Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

Rowan shrinks back against the side of the van. A Raptor. . This isn’t in the plan. This isn’t in the plan at all.

He stops at the serving hatch and smiles. ‘Aye, aye, Betty. Fit like the day, then? ’

‘Can’t complain, Ian. Usual? ’

‘Aye, and a couple bags of crisps for the wains.’ He turns and waves back at the Peugeot. The children wave back. A young boy and a little girl, her golden hair bobbing about an angelic little face.

‘Oh, aren’t they adorable? ’

‘That’s the joy of grandchildren, you can spoil them rotten and no’ have to worry about the consequences.’ He slips his hand into his coat pocket, pulls out an old-fashioned iPod, and goes thumbing through the menu. ‘You keen on Steppenwolf , Betty? ’

‘More of a Bruce Springsteen girl, myself.’

He pops the earbuds in, then puts the iPod back in his long black jacket. Like the wings of a crow. ‘“Born to be Wild” — can’t beat it. Got a good rhythm.’ He smiles at the Witch. ‘How about you? ’

A shrug. ‘Dunno about old music.’ He reaches up and takes a tin from the counter. Clicks the tab on it and downs a deep draught of Irn-Bru.

Ian takes out a pair of black leather gloves and puts them on. ‘Kinda my theme tune.’ Then he turns and waves at the kids in the car again. Covers his eyes with his gloved hands, then throws them open. ‘Peekaboo!’

The children giggle and do the same back.

Betty shuffles about inside the van, making the springs creak. ‘Here you go, loon, one bacon-and-egg buttie, with chips. Sorry you’ve had a wait. Help yourself to sauce and that.’

The Witch steps forward, reaching for his food, a smile on his face.

One more go at peekaboo, only this time the children don’t peek, they keep their eyes covered as Ian pulls a hammer from his long black coat and cracks the Witch over the back of the head with it.

The Witch stumbles, a cry caught in his throat, the tin of Irn-Bru erupting in a fountain of orange as it hits the ground. Then he’s on his knees, holding himself up with one hand on the counter.

Ian drones out the opening words to ‘Born to be Wild’ then slams the hammer down on the Witch’s wrist.

A squeal and he falls to the floor, curling up in a ball as Ian slams his boot into his back. Then he wraps his gloved hands into the Witch’s hair and drags him around behind the van.

‘What’ve you been told? ’

Rowan peers around the edge of the van, using the big bottles of Calor gas as a blind.

The Witch is scuffing backwards through the dirt, ruined wrist clutched to his chest, the other hand up — pointing. Teeth bared. ‘I’m warning you, Grandad, you don’t know who you’re-’

Ian kicks him in the face. ‘It’s Mr Falconer to you, sunshine.’

He rolls onto his front, bright red spattering from his mouth. ‘Unngh. .’

‘And I know exactly who I’m messing with: Jake Ran Yingnu. You were supposed to do a job, Mr Ran.’ Ian kicks him again. ‘Did you really think twenty grand’s worth of cannabis could disappear from your farm and no one would bat an eyelid? ’ Ian pops out the earbuds and stares down at him, head on one side, a bird of prey watching a wounded rabbit. ‘Well? ’

The Witch pushes himself up. . then collapses forward again, forehead resting on the blood-stained earth, bum in the air, as if he’s praying to Mecca. ‘I didn’t steal it! It wasn’t me!’

‘Think the McLeod brothers give a toss about that? That weed was in your care, you were responsible for it. And you let someone just waltz in and nick it in the middle of the night? ’ He backs up a couple of steps, then takes a run up and slams a boot into the Witch’s ribs, hard enough to flip him over. ‘How’d they find the place? How’d they get past the alarms? Who told them? ’

‘AAAAAAAGH. .’ Coughing. Wheezing. The Witch wraps his good arm around his chest, his teeth bloody tombstones in a scarlet mouth. ‘It wasn’t me, I swear, I didn’t-’

‘Place was meant to be secure. The McLeods trusted you.’

Tears roll down the Witch’s cheeks, making clear trails in the dust. ‘I didn’t tell anyone! I did what I was supposed to do. IT WASN’T ME!’

Ian hunkers down beside him, the hammer’s scuffed metal head resting on the dirt. ‘You know what? I believe you. Wasn’t your fault. You’d have to be sodding mental to screw with the McLeods like that, wouldn’t you? And if you did, you wouldn’t stick around afterwards: you’d be on the first flight out of here. Get as far away as you could before they came after you.’

The Witch’s shoulders judder as sobs crack free from his bloody lips. ‘I didn’t. . it wasn’t me. . I would. . would never -’

‘But it doesn’t really matter what I think, does it? If Simon and Colin let you off with this, the next thing you know everyone thinks they’ve gone soft. Don’t want that, do you? ’

‘Please. .’

‘Course you don’t.’ Ian sticks his earbuds back in, then frowns. ‘Pfff. . Missed the best bits.’ He produces the iPod and pokes at it.

‘Please, I’ll. . anything. . anything you want, it’s. . it’s yours. .’ The Witch pushes himself back along the dirty ground. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong!’

‘Here we go.’ Ian puts the iPod away again. Closes his eyes for a moment, nodding in time to the music. Then raises the hammer above his head and swings it down, right into the side of the Witch’s knee. There’s a wet cracking sound. A scream. Then he does it again. And again. Grabbing hold of the Witch’s belt so he can’t scramble away. Keeping the beat with his hammer as he sings along.

A metronome of blood and fear.

Born to be Wild .

Rowan watches until there’s nothing left of the Witch’s knees but pulp and shards of bone, then slips away.

Reuben pulled into the parking space right in front of a glossy edifice of yellow sandstone and emerald-green glass. Posters in the window encouraged people to bet on when the first goal would be scored against Celtic in the Scottish Cup Final on Saturday at Hampden Park, or who’d get red-carded, or injured, with photos of cheery actors holding wads of notes and glasses of champagne. From the look of things, being burned down was the best thing that had happened to the Turf ’n Track in years.

He hauled up the creaky handbrake, then turned to the poor sod in the back. ‘You sit tight, Mr Fisher. My mate Terry’s going to be right here watching you. Doesn’t say much, but he’s a nightmare with a Stanley knife.’ Then the big man hopped out into the overcast afternoon. Looked back in at Logan. ‘You: out.’

It wasn’t as if he had much of an option. .

He followed Reuben’s broad back towards the Turf ’n Track’s front door. ‘Terry? ’

‘If the wee knob knows he’s all alone in there, he’ll get restless. Might kick up a fuss, bang on the sides of the van, try to get himself a wee bit of help. Terry’ll be good company for him: make sure he does the right thing.’

The Turf ’n Track’s door opened with a bleep, announcing their arrival into a clean, sparkling room with one wall of floor-to-ceiling flatscreen TVs. Another wall was covered in pages from the Racing Post , listing all the meetings, runners and riders. And all the way across the front: a long counter manned by three attractive young blonde women in green-and-yellow uniforms cut just low enough to show a bit of cleavage. All of them wearing enough slap to sink a Debenhams makeup counter.

Three men in suits sat at a breakfast bar thing in the middle of the room, watching the races, eating paninis, and sipping bottles of Corona with lime wedged in the neck.

Bit of a change from the old place.