Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

Christopher opened a cupboard and fetched out some mugs. ‘Well, we could always take Hello! up on their-’

Laura Strachan’s face soured. ‘We’re not talking about this again.’

‘Wouldn’t hurt to think about it, that’s all I’m saying. Sooner or later someone’s going to find us and the photos’ll be all over the papers anyway. At least this way we’d have some control.’

Ruth looked about two sizes smaller than she had in the car — all hunched over, her hands worked into knots against her chest. ‘Laura, I…’ She stared at her feet. ‘I’m sorry.’

Another potato got hurled into the pot. ‘I was going to come see you, in hospital, but they said you weren’t up to visitors. Said you tried to kill yourself in the loony bin. Said you’d gone mental.’

Ruth’s mouth goldfished for a moment. ‘I… It…’

Alice put a hand on her arm. ‘Everyone copes with stress differently.’

She looked away. ‘I knew this was a mistake. I’m sorry, I’ll go.’

‘Sweetheart, God, come on.’ Christopher rubbed at Laura’s shoulders. ‘Bet it’s taken a lot for Ruth to come here, after what she’s been through. You don’t have to be…’ He cleared his throat. Turned. Opened the fridge. ‘Who takes milk?’

‘I don’t have to be what? A bitch? A cow? Come on, Christopher, what don’t I have to be?’

Ruth rubbed a palm across her eyes. ‘I should never have come.’

I stepped up. ‘This was important to Ruth. She thought you were her friend.’

Laura glared at me. ‘She tried to kill herself and leave me on my own! Do you have any idea what that feels like?’

I just stared back.

She dumped the potato peeler in the sink, then turned and pulled up her smock, exposing her swollen belly. ‘Look at me!’

Had to be what: four, six weeks to go? She was massive.

A puckered line of scar tissue reached from about a hand’s-width below the line of her greying bra to somewhere below the waist of her elasticated trousers. A shorter scar crossed it at a right angle, a third of the way down — the angry pink lines stretched taut and shiny by the child growing inside her.

The kettle rumbled to a boil, then clicked itself off in the silence.

Then Ruth unbuttoned her padded jacket. Pulled up her sweatshirt. Did the same with the blue T-shirt underneath, showing off her identical cruciform scar.

The two women nodded, then lowered their tops, connected by an unenviable bond: members of an exclusive and horrible club.

Laura picked up the potato peeler again. ‘Christopher, take the others through to the lounge. Ruth and I have stuff to talk about.’

‘Thank you for organizing that.’ Alice turned the key in the ignition.

Sitting in the back seat, I shrugged, then deleted Shifty’s text message about not forgetting to pick up some beer. ‘Ruth deserves better than she got.’ Promising career slashed short by some scumbag with a scalpel, a private operating theatre, and a thing for torturing nurses.

The windscreen wipers squeaked back and forth in slow-motion arcs, clearing away the drizzle. Outside, the door to number thirteen opened, spilling warm light across the driveway. Ruth and Laura hugged, the physical contact looking awkward as they tried to accommodate the pregnant bulge. Then some laughter. A kiss on the cheek. And Ruth walked towards the car, pausing twice to look back over her shoulder.

Alice smiled at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘What if people found out you weren’t the scary grumpy old horror you pretend to be?’

‘Less of the cheek.’

Ruth clunked open the passenger door and climbed in. Wiped her shining cheeks. ‘Thank you.’

Alice pulled away from the kerb, skirting Camburn Woods, heading back towards Cowskillin while Ruth babbled about how great it was to see Laura again and how they were best of friends and wasn’t it wonderful about the baby and there was hope for everyone when you thought about it and wasn’t it lovely…

My phone went while we were negotiating the Doyle roundabout: Professor Huntly.

‘What?’

‘ Ah, Mr Henderson, tell me, are you planning on gracing us with your presence at the Postman’s Head this evening? ’

‘What do you want, Huntly?’

‘ It’s traditional for the team to get together to discuss the day’s adventures. It’s how we keep abreast of developments. ’

Great — an extra couple of hours listening to everyone droning on about how little they’d actually managed to achieve today. Perfect.

And there was no way I could just skip it… Was there?

Worth a go.

‘Is Jacobson there?’

‘ Hold on. ’

The City Stadium drifted by on our right. Dark and barren. Someone had strung up a couple of bed sheets from the metal superstructure. ‘BRING BACK THE WARRIES!’ and ‘SUPPORT FOOTBALL NOT CUTS!’ daubed in blood-red paint. They’d obviously been there for a while — the fabric grimy and tattered, frayed at the edges by the wind.

Ruth just stared out of the window, a big soppy smile on her face.

Jacobson came on the line, sounding as if he was in the middle of chewing something. ‘ Ash? ’

‘Yeah, this team meeting — any chance I can give it a miss? I got a sawn-off shotgun’s worth of rocksalt in my ribs at Wee Free’s place. Every time I breathe it’s like being stabbed. Need to go home and soak in the bath before I seize up completely.’

‘ He shot you? ’

‘No, Babs did. But to be fair, Wee Free’s dogs were trying to tear my throat out at the time.’

‘ I see… ’ A sigh. ‘ Well, if you’ve been in the wars, I dare say we can probably manage in your absence. ’

‘Sorry.’ Show willing. Don’t give him any excuse to send you back. ‘Anyway, do you want to give me an update? Let me know where we’re at?’

Jacobson’s voice got all echoey, as if he’d turned away from the phone. ‘ Bernard? Bring Mr Henderson up to speed. He’s not joining us tonight .’

A rustling clunk, and Huntly was back. ‘ Well, while you’ve been off larking around I, as usual, have been a superstar. That syringe I found contained Labetalol Hydrochloride, it’s a beta-blocker frequently used to treat hypertension in pregnant women. Lowers the blood pressure. Just the ticket if you’re planning on hacking someone open, but aren’t too keen on them bleeding to death. Not exactly widely available at your local Boots the Chemists. ’

He found it?

‘What does Doc Constantine say about the PM?’

‘ I could give you the full medical details, but I doubt you’d understand them, so we’ll try the CBeebies version. Claire- ’

‘You think I won’t kick your arse, don’t you? First thing tomorrow morning you and I are going to have a wee chat, you pompous little prick.’ Just because I had to keep in with Jacobson it didn’t mean everyone else got a free pass.

‘ Ah… Well, perhaps I did misjudge your sense of humour there. ’

‘Post mortem.’

‘ Sheila says Claire’s got four cracked ribs and bruising consistent with an extended period of CPR: Tim really didn’t want to let her go. Her last meal was a bacon cheeseburger with fries and pickles and some sort of maize-based crisps? Followed by chocolate cake. Consumed sixteen hours before she died. ’

The spire of the First National Celtic Church rose above the surrounding houses, scratching at the burnt-orange sky. Ruth wrapped her arms around herself and let out a long sigh, as if she’d been holding something in for years and finally let it go.

All that hurt and pain…