Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

‘Under a flowerpot by the door? Why not just put a big sign in the front garden saying, I’m stupid: please rob me ?’

‘You got a torch on you?’ Jackie did; after all she was still wearing her uniform, drenched in sweat and blood, the faint, lingering whiff of petrol just discernible under the smoky stench of burning building. She was in the middle of handing it over when a light blossomed in the hall, glowing through the glass panes surrounding the door.

‘’Bout bloody time,’ said Jackie under her breath as the deadbolt clicked back, the chain rattled and the door opened wide.

Isobel peered out at them. She looked a mess, hair flat on one side and sticking up all over the place on the other. Bloodshot eyes, a fresh graze on her left cheek. She was wearing baby-blue pyjamas with penguins on them — very appropriate. ‘What do you want?’ The words wreathed in whisky fumes.

Logan stepped up to the door. ‘Isobel, are you OK? What happened to your cheek?’

A hand fluttered up to the graze and she tried for a smile; it didn’t work. ‘I may have... fallen over on the way to be sick.’ She stepped back and then held out a hand to him. ‘Come in, come in, you and your lovely wife Daphne.’ She swung a finger round to point at WPC Watson. ‘I’ve got some Pernod somewhere, I know you both love that.’

Logan opened his mouth to say, ‘You know I hate Pernod!’ but she was already weaving her way back up the hall.

‘Daphne?’ hissed Jackie. Logan shrugged, Isobel must be more plastered than he’d thought. But then she’d never been much of a drinker. They followed her into the house and through to the kitchen at the rear. All the lights were on and there, in front of the breakfast bar, naked and strapped to a kitchen chair, was Colin, a bondage gag stretching his jaws wide, blood running freely from his chest, marking the place where his left nipple used to be.

A noise behind them in the hall; Logan spun around and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. It was the Gimp, one side of his face covered in dried blood. He motioned Logan through the door and into the kitchen proper.

‘DS McRae,’ said a familiar Edinburgh accent as the door was closed behind them. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

Chib sauntered over to stand beside Colin Miller. The reporter was pale and sweaty, shivering and moaning behind the gag. Chib pulled out a pair of bull-nosed pliers, the rubber grips dark against his latex surgical gloves. ‘Now then,’ he said, all pleasant smiles as Colin started to cry, ‘DS McRae, I’d like you and... I’m sorry, darling, but I don’t know your name.’ Jackie just gazed in horror at the gun in the Gimp’s hands. ‘No? Cat got your tongue? Doesn’t matter: I’d like you both to sit down, nice and quietly, and we’ll have a chat about what’s going to happen next. OK?’

The Gimp pointed to an empty chair at the kitchen table and Logan sank reluctantly down into it, trying not to flinch as the gun was jabbed into his ear and Isobel was told to secure his hands to the seat with some of the cable ties on the breakfast bar. She put them on nice and loose, leaving Logan plenty of room to escape. But the Gimp grabbed the end and yanked on the plastic, pulling the catches so tight that Logan hissed in pain.

Jackie staggered back into the corner by the wine rack, hands up to her mouth, tears in her eyes, whimpering ‘Oh, God no. Oh, God no. Oh, God no’ over and over again.

‘Let’s get started,’ said Chib, dragging Colin’s left arm up, twisting it and forcing the wrist back so it was locked in place. The bandages on Colin’s hands were missing, exposing raw lumps of flesh stitched together over the swollen, bruise-covered stumps. The joins where two segments of finger had been reattached were clearly visible, the stitches puckering the inflamed skin. Chib levered open the pliers and clamped them around one of the restored joints. ‘Just so we all know we’re not playing games here...’ He grunted and twisted, yanking the length of finger away from Colin’s hand, ripping the stitches free. Fresh blood welled up in the ragged hole and, behind the gag, Colin screamed. Smiling, Chib crossed the kitchen to the pedal bin, stepped on the lever, and dropped the chunk of finger in amongst the eggshells. ‘These are the easy ones, it gets a lot more messy when we have to go in with the shears.’

Isobel sat at the kitchen table next to Logan, eyes glazed, face pale as marble, tears running down her cheeks as the Gimp fixed her hands to the seat, just like Logan’s.

‘Now, that was just one little bit of finger. Colin still has oh, four whole fingers, two thumbs, all those stumps...’ Chib’s lips moved as he did the arithmetic. ‘Twenty-three bits left! God, we could be here for hours , couldn’t we?’

Logan tried to keep his voice calm and even, almost managing it. ‘This isn’t going to achieve anything, Chib, why d—’

‘No: it’s Brendan, not “Chib”: BRENDAN.’ Chib nodded and something hard clattered into the side of Logan’s head, pain slicing across his scalp as blood oozed down the side of his face. ‘“Chib” is such a childish nickname, don’t you think?’ He straightened his tie and put on his calm smile again. ‘Contrary to popular belief, torture and senseless violence do achieve things. You see, once we’re done here, they’ll discover what’s left of your bodies and know not to fuck with us. It’ll keep the junkies and pushers and whores in line. Fear is a great motivator.’

‘That how you keep your Gimp in line, is it?’ said Logan through gritted teeth. ‘Beat him every now and then? Teach him the error of his child-molesting ways?’

‘HE IS NOT A CHILD MOLESTER!’ Chib lunged forwards, ramming a fist into Logan’s face, snapping his head back, making the darkness roar. ‘Understand? I will not fucking tell you again! ’

Logan rocked forwards in his seat, blood spiralling from his mouth, the edges of the room lurching in time to the hammering in his skull. Maybe getting Chib mad wasn’t such a good idea after all. The Edinburgh thug grabbed a handful of Logan’s hair, dragging his head up, shouting in his face, ‘You want to meet a child molester? Try growing up in a fucking children’s home! Try spending six years in borstal!’

Huddled in the corner by the Shiraz and Zinfandel, Jackie sobbed, her cries getting louder and louder, blending into one long incoherent stream. ‘Ohgodnoohgodnoohgodnoohgodno...’ Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her broken arm covering her face, the plaster cast almost unrecognizable under the layers of soot and PC Steve’s blood.

‘Oh for goodness’ sake...’ Chib turned his back on her in disgust. ‘Greg, please do something about that dreadful racket!’

The word ‘No!’ burbled from Logan’s split lips, as the Gimp advanced, raising the gun like a cudgel, looking to crack her head open. And that’s when WPC Watson punched him full strength in the balls. The Gimp opened his mouth to suck in a tortured breath, but Jackie’s feet lashed out, catching him in the knee, sending him crashing to the kitchen floor. Snarling, she leapt on him, smashing her plaster cast into his face again and again and again. Chib screamed and leapt for her, but Jackie was too quick, rolling clear as the larger man clattered into the wine rack, sending bottles flying. Then she was on her feet, the gun in her right hand, the plaster on her left arm cracked and flaking, splattered with a patina of fresh, bright-red blood. The Gimp wasn’t moving.

The whole thing had taken less than four seconds.

She smiled, all traces of hysteria gone. ‘Women, eh? Can’t trust them an inch.’

Chib licked his lips, looking from the barrel of the gun to the splayed, bloody figure of his friend. ‘Greg?’