Stuart MacBride - Halfhead

Brian stepped forwards. ‘Aye, and you’ll appreciate that you’ll be in a world of shite if you don’t shift this one to the top of your fuckin’ priority list.’

The pathologist blinked. ‘I see…Well, I shall chase up the records department as soon as I get a chance and-’

‘I’m sorry, did I no’ make myself perfectly fuckin’ clear?’

There was a pause, and then the thin man pulled a little blue cylinder from his top pocket, slipped it onto the end of his index finger, and pointed at his own face. ‘Records.’ His left eye clouded over. ‘Yes, I sent a DNA sample up an hour and a half ago, reference: S H dash O slash D dash one zero two eight six…Yes, I know, but I want you to expedite it…I know there’s a backlog.’

His one clear eye swept across Brian’s angry face, then looked away quickly, voice lowered to a hiss. ‘I don’t care, just do it…Yes, I’ll hold.’

Two minutes of awkward silence later the pathologist slipped the fingerphone back into his pocket. ‘It’s a match. The DNA profile is the same as the one we have on file for this halfhead’s medical records. Obviously we don’t have a name, but when Services collect the remains for formal identification I can-’

‘It’s all right,’ said Will. ‘I know who she is.’

After all this time, she was finally dead. She could burn in Hell where she belonged.

‘Come on.’ Emily laid a hand on his arm. ‘Let’s go get pished.’

Eighteen floors beneath their feet a figure stirs in her sleep. The dream is lovely and warm, woven from other peoples’ nightmares. The last, terrifying moments of their lives. A slow, intimate waltz of blood, that slowly turns into something altogether more sensual. More special.

In the dream she looks exactly the same as she did on the day that they caught her: flowing golden hair that spills out in soft waves to her shoulder blades; soft, claret lips; long slender neck; and crystal clear, baby-blue eyes. Thirty-six years old and not looking a day over twenty-seven. The perfect predator.

The air is heavy with the sound of busy bees, and she is bathing naked in a bath of fresh, warm blood. There are pale bodies all around the bathtub, holding their slit wrists above the surface, dripping their last drops in her honour. She throws back her head and moans in sheer rapture at the sticky, warm delight.

And then a shadow falls across the room: The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit.

She shivers in her sleep. He’s here. He’s come to steal her face! She thrashes awake, knocking rolls of toilet paper flying. He’s here! He’s…

Her eyes dart back and forth. The room is quiet, peaceful, safe. The ceiling fan rotates above her, the pickers glide along their rails, the store hums away to itself. Everything is normal. He’s not here.

She sinks back into her nest and waits for her heart to stop pounding. She has never known fear like this before. Illogical. Irrational. Terrifying…

She examines the feeling, turning it back and forth in her mind, analysing her reaction and its cause.

The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit.

There’s only one thing to do: she has to confront her fear or it will always have power over her. She’s told hundreds of her patients the very same thing.

She slips from her nest to the storeroom floor.

The man who haunts her dreams isn’t a God, or a monster, He’s just a human being. But in order to confront her fear she must put a name to Him. And when she knows who He is, she can obtain closure.

Preferably with a very sharp knife.

Will and Emily stepped off the escalator and into the crowded lobby of Sherman House. Thursday morning, and the huge room was loud and sweaty, packed with sullen faces, all lit with the greasy green light that filtered in through the mould-covered plexiglass. A couple of halfheads pushed floor polishers across the atrium, redistributing the dirt. Someone nodded past, the sound of a cheap sub-dermal music player echoing out of his mouth. Bitter smells of stewed coffee, the dusty scent of mildew, the sweet tang of aerosol narcotics.

Will rubbed his palms dry on his trousers.

Nothing to worry about. He could do this. Deep breath. He could definitely do this. Nothing to worry about.

Why was it so damned hot in here?

He hauled at the collar of his eclectic rags-rescued from a seedy, second-hand shop on Nesbit Road-a patchwork of clashing colours and patterns, the trailing edges flapping as he moved. Emily wore hers like a native, but he looked like someone’s dad in fancy dress. It had been years since he’d gone undercover and it showed.

‘Relax,’ she said, scanning the crowd. ‘Everyone’s going to think someone shoved a dead cat up your arse.’

‘Feel like a bloody idiot.’

‘Look like one too.’ Emily frowned at him. ‘You might as well be carrying a six-foot placard saying “Undercover agent, please shoot me!” Relax for God’s sake.’

Will slouched, letting his arms dangle as they sauntered carefully across the crowded atrium.

‘Better. But still crap.’ She pulled the tabs on the two beers they’d bought at a little off-licence vending machine at the Martian Pavilion, and handed one over. ‘Try to look more vague. If anyone says anything just mumble incoherently, I’ll tell them you’re on Tezzers.’

‘Thanks a heap.’ He took a gulp from the tube, grimacing as the fizzy liquid burnt on the way down. Too much to drink last night: toasting the dear departed bitch’s memory with Emily and Brian in a variety of pubs, ending up in a pretentious little freezy joint on Sauchiehall Street. Where the drinks were every bit as ridiculously overblown as the music.

‘OK,’ he said, stifling an acidic belch, ‘how do you want to play it?’

‘You’re my half-wit, good for nothing boyfriend. I am a strong, independent woman and you follow me about, like some sort of smelly Alsatian.’

‘Woof.’

‘Good boy.’ She set off for the lifts, Will shambling along behind her, still trying to get into the part. Hunched up grunting obscenities under his breath.

About a dozen youths were gathered around the bank of lifts, dressed in the skin-tight formal wear that was so fashionable three years ago. Some were staggering about, giggling, others slumped back against the wall with big wet grins and eyes the colour of tarmac. The outskirts of the pack looked jumpy, as if they were waiting for their turn to go off to cloud-cuckoo land, but didn’t have enough money for the bus.

Emily leant over and whispered at Will, ‘Think they’re on Tezzers?’

‘More like H, or Mouse. They’ll be turning over anyone who looks like they haven’t already swallowed their daily allowance.’

He hooked an arm though hers and staggered slightly, blinking slowly, trying to look as if he’d just swallowed a whole week’s ration of government-issued narcotics. ‘You want to take the escalator instead?’

Emily shook her head. ‘We’re too close. If we turn round and go the other way it’ll look like we’ve got something worth having.’

‘And they’ll try and take it.’

‘Got it in one.’

They reached the outer edges of the group. One of the jumpy kids stepped in front of them. Sharp features, squint teeth, a monocle tattooed around his right eye. ‘Gotta pay the taxman, yeah?’

Emily stared at him. ‘Get to fuck, you wee radge.’

Monocle smiled. And that’s when Will realized that the young man’s teeth weren’t squint-they were filed to points. All the better to eat you with…

‘“Get to fuck,” is it?’ Monocle turned and held his hands out. ‘You hear what the bitch says to me? Eh?’ When he turned back there was a six-inch serrated knife in his hands. ‘You know what? For an old bird you’re pretty fit…’ He ran the knife blade up and down the colourful tatters on Emily’s sleeve. ‘Bet you like it rough, eh? Bet you’re just fuckin’ gaspin’ for me and my mates to take you round the back and bang the shit out you. Yeah?’