Stuart MacBride - Halfhead

‘You’re right. Get it started.’ He laid a hand on her shoulder and even though he felt like a complete bastard for lying to her again said, ‘I’m going home.’

Out in the corridor, the constable they’d picked up in the park was waiting. The mud had dried on her bright-blue tunic, turning it the colour of old lentil soup. She’d made some attempt to brush it off, but the thing was still a long way from clean.

‘Has there been any news?’ she asked as they drew level.

Will shook his head, winced, and decided not to do that again for a while. ‘Lieutenant Brand’s setting up a search. I’m going back to bed. Doctor’s orders.’

The Bluecoat looked surprised. ‘Is it going to be safe there, sir?’

Emily nodded and consulted her watch. ‘We’ve got two of the nightshift over there watching the place: Bull Thrummer and a Screamer. No one’s going to get anywhere near.’

‘Even so, sir.’ The constable stood to attention. ‘I’d like to escort you back. I know it’s probably not necessary, but-’

‘Good idea.’ Emily placed a hand in the small of Will’s back and propelled the pair of them in the direction of the lifts. ‘Gives me one less thing to worry about.’

‘You know,’ said Will as they climbed into the shuttle, ‘you saved my life, and I don’t even know your name.’

The constable looked down and picked a lump of mud from the ID tag on the front of her filthy tunic. ‘Catherine McDonald.’ She pulled the tag, showing it to him. ‘But you can call me “Cat” if you like, sir. My DS does.’

A frown crossed Will’s battered face. ‘Have we met?’

‘Oh, not again.’ She sighed. ‘Listen, I don’t make a habit of getting drunk at official functions, OK? And it was bloody years ago. Can we just drop it?’

‘Consider it dropped.’ He reached forward and punched ‘NETWORK HEADQUARTERS’ into the destinator, then settled back in his seat as the shuttle slid forward and clacked onto the hospital exit ramp. The brightly lit tunnel walls disappeared behind them as the car picked up speed, leaving them with the internal light. It turned the wraparound windshield into a dusty mirror, reflecting back one battered Network Assistant Director and one filthy Bluecoat. The first of the stanchion lights vwipped past, wiping their images off the glass and back on again, like the flickering lines on an old display screen.

‘You’re not going back to your apartment?’ said Constable ‘Cat’ McDonald as the shuttle bumped onto the main shuttlenet.

‘No, I’m not.’ Will dragged out his mobile. ‘I’m going to Network HQ, I’m going to get my hands on some very big guns, and then I’m going to blow some very big holes in the people that grabbed DS Cameron.’ He dialled Brian’s home number, waiting for it to connect.

The constable shook her head and placed a hand on her sidearm. ‘Oh no you’re not.’

‘Trust me, there’s no way-’

‘Grmmmmmmf?’ A bleary face-squeezed too close to the camera-peered out from the little screen. ‘Will?’ it said prising its eyes open, ‘Fuck’s sake, do you no’ know what time it is?’

‘Brian, I need your help.’

The face pulled back a bit and frowned. ‘What the hell have you done to your head? Looks like a fat bird’s jumped on it.’

‘Shut up and listen. They broke into my flat. They got Jo.’

‘Jesus!’ Brian suddenly looked a lot more awake. ‘When? How?’

Will told him everything, watching the Bluecoat out of the corner of his eye. She fidgeted with the Field Zapper on her hip, a frown on her face as he got to the part where she saved his life. Will held the phone out to her. ‘Tell him what you heard.’

‘I didn’t see anyone, but I heard some American bloke shouting that if anyone did or said anything he was going to cut the DS’s face off.’

‘American?’

Will took the phone back. ‘That’ll be Ken Peitai. Speaks like he’s just jumped off the tunnel. Newnited States? I’ll bet he’s never been west of Govan in his life.’

Constable McDonald pursed her lips and frowned. ‘And you’re going after him?’

‘And his bastard boss. Anyway,’ said Will going back to the phone, ‘I’m stopping by the office to get tooled up. I can’t ask you to come with me Brian, but-’

‘Away and shite. You know fine well I’m no lettin’ you go off after the buggers without me.’ He turned to look at something off camera and smiled. ‘James here can make his own breakfast for once.’

The Bluecoat was still staring off into the middle distance when the destinator finally chimed their arrival at Network HQ. Will reached out and gently touched her shoulder-her hand flashed up and wrapped round his wrist like a vice.

‘Are you OK, Constable?’

She blushed and let him go. ‘Sorry, sir, I was miles away.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve got to go arrange things here. Thanks for the escort. You can take the shuttle back to your station-’

‘Oh no you don’t, sir.’ She followed him out onto the platform. ‘If you’re going after the DS I’m going with you, whether you like it or not. She’d do the same for me.’

‘Fair enough.’ Will turned and swiped them both in through the staff entrance. ‘You know where the armoury is?’

She shook her head.

‘Ask at Reception. Tell them you’ve got orders to draw some Whompers, a tracker and anything else that takes your fancy. They can confirm by calling me.’

‘Where are you going to be?’

Will straightened his shoulders and headed for the lifts.

‘There’s something I have to take care of first.’

Most of the lights were off in the mortuary, filling the antiseptic room with thick chunks of darkness. Will sat on the edge of a post-mortem slab with a surgical blade in his hands and blood running down his left side. An Anglepoise lamp cast a hot-white spotlight on his left armpit, making the scarlet blood sparkle and shine. With gritted teeth he cut deeper, pulling the edges of the wound apart. It didn’t hurt-the last of his hospital-issue blockers had seen to that-but the sights and sounds were making him nauseous.

George had said one of the trackers was beneath his left arm, on the wall of his chest, but Will was beginning to realize that finding the transmitter wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped. The blood was making everything slippery and difficult to see.

The blade slid from his fingers for the third time in as many minutes, clattering against the stainless steel tabletop.

Fucking thing.

How was he supposed to hold onto it when it was slick with blood? How hard did this have to fucking be?

He grabbed the handle and hurled the knife away into the darkness. It clanged off something metal hidden in the shadows.

He put his bloody hands over his eyes and slumped back on the cold post-mortem table.

This was impossible. He couldn’t go anywhere near Sherman House with a pair of locator beacons buried under his skin. They’d all be dead before they even set foot in the place.

An angry voice burst into the cold room. ‘Who’s in here?’.

‘George?’

The short, fat pathologist stood framed in the doorway, slippers on his feet and a bone hammer in his hand. The lights flickered on, killing the shadows.

‘Will? What the hell are you doing down here? It’s half three in the morning!’

‘Could ask you the same thing.’

George shrugged and waddled across the squeaky floor. ‘Explosion in the Queens Cross shuttle station. Forty-one dead. I was getting a couple hours kip before going back to…’ He sniffed, then stopped, staring at the blood oozing out of Will’s side. ‘What the hell are you doing?’