Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

‘ Now I’ve got IT on my back moaning about server space. And if you’d bothered to check: the profile I gave you clearly shows that Agnes Garfield is- ’

Something bleeped at the front of the betting shop. The door.

Sodding hell.

Logan checked the security-camera monitor mounted above the entrance through to the front of the shop. A figure in a hoodie and baseball cap stood in the middle of the screen in fuzzy black-and-white-ovision.

‘Sorry, Dave, I’ve got to go.’

‘ Logan, I’m not- ’

He hung up.

Sim peered up at the picture, her voice lowered to a whisper. ‘That Agnes? ’

‘Difficult to tell. .’ The general size and shape was right, but the baggy hoodie and cap did a pretty decent job of hiding any distinguishing characteristics. ‘Might be? ’

If it was, she was five minutes early and Steel was right: they were screwed. There was no way he’d be able to sneak out front now and hide under the counter. Plan B, plan B, plan B. .

Logan pointed into the room. ‘Move!’

Dildo scurried over to the back door and hid behind a stack of cardboard boxes. Sim ducked under a workbench in the middle of the room. Logan flattened himself against the wall beside the door, on the opposite side to the handle. So when it opened it’d hide him from view.

A voice floated through from the betting shop, high, wobbly at the edges. Definitely female. ‘ Hello? Ma? ’

‘ Hello, Rowan love. Oh, I love the new hair — that colour is just so you! ’

Stop sodding about, you old trout. Send her through the back. .

‘ You go on through, there’s cake and tea. ’

‘ Em, OK. . ’

Logan licked his lips.

The door handle turned.

Here we go. Nice and easy. No one gets hurt.

The door swung open.

Rowan steps into the room. Normally the place is alive with pale yellow and blue: the fuzzy-edged auras of old men and women. Short twists of beige for forgotten dreams. Wisps of grey for lost loved ones.

But today it’s empty.

Someone’s cleared the benches, emptied the shelves.

The only noise is the radio: a DJ burbling away about how great the weekend weather’s going to be in London.

The hydraulic return unit swings the door closed behind her.

Clunk.

Where are all the people?

Breath catches in her throat. Something’s wrong. Ma said there’d be tea and cake. . It was a lie .

And then the noise — right behind her — a tiny speaker blaring out a tinny rendition of that song from the Wizard of Oz , the one about the scarecrow being thick. It’s a ringtone.

A man’s voice comes so close she can almost feel his breath on her neck: ‘Buggering hell. .’

The song dies a sudden death.

She doesn’t turn around, doesn’t have to. ‘Detective Inspector McRae.’

The man who doesn’t know if he’s an Angel or a Hand of Death.

Black tendrils coil around her legs and chest.

The Kirk is my shield and my sword. The Kirk is my shield and my sword.

Blood thumps in her throat, each breath crackling deep inside her.

RUN.

She takes a step forward and a police officer uncurls herself from beneath one of the benches. Blue and red fizzing trails probe the area around her.

Rowan stops.

The Angel of Death clears his throat. ‘It’s OK, Agnes. You’re safe now.’ And he manages to sound as if he actually believes that.

Safe? How can she possibly be safe?

The door at the back of the room leads out into the alleyway behind the row of shops. All she needs to do is get there.

What I do in its service lights a fire in God’s name.

Another step.

Hands wrap themselves around her shoulders. A gentle touch that burns like a fistful of ice.

‘You’ll be OK, it’ll all be-’

She pistons her right elbow back, hard into his stomach, and warm breath explodes in her ear. Everything goes into slow motion. He lets go and falls back, crumpling around himself, hissing in pain.

Tenet Two: ‘Know thine enemy, for knowledge is power and power is victory.’

She’s watched him through his bedroom window, a towel wrapped around his waist, twenty-six little shining scars making constellations on his stomach. Old knife wounds never really fade.

Rowan’s already moving forward as he hits the ground. Up onto the nearest bench, running, dragging the pricking knife from the pocket of her hoodie, pulling the eight-inch blade free from its sheath.

The police officer turns, hair sailing out like a black wave behind her. A little canister of something glints in her hand. Rowan’s boot flashes out, connecting with the knuckles and it spirals away. End over end. So slow and delicate.

She keeps going.

A man lumbers out from behind a pile of boxes by the back door. His little round glasses are hollow and empty, his goatee beard stretched wide by his open mouth. ‘No!’

Something grabs her ankle. Her knee buckles and the workbench rushes up to meet her. Duck, roll, kick out. .

There’s a grunt and the police officer is going the other way, arms flailing, a ribbon of blood fluttering from her mouth.

And Rowan is on her feet again.

The man has a goatee beard, but he’s a sheep. He grabs a chair and hauls it up in front of himself, like he’s a lion tamer. But she’s not a lion, she’s a Fingerman.

She hammers straight into it, slamming him back against the door.

His fist crawls through the syrupy air towards her face. She bats it away with her left, then punches him in the ribs with her right. Something goes crack and his eyes bug.

Rowan pulls back her hand. The pricking knife’s long blade drips scarlet.

And bang — everything is proper speed again.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, making a high-pitched mewling noise that builds into a proper scream.

She steps back and the chair clatters to the floor.

Red blooms across his chest. ‘No, no, no, oh Jesus. .’ He leaves a smear across the wall as he slumps sideways to the floor.

What I do in its service lights a fire in God’s name.

She opens the back door, steps out into the alley, then closes it behind her.

Time to run.

Logan rolled over onto his back, hissing a breath out between gritted teeth. Burning coals seared through his stomach, melting all the way through to his spine, filling his lungs with scalding embers and choking ash.

Holy Christ , that hurt.

The back door slammed.

He worked his way up to his hands and knees, forehead resting on the scratchy beige carpet tiles.

Up. Get up. Get after her. DON’T LET HER GET AWAY.

The ground wobbled beneath his feet as he dragged himself upright sending fresh needles jabbing into his belly.

Ma’s counterfeiting shop was a mess: tables overturned, chairs, a smear of blood on the back wall. . Dildo was lying on the floor by the door, knees curled up against his chest, a pool of scarlet seeping out onto the floor. ‘No, no, no, no, no: I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die!’

PC Sim untangled herself from a swivel chair and lurched to her feet. Scarlet smears covered her mouth, twin trails glistened their way down the front of her stab-proof vest. ‘Gagh. .’ She spat — frothy and red. ‘Bit my tongue.’ Then stared at Dildo. ‘Jeepers. Is he going to be-’

‘Don’t just stand there: GET AFTER HER!’

Sim blinked a couple of times, nodded, then charged over, wrenched open the back door and disappeared.

Logan limped across and sank down next to Dildo. ‘Tim, you’re going to be OK. We’re going to sort you out. It’s OK, it’s OK.’