Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

The heroin tingled in my fingers and toes, as if they were going to break free and fly away. I keep them all in this cigar box Rebecca gave me for Christmas when she was six. Don t know where she found it, but she painted it and covered it in sequins and glitter And that s where I hide them.

But why didn t you

They would ve taken me off the case. I d have to sit on my arse and watch them screw it all up. Never told anyone, not even Michelle. At least this way she gets to hope.

Ash, she needs to know or she can t move on, she

Sometimes it s better not to know. A shrug. Doesn t matter anyway: they found Rebecca yesterday, remember? The extra body in the park, with all the others. My little girl in a hole in the ground, her bones stained the colour of old blood.

Oh, Ash. Alice squeezed my arm. I m so sorry.

Me too. I turned back to the window. Stared out at the snow. He won t use Cameron Park any more, not now we ve crawled all over it We ll never find Katie s body.

Everything was getting heavier, gravity hauling my body down into the seat. Pulling my eyelids shut. So difficult to move.

Ash?

Should ve taken another one of Dawson s stolen amphetamines.

Leave me alone Cold wrapped its arms around me and heaved. Dragged me out into the snow. I looked up into a grey sky turned almost white. Soft icy kisses on my cheeks.

A face peered down at me. A woman s voice. I don t like this. Alice: he needs to go to the hospital.

Please, Aunty Jan, we have to. Alice stroked my forehead. He needs me.

I must be mad A big, heavy sigh. All right, all right: grab his feet. But if he dies, you re the one explaining it to the police, understand?

Thanks, Aunty Jan.

I blinked up at a white ceiling; kitchen cabinets lurked around the edges; the sound of a kettle boiling. I was inside How did I get inside? Got to get up and find Katie.

Will you bloody hold him still! This is hard enough as it is.

Something heavy on my arms and legs.

Sorry.

Christ, what a mess

Someone was kicking me in the head. I peeled an eye open, but the bastard was invisible.

Up above me the ceiling was dappled with animal-shaped shadows, slowly rotating around a hazy sun. My mouth was two sizes too small for my head, the inside of my cheeks lined with sandpaper, tongue forced inside a cage of teeth. Something sticky on my face.

I put a hand up to scratch it away, but someone caught my wrist.

No. Alice pushed my arm back down by my side.

How are you feeling?

Like I d been hit by one of those tankers they used to empty septic tanks. Thirsty.

Here. She pressed a bottle to my lips and I drank, gulping it down, getting half of it all over my chin and neck. Not caring.

Aunty Jan fixed you up.

A face loomed over me the same one from the kitchen. Bobbed hair jelled into spikes on one side, a face pinched around narrowed eyes. Lucky you didn t lose that foot. What were you thinking?

Told you she s a great vet.

I held out a hand and Alice hauled me up till I was sitting in a single bed. My stomach lurched. I gritted my teeth, swallowed hard. Held onto the mattress in case it soared away. Looked down.

My right foot was encased in professional-looking bandages, wrapped so tightly I couldn t feel a thing.

Alice s aunt folded her arms. I ve done a nerve block lidocaine, epinephrine, and a corticosteroid. The whole thing will be numb below the knee, but that doesn t mean you can go out and run a marathon. The bullet sheared through your second metatarsal, right now the only thing holding your toe on is skin and some stitches. You ll need a bone graft. A nod. Keep that foot elevated or you re going to end up with an oedema, septicaemia, and probably gangrene. That sound like fun to you?

Didn t hurt at all. You re a genius. I swung my legs out of bed and the room whooshed around my head, doing a lap of honour. Christ

You need to rest. And shower. You absolutely reek.

What time is it?

You ve lost a lot of blood, you need to

What s the bloody time?

Silence.

Then Alice held up her watch. Two o clock.

Three hours.

The Snooze-U-Like Inn on Martyr Road was a Rubik s cube, where all the sides were the same colour: grey. Henry s ancient Volvo estate was the only thing in the car park until Alice slid the Renault in next to it.

She looked up at the bland frontage with its little square windows. Snow drifted down from the gunmetal sky. Still nothing?

I fidgeted with the collar on my borrowed shirt. Everything Alice s uncle owned was just a bit too big, but at least it didn t stink of blood and sweat and vomit. Come on, Henry, answer the bloody phone It rang through to voicemail again. I hung up.

She hopped out of the car, breath pluming around her head.

I ll go get him.

Five minutes later and there was still no sign of her.

I climbed out into the cold.

It took me a dozen steps to get used to the cane Alice s aunt Jan had lent me leaning on the polished mahogany handle every time my right foot touched the ground, lurching from side to side as I hobbled towards the hotel entrance.

The nerve block was great couldn t feel a thing.

I pushed through into the reception area. Scuffed carpet tiles, faded wallpaper, dusty plastic pot plants, and a bored-looking man behind the desk.

The receptionist glanced up from his copy of the Daily Mail.

You got a reservation?

Fucking thousands of them. Henry Forrester: where is he?

Room seventeen, first floor. Mr Daily Mail pointed towards a set of double doors. Lift s out of order.

Brilliant, more stairs.

I puffed and panted up to the first floor, paused for a second to catch my breath, then limped into a dingy corridor. A door at the far end lay open, the number 17 picked out in brass on the scuffed brown paint, a DO NOT DISTURB hanging from the handle.

Television noises oozed out into the hall some snooty woman s voice banging on about the interest rates.

They were watching the bloody news, as if we had all the time in the world. As if he wasn t going to kill my little girl at five.

For fuck s sake.

I lurched down the corridor. Henry Bloody Forrester, get your lazy drunken arse downstairs, now

Alice appeared in the doorway, both arms wrapped around herself, bottom lip trembling, a drip shining on the end of her nose. Ash

I stopped. Where is he?

She stared at the threadbare carpet. He s gone. A tear sparkled in the dim light, then plopped onto the toe of her red shoes.

What do you mean, he s No. I pushed past into the room.

Sheba was on the bed, on her side, completely still. Henry lay beside her, dressed in his funeral suit, an empty Macallan bottle at his fingertips, a clear plastic bag over his head the sides streaked with condensation.

He was cold to the touch, no pulse. The ancient dog was the same.

She s dead It isn t I can t.

And I d called him a useless drunken old bastard.

Alice shuffled in behind me. These were on the bedside cabinet. She held out a small white pill tub.

Fluvoxamine. The antidepressant he was taking in Shetland.

She sniffed. Cleared her throat. Rubbed a hand across her eyes. Took a big shuddering breath. He left a note.

Sodding hell: she d found her mother in the bath with slit wrists. And now this.

Henry, you stupid selfish old bastard. thoughts and prayers are with the families at this time. Both girls birthdays are today and we can only imagine how their parents are feeling.

Do you think Megan Taylor and Katie Henderson are already dead?

Well, we have no concrete evidence that the so called

Birthday Boy kills his victims on their

I switched off the car radio. Are you OK?

A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, making the wet road sparkle. The streets were arranged in neatly ordered rows: old-fashioned houses with four-pane windows and gardens out the front. Beech trees in cast-iron cages dotted the pavements.