Stuart MacBride - Halfhead

‘Hmm? Sorry: miles away.’

‘Are you always this damn moody, Will? Only I’d like to know before I get too deep into this thing.’

He managed to crack a smile. ‘Normally I’m a lot worse.’ He planted a soft kiss on the nape of her neck. ‘You ask Brian.’

‘I did. He told me some cock and bull story about you being this big, all-conquering, sensitive hero type. Whatever you pay him to talk you up, you’re getting value for money.’ She plonked herself down on the edge of the settee. ‘So why all the brooding?’

‘I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately.’

She blew a raspberry. ‘Strike one! Try again.’

‘We…I mean Brian, George and I, have been investigating that bloke I told you about yesterday.’

‘What Petty?’

‘Peitai, yes. He’s running some sort of experiment up at Sherman House; they’ve got a drug that gives people VR syndrome. He’s been testing it on the inhabitants.’

‘Holy shit! You’re kidding!’

Will shook his head. ‘We had evidence. The bodies you saw in the mortuary, tissue samples from their brains, SOC recordings of the flats at Sherman House. But it’s all gone.’ He took another sip of whisky. ‘Lab lost the samples, Ser vices destroyed the wrong bodies, and George called back to say maintenance had a little ‘accident’ this afternoon: they erased all the recordings we had.’

‘Cover-up?’

‘I told Director Smith-Hamilton about the evidence we had against Ken Peitai and his boss, and six hours later it disappeared. She even stopped the team I had going through the PsychTech files: confiscated the data. Governor Clark’s been on her case all week, so as far as she’s concerned none of this ever happened.’

Jo stood and wrapped her arms round his neck ‘You want to bring him down?’

‘It’s not just him. Clark’s an arsehole, a mouth for hire. Someone’s pulling his strings. Someone who doesn’t worry about threatening a Network Director.’ Will closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. ‘And I don’t have any evidence. They destroyed it all.’

‘You listen to me, Will Hunter.’ Jo stepped back and held his head in her hands, forcing him to look her in the eyes. ‘There is no bastard in this world well-connected enough to get away from us! If Ken Petty wants a fight I will kick his scaly arse from here to Inverness. You want to bring them down? We’ll bring them down. Those sons of bitches don’t stand a fucking chance.’

He smiled. She had a lot of guts. And her nipples went all pointy when she was angry. ‘Such language from a young lady.’

‘Ah, you love it when I talk dirty.’ She pulled him down towards her and for the next two hours he forgot all about Ken Peitai and Sherman House.

She stands at the apartment window, watching Glasgow sparkle in the night rain. She loves this city more than any other. It held her to it’s bosom, allowed her to feed off its inhabitants for nearly a dozen years and never once complained.

Peitai and Kikan…Definitely a challenge. Hunter will be easy enough-she got his home address from the hospital files. All she has to do is turn up at his home tonight, and introduce him to a little home surgery. Peitai and Kikan will be a lot harder to track down. Even if William Hunter knows where they are, it’s going to be a lot more difficult to get at them.

Still, that’s a problem for tomorrow; tonight is a night for fun! And knives.

There’s a row of blades laid out on the kitchen work surface, all nice and sharp and shiny. She spends a happy five minutes picking the ones for tonight. In the end a paring knife, three scalpels, and a small portable triage wand go into her pack, along with halfheading sedatives, four tubes of skinglue, and a plastic of good wine. It would be rude to visit and not bring something.

Mrs Bexley is quiet for once, sitting there strapped to the chair.

‘Now, I want you to behave yourself when I’m out, OK?’ Dr Westfield’s voice is still a little gruff, but it’s getting better all the time.

She ruffles Mrs Bexley’s hair-the woman screws her eyes shut and flinches, breath hissing in and out of her nose. Terrified.

Westfield smiles. ‘Are you hungry? Thirsty?’

The woman nods, tears spilling down her cheeks.

‘Good.’ Westfield pulls on the brand-new cloat she bought from a very expensive boutique this afternoon. Armani. Very stylish. She’s almost out the front door when she remembers the Palm Zapper she picked up at the hospital. Tonight is a night for fun and knives, but a Zapper set on low can do some interesting things when applied to the right parts of the human anatomy. Interesting and very painful.

Out on the streets there are still signs of life, even thought it’s half past one in the morning and there’s a monsoon in progress. Clubbers run between sheltered spots, or just plod on through the downpour, eating chips and cloned kebab meat. Some drunk, some high, some looking for a fight, some looking for love. She could take a dozen home with her and bathe in their blood, and no one would even notice.

Crossing Glebe Street, she descends a slippery flight of stairs to the local shuttle station and takes the next car going west. It’ll be a shame to leave this beautiful city, but when the bodies start showing up again people will talk. So she’ll just have to start again somewhere new-somewhere they don’t know her modus operandi -but she will miss Glasgow so much.

As the shuttle car arrives at the platform, she sees her face reflected in the curved plexiglass window. It’s the face of someone who has earned a little fun. A little revenge.

In the dark bedroom, Will tried to identify the noise that had jerked him awake. The flat’s heating popped and pinged away gently to itself; the ever-present hum of the control panel; Jo, breathing deeply beside him, the duvet wound round her like a boa constrictor…He lay still, holding his breath, straining to hear it again.

Silence.

Probably just the rain, or the fridge, or the idiot downstairs.

But now he was awake Will knew he wouldn’t get back to sleep until he’d looked in each and every room to make sure there weren’t any bogymen hiding in the closet. Quietly, he slid out from under the covers and into his bathrobe. His Palm Thrummer was hanging in its holster, draped over the end of the bed, and he pulled the metal tube free, twisting it open. It came alive beneath his fingers, the batteries ready to turn whatever it was pointed at into a cloud of ionized dust.

Will hesitated at the bedroom door. Someone was out there, he was certain of it. Heart pounding, he twisted the doorknob and inched out into the lounge. The large patio windows were partially covered, the blinds three-quarters drawn, letting the city’s sodium glow trickle into the room. The dead yellow light only seemed to make things darker, turning the shadows into solid things.

Padding through the lounge he made straight for the kitchen. It was empty, the study too. The guest bedroom hadn’t been used for eight years, not since Janet’s father had come to visit them the year he died. Will opened all the closets, but didn’t find any skeletons he didn’t already know about. And yet he was certain there was someone…

It wasn’t loud, little more than a dull scrape, plastic on plastic.

Creeping out of the spare room Will stood staring back towards the front door. Light seeped in through the gap between the door and the floor. There were shadows moving out there in the corridor, outside his flat.

The soft scraping sound came again and he heard a small bleep. Tiny and discreet. The sound of his front door lock disconnecting.

Quietly he backed into the bedroom, pulling the door almost shut behind him. Someone was breaking into his apartment in the dead of night and he was pretty damn sure it wasn’t the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Peitai. The little git had used Governor Clark to lean on Director Smith-Hamilton, but it looked as if Will was about to get something a lot more permanent.