Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘ You’re listening to Sensational Steve and Crrrrrrrazy Colin. It’s five past one, and we’re live, live, live from Oldcastle train station in Logansferry! ’

The crowd roared out a cheer.

Had to be here somewhere…

‘ You’re not wrong there, Steve, and we’re here cycling all the way to the Philippines to raise money for the victims of Typhoon Nanmadol! Six thousand, six hundred and seventy-four miles! ’

I pushed into the crowd. There — blue tracksuit. ‘You! Don’t you dare run!’

‘ That’s a lot of miles, Colin. ’

‘ It’s a lot of miles, Steve! ’

People complained as I shoved them out of the way and grabbed the guy by the arm. Spun him around… Only it wasn’t a he, it was a she. A lumpy woman with a short haircut.

She wrenched my hand from her arm. Glared at me. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Get away from us, you freak!’ She backed up a pace, baring her teeth. ‘God, what happened to your face ?’

Sodding hell. There was another woman in a blue tracksuit over by the automatic ticket machines. And a couple of men too — all wearing blue tracksuits with the Oldcastle Warriors logo stitched onto the left breast. Bloody local football team colours.

‘ So if you’re listening at home, why not come on down to the train station and take a turn on one of our stationary bicycles? Help us turn miles into smiles for those poor Philippine people! ’

‘Guv?’

I turned.

Constable Rhona Massie had her hands in her pockets. Blue tracksuit top on over a sweat-stained red T-shirt and a pair of stonewashed jeans. The bags under her eyes were shiny with sweat, cheeks hot-pink against her long pale face. ‘You OK? Jesus, what happened? You’re bleeding…’

What? I put a hand against my forehead, it came away red. That’s when it started to sting. And not just my head, a wave of aches and pains rolled up my right side, crashing at the base of my neck. Something sharp throbbed deep inside my left wrist. ‘Where is he?’

‘ Right, time for another stellar tuuuuuune. I want to see everyone getting their funky thang on for Four Mechanical Mice and their “Anthem for a Shining Girl”! ’ A big wobbling piano chord blared out of the speakers.

Rhona grimaced, showing off a row of perfect white teeth. ‘You look like you’ve been in a car bomb, or something!’

‘A guy, ran in here a minute ago. Woolly hat, white trainers, blue tracksuit.’

She stepped closer and brushed a flurry of safety glass off my shoulder. ‘We need to get you a doctor.’ She turned. ‘I NEED A DOCTOR OVER HERE! SOMEONE’S HURT!’ Then back to me. ‘You’re probably in shock.’ She held up a hand, the fingers splayed. ‘How many fingers am I-’

‘Get that out of my face.’ I slapped her hand away. ‘I want all the exits sealed. No one in or out. Get everyone in a blue tracksuit rounded up. And why aren’t you in uniform?’

‘ She’s incandescent, she’s all ablaze… ’

Rhona stared at me. ‘It’s my day off, I’m down raising money for the typhoon victims.’

‘ She is the sound of a million glass grenades… ’

‘Not tomorrow, Constable, now !’

‘Yes, Guv.’ She turned and ran off to the front entrance, waving her arms at a couple of guys in fluorescent yellow waistcoats with ‘SECURITY’ printed across the chest.

‘ She is the shattered dawn, tearing round the world… ’

Knots of broken concrete rolled their way through my spine. Jagged bars of rusty iron jabbing through the base of my neck. My knees refused to hold my weight.

Bloody Rhona. Felt fine till she started rabbiting on about how battered I looked.

‘ She’s dark and light and home tonight, cos she’s the Shining Girl… ’

I sank down, till my backside was on the cold tiled floor. Curled my throbbing wrist against my chest.

God, everything ached …

A circle of people formed around me, all of them staring. A couple had their mobile phones out, filming me sitting there, covered in broken glass and blood. Then someone shouldered their way through the cordon.

‘Come on, give the man some room to breathe. Back up.’

‘Who died and made you God?’

‘I’m a nurse, you moron, now back up before I put you on your arse in front of all your friends.’

I blinked up at her. A familiar face: broad forehead, small eyes, hair in a ponytail — blonde wisps sticking to her shiny face. A T-shirt with sweatmarks under the arms and between her breasts, white shorts and trainers. Wide hips and thick legs. A ‘TURN MILES INTO SMILES!!!’ towel draped around her neck.

She blinked back. ‘Inspector Hutcheson? Bloody hell… What happened?’

‘Henderson. Not Hutcheson.’

‘Of course, yes, sorry.’ She knelt on the ground beside me. Took my head in her hands and stared into my eyes. ‘Are you experiencing any nausea? Dizziness? Ringing in the ears? Headache? Confusion?’

I grabbed her hand. ‘Who are you?’

‘OK, that’s a yes on the confusion. It’s Ruth. Ruth Laughlin? Laura Strachan’s friend? You came to the flat after they found her, remember? Talked to all the nurses?’

‘She’s still alive.’

‘Of course she is. They let her out of hospital two weeks ago.’ Ruth shifted herself around, placed one hand on the back of my neck, pressed her other against my chest. ‘Come on, let’s get you lying down… There we go. You know, you’re lucky I was here. Concussion can be very serious.’

A distorted voice burbled from the station’s loudspeakers. The words echoing back and forth until they were little more than a smear of syllables fighting against the song. ‘ … the train now departing from platform six is the one seventeen to Edinburgh Waverley… ’

For God’s sake — why didn’t Rhona tell them to cancel the trains? Fifteen minutes from now he could be in Arbroath. Dundee in twenty-five.

Not too late — call Control and get patrol cars to the nearest station. Have the bastard picked up right off the train…

‘Inspector Henderson?’

Bloody fingers wouldn’t work, Airwave handset was all slippery…

The wail of sirens cut through the end of the announcement. That would be the backup I called for. Late as always.

‘Hello?’

Yellow and black dots bloomed in the siren’s wake, growing, spreading, blanking out the glass ceiling behind Ruth Laughlin’s head as she frowned down at me. A halo of darkness.

‘Inspector Henderson? Can you hear me? I want you to squeeze my hand as hard as you can … Inspector Henderson? Hello?’

Monday

I eased Alice’s door closed and crossed the corridor to my own room. It was small, but functional, just big enough for the double bed against one wall, the chest of drawers, and wardrobe. A pair of dark-blue curtains that still had the same creases as the ones in the lounge. A cheap-looking alarm-clock radio on the floor beside the bed, glowing 00:15 at me.

My cell was bigger than this.

An old-fashioned brass key sat on top of the duvet, with a cardboard tag attached to it by a red ribbon. Spidery handwriting: ‘THOUGHT THIS MIGHT COME IN HANDY’.

Ah…

I turned. There was a lock fitted to the bedroom door, specks of sawdust dandruffing the floorboards underneath it along with a few quavers of shaved wood. The key slipped right in, and when I turned it, the bolt slid home with a clack.

After two years inside, it was strange how comforting that sound was. Especially combined with the muffled rattle of Shifty’s snores coming through the wall.

The laptop went on the bed, while I stripped, folded all my clothes, and placed them in the chest of drawers. Old habits.