Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

A stray beam of sunshine carved its way through the heavy clouds, glittering off Bad Bill s Burger Bar a jury-rigged Transit van that scented the air with the dark, savoury smell of frying onions and mystery meat.

The man himself lounged in a folding chair in front of the van, sunbathing and smoking a cigarette and scratching himself. His pale hairy stomach bulged out between a pair of fraying jeans and a pink short-sleeved shirt. Arms thick as cabers, tattoos snaking about beneath the fur.

He looked around, squinted at me, then jerked his chin in the air, setting everything wobbling. Nodded towards his van. He pinged his cigarette butt off into the shadows, levered himself out of the chair, stomped to the back doors, and clambered inside. The Transit rocked on its springs.

Dr McDonald shifted her feet. Are you it s not exactly the most hygienic-looking of places. I m sure it s got its own rustic charm, but I can t Ash?

I was already walking.

Great, now I get alcohol poisoning and food poisoning.

By the time we d reached the serving hatch Bill was tying an apron around his swollen middle, the rumble of a kettle filling the van s interior with steam. A radio burbled out mass-produced plastic pop, fighting against the hiss and crackle of onions on a flat greasy griddle.

You believe these pricks? Bill jerked a thumb at the protesters. Like that s going to make a pube s worth of difference.

I sniffed at the menu chalked up on the side of the van where the paint was matt, like a blackboard. Two teas: white, sausage buttie, and a hangover special.

Dr McDonald tugged at my sleeve. But I don t

Like I said: trust me.

Bill took the stainless-steel lid off a deep-fat fryer and dumped six sausages into the hot oil. A handful of streaky bacon rashers went in after them, popping and crackling. He scratched himself with a pair of tongs. These religious types get right on my moobs.

The song faded out on an autotuned harmony. And we ll be playing the other three semi-finalists songs after the break, but first here s Doug with the news and weather. What do you think, Doug, who you backing?

Sophie for Britain s Next Big Star, definitely, Mike. Anyway, here s the headlines at half-past twelve this morning. The head of Oldcastle City Council says he won t be resigning after allegations surfaced earlier this week

The little circle of protesters started singing: a ragged sound that favoured volume over talent. ROCK OF AGES, CLEFT FOR ME, LET ME HIDE MYSELF IN THEE! Pumping their placards up and down like the world s dreariest merry-go-round.

Holier-than-thou bawbags. Bill curled his lip.

People go to the Westing, they re no looking for spiritual awakening, are they? He produced two floury white rolls from beneath the counter, tore them open, and slathered both sides with butter. Nah, folks are looking for a wee thrill. Want to escape the grinding shite of the old day-to-day.

BE OF SIN THE DOUBLE CURE, SAVE FROM WRATH AND MAKE ME PURE!

unavailable for comment. Oldcastle Police have refused to confirm or deny that local girl Megan Taylor missing since last night has been snatched by the serial killer known as The Birthday Boy. We spoke to Assistant Chief Constable Gary Drummond

So much for the you re all mute talk.

Bill oiled the griddle and cracked two eggs onto it. I heard he eats their livers, like that bloke in the films. Another scratch. Got a special on muesli bars, if you re interested?

ACC Drummond sounded as if he d trod in something. pointless media speculation isn t helping. We re taking Megan s disappearance very seriously, but that does not automatically mean

she s been abducted COULD MY ZEAL NO RESPITE KNOW, COULD MY TEARS FOREVER FLOW!

I looked back towards the Westing. There was a light on in the little row of windows, two floors up. Mrs Kerrigan about?

Got a job lot off this Dutch bloke. No fucker wants them. Styrofoam cups, teabags, water from the steaming kettle.

Do us a favour, eh? Steer clear of Mrs Kerrigan. Milk sploshed in straight from the carton, turning the contents anaemic beige, the teabags bobbing about like little brown islands.

There you go, Katie He handed one of the polystyrene cups to Dr McDonald. Haven t seen you for years: how s your mum keeping?

Actually, I m not

Red or brown?

Er tomato?

I helped myself to the other tea. Is she here or not? assure the public, we will catch him.

And we ll be keeping you updated on that story as it develops. Sport now, and Oldcastle Warriors are at home to Aberdeen in the third round of the Scottish Cup tomorrow

NOTHING IN MY HAND I BRING, SIMPLY TO THE CROSS I CLING!

A good squirt of red on one roll, then Bill hauled the wire basket out of the fryer. Come on, Ash, your luck s for shite, I wouldn t want

Every bastard thinks they re my mother I fished the teabag out of my cup and dumped it on the hard-packed mud. Splatch.

Just saying. He stuck one fried egg on the sauce-covered roll, then arranged three sausages on it, added the bacon, and topped it with the second egg. Another squirt of tomato sauce, then Bill squeezed the lid back on. Don t want to see you go the same way as your old boss. He wrapped the buttie in a paper napkin and stuck it in front of Dr McDonald.

There you go, Katie darling, get that down you and you ll feel much better.

Ah, right, erm, great, thanks She stared at the thing. Took a deep breath, then bit into it, crunching and chewing, bright-yellow yolk dripping down her chin.

WHILE I DRAW THIS FLEETING BREATH, WHEN MINE EYES SHALL CLOSE IN DEATH!

struggling to avoid relegation for the second year in a row, and with Hallet still off with a groin injury, chances are: that s set to continue

Bill piled the remaining sausages on the other roll, and passed it to me. Speaking of Len: you ever see him these days?

I added a liberal squeeze of brown sauce. What do I owe you?

On the house, like the advice.

Thanks. The deep-fried sausages were napalm-hot, but tasty. I pointed at Dr McDonald, talking with my mouth full.

Do me a favour and look after this one for a couple of minutes? and if you re heading out this afternoon, make sure you wrap up temperatures are set to plummet as low pressure settles in

Deal.

She shuffled her feet, red sauce and egg all over her chin and cheeks. Who s Mrs Kerrigan, why do you have to see her, is she some sort of

Don t wander off or speak to strangers. I won t be long. I turned and walked towards the Westing.

ROCK OF AGES, CLEFT FOR ME, LET ME HIDE MYSELF IN THEE!

Bill s voice boomed out across the car park. Don t say I didn t warn you!

The little recess in the front of the Westing hid a set of turnstiles and a gloomy tunnel. A hairy golem was perched behind a waist-high partition, locked away behind a metal grille. She looked up from her Twilight novel as I knocked on her cage. Neither of her thick eyebrows moved.

Morning, Arabella, I need to see Mrs Kerrigan.

She sniffed, marked her place in the book with a callused thumb.

Oh aye?

Aye.

Mmph. She picked up a mobile phone and jabbed at the buttons in silence. Thirty seconds later it buzzed and chirruped on the countertop. Arabella squinted at it, then grunted and flicked a switch. The turnstile clunked, the bars dipping a couple of centimetres. She went back to her book.

I pushed through into a long dark corridor with a little square of daylight at the end.

A soft, Irish voice broke through the gloom. Detective Constable Henderson?

I froze, balled my hands into fists. Mrs Kerrigan.

A light clicked on above a featureless doorway and there she was: black suit with a red silk shirt, golden crucifix resting in the wrinkled crease of her freckled cleavage. Her greying hair was piled up in a loose bun, curls escaping its grasp, waving in the breeze. Mrs Kerrigan smiled, baring sharp little teeth. Mr Inglis would like a word with yez.