Stuart MacBride - Twelve Days of Winter - Crime at Christmas

‘Oh, God, please don’t. . . Please! I’ve got a computer, a laptop, you can have it! I stole it from that guy’s house. It’s yours!’

Dillon looks down at him. ‘OK. Thanks, I appreciate the gesture.’ Then he grabs a length of steel pipe and smashes it into Twitch’s legs, hammering again and again. Pulverising the bone. The screaming only lasts for a few minutes, then everything . . . goes . . . black.

Kayleigh stands in the shadows, leaning heavily against the wall, as Dillon turns the skanky wee bastard’s legs into mush. The left side of her face is tender and swollen, her ribs ache: and so do her breasts and legs. But that’s nothing compared to how it stings and burns inside.

Dillon finally steps away from the mess. Panting.

She sniffs. ‘Is he dead?’

‘Nope.’ Dillon smiles at her. ‘This wee shite’s going to spread the word about what happens if you fuck with me.’

She limps forward and kicks the motionless body in the head.

Dillon laughs. ‘You want him dead?’

‘Fucker raped me!’ She kicks him again. Then stomps on his chest. ‘Going on and on about how much he loves me and how great it is I’m dancing only for him . . . and all the time. . .’ Another kick.

Dillon picks up the laptop bag and slings it over his shoulder. ‘You sure you want him dead?’

‘HE FUCKING RAPED ME!’

‘Fair enough.’ Dillon hands her the metal pipe. ‘You did me a favour: I’ll do you one. He’s all yours.’

She stops, dead. ‘What?’

‘Cave his head in.’

‘I. . .’

‘Go on – no one will ever know it was you.’

She drops the metal pipe. It clangs on the alley floor. ‘I . . . I can’t.’

‘No?’ Dillon looks at her, head on one side, like a cat. ‘You sure?’

Her voice is barely a whisper, trembling as the tears start. ‘He raped me. You said to keep him busy and he raped me.’

‘I meant buy him a drink , you silly cow. Did I say anything about getting him all sexed up?’

She turns away, staring at the ground. ‘No, Mr Black.’

Dillon sighs. ‘Oh, for goodness sake. . .’ He grabs one of the black plastic bin-bags and empties it on the alley floor. Tins and bottles clatter on the concrete. ‘Tell you what: I’ll make it easy for you.’ He takes a handful of Twitch’s mullet and drags him backwards – until he’s sitting slumped against the wall – then sticks the bag over his head.

Kayleigh stares at him, mouth open as Dillon wraps the ends of the bag around Twitch’s throat and ties them in a tight little knot, just under the chin. The bag puffs up slightly as the raping bastard breathes out. Then constricts as he tries to breathe in.

Dillon takes off his gloves and sticks them in his pocket. ‘If you want the wee shite dead: just leave him. You want him to live: pop a hole in the bag before he suffocates. Your choice. I’m off for a beer.’

He disappears back into the club.

The sound of singing filters in from the street, then a bus rumbling past, then someone shouts the odds at their boyfriend. Then a taxi. . .

Kayleigh watches as the bag inflates and deflates over Andy ‘Twitch’ McKay’s head.

Out. . . In. . . Out. . . In. . .

His right hand trembles.

Out. . . In. . . In. . . In. . .

She bites her bottom lip and tries not to cry.

In. . . In. . . In. . . In . . .

A siren, high and thin, flashing past on the main road.

Out. . .

Still.

Kayleigh starts to sob.

There was something calming about the view from the castle’s ruined battlements at night: down the steep, dark hill to Kings Park; across the swollen black river to Castle View and the Wynd. Streetlights made sparkling ribbons in the darkness, like a spider’s web flecked with dew.

He raised the bottle to his lips as the first flakes of snow began to fall, drifting down through the cold night air. A 1896 Chateau Laubade Armagnac – over a thousand pounds a bottle – and he was swigging it like a wino. It smoothed its way into his chest with gentle, warming fingers. Keeping him safe against the chill. Blocking the pain from his broken finger.

Making him brave enough to do what had to be done.

Another swig then he gazes into the blackness before him. The cliffs are steepest here: the perfect spot for jumping. Just as soon as he’s finished his Armagnac – it would be a shame to let something so perfect go to waste. When he’s finished – then he’ll go. . .

‘. . . but most of all I’d like to thank our honoured guest for taking time out of his busy schedule to come open our new offices today.’ The fat man steps back and leads the applause.

It’s a featureless industrial unit, identical to all the other featureless industrial units in the Shortstaine business park. If it weren’t for the blue plastic sign above the door: ‘SCOTIABRAND TASTY CHICKENS LTD. THEY’RE FAN-CHICKEN-TASTIC!’ you wouldn’t even notice it. But tomorrow there’ll be a big feature in the local rag – banging on about ‘ job creation ’ and ‘ local economic growth ’ – featuring everyone’s favourite white-haired, avuncular MSP: Lord Peter Forsyth-Leven.

Peter smiles and holds his hand up, waiting for the noise to die down before launching into his ‘it’s a great pleasure/challenges of tomorrow/forward Scotland’ speech. The same one he trots out for all these drab little official functions. Opening offices, dedicating park benches, planting trees, you name it – he gets dragged into it. But that’s what happens when you’re an MSP and a bona fide lord to boot. Sixty years of Noblesse oblige .

He finishes with a joke about two old ladies from Castle Hill and Santa’s magic sack, then unveils the tiny blue plaque commemorating this proud moment for ScotiaBrand Tasty Chickens Ltd.

Photographers flash, hands are shaken, everyone smiles, and finally he can escape.

He turns his back on the dismal little place and marches off towards his Bentley, plipping open the locks before he gets there. Other people in his position need a driver and a horde of staff before they’ll go anywhere near the opening of a chicken slaughterhouse, but not him. He has ‘the common touch’, it says so in all the papers.

There’s a man waiting for him, leaning against the fence by the car, hands in his pockets, smiling.

Peter’s mother always maintained that you could learn everything you needed to know about a man by looking at his shoes. This one has black leather brogues, a long black overcoat, well-cut black suit, white shirt, and a scarlet tie. Businessman. Probably with an invitation to another bloody opening.

‘Mr Forsyth-Leven?’ The man smiles and sticks out his hand.

Mister ? Bloody cheek – he’s a lord .

Peter works up a smile of his own. ‘Can I help you?’ He opens the car door – just to make sure the man knows he has places to go, people to see, decisions to make.

‘More like the other way around: I want to talk to you about a unique investment opportunity.’

Here we go again.

‘Well, that’s very kind of you Mr. . . ?’ No name is forthcoming. Some people have no manners. ‘But I’m afraid you’d have to speak to my office about that. I think-’

‘No.’ The man holds up a hand. ‘I think you’ll want to deal with this personally. You see the opportunity is specific to you and you alone.’

Of course it is. When is it ever not? Peter sighs. ‘What is it?’

‘Keeping you out of jail, you dirty child-molesting old fucker.’

A siren wailed somewhere in the night. The snow had slowly thickened – going from drifting icing sugar to dense fat flakes that fell steadily from the dark-orange sky. They stuck to his clothes and hair, made tiny proto-drifts in the clefts of the brick that would grow and grow through the night. Falling on his twisted, broken body at the foot of the cliff. Burying it from sight. Locking him away in its icy embrace.