Stuart MacBride - Halfhead

We begin by splitting the lower jaw.

Her breathing becomes erratic, rapid, and somewhere behind her a machine starts to bleep-upping the sedative.

From the corner of her eye she can see Stephen wheeling the surgeon’s wand into position. There’s a test block mounted beside the wand, a chunk of polished granite, nicked and scarred from previous operations. She wants to scream, to make it all stop, but the drugs hold her solid.

Stephen pulls the operating hood over his face. ‘We’ll begin by marking the edge of the peel area,’ he says, talking to an audience of junior surgeons, students and nurses that isn’t even there.

Doctor Westfield can barely feel the tug of the marker on her skin as he runs it around her neck. She’s slipping away into chemical darkness, still terrified by the surgeon from six years ago, his long thin fingers and the pain they bring. Her mind caught in a loop of panic and horror. She doesn’t even hear the low buzz of the wand or feel her old face being whipped away into a thin, red mist. But an image flashes before her-his name, written on her medical records.

She knows who the old man is.

The apartment was as cold as it was empty, but that suited Will’s mood just fine. He sat in the dark, Alba Blue belting out through the speakers, an open plastic of whisky on the coffee table, and the keyboard in his lap. The only light in the room came from the screen in front of him, the notes he’d ‘liberated’ from the hospital’s computers casting a ghostly white glow.

He hadn’t managed to speak more than a dozen words to Jo as the Dragonfly took them away from the hospital. Instead he’d just stood there like an idiot, trying to get something to come out of his mouth. Trying to say something that would make her understand that he didn’t mean to be distant. That he liked her a lot. That he wasn’t really an arsehole.

‘Remind me to go out with you next time I’m feeling suicidal.’

Great. Just what he’d wanted to hear: Fucking perfect.

Forget about it. It didn’t matter. So Jo didn’t want him any more. Big deal. He was happy here anyway. On his own. In the dark. Going slowly mad.

No wonder he was seeing things.

Chasing halfheads through Glasgow Royal Infirmary like a lunatic.

Still, at least he’d managed to salvage something from today’s fiasco-the files he’d downloaded from the hospital servers.

He poured another measure into his glass.

Ken and his boss had been busy half a dozen years ago.

Mr Tokumu Kikan, Ken’s employer, had been a registered surgeon at Glasgow Royal Infirmary for almost six months. From the look of things he’d managed to perform nearly every halfheading the hospital did at that time. His list of ‘clients’ read like a Who’s Who of Glasgow’s criminal over-belly. Serial killers, kidnappers, rapists, politicians: you name it he’d…Will froze, his heart pounding, as he read the name ‘Doctor Fiona Westfield’.

Maybe he had something to thank Ken and his boss for after all: they’d mutilated that evil bitch.

According to the records, Kikan only performed the pro cedure on a handful of others after her. As if no one else was really worth the bother.

Ken Peitai started working for the hospital not long after Doctor Westfield’s crimes became public knowledge. He’d been employed to work on the PsychTech database, tidying things up before the project was unceremoniously dumped.

Will checked the dates against the bonus payment he’d found. They matched. When Peitai finished working on the PsychTech database, Kikan made sure he got a massive golden handshake.

Why would a surgeon care about a glorified datamonkey?

Will scowled at the screen. ‘What were you really doing, you nasty little squit?’

What was in the PsychTech files that Peitai didn’t want him to see?

He took another swig of whisky.

Of course, the real question was: why were Peitai and Kikan playing doctors and nurses in the first place?

The world doesn’t hurt as much as she’d expected. It’s cold and clammy and her throat feels as if she’s swallowed razor wire, but it’s bearable. She reaches up with a trembling hand, almost afraid of what she’s going to find.

‘You’ll feel groggy for an hour or two.’ Stephen’s voice has lost its nervousness; the surgical arrogance is back. ‘The operation was a complete success. I’m particularly happy with the nerve regeneration.’ He makes a theatrical gesture that oozes self-satisfaction. ‘Some of my finest work.’

Her shaking fingers brush against something that feels tight and swollen: her chin. It worked! The hand carries on up her face; there are lips, taut cheeks, a smooth forehead and hair. Long, matted, sticky hair, still full of nutrients.

‘Try not to move about too much,’ he says as she peels her eyes open.

The light stings: makes her head swim, makes her stomach lurch. Stephen stands beside the operating slab, close enough for her to reach out and squeeze the life out of him.

She wants to ask for a mirror, but all that comes out is a hissing grunt.

‘Don’t try to speak. Your new vocal chords need time to settle in.’

It takes an almost Herculean effort to pull herself upright. Something’s not right. Burning pins and needles race up and down her body. She shouldn’t be feeling like this.

‘Having problems?’ He’s gloating…the bastard has done something to her!

She tries to grab him by the throat, but he dodges easily. Grinning. Her arm flails out, throwing her off balance. She tips off the edge of the operating table and crashes to the floor-pain rips through her entire head. New nerve endings screaming and burning.

‘Not so fucking big now, are you?’ He spits at her: a thick globule of white, frothy sputum that splashes on her face like jism.

Stephen takes two steps back-getting a bit of a run up-and then his boot smashes into her stomach. More pain. ‘WHERE’S MY WIFE?’

She drags herself onto her hands and knees, but Stephen kicks her again and sends her sprawling.

‘Feeling a bit under the weather? That’s what happens when you mix your narcotics.’

A tiny moan escapes her brand-new lips.

‘How about it, Doctor ? Want me to hurt you some more?’ He aims a kick at her ribs and she can only bounce with it. ‘Where is she? GIVE ME BACK MY WIFE, YOU BITCH!’

Oh God…everything hurts.

She lies there, on the floor, gazing up at the theatre lights, trying not to cry. This wasn’t meant to happen: he was beaten, he belonged to her.

Stephen grabs her shoulders and drags her across the polished marblette, back towards the operating table. All she can do is wave a feeble hand in his direction. With a grunt he hefts her off the ground and throws her down on the stainless steel surface. She didn’t know he could be so strong. So masterful.

‘You have a lovely face you know,’ he says as he drags her all the way up the table. ‘You were right: I am a genius. Oh, it’s a little swollen just now, but that’ll all settle down in a day or two.’ He wheels the surgeon’s wand back into place, then grabs a mirror and shows her just how beautiful she is. ‘Such a pretty face. Be a shame to ruin all my hard work, don’t you think?’ The wand screeches as he fingers the hair-trigger, slicing a corner off the test block, sending it clattering to the floor.

‘You told me you had nothing to lose. Well now you do.’ He holds the wand’s cold tip up against the swollen end of her chin. ‘How would you like to go back to the way you were?’

‘Drrrrrnt…’ It is barely a word, but she forces it out through her aching throat.

‘Was that a plea for help? Was it?’