Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘You’re fourteen. And I can drive myself.’

She wiggled the phone at him again. ‘No, you can’t.’

Beneath the tartan blanket, everything smelled of dust and dog. It itched his cheeks and cut the light down to a multi-coloured gloom. Seatbelt clips dug into the small of his back as the car swung around to the right. ‘Where are we going?’

Catherine’s voice was muffled by the blanket. ‘I’m not allowed to tell you. David says it’d spoil the surprise.’

Lying on his side, on the backseat, Logan screwed his hands into fists. Should’ve hit the transmit button before handing over his Airwave. Stupid. Shouldn’t have given her his phone. Stupider.

But what was he supposed to do? Climb up on his pedestal and let them kill Samantha?

Stay in the backseat. Stay under the blanket.

Hope to God they don’t have a gun.

Or a knife.

Why did he take his stabproof vest off? Idiot .

A hard left this time, and the clips dug in again. ‘David’s not thinking clearly right now. He’s grieving. You both are.’

‘You didn’t see him lying there in that hospital bed. All eaten away … We did the right thing.’

‘I know. You did it because your dad was suffering. But this is wrong .’

‘We cried, and cried, and he didn’t even struggle, and …’ A sniff. Then a long shuddering breath. ‘No more talking.’

Click and the radio came on. ‘… and that’s your news and weather. We’ll have more at half nine, but first: here’s Water’s Edge, with “Love Fill Me Up” …’ A kitsch dollop of boy-band pop globbed out of the car radio.

A count of four, and Catherine joined in. ‘I was empty as a picture of a bucket on the wall …’

Still wasn’t too late.

‘Empty since she left me, I’m the loneliest of all …’

Sit up, wrap an arm around her throat and squeeze hard. Her phone was on the passenger seat, no way she could get to it — she’d be too busy pawing at his sleeve. Enough pressure and she wouldn’t even get a squeak out.

‘Hollowed out and broken, and battered, and so cold …’

And even if she did, so what? David Bisset would have Samantha as a hostage, and Logan would have Catherine. Mexican standoff.

‘Then in my mind, I think I find, the price for all the lies she told …’

Only they all knew that Logan wouldn’t kill anyone.

And David had already proven he would. Twice.

‘Doooo doo, dooo-deee-doo la-dooo, as something taking hold …’

Acceleration pushed Logan back against the seatbelt clips again. Either she was speeding, or they’d passed the town limits.

‘Love fill me up, to the top of my heart …’

Climbing a slight incline. Not steep enough to be the road out to Fraserburgh. Not enough right turns to be the one heading south either.

‘Overflow, let it go, right off the chart …’

Definitely came over the bridge into Macduff. So that only left one option.

‘Cause loving you’s easy, and loving you’s smart …’

They were going to the outdoor swimming pool.

‘Love fill me up, to the top of my heart …’

The car took a hard right, then descended a steep hill as Catherine ran out of words and went back to doo-dee-doo again.

It levelled out, then the Micra rocked and scraped its way through the potholes. Eased to a halt.

‘There we go.’

She killed the engine and the music died with it.

‘It’s OK, you can come out now. There’s no one can see you.’

Logan pulled the blanket off his head and sat up.

She tried for a smile, but it didn’t really work. ‘Told you it wouldn’t take long.’ Catherine climbed out of the car.

Rain clicked across the windscreen like the feet of tiny crabs.

OK. This was all doable. They were just a pair of kids.

He stepped into the grey morning. Turned to look back up the hill.

‘There’s a big sign up there, saying “Road Closed”. No one’s coming.’ Catherine picked Logan’s equipment belt off the passenger seat and clipped it on. Far too big — she had to hold it up with one hand. ‘They’re waiting for us.’

The North Sea surged, dark and heavy against the pebble beach.

She marched off, through the gap in the rock at the far end of the car park.

Just a pair of kids.

He followed her along the old tarmac road: past the rocks and another pebble beach lined with the bones of old seaweed; past the warning sign about Tarlair pool being closed and dangerous. Past the crumbling concrete wall. Then onto the apron of rain-slicked grey that led out to the two derelict pools.

Tarlair’s boxy art deco buildings stood like gravestones around the edge.

Catherine kept going. Down, onto the terraced steps leading to the water.

Both pools were nearly full — the one closest to the defunct changing rooms, and the one nearest the sea. Probably topped up by yesterday’s storm. Three figures were on the walkway between the two — one standing, one kneeling, and one in a wheelchair.

Catherine glanced back over her shoulder at him. ‘Do you like it here? I like it. It’s all decayed and broken … A dead place, where the dead come. Like all of us.’

‘This doesn’t have to go this way, Catherine. It can be made right again.’

‘Can it?’ Her trainers squelched through vast puddles of standing water, the surface pebbled with rain.

‘It can if you want it to be.’

They’d almost reached the concrete walkway separating the inner pool from the outer one. The water in both was nearly black, reflecting back the clouds and surrounding hills.

A boom, and a wall of spray leapt over the sea wall. It hissed down against the dark water.

They’d wheeled Samantha out to the middle of the walkway and parked her facing out to sea. Both arms were curled against her chest, knees lopsided and together. Head hanging on one side, as if she was trying to get something into focus.

Next to her was a man, on his knees, hands tied behind his back, a pillowcase over his head.

Catherine rubbed her palm down the side of her jacket, as if she was trying to remove a stain. ‘David says everyone dies in the end. The unlucky ones keep on breathing afterwards.’ She paused on the edge of the pool. ‘Dad was unlucky. Watching him lie there, all cut up and broken, and dead, and still breathing …’ She shook her head. ‘It’s not fair to make people suffer like that. If he’d been a dog, we wouldn’t have let him suffer, we’d have put him down to spare the pain.’

‘Catherine!’ Logan grabbed her arm. ‘I thought you were meant to be the sensible one. The one who kept David from doing something stupid. It’s not too late.’

‘Did you never think that about your girlfriend? That it’d be kinder to put her to sleep?’

He stared at her. ‘Please. This doesn’t have to-’

‘We don’t have any choice.’ She marched out onto the walkway.

Logan stepped onto the strip of concrete. Had to be about five-foot wide, but they’d positioned Samantha’s wheelchair with the small front wheels resting on the very edge.

David Bisset stood right behind her, leaning on the back of the chair.

Catherine walked up to him. Stopped. ‘See? I brought him.’

‘You did great.’

‘And I got this too.’ She unfastened the equipment belt and held it out to her brother. Then produced a four-inch kitchen knife from her denim jacket. Held it clenched in her fist. ‘He thinks we’re being stupid.’

Logan held his hands out, palms up. ‘You are, but you don’t have to. We can sort this out.’