Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

‘I... Drnn’t shhhowwtme.’

‘I’m not shouting at you. You were the one who said we should do something to mark nine years, remember? This morning? Back when you were sober .’

Alice placed the palms of her hands against the glass top, arms stiff — keeping her upright. Blinking and shaking her head, as if she was trying to get it to work again. ‘Had to... profile.’

‘YOU CAN’T KEEP DOING THIS!’ Picking up the lighter of the two bags and hurling it down in front of her. The muffled crash of a dozen poppadoms shattering. ‘You’re drinking yourself — to — death.’

Tears sparkled at the corners of her eyes, nose going dark pink. ‘Henry always said—’

‘Henry was an idiot! The only reason he didn’t die of liver failure is he killed himself first. Is that what you want?’

‘Ash, why are you being like—’

‘I NEARLY DIED TONIGHT!’

A muffled BOOM, BOOM, BOOM , sounded through the floor beneath us as the tosser downstairs got in on the act.

I raised my left foot and battered it down three times, good and hard. ‘MIND YOUR OWN BLOODY BUSINESS, OR I’LL COME DOWN THERE AND MIND IT FOR YOU!’ Breathing hard. Heat rushing through my cheeks and brain. Pulsing at the back of my eyes. ‘I nearly died.’ Turning away. ‘I won’t always be here to take care of you.’

Her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows wiped away its tears and wobbled to its feet. Picked its way around the table, leaning on the glass for support. Then she was behind me. Wrapping her arms around me, her face buried between my shoulders. Voice catching, popping with snot and pain. ‘He... he took... another one, Ash. Gòrach... abducted... another little boy. Because... because I... because I can’t catch him!’

And I let a journalist die.

Yeah, today had turned out to be some day.

I turned around and hugged her back.

Because, sometimes, what else could you do?

‘... increased tensions in the Middle East, after the downing of that British Airways flight...’

Porridge, with salt, and a cup of decaf tea. Living. The. Sodding. High. Life.

Alice’s half bottle of gut-rot still sat at the end of the table, its badly spelled label reflecting in the glass. The sound of retching echoing out through the closed bathroom door as she got rid of the rest of it.

Darkness pressed against the flat’s windows, the city’s lights twinkling in the early morning gloom.

A teeny whinge, and there was Henry, looking up at me with his shiny black eyes. Tail wagging. Thick pink tongue hanging out the corner of his mouth.

Oh to be a wee Scottie dog with nothing to worry about but who was going to feed him, and take him out to pee on things. No dead journalists on his conscience. No murdered children.

‘... tributes paid to the crew of the Ocean-Gold Harvester, lost in Storm Trevor on Friday when it was buried in a landslip...’

He closed his eyes and widened his grin as I ruffled the hair between his ears.

‘Give us a minute to finish this, and we’ll go for a wee walk. It’s—’

A harsh trilling came from the corridor. Was that the bell ?

‘Right, you wee horror, no stealing Daddy’s porridge. Sit. Staaaaayyyyy...’

He looked at my finger as if it was the most exciting thing in the world and wagged his tail even harder.

Thick as custard.

Down the corridor. I peered through the spyhole set into the front door, because in Oldcastle you never knew.

Franklin’s face stared back at me, all distorted and bulbous in the fisheye lens. I let her in.

She frowned me up and down. ‘Are you not ready yet?’ She’d bundled up in a thick puffa jacket, with a scarlet scarf wrapped around her throat. Tartan bunnet on her head.

‘Ready for what?’ Limping back to the living room and my rapidly cooling porridge.

‘Morning Prayers. Mother wants everyone there, and you can’t drive, remember? Pain in the foot?’ A what-can-you-do shrug, playing it nonchalant. ‘So... you OK today? You know, after last night and—’

‘I’m fine.’ Well, other than having a go at Alice when I got home, and the horrible dream, and the ache digging its teeth into my shoulders. Other than that? Just peachy.

‘God save us from macho...’ She froze as she caught sight of Henry. Then squatted down in front of the wee lad and ruffled his ears. ‘You’re a sweetie, aren’t you? Yes you are.’ Pulling on a pout. ‘Yes you are!’

Henry lapped it up.

‘... five-year-old, missing since yesterday evening. Colin Broadbent is in Oldcastle for us. Colin, what are the police saying?’

‘Thanks, Siobhan. Toby Macmillan disappeared from his home in the city’s Kingsmeath area at seven—’

I killed the TV and polished off my porridge. Dumped my bowl in the sink. ‘Give us two minutes and we can head.’

‘Always wanted a dog, but Mark’s allergic.’ Cupping our lad’s hairy wee face in her hands. ‘Oooh, you’re lovely...’ Then up to me: ‘What’s his name?’

‘Henry. And he’s had breakfast, so don’t believe a word if he says he’s wasting away.’

The bathroom door thunked open and Alice slouched out, dressed in mismatched tartan jammies, the top buttoned up all wrong, showing off a slice of stomach the colour of old yoghurt. Yawning and scratching, head looking like something horrible had happened to one of the hairier Muppets.

Franklin stared at her, cheeks darkening as she abandoned Henry and stood. Brushed her hands down the front of her jacket. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you had... company.’

‘Franklin, this is Dr McDonald: Lateral Investigative and Review Unit. Alice, this is DS Franklin: Misfit Mob.’

‘Urgh...’ Alice scuffed past and disappeared into the kitchen.

Franklin pointed down the hall. ‘I can wait in the car?’

‘I’ll only be a minute. Have a seat.’

When I got back from brushing my teeth, Franklin was still standing where I’d left her. Shifting from foot to foot as Alice slouched over a large steaming mug of hot chocolate — going by the smell.

Neither of them seemed to realise I was there.

The bags under Alice’s eyes had darkened, a puffiness to both them and her cheeks, the beginnings of creases forming on either side of her chin. Looking more mid-forties than early-thirties. She rubbed a hand across her shiny forehead. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, I might be a teensy bit hungover.’

Franklin nodded. Looking even more stiff and uncomfortable. ‘Not a problem.’

‘When I started out, I had a mentor who claimed alcohol was the key to “forging non-linear connections in behavioural evidence analysis by dampening down areas of modal control in the brain, allowing the forensic psychologist to experience a heightened state of detached-consciousness processing” the only problem being that you end up drunk thirty percent of the day, operating normally for twenty percent, and hungover the rest of the time.’ All this, whoomped out in a non-stop rattle. ‘Sorry, I’m babbling, I babble when I’m nervous, and how long does it have to take for paracetamol and ibuprofen to kick in?’ Almost sobbing at the end there.

‘Well... maybe your mentor...?’

Alice folded forwards, forehead on the table. ‘Henry.’

‘Henry?’ Franklin pulled her chin in and stared at the hairy black face gazing up at her with his tail wagging. ‘ He’s your mentor?’ Backing off a pace from the clearly crazy lady.

‘Dr Henry Forrester, he’s dead now. We named our dog after him.’

‘OK. So, basically, your mentor, Henry, who isn’t the dog, told you to get drunk a lot and that’ll help you think like serial killers?’