Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

The collar of Helen s bright-green coat was torn on one side, the stuffing sticking out. Both arms behind her back, both ankles strapped to the chair legs, jeans dark around the crotch and thighs. A number 1 was scratched into the top-left corner.

The photograph wasn t a Polaroid like the ones on Rebecca s cards, or any of the earlier victims. The Birthday Boy had finally moved with the times and got himself a digital camera. Well, it wasn t as if he could take conventional film into the supermarkets and get them to process it for him.

I stared into Helen s eyes. They were grey-green, surrounded by pink, shining where the flash bounced off her tears. The card only arrived yesterday, but she d already been dead for a year.

Ash Ash, I m dying More retching. Oh no There s there s black pudding in my hair

Thank God the bathroom had an extractor fan that came on with the light: wheeching away the stench of a three-course meal, two whiskies, a brandy, and two bottles of wine. She d better be getting it all in the toilet, because if not she could clean it up herself.

I put Helen McMillan s card to one side and pulled out the next set: the girl from Cardiff. Then the one from Bristol. Aberdeen. Newcastle. Inverness. London. London again. Oldcastle, Glasgow Ten victims not counting Rebecca going back nine years. Forty-two cards in total.

Amber O Neil s cards sat at the back of the pile. Abducted from the Princes Square shopping centre in Glasgow ten years ago, she was the first girl to catch the Birthday Boy s dark little eye.

A mousy blonde, tear streaming down her pale face, nose a bit too big, lips drawn back showing off bloodied teeth. No gag. Not in the first couple of photographs anyway. He wanted to hear her scream, then changed his mind. Maybe it wasn t quite as much fun with her roaring her throat raw as he carved shapes into her naked skin.

Blonde to start with: so no need to dye her hair. Abducted in Glasgow. Never seen again.

Lauren died between card four and five; Hannah between seven and eight. Amber lasted till number six, eyes wide and pleading, Stanley-knife graffiti scrawled across her naked body. And a year later, card number seven arrived. The left side of her head was caved in, the mousy blonde hair matted with blood. The next card was worse, but at least by then Amber couldn t feel it any more. Now it was her parents turn to suffer.

I unzipped my wheelie suitcase and pulled out the cigar box, opened the lid and took Rebecca out. Five cards and she was still alive, still struggling and screaming and bleeding

The sound of a toilet flushing, then a couple of groans, then the shower running. Washing off the chunks.

I was staring at Rebecca s last birthday card when the toilet door clunked open and Dr McDonald lurched out, wrapped in a towel, clutching her clothes to her chest. Wet hair hung in straggly curls around her face one eye scrunched shut, the other all bloodshot. She opened and closed her mouth, making sticky clicking noises.

Urgh

I pulled one of Amber O Neil s cards on top of Rebecca s. Well, what did you expect?

Her voice was still slurred. I m dead. I ve died, and this is hell She slumped down on the other bunk, rocking back and forwards with her knees clamped together.

Do we have any water? The stuff in the tap tastes like dog pee.

Not so rambly now, was she?

Bottle beside your bed, got it from the little shop while you were spewing your ring.

I m never drinking again. She dumped her clothes on the floor and helped herself to the two-litre bottle, drinking deep. Then surfaced with a burp.

Urgh Tastes of sick.

Stop whinging and drink it. You ll feel better tomorrow.

Why did you let me drink all that wine?

You re supposed to be a grown-up, remember?

Urgh She collapsed back, lying half on, half off the bed, one arm thrown across her face. You re doing it wrong.

I frowned at her. I m looking for

That s Amber, right? You have to you have to look at them all at once, or it s All her birthday cards, all at once

What difference does that

See, for us they arrive a year apart, it s like it s like paintings on a cave wall, something that happened long time ago. Slow motion, but for for him it s quick, it s visceral, it s it s happening all in a whooooooosh Another belch. Urgh More sticky clicking noises.

It s all now and bright and bloody and sharp. You ve got you ve got to appreciate it like he does, you ve got got to be in the moment like him. Got to beeeee. A busy, busy little bee Getting quieter all the time. Then silence.

Dr McDonald? Nothing. Alice? Hello, Alice? Silence.

She d conked out.

I slipped Rebecca s birthday cards back into the cigar box, stuck everything else on the little table bolted to the bulkhead, and clambered off the bunk. Rolled Dr McDonald onto her side, pulled out the duvet, then rolled her back again so she was covered up. Might be an idea to put her in the recovery position so she didn t choke on her own vomit. Assuming she had any chunks left to choke on.

After that, I got the cabin s bin out from under the tea-and-coffee bit and placed it next to her head. Then stood and looked down at her, lying there with her mouth open a crack, dribble slowly glistening its way down her cheek.

Just like Katie after her first proper party. First week in secondary school and there she was: white sweatshirt stained the colour of clay, flecked with little chunks of sausage roll, reeking of sick and sticky cider-and-blackcurrant. Eleven years old, and she didn t want to be daddy s little girl any more.

Ah, the good old days.

I tucked the duvet under Dr McDonald s chin. Sleep tight, you complete and utter rambling lunatic

Something rumbled under the covers, followed by a waft of mouldering cauliflower.

Oh, Jesus! Ack It was followed by three aftershocks, sounding like someone was kicking a duck down a length of metal pipe. And the smell! I opened the toilet door and flicked on the light, setting the extractor fan going.

There were lopsided letters scrawled across the mirror above the sink in plum-coloured lipstick: WHOSE HE REELY TORCHERING?

She d come top of her class? What the hell were the rest of them like?

Wednesday 16th November

There you are, I ve been looking all over for you, you want breakfast, I want breakfast, I mean I m ravenous this morning, no idea why: had a huge dinner, actually are you OK, because you look a bit rough

I twisted my head to the side. Pops and cracks rippled down my spine; someone jabbed a rusty compass right between my shoulder blades.

The forward bar was full of bleary-eyed people and the smell of stale breath and stale beer. The metal grille was still down, locking away the row of taps and glinting optics, but the place was alive with stretching and yawning. A collection of booths and horseshoe-shaped sofa-style benches surrounded little round tables heaped with personal possessions. Like a refugee camp the morning after a booze-up.

Dr McDonald fiddled with her glasses. Thanks for not you know, thanks for letting me have the cabin, I know it probably seems silly, but I really get uncomfortable if

I didn t. I swung my feet onto the blue-and-green carpet and sat there, blinking, rubbing the grit out of my eyes. A cough ripped through me, making my ribs ache. You snore.

She pulled her head back, giving herself a double chin. I do not snore, it s

Thought the farting was bad, but Jesus you re like someone hacking up a metal dustbin with a chainsaw. One. Two. Three I pulled myself upright, then slowly straightened. Twinges, aches, and pains.

You were there? In the room while I was sleeping? Her eyes widened, then pink rushed up her cheeks. She wrapped both arms around herself. I was naked, I woke up and I was naked, and I d been drinking, and I was naked in bed when I woke up! What did did you it wasn t oh no, no, no, tell me we didn t actually