Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

‘... and then she’s like all, “could he be any balder?” and I said—’ Steve was still babbling away to himself so Logan jabbed him one in the ribs. ‘Ow! What was that for?’

‘Something’s up.’ He pointed at the house where Chib Sutherland was hurrying out of the front door, a mobile phone clamped to his ear. He went straight to the silver Mercedes sitting outside and jumped in behind the wheel. The car roared out of the driveway, speeding away from the house. Cursing, PC Steve coaxed his grubby Fiat into life and hurried after Chib, trying not to make it too obvious he was following him.

‘What d’you think’s got into him?’ asked Steve, as Chib jumped the red lights on Springfield Road.

‘No idea...’ But whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good.

Blue flames raced up the stairs, leaping from step to step on the petrol-soaked carpet. Jackie turned and ran, trying to stay ahead of the blaze. The wall behind her burst into flickering yellow where the last petrol bomb had hit, tendrils of black smoke curling around the next flight of stairs, spiralling upwards to the ceiling. She slithered to a halt on the first-floor landing where Rennie was banging on the door to the nearest flat and shouting, ‘Open up for God’s sake!’

‘Kick it in!’ yelled Jackie. Rennie took two steps back and slammed his boot into the wood: the whole frame juddered, but the door stayed shut. ‘Again!’ This time the door exploded inwards, taking half the surround with it. A sudden blast of heat from upstairs and the paint began to blister on the underside of the landing, drips of molten carpet oozing down from above. Smoke was rapidly filling the stairwell — thick, black, lung-searing clouds that reeked of petrol and burning nylon. They charged into the flat. Inside someone was screaming the word ‘burglars’ over and over again. And then the smoke detector picked up on the inferno and added its shrill bleeping to the shouting and swearing and the roar of the flames.

Jackie snatched the radio off her shoulder and yelled for a fire engine and ambulances, following Rennie through the nearest door. The screaming became an incoherent shriek. A double bedroom: old woman in bed, clutching the blanket to her chest, teeth on the bedside cabinet next to her; old man already on his feet, wrinkled willy poking out the front of his stripy pyjamas, brandishing a walking cane, snarling.

Rennie slammed the bedroom door closed. ‘We’re the police, you silly bugger! Is there anyone else in the house?’ The old man lowered his makeshift cudgel and shook his head. ‘What about next door?’

‘Mr and Mrs Scott.’ He coughed; smoke was already beginning to find its way into the bedroom. ‘They have a young daughter and a dog...’

Rennie swore. ‘I want you to get that window open!’ he said, pointing. ‘Chuck the mattress out and lower your wife and yourself down. WPC Watson will help you.’ He turned — catching Jackie’s eye as she rattled off a description of their attacker to Control, telling them to pick the bastard up and kick the shit out of him — then Rennie wrenched the bedroom door open and charged out into the hall, slamming it shut behind him.

Jackie didn’t figure out what he was up to till it was too late. ‘Rennie! Rennie, you daft bastard!’ They were out of time: just have to hope he knew what he was doing. She joined the old man at the painted-shut window, yanking and hauling on the frame until it creaked open like an arthritic joint. The double mattress tumbled out, spinning as it fell, leaving the duvet caught on a little oval satellite dish. The old man peered out uncertainly at the rectangle of foam and springs. Even if it was just a first-floor flat, it was still a long way down. Jackie grabbed him by the arm and shoved him towards the open window. ‘Come on: you have to go first. I’ll lower your wife, you catch her, OK?’ She was having to shout now, the roar of the fire drowning out everything but the incessant squealing of the smoke detector. He hesitated and she cast another glance over the lip of the window to the crumpled remains of a mattress fifteen feet below. ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she lied, ‘you’ll be fine!’

‘Don’t bloody patronize me...’ Gingerly he inched out of the window, lowering himself as far as possible before plummeting the last eight feet onto the mattress, landing in a tangle of limbs and foul language. The old woman was a lot more nervous, and a lot heavier, but Jackie still managed to force her out the window, even if she did come close to crushing her husband when she crashed down on top of him.

Something burst inside the building, making the bedroom door rattle. From outside came the faint wail of sirens. Jackie took a deep breath and jumped.

Brendan ‘Chib’ Sutherland’s driving became a lot less erratic when he hit Union Grove. The silver Mercedes slowed until it was well below the speed limit, almost as if the driver was looking for something. PC Steve slowed down as well, keeping the distance between the two cars constant. A siren was sounding from somewhere up ahead. Then they saw the orange glow in the sky. Something was burning.

The Mercedes jerked to a halt in the middle of the road and a figure lurched out from the pavement, bent over, limping, a sagging holdall in his hands. He clambered into the car, there was a short pause, and then Chib drove off. ‘Damn...’ Logan dug out his mobile and dialled Jackie’s number. Worried. She’d been following the Gimp and now there he was, looking as if he’d been in a fight, and there was no sign of either Jackie or Rennie. ‘Come on, pick up the bloody phone!’ Twelve rings later it cut to voicemail and he cursed, hung up and hit redial.

Steve was still on Chib’s tail, following him up Union Grove towards the junction with Holburn Street. ‘Holy shite!’ He stared agog out of the windscreen: up ahead flames leapt from a tenement rooftop, neon-yellow sparks spiralling into the night, a pall of thick, black smoke spreading like a bruise across the sky — the top two floors were ablaze. Chib drove calmly past.

Logan swore again as Jackie’s recorded message told him she was just too damn special to come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Hang up. Redial. He grabbed the radio off PC Steve’s shoulder, clicked it on and demanded to be put through to WPC Watson, only to be told to wait his turn: she’d called in from a serious fire and wasn’t answering her radio any more. Logan shouted, ‘Stop the car!’ and PC Steve slammed on the brakes. Logan wrenched open the door and sprinted towards the burning building, shouting for Jackie at the top of his lungs. The howl of sirens was getting stronger.

A small knot of people were gathered around a fallen figure on the pavement, one of them performing CPR, while others cried and moaned.

‘JACKIE?’

A grubby, soot-stained face looked up at him. It was DC Rennie; he was the one doing the mouth-to-mouth. The victim was a middle-aged woman in an oversize Aberdeen University T-shirt, the fabric riding up to show off a pair of grey pants and a mealie-pudding stomach. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing to a figure hunched by the front of the building, while embers fell from the sky like incandescent snow.

‘Jackie?’

She was bent over the still body of a golden retriever lying on its side with a pool of something dark oozing slowly out of its head, gently stroking its fur. A spark drifted down, landing on the dog’s flank, producing the bitter smell of burning hair. Logan dropped down beside her, gently touching her arm. ‘Jackie? Are you OK?’ Her face was filthy, and so was her once-white uniform shirt. She didn’t look up at him, just brushed the smouldering ember away.