Stuart MacBride - Halfhead

They stood beneath the awning of a burger van, sheltering from the pounding rain, eating cloned-meat patties and overcooked onions. George was tucking into his with relish. Brian ate his with tomato sauce. Will peered at his suspiciously, as if a cat had just crapped in it.

‘So what’s the verdict then?’ said Brian between chews.

‘I found out who Ken’s boss was six and a bit years ago. Other than that: nothing. It’s like they don’t even exist.’

‘How can there be nothin’? No one’s invisible these days, no’ even ministry spooks.’

‘They’ve got no Social records, nothing in the Services database and, other than one hefty bonus, bugger all in PayFund either. I couldn’t even find a budget allocation for Peitai’s project at Sherman House.’

‘And you’re sure they’re no’ corporate?’

Will nodded. ‘No private company’s got enough clout to keep something this big a secret.’

Brian growled and bit into his bun. ‘If they’re no’ on the official budgets, they’re dark funds. That makes ‘ em Special Ops, or SIS, or some covert department shite.’

George raised an eyebrow, grease glossing his chin. ‘Is that bad?’

‘Aye, them bastards don’t play by the rules. I used to go out with a guy worked Special Ops-this was years ago mind, just after they’d won the World War Cup: everyone wanted tae shag a soldier-he used to brag about what they did tae people what got in their way. Thought it wis sexy. We’re gonnae have to go real careful here: even if we get proof…They’ll bury us, literally.’

Will swore, risked a bite of his burger, and swore again.

‘We’re in way over our heads,’ said Brian, as Will looked around for somewhere to spit. ‘We’ll have to be a right sneaky bunch of bastards to get away with this.’

George took a mouthful of Irn-Bru, belched. ‘I’ve sent those brain samples off to the labs. Get them back tomorrow. At least then we’ll know what Peitai’s injecting the poor buggers with.’

Will stuffed the rest of his burger in the bin. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. ‘What about you, Brian?’

‘No one’s talkin’. I’ve twisted every arm I can think of; whatever they’re up to, they’re keepin’ it real quiet.’

‘Then all we’ve got is one mysteriously fake-shabby apartment, two corpses, and George’s chemical residue.’ Will scowled out at the rain, watching it hammer into the pavement hard enough to jump back to knee level. ‘There’s something else: Dr Westfield.’

Brian raised an eyebrow, ‘Oh aye?’ George just went on eating.

Turns out Alastair Middleton wasn’t the only one Westfield was grooming. Colin Mitchell and Allan Brown: she was their therapist too. I found case notes detailing how she screwed up their parents, then did the same to them. Twisted them till they went out and started killing.’

‘Shite…’ Brian shivered. ‘If she did three, who’s to say she didn’t do more?’

‘That’s what I was thinking. Bit of a coincidence isn’t it? Westfield was manufacturing killers, and now good old Ken Peitai’s doing the same thing. Only a bit more high-tech and-’

The alarm on Will’s mobile bleeped. He checked his watch: one thirty. Time to go spend the afternoon with Jo.

‘Got to run. Keep me up to date, OK?’ He dashed out into the downpour, heading for the nearest shuttle station.

‘Afraid we’ve had a couple of problems, sir.’

The room was dark, lit only by the screens that lined the central table. Ken’s boss didn’t say anything, just twisted the test tube round and round in his fingers, keeping the liquid inside from settling.

Ken Peitai kept his eyes dead ahead. ‘Mr Moncur and Mr Stevenson had a…lapse of judgement. They’ve been kinda negligent in their monitoring of our brood mother.’

Ken’s boss stopped fiddling with the tube and placed it down on the table with a delicate clink. ‘Go on.’

Ken nodded. ‘I passed on your instructions to get Dr W brain-fried for good, but Stevenson came down with the flu and Moncur’s been up to his eyeballs with other projects. I checked their logs: she’s not been in for over three weeks. That means she’s not had her medication. And that means-’

‘I’m quite aware what that means. Find her. Find her and bring her in now .’

‘That ain’t going to be necessary, sir. She’s in the morgue. Roadhugger she was in went for a flying lesson off the ring road and smacked bang into a bus. Boom!’ He mimed a small explosion. ‘No survivors. Hospital morgue ran a DNA check on Westfield’s remains-idiots got the sample wrong, but Moncur says he gave them a false positive anyway, just in case they decided to dig any further. ID chip matched, so it’s OK: all taken care of.’

The old man pursed his lips. It made his face look even more aerodynamic than usual. ‘Moncur and Stevenson?’

‘This is the first time either of them has screwed up, Mr Kikan. I gave them a first and final warning. One more breach and they’re testin’ the next batch of mixture.’

‘Three weeks.’ Kikan frowned. ‘When I give an order to have someone lobotomized, Ken, I expect it to be carried out immediately. If Dr Westfield had gotten “out of hand” without her medication it would have raised some very awkward questions.’

‘Yes, sir. But she didn’t and now she’s dead.’ He watched his boss pick the test tube up and set it dancing again.

‘And the other thing?’

‘Ah…yeah…the other thing. You remember that Network guy we had in the other day: William Hunter? Assistant Director?’

‘The one you were supposed to be keeping an eye on?’

Ken cleared his throat. ‘Yeah…that’s the one. Publicly he’s been making all the right noises about steering clear of the test zone, but we’re monitoring his home line and he’s been poking around in the PsychTech files.’

‘So?’ There was a hint of boredom in the man’s voice, but Ken knew better than to believe it.

‘He’s also been runnin’ searches on you and me. Hasn’t found anything yet, but the guys in statistics say there’s a six point three percent chance he’s going to find something we’d rather he didn’t.’

‘How did he get my name, Ken?’ The old man’s eyes were like ice.

Ken stuttered. ‘I…I don’t know how-’

‘This is supposed to be a discreet operation, Ken. First the Westfield woman is allowed to outlive her usefulness and now this. I am not pleased. Not pleased at all.’

‘No, sir. I understand, sir.’

‘Then you know what to do, don’t you?’ He slipped the test tube back in his pocket and stood.

‘Actually…’ Ken shifted from foot to foot. ‘You think I should maybe have a friendly chat with him first?’

The old man stopped on his way to the exit, his cloat slung over one shoulder. ‘What is this strange aversion you have to killing the man, Ken?’

‘He’s a hero, sir. I’ve read through his file and William Hunter’s one of the good guys. I’d kinda prefer not to go rubbing him out unless I absolutely have to.’

Kikan shook his head and smiled one of his rare smiles. ‘Just make sure he doesn’t cause any more trouble than he already has. The first sign of anything inopportune I want him removed. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir!’ Ken snapped off a smart salute. ‘Don’t you worry about Mr Hunter, I’m gonna make sure he stays nice and friendly. And if he don’t I’m gonna make sure he stays nice and dead.’

Will looked back over his shoulder and watched the city burn. The air was misty with evaporated flesh: soft pink clouds drifting gently to the ground, leaving a faint slick of human cells on anything they touched. He turned his attention away from the funeral pyres and palls of thick, greasy smoke and examined the Whomper in his hands. It was less than half full; whatever Jo was going to do she’d have to do it soon.