Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

Maybe Sarah Creegan had the right idea — some people didn’t deserve to be parents. And some parents deserved to die.

Alice’s head fell back against the headrest. ‘Her mental state’s probably been pretty precarious from the start, but maybe she could’ve coped — could’ve struggled on — if it wasn’t for the rape. After that there was no going back.’ A shrug. ‘The other women were just practice. She wanted to make sure she could do the operation properly before she tried it on herself. Got started, then found out it wasn’t as easy to cut open your own stomach…’ Alice turned in her seat. ‘I thought we were going to the hospital, this isn’t the way to the hospital…’

‘Got a quick stop to make.’

Half the newsroom’s desks were empty — their occupants either off chasing stories, or, more likely, out grabbing lunch. Putting the business of filling the Castle News and Post with lies on hold for an hour.

Micky Slosser sat frowning at his screen, pecking away at the keyboard with one finger, a filled baguette in the other hand. Chewing.

He looked up as I knocked on his desk. The frown got even deeper. ‘We had a deal. You gave your sodding word I’d get first crack at-’

‘Remember these?’ I slammed the printouts he’d given Alice down on his keyboard.

Micky sat back in his chair. ‘I remember being nice enough to give you copies, and I remember you promising-’

‘The Inside Man never wrote these. Because the Inside Man was never the bloody “Inside Man” in the first place. Was he?’

A couple of Micky’s colleagues poked their heads over their cubicles. Scenting a fight, or a bit of gossip on the air.

He looked away, put his sandwich down. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re on about. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a deadline, and you can- ulk…’

I grabbed his tie and hobbled past, dragging the wheelie office chair with me. His hands scrabbled at the noose around his neck, eyes wide, face purpling.

Good.

‘Do you have any idea how much time we wasted on those bloody letters? How much time we could’ve spent finding the killer instead of chasing after someone who didn’t even exist? How much damage you did?’

More heads appeared above the grey parapets.

‘Ack… Get off! Security! SECURIT-’

I slapped a hand over his mouth. ‘Alice?’

Nearly everyone was on their feet now. The nosier ones moved in to get a better view.

Alice squatted down, until she was eye-to-eye with him. ‘Of course, it was really clever the way you managed to get the letters to look like they were posted before each of the victims were found. Clever, but really simple, right? All you had to do was post an envelope to yourself every day. If a body got discovered, you wrote a letter claiming to be the Inside Man, dated it the day before, and told everyone it came in the envelope delivered that morning. If there’s no body, the envelope goes in the bin, and no one’s the wiser.’ She smiled. ‘Very clever.’

I removed my hand. He shrank back in his chair. Looked at her. Looked at me. Then back to her again. ‘I told you: I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’

Alice stood. ‘And it was your ticket, wasn’t it? They were ignoring you here, making you cover stupid kids’ projects, and livestock marts, and jumble sales, and am-dram shows. Didn’t realize you were a proper journalist. But they sat up and took notice when you got those letters, didn’t they? Saw what you were really worth. That you deserved better .’

‘I don’t-’

I smiled. ‘We spoke to the guy in the mail room, Micky.’

He blinked. Licked his lips. ‘Look, it… I didn’t think it would really matter. It was just a bit of creative licence, OK? They-’

His head snapped back, blood sparkling in the air like tiny rubies caught in the overhead light. Then thump, he was lying on his back in the tipped-over chair, legs in the air, both hands clutched over his broken nose, while his colleagues clapped and cheered.

I shook my hand — the knuckles ached like burning gravel, but it was worth it.

Wee Free McFee stood. Looked down at his daughter for a moment, then slipped away from her bedside.

Silence smothered the High-Dependency Unit — its eight beds filled with women wired up to machines, or hidden behind drawn screens.

Jessica was pale as ice, hooked up to a drip. Her mouth hung open as she slept.

I tilted my head towards the bed. ‘How is she?’

‘Better.’ He ran a finger across his grey moustache, putting it into line. ‘You got her back.’ Wee Free stuck out a hand. I took it and he nodded, those hooded eyes staring at me, like they were trying to peel the skin from my face and see what was underneath. ‘I owe you.’

‘Do me a favour then: Leave Ruth Laughlin alone. She’ll end up in a secure facility for the rest of her life. She’s not responsible for what she did.’

His mouth tightened.

‘No eye for an eye, or tooth for a tooth, or anything else.’

Wee Free turned, walked back to the bed. ‘I’ll pray on it.’

Better than nothing…

Alice was waiting for me outside the ward. ‘Well?’

‘He’ll pray on it.’

‘Oh…’ She fell into step beside me. ‘It’s really not Ruth’s fault. She’s a severely damaged individual, it’s going to take years of therapy to get anywhere near the real her.’

Down the corridor to the lifts. I pressed the up button. ‘As long as Wee Free doesn’t get anywhere near the real her, we should be OK.’

Ping . A woman in a dressing gown and slippers stood in the corner, face to the wall, crying.

Alice’s hand reached out towards her, then curled back into itself. She looked away. Pressed the button for the next floor.

The doors slid shut.

The lift hummed and clanked its way up, to a soundtrack of stifled sobs.

I leaned on the rail around the inside. ‘Did she say why she’d trashed her own flat?’

‘She didn’t. Probably forgot to lock the door, and the local kids did the rest.’

Which explained where the antidepressants went. Little sods were probably trying to get high on them right now.

Ping . We stepped out, the woman stayed where she was, then the lift took her away again.

I pointed down the corridor. ‘Ward at the end.’

Flowers and mylar balloons surrounded the bed next to Shifty’s. All he had was a bottle of Lucozade and a copy of the Scottish Sun — ‘TV PSYCHOLOGIST SEX BEAST CHARGED WITH SIX RAPES’ above a grinning publicity shot of Dr Docherty.

A pad of gauze was bandaged over Shifty’s right eye, and his face was a little more slack and hollow than usual, swathed in bruises and scabs.

He was wearing the ‘nightwear’ set we’d bought him at the supermarket last night — a grey T-shirt with a picture of a cat’s face done up like the Obama ‘Hope’ poster on it.

Shifty blinked at me a couple of times with his good eye. Scowled. ‘Not so much as a bloody get-well-soon card, and this bastard,’ he pointed at the unconscious old man in the next bed, ‘has a whole bloody Clinton’s.’

I settled onto the edge of the bed.

Alice leaned over and gave Shifty a hug — tight enough to make him wince — then a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re OK! You look … terrible .’

‘Thanks.’

‘No, seriously, you do. You look like someone’s run you over with a lawnmower. Are you feeling OK?’

He hunched his shoulders up around his ears. ‘No.’

A striped dressing gown was draped across the end of next door’s bed. We’d probably be back before the old bloke woke up, and if not: tough. I grabbed it and threw it to Shifty. ‘Come on, Billy no mates, we’re going visiting.’