Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

He licked his lips. Looked from Helen, to the length of metal in her hands, to Francis, then back again. Then closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I suppose there’s only one course of action open to me.’

‘Three... Two.’

Joseph’s left hand flashed up from his pocket, an old-fashioned cutthroat razor snapping open. Blade gleaming as he hurled Alice to one side. ‘You’ll regret your—’

‘One.’ The table leg rose, then fell, sharp and hard across the scarred crown of Joseph’s head. Enough weight behind it to bend the metal.

Joseph staggered back, thumping into the wall. Spitting out a gobbet of scarlet. Then lunged, cutthroat razor hissing through the air. Might have got her too, if she hadn’t leapt out of the way.

The table leg came crashing down again, on his left forearm, and this time that metal-tube noise was joined by a muffled pop and Joseph’s cutthroat razor skittered off across the linoleum, to thunk against a skirting board. The hand that’d held it hung at a very unnatural angle, as if his wrist started halfway up his arm now.

He sank down to one knee, grimacing as he clutched those shat-tered bones to his chest. ‘GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAARGH!’ Lurching to his feet again. Standing there, hissing breath in and out between his gritted teeth, red bubbles popping around those perfect veneers.

Alice scrabbled back against the wall, hands rubbing at her throat as she wheezed in ragged lungfuls of air.

A thump, and the kitchen door swung open. Effie, standing there, holding an old-fashioned beige phone to her ear, its curly flex festooned with greasy fluff. ‘The police’ll be here any minute!’

Helen nodded. ‘You’re lucky Mr Henderson and these women are here, Joseph. Otherwise you’d both be dead by now.’ A cruel smile. ‘You should say “thank you” to them. Or shall I batter your boyfriend’s brains out?’ Resting the tip of the table leg against Francis’s forehead. ‘Go on: say it.’

‘Gnnn...’ Joseph swallowed whatever it was down. Then forced the words out. ‘Thank you.’

‘Now, like I said: take your boyfriend and bugger off. Before I change my mind.’

‘Here.’ Alice wriggled back into the booth next to me, holding out a tea towel full of ice. Voice trembling and a lot higher than normal. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital, because I really think you should go to the hospital.’ Pressing the cold damp towel against my forehead.

I tried for: ‘Give me that.’ But what actually came out was a nasal mushy: ‘Gibbee dat.’ I held the icepack over as much of my face as possible. Breathing hot peppery breaths into the clammy fabric while my head throbbed like a monstrous heart. Every time I inhaled it was like being punched in the ribs again. Knowing my luck, Francis had broken a few of them. But I wasn’t all that keen on prodding the things to find out.

The Monk and Casket wasn’t the fanciest pub in Oldcastle, or the nicest, or most hygienic. But it was dark and relatively quiet, nestled down at the bottom of Jamesmuir Road. The kind of place that had mock-Tudor nonsense on the outside; scarred wooden tables, red vinyl upholstery, and sticky wooden floors on the inside. A couple of puggy machines flashed and dinged in one corner, a pub quiz one over by the toilets. As if anyone in the Monk and Casket gave a toss what the capital of Paraguay was, as long as the booze was cheap. Not that it was busy in here: a couple of elderly prostitutes with bottles of extra-strong cider, a pair of miserable middle-aged men hunched over pints of Export, and an old wifie nursing a port-and-lemon while feeding Bacon Frazzles to the wee Westie poking out of her tartan shopping trolley. Alice. Henry. And me.

Oh, and Hairy Joe, currently serving Helen MacNeil with his usual grudging and surly approach to the hospitality industry.

I ruffled the hair between Henry’s ears. ‘How you holding up, teeny man?’

He gazed up at me with big sad dark eyes. Because no one was feeding him Bacon Frazzles. But, thankfully, Joseph didn’t appear to have caused Henry any permanent damage.

Alice pawed at me again, all fussing and jittery. ‘It wouldn’t take long to go to the hospital. It’s—’

‘I’m not going to the hospital!’ Let’s face it, I’d had worse beatings in the past. Lots and lots of them. This one barely made the top fifty...

Helen returned to the table, hands wrapped around two pint glasses of something pale, two shorts, a tin of Diet Coke and a packet of cheese-and-onion. A pint and a nip went in front of me. Then she settled into the other side of the booth and slid the Diet Coke in front of Alice. Who slid it back again and helped herself to one of the whiskies, knocking it back in one. Then gulping down about half the pint before Helen could open her mouth to complain.

‘I don’t drink.’ The Coke tin tisssshhh ed at me as I clicked the ring-pull back. ‘Pills.’

She watched, mouth pursed as Alice polished off the last of the pint.

A burp. ‘I needed that, does anyone else feel like another drink, I think we deserve another drink, I’ll get a round in shall I, yes, a drink’s exactly what the doctor ordered, or what the doctor’s about to order, I mean I am a doctor, so technically it’s not really drinking it’s medicinal.’ A cold metallic bark of a laugh. Then she hurried over to the bar.

Helen took a sip of whisky, rolling it around her mouth. Then, ‘She’s kind of... jumpy.’

‘Last time we had a proper run-in with Joseph and Francis, it didn’t end well for a friend of ours.’ I closed my right eye and pointed at it. ‘Alice had to watch.’

‘Not everyone’s got the guts for it, I suppose.’ The last of the whisky disappeared. ‘What happened to you? Used to be a safe bet at the Westing — don’t remember anyone even making it to the second round against Ash Henderson.’

‘Yeah, my bare-knuckle days are long gone.’ I puffed out a breath. ‘Thought you were still palling around with Jennifer Prentice?’

‘Needed a lift back to Oldcastle, didn’t I? Besides, she wants to drive me about, following you, and pay for the petrol — like I’m going to turn that down?’ A smile. ‘Soon as your DS friend dropped you off, I told Jennifer where she could stuff her book. And when I saw that pair of freaks going into the Tartan Bunnet...?’ Helen shrugged, then started in on her pint. ‘You owe me, now. Big time.’

‘Francis sucker-punched me, OK?’ I dabbed the icepack against my face, going delicate around the nose and eyes. ‘How bad does it look?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘That bad?’

‘Worse. Hold still.’ Then she reached across the table and placed her palms against my cheeks. ‘This is going to hurt.’ Her thumbs jabbed into the sides of my nose and twisted.

A crunching noise filled the world and molten glass exploded between my eyes, rushing out across my cheeks, nostrils and sinuses catching light. Scalding liquid pouring down my top lip and spattering onto the tabletop. ‘ Fuck! ’

‘Don’t be such a baby.’ She pressed the icepack against my face again. ‘You’re getting blood everywhere.’

‘Son of a bitch...’

She pushed every beermat on the table into the spreading pool of bright scarlet. Leaned back in her seat, took a bite out of her pint — giving herself a pale froth moustache in the process. ‘Way I see it, I saved your life. And Dr Whatsit, too. And probably your mutt as well.’ Another mouthful. ‘So yes, you owe me.’

Yeah, I probably did.

Someone else I owed was Jennifer Bloody Prentice. All I did was chuck her phone into the sea, and she pays Joseph and Francis to ‘beat the living shit’ out of me? No way I was letting her get away with that. She could—