Stuart MacBride - Halfhead

Oh shit…This was not good. This was not good at all.

Will stared at the ceiling for a moment. Took a deep breath. Swore. ‘We’re going to have to go back there, aren’t we?’

DS Cameron turned on him. ‘What do you mean, “ we ”? This is my investigation, you were only there for SOC backup. All that bollocks you spouted about cooperation, and first chance you get you steal my case!’

‘I don’t have any choice, OK?’ Will ran a hand across his eyes. ‘If this really is an outbreak of VR syndrome it’s a Network matter. Fuck…’ He kicked the nearest chunk of machinery. Didn’t make him feel any better: his stomach was still full of snakes. ‘Better grab your coat DS Cameron: we’re going on a little field trip.’

High above the streets lazy, golden clouds drifted slowly westward. A pair of Scrubbers floated in the stale air: huge rusty metal shapes, dripping condensation from their swimming-pool-sized filtration units onto the buildings below, where it evaporated as soon as it hit the hot concrete. The advertising hoardings bolted to the Scrubbers’ sides juddered, the pictures out of sync; misaligned and fuzzy. What was the point of fixing them? No one looked up any more.

If anyone had, they’d have seen a Network Dragonfly jinking past the out-of-focus displays, heading for the south side of the city. Half a mile out it dropped to street level and banked right, roaring between the huge connurb blocks.

And there was Monstrosity Square: dead ahead.

Will watched it growing on his monitor. Calm. Stay calm. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Nothing to worry about. Everything was going to be fine. They were OK this morning, weren’t they? In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

In the next bay, Detective Sergeant Jo Cameron lolled against her harness, fiddling with the Thrummer she’d borrowed from the armoury. She was whistling to herself, something cheery and upbeat that Will could almost recognize over the Dragonfly’s engines. She didn’t look worried about going back to Sherman House, but then she hadn’t been there eleven years ago. She’d been too young. She’d been lucky.

Will unclipped his Whomper from the recharging rack and checked the battery for about the twentieth time: still fully charged.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

‘Right, listen up, campers.’ Lieutenant Brand’s voice was curt and businesslike. ‘They’ve already had two visits from the Network this week; chances are they’ll be getting restless. So keep it tight! I do not want this turning into another episode of “Everyone Gets Their Arse Shot Off”. Understood?’

The trooper in the bay opposite crossed himself as he and his colleagues barked, ‘Ma’am, yes, ma’am!’

‘Good. ETA: forty-five seconds. Buckle up, people, it’s going to be sudden.’

At the last moment the Dragonfly leapt, twisting almost vertically to climb the side of Sherman House. Jo shrieked and laughed; Will closed his eyes and tried not to throw up. As the gunship fishtailed to a halt on the building’s roof, he released his death grip on the supports and unsnapped his safety harness, watching as the bays around him erupted into life.

‘First team: GO!’

The rear ramp swung open, exposing the rooftop in all its tatty glory. When the connurb blocks were new this was all lush, vibrant gardens, arranged around the building’s central well. Twisting paths for romantic walks, picnic areas, and sports facilities. Now it was an unkempt jungle, punctuated by the blackened circles of forgotten bonfires. Drifts of rubbish slouched in every corner like dirty, lumpy snow, and here and there, the tumbledown ruins of community buildings were visible through tangled rhododendrons and brittle brown ivy, their walls crumbling and vandalized.

The first team sprinted out into the undergrowth, searching for an entrance to the lower floors.

Huddled in the safety of the drop bay Will looked out on the blocks that made up the other three corners of Monstrosity Square. Two hundred and forty thousand people were crammed into these four huge, ugly buildings. No jobs, no hope and no future.

No wonder they’d all gone crazy.

From here, sixty storeys above the roasting streets, Glasgow was laid out like a vast, concrete cancer. It stretched in every direction, further than the eye could see, grey and dirt brown, sweltering in the evening light. Home sweet home.

A voice sounded in his ear, making Will jump: ‘Entryway is secure.’

The second team burst out of the Dragonfly, taking up positions. And then Beaton and Stein lumbered after them, dragging the bulky scanning equipment through the scrub. The bashed and dented canister trundled along on tiny wheels that quickly became ensnared in the yellow grass. They swore and cursed all the way. Amazingly their grasp of the profane was nowhere near as comprehensive or inventive as DS Jo Cameron’s.

Will checked his Whomper’s battery one last time, then stepped into the sweltering afternoon. In through the nose and out through the mouth…Everything smelled of dust and dry earth.

He scanned the landing zone, finally spotting DS Cameron meandering along the edge of the roof. She had her Thrummer slung casually over her shoulder-like a long, deadly handbag-her hands in her pockets and a smile on her face.

Will shook his head and joined the advance team.

They’d found one of the minor access escalators: a small plexiglass bunker squatting on the building’s roof. The transparent panes were all scratched, covered with fading graffiti tags, the plexiglass swollen and blackened in one corner, where someone had tried to burn the place down. The moving steps were gone, exposing a ramped tunnel that disappeared into the depths of the building.

Will looked down into the hole. ‘This the only option we have, Sergeant?’

Nairn nodded. ‘Aye, sir. If we want to steer clear of the main access points it’s this or we go down the outside on wires.’

Will tried not to shudder-there was no way he was going out over the edge of Sherman House on the end of a body-wire ever again.

Nairn gave the orders, sending Privates Dickson and Wright scurrying down the ramp into the darkness. He gave it a count of ten, then waved at the SOC team. ‘Beaton, Stein: you’re next. And keep the noise down this time! I don’t want every psychotic wee lowlife in the place using your bloody scanning equipment as a homing beacon.’

‘What do you mean “our scanning equipment”?’ Stein slapped the battered canister. ‘Just cos we’ve been lumbered with this shite four times in a row don’t mean we’re makin’ a career out of it!’

‘Shut your cakehole! You will hump that bloody scanning stuff about and you will like it. Or I will connect your rectum to your bloody ears with my boot!’ There was no smart reply from Private Stein, he just picked up his end of the SOC canister and clambered into the tunnel. Nairn nodded. ‘Better. Rhodes, Floyd: you’re on rearguard.’

Will picked his way carefully down the slippery ramp. Six feet in, the track twisted back on itself, doglegging around a support pillar, and as he turned the corner Will’s innards clenched. The toilets downstairs had been bad enough. But this was…This was…Jesus.

The breathing exercises weren’t working any more.

Stupid. It was just a building. Nothing to worry about.

So how come his legs wouldn’t move?

Inside, Sherman House hadn’t changed much in the last eleven years: dingy corridors, lined with silent, shuttered apartments. All the horrors locked away and secret. At least this time the carpets wouldn’t be sticky with blood.