Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

The front garden was a rectangle of paving slabs, yellowing weeds poking up through the joins, bordered by a knee-high concrete wall. I checked my watch again on the way to the front door: five to five. Fifteen minutes to pack, hour, hour and a half to Aberdeen depending on traffic

Going to be tight. The ferry sailed at seven whether you were on it or not.

I let myself in, snapped on the light, shut the door behind me, then stuck my head into the lounge. No sign of Parker, for once. Maybe the shiftless bastard had finally buggered off and got a job?

As if I could be that lucky.

Upstairs.

A wheelie case sat on top of the wardrobe. I took it down and chucked a few pairs of socks inside, some pants, the washing kit from the bathroom, a pair of jeans from the pile in the corner, all the Naproxen, Diclofenac, and Tramadol from the bedside cabinet, and a random dust-furred paperback from the windowsill.

Anything else? Shetland in November: jumpers. There was that cable-knit monstrosity Michelle s mum gave me for Christmas.

It wasn t in the chest of drawers. Where the hell did I

A noise behind me. I froze.

Goin somewhere, like? A man s voice: low-pitched, coming from the little landing at the top of the stairs.

I pulled the zip on the wheelie case, shutting everything inside.

Your mum never teach you to knock?

Cos it looks to me like yer plannin on doin a runner there.

I turned, nice and slow, keeping my hands in plain sight. You got a name?

The man on the landing smiled, showing off a set of yellowed teeth. His face was lopsided, angular, lumpy and twisted; covered with pockmarks and scar tissue. He was bloody huge too. Ye can call us, Mr Pain.

Seriously? Mr Pain?

The corners of my mouth twitched, but I got them under control.

So tell me, Mr Pain, this a social call, or an antisocial one?

He took one hand from behind his back. There was a two-foot length of metal pipe in it, the end swollen with washers nuts and bolts stuck out at random angles. The modern equivalent of hammering a couple of nails into a baseball bat: a plumber s mace.

Definitely not a social call.

Been a naughty boy, haven t ye? Missed another payment.

You re wasting your time. I shifted my weight, moving closer to the bed. Going to take me a while to get the money together.

No my problem, is it? The length of pipe flashed through the air, spines quivering.

I dropped one knee, pitching sideways. Something tugged at my left shoulder, then the bedside lamp exploded into ceramic shrapnel. I snapped my foot out, but Mr Pain wasn t there.

I hit the bed and kept going, rolling right over it as the mace whomped down on the mattress, making the springs sing. I dropped onto the floor on the other side, looked up

The pipe whistled towards my face.

I flinched, the back of my head slamming into the wall as the mace swept past, its spines ripping the air less than an inch in front of my nose.

Jesus, the bastard was fast.

A backhand swing. Splinters flew from the windowsill the mace carved straight through the wood and into the plaster where my head would ve been if I hadn t moved.

Fast and strong.

Another swing and the collection of paperback books burst into flight, paper wings fluttering as they spiralled to the floor.

I dived left, grabbed a handful of clothes from the pile of dirty washing in the corner and hurled it at Mr Pain. Socks and pants, a T-shirt, not exactly deadly weapons, but if they distracted the big bastard even for a couple of seconds

The T-shirt snagged on the mace s spines, the fabric crackling like a fire as the thing smashed down on the bed frame.

I was on my feet like a sprinter, charging straight into Mr Pain s stomach, sending him battering back into the wardrobe. The pipe would be useless at this distance. Ha, not so clever now, was he? Dancing about at arm s length from the bastard was going to get my head caved in, but up close? Different matter.

That was where experience trumped a big dod of metal.

I grabbed Mr Pain by the throat and slammed him back into the cracked MDF again. He stank of garlic and raw onions, breath like curdled shite. Left fist uppercut to the floating ribs, putting my shoulder into it, driving hard, ignoring the broken-glass scream of my swollen knuckles. Once, twice, three times. The satisfying soggy-feeling as his ribs cracked and bucked. With any luck a sharp end would puncture the bastard s lung.

A knee slammed into my thigh probably going for the balls, but this wasn t exactly my first bare-knuckle fight.

Mr Pain jerked his head back, then forwards. Shite. I ducked my chin into my chest and a dull thunk reverberated around my skull, a harsh ringing in the ears. The carpet lurched and buckled like the deck of a ship.

I let go of his throat, staggered back a couple of steps.

Blood bubbled from the flattened mess of Mr Pain s nose, little scarlet droplets flying from swollen lips. Fucker! The mace flashed up for another blow.

What the hell was he made of?

Sod this. I turned and ran, leaping the wheelie suitcase, out the bedroom door pulling it shut behind me. Hauling on the handle to keep it that way.

Get to the bathroom. Rip the front panel off the bath, grab the gun And then what? It wasn t loaded, the bullets were in a separate box. Was it even in one bit, or did I take it apart for cleaning? Shite I did. It was in half a dozen pieces, each stored in a separate zip-lock freezer bag for extra freshness.

Fuck.

OK, think, think, think, think

BANG. The jagged end of the pipe carved through the bedroom door, chunks of fibreboard and cardboard insulation burst out into the little landing. Cheaply built shitey council houses

I grabbed the pipe, below the nut-and-bolt spines, and yanked.

Something large and ugly slammed into the other side of the door. Then the hinges gave way, tearing out of the frame as the whole thing cracked down the middle and Mr Pain toppled out. Eyes wide. Blood dripping from his chin. Hands grabbing at thin air as he kept on going.

He blundered straight into me, shoving me back into the handrail. The wood bent, cracked, snapped with a BANG.

We clattered into the stairwell, a second of freefall and then THUD. It was like being kicked between the shoulder blades by an angry horse. All the breath rushed out of my lungs, taking a groan with it. Then I was tumbling down the stairs, arms and legs tangled with the big smelly bastard. Grunting and swearing.

CRUNCH.

The floor slammed into my chest. As if it wasn t already hard enough to breathe

Jesus, that hurt.

Get up. Get up before he starts swinging that bloody pipe again.

GET UP!

I dragged in a breath, coughed, gritted my teeth, and shoved till I was on my knees.

The hallway was a mess, the carpet littered with bits of door and snapped balusters, a smear of blood on the curling wallpaper. Mr Pain was lying on his back by the front door, groaning, his left arm twisted and bent the wrong way at the elbow.

Looked sore.

Good.

I dragged myself up the wall, swayed on the seasick carpet for two deep breaths, then staggered over and stamped on the joint.

The big man didn t scream. He lay there, eyes wide, mouth working up and down, then grabbed the arm and clutched it to his chest. Agghghhhhh

Served him right. He could

The kick came from nowhere, pistoning up into my stomach, lifting me off my feet and sending me smashing back into the wall. The plasterboard cracked, a faint dusting of powdery white drifting out into the air.

My knees buckled, fire blazing through my guts as I scrabbled to stay upright.

Mr Pain grunted his way to his feet and stood there, swaying back and forwards, blood and spittle dripping from his open mouth. And then he started to laugh.