Stuart MacBride - Halfhead

Emily stepped back from the platform’s edge. ‘SO THAT’S WHY THE CUCUMBER SANDWICHES ALWAYS TASTE FUNNY?’

‘YOU’VE HEARD IT?’

The tunnel was growing lighter, the stanchion lights flickering on as the shuttle car decelerated out of the gloom. Green and shiny, like an exotic beetle. It came to a halt right in front of them.

‘I told it to you in the first place.’

The shuttle’s door popped open and slid back on its runners, exposing a clean, well-appointed interior. Not like the shabby ones the Network always used. They climbed onboard. ‘NETWORK HEADQUARTERS’ was already programmed into the destinator.

With a gentle hiss the door slipped back into place and the shuttle began to move, pulling away from the station.

Will settled back in his plush seat, taking one last look at the entrance to Ken Peitai’s little subterranean kingdom. It was amazing the things that could go on right under your…

He froze.

Just coming through the frosted doors was someone he recognized. Her wild ginger hair was now tied back in a neat ponytail and she was laughing, her green eyes twinkling in the strip-lights. The tribal scars were gone, only a faint trace of puffiness remaining where she’d peeled them off. The woman from Sherman House-the one he’d zapped.

He didn’t get much of a look at her companion, just a flash of a tall man in a long black cloat, its straps fluttering in the wake of the departing shuttle.

The car accelerated to cruising speed, leaving the platform far behind.

Oh shit.

If Ken’s little social engineering project was so damn altruistic, how come his agents were running around stirring things up? When Stein died, the ginger-haired woman hadn’t been trying to ‘keep a lid on things’, she’d been running at the front of the pack, with a projectile weapon in her hand and a crazy glint in her eye. She’d tried to kill his team for God’s sake!

Then there was the rest of them-the ones who’d chased Will and Emily through the corridors…How the hell did Ken Peitai get away with running his private militia in a building full of VR syndrome? It was like sticking a firecracker in a wasps’ byke.

Emily was right not to trust the little git.

Will scowled, watching the lights vwip past.

Out of the frying pan.

The rains arrived that evening, right on schedule. A flash. A single peal of thunder. The first drop spattered against the hot concrete, evaporating almost immediately. And then another drop. And another. Growing faster, thicker, heavier, until it was bouncing back from the pavement.

Gradually the streets filled with people, standing with their faces turned to the downpour. They danced and sang, celebrating the end of the oppressive heat, passing plastics of whisky and beer around. An impromptu carnival that rivalled any New Year’s Eve.

And then the temperature began to drop-slowly at first, just a couple of degrees an hour-until everyone was soaked and shivering. So they left the streets to the rain.

Summer was over. Now it was the turn of the monsoon.

‘That does not explain why you disobeyed my direct order to stay away from Sherman House!’

The shuttle had dropped Will and Emily off at Network Headquarters almost two hours ago, dressed in all their tattered finery. Fifteen minutes later the summons to the Director’s office had arrived. She’d kept them waiting in the anteroom for ages before calling Emily in. Director Smith-Hamilton was a professional, she did not believe in public bollockings. That meant Will had to sit outside while she tore a strip off of Lieutenant Brand. And then wait some more while she made a few phone calls. And then wait some more on top of that, just to make sure he knew he was in trouble.

He stood to attention while she paced back and forth in front of the panoramic glass wall, rubbing at her forehead. ‘I mean, I could understand it if you were one of the junior agents, but you’re an Assistant Section Director , William! I have to be able to trust you to follow the chain of command. If you don’t, how can we expect anyone else to?’

Behind her, Will had a perfect view of the city. Grey skies, sheets of rain. Glasgow was drowning. He knew how it felt. ‘I can only say-’

‘I’m not finished yet. When I decided to promote you to Assistant Section Director, I faced a great deal of opposition. “He’s too young,” they said. “He lacks discipline,” they said. I told them they were wrong: that despite your youth and unsavoury connections, you had a good, solid head on your shoulders. That you had what it took.’ She stopped pacing. ‘Was I wrong, William? Should I have listened to them and left you with the rank and file for another five years?’

‘Well, you-’

‘Don’t interrupt. It was bad enough you went back to Sherman House against my direct orders, but did you really have to drag Lieutenant Brand along with you? Are you looking to ruin her career as well as your own?’

‘I only told Lieutenant Brand where I was going once we were aboard the shuttle. She insisted on accompanying me to ensure my safety. She was not able to contact Control to inform them of my intentions because we were surrounded by residents who could have overheard, putting both of our lives in jeopardy.’

‘I had Governor Clark on the phone for twenty minutes this afternoon, demanding your head on a stick!’ Director Smith-Hamilton leant back against her huge sandstone desk. ‘You can consider yourself lucky the people running Sherman House have decided not to make a formal complaint. A Mr Peitai called me an hour ago to speak on your behalf: you owe him. Were it not for his support your position here would have been untenable. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Obviously, I can’t let this disgraceful breach go unpunished. I’m fining you one month’s wages and cutting your holiday entitlement by four days.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She sighed. ‘What are we going to do with you, William? I always had high hopes of you following in my footsteps. I thought that one day-when I move on to take a seat at the Ministry-I’d be able to leave the Network in your hands.’

Smith-Hamilton turned to face the downpour. Cleared her throat. Fidgeted with the cuffs of her jacket. ‘I understand they found Dr Westfield’s body yesterday. It must have come as a terrible shock.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps that’s why you went against my exclusion order on Sherman House?’

He didn’t answer, but she nodded anyway, then walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. Up close she smelled of lavender and bergamot. ‘I think you should take the rest of the week as compassionate leave. We’ll hold down the fort here and you can come to terms with…Well with whatever you have to come to terms with.’ She guided him towards the door.

‘Remember, William, we have a team of highly trained therapists who can help you through this. I want you to feel free to give them a call. Make them work for their money.’

Which was pretty much exactly the same speech he’d given DS Cameron.

Will murmured something noncommittal and thanked the Director for her time. Then marched off down the corridor, back straight, head up.

As soon as he heard her office door close, he slumped to a halt and swore. She could keep her highly-trained therapists-he’d had enough analysis to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

He got into the lift and hit the button for the lowest level. Brooding all the way down.

There was no sign of George’s shiny receptionist, so Will went straight through.

The ‘Frankenstein’s Day Off’ cartoon was gone, replaced by a large sign taped to the mortuary door: ‘GEORGE’S HOUSE OF FUN’. The Network’s chief pathologist was inside, up to his elbows in someone. As Will stomped in wearing his gaudy rags, the little fat man looked up, his mouth hanging open, cheeks twitching, eyes wide.