The black-clad figures swarmed inside.

Heather wasn’t sure where the noise came from, but the Flesher looked up, His dark eyes invisible in the depths of the mask. Staring at the ceiling.

She slipped the knife out from behind her back and slid it into His belly, all the way up to the hilt. Hot blood poured over her hand, making the handle slippery and sticky at the same time as she pulled the blade out and plunged it back in again. And again. And again.

The Flesher didn’t even make a sound.

The place was a mess: rotting carpet sending up clouds of dust as the firearms team swept through the building. Detective Constable Simon Rennie lurched into what had to be the lounge, the torch attached to his machine pistol picking details out of the darkness: a mouldering sofa; a couple of disintegrating armchairs; a fireplace full of broken crockery; windows boarded over.

He did the little nimble-toed dance they’d taught him during the firearms course — a swift three-sixty turn that covered all four corners of the room — then off round the furniture while someone else watched the door. ‘Clear.’

Voices sounded in his earpiece: ‘ Upstairs is clear .’

‘ Kitchen: clear .’

‘ Bathroom: clear .’

That only left the cellar.

Rennie joined the rest of the team at the door leading down from the kitchen. It was much brighter in here, thanks to the spotlights on Alec’s TV camera, showing up the mouldy wallpaper, rotting table, brown-stained sink, curling linoleum floor.

‘OK,’ said the sergeant in charge, ‘we go on three. Rennie, Caldwell: you’re on point. No mistakes and no getting shot, understand?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘On three: One... two...’

The Flesher looked down at Heather’s hand — wrapped around the handle of the knife — then up into her eyes. Deep within those lifeless rubber sockets, Heather could see something glint as He cocked His head to the side and stared at her.

He stepped back from the bars, placed the plate with the liver and onions within easy reach, turned and left. He didn’t bother closing the door.

Heather’s legs gave way and she collapsed onto the mattress, still clutching the knife in her blood-soaked hand.

‘ Honey, are you OK? ’

The Dark had been testing her.

It told her to stab Him and she had. It promised she’d be the favourite... it promised .

‘ Only you look like you’ve seen a ghost .’

Maybe there was something wrong with the knife? She ran her thumb along the edge, pressing just hard enough to break the skin, and felt no pain. Pressed harder, till the blade sliced through the pad and scraped along the bone. Her blood mingling with His.

‘ Seriously, you should lie down .’

‘He can’t die... He’s part of the Dark, he’s eternal.’