Stuart MacBride - Halfhead

The surgeon tries to say something, but she screams him down. Her mouth is operating on automatic: hurling abuse, obscenities, threats. Then the pleading starts: wild bargains and promises to change. The small part of her that is still lucid watches all this with detached interest: a professional behaviourist, categorizing the mental stages of the condemned mind. She wets herself.

An orderly presses a hypo against her shoulder and pulls the trigger-pins and needles swim through her body as the sedative rides her bloodstream.

She opens her mouth for one last scream, but nothing works anymore. All broken. Her body sags against the chilly metal.

The man is talking again, describing the procedure to the viewing gallery. She closes her eyes and does something she’s not done since she was a little child. She prays. She doesn’t pray for salvation, or forgiveness, or world peace, she prays that the surgeon will fuck this up and kill her on the operating table. That she won’t have to spend the rest of her life like the other lobotomized slaves. That she won’t…

And then the sound starts.

The surgeon pulls the ultrasonic blade from its holster. The sound jumps to a screech as he runs it across the test block-just a few practice incisions-getting a feel for the wand’s hair-trigger with his long, thin fingers.

‘We begin,’ he says, ‘by splitting the lower jaw.’

Gloved hands pull at her lower lip and the wand screeches. Ionized blood and bone fills her mouth. It’s the last thing she’ll ever taste. She tries to tear her head away, but the only things she can move are her eyes, sweeping the operating theatre, the viewing gallery, looking for something, anything to stop this from happening. This is not how it’s supposed to end. She was careful. She was so very careful.

There is a cracking noise. Her whole head shifts, as the surgeon works one half of her jaw free of its socket.

Then her eyes find Him .

He’s sitting in the front row, His face close to the glass, Network-issue, dark-blue suit almost invisible in the dim light of the viewing gallery. Here to watch her suffer. The ragged scar she gave Him is just a faint purple line now, snaking its way down His face like a tear of drying blood. Soon there will be no trace of it left, scrubbed away through the miracle of modern medicine. But the scar she’s given His soul will be there forever.

Will stood underneath the cooling unit, enjoying the breeze on the back of his neck. Outside, the sun was at its zenith, broiling the air until it shimmered. But in here it was nice and cold.

It was always cold in the mortuary.

‘Any luck yet, George?’

The man in the green plastic overalls looked up and shook his head. A human jigsaw was spread out on the slab before him and, as Will watched, the pathologist dropped something unsettling onto a tray then smeared his hands down the front of his chest.

George waddled over to a little sink and rinsed his gloves off. ‘How was Worrall’s funeral?’

‘Hour and a half late. The family weren’t particularly impressed.’

‘No pleasing some people…’ George sniffed, pulled out a handkerchief, and made horrible sticky snorting noises into it. ‘Machine’s still trolling through the database, but while we wait for an ID, want to see what I pulled out of your dead friend here?’

‘Not really, no.’

George smiled, stretching his podgy face as far as it would go. ‘Thought you weren’t squeamish.’

‘I’m off for lunch in twenty minutes. Cafeteria do a good enough job of putting people off their food, they don’t need any help from you.’

‘Ah, funny you should mention lunch…’ He grabbed a clear plastic bag from the bench behind him. ‘Tada! Stomach contents!’

‘Wonderful.’ Will took one look at what was sloshing around in the pouch and changed his mind about having the ratatouille.

‘Knew you’d like it.’ George gave a huge, gurgly sniff. ‘Want to know what’s in it?’

‘Surprise me.’

‘Oh, I can do that all right: human flesh.’

Will’s face froze. The drumming started again; the long dark corridors sticky with blood; the mutilated faces…’ Please tell me it was his own.’

The pathologist shook his head. ‘Nope. It’s someone else’s. Consumed at least eight hours before he popped his clogs.’ George grinned, obviously happy to have ruined someone’s day. Rotten little gnome that he was. ‘Now you go off and enjoy your lunch. I’ll give you a shout if the machine comes up with anything.’

Will’s new office was a lot larger than the last one, but there was the same lack of personal detail. No paintings, no knickknacks, no holos, not even a framed plaque. If it weren’t for the words ‘ASSISTANT SECTION DIRECTOR WILLIAM HUNTER’ on the door, there would be no sign that anyone worked here at all.

He reached out for the mug, sitting on a bland grey coaster, and took a mouthful. Gagged. Then spat it back into the cup. It used to be tea; now it was a cold, beige, watery liquid with a film of artificial milk scumming the surface.

He carried the offending beverage out into the corridor and poured it into the nearest pot plant.

‘Mr Hunter?’

Will froze. Oh…bugger.

He turned to see the woman voted ‘most likely to inspire murder’ at last year’s Christmas party. In her stocking feet she would have been an unremarkable five foot four, in her power heels she was an unpleasant five foot seven. Her hair hung round her head in a no-nonsense pageboy cut, framing features that could be generously referred to as ‘lumpy’.

‘Ah, Director Smith-Hamilton. How nice to see you.’

His boss beetled her neatly trimmed eyebrows. ‘What exactly are you doing, Mr Hunter?’

‘I…The…plants were looking a little dry. Probably the weather. Thought I’d give them a drink?’

‘Ah: that’s what I like to see! People thinking of their working environment as more than just a series of walls and windows. Very good.’ She placed a hand on his arm. ‘Studies have shown that plants have a positive effect on morale. And anything that improves morale, improves productivity.’ Director Smith-Hamilton gave his arm a squeeze. ‘But then, I don’t have to tell you that!’

‘Yes, well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to-’

‘Anyway, that’s not why I came to see you, William.’ She leaned in close, eyes sweeping up and down the corridor, voice dropping to a loud whisper. ‘I had a meeting with the Justice and Defence Ministry: they’re cutting the Bluecoat budget again . How those poor souls are supposed to maintain law and order with what they’ve got left is beyond me. So as part of a damage limitation exercise I have decided to launch an initiative!’ She beamed at him.

Oh God, not another initiative-they still hadn’t finished clearing up after the last one.

‘Really?’ He did his best to sound positive.

‘The last thing we need is the rank and file resenting the Network because we get more funding than they do. We need their cooperation when we’re out in the field. Especially as we’re all going to have to work a lot more closely now. So my initiative,’ she said, ‘will be to get the Bluecoats onboard. Bring in a couple of the middle ranks to liaise and work cases with us. That way they stay in the picture, we make them feel valued, and they’ll be more inclined to cooperate.’

Will was surprised: he tended to think of Smith-Hamilton as an unnecessary evil, but every now and again she proved that you didn’t get to be a Network Director by being a total mincehead. It really was a good idea, and he said so.

‘Knew you’d be onboard!’ She punched his shoulder again. ‘I’ve asked control to assign each of them an office on the premises: you know, share with an experienced Special Agent, get to know the ropes, that sort of thing.’ She stole a glance at the glowing numerals set into the skin of her wrist and tutted.