Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

It was like being scalded, waves of burning heat radiating out across my chest. Breath hissing out between my clenched teeth. Fresh scarlet joining Helen’s blood on my shirt.

‘Now, I’m going to ask you very nicely for the passcode to your phone, and you’re going to give it to me, or we won’t be friends any more. And you really won’t like that.’

‘Go — to — Hell.’

‘Think this is bad?’ Twisting the knife, sending a fresh wave searing through the skin. ‘Not even gone in a half-inch, yet. Now, give me the passcode.’

‘Actually,’ Leah put a hand on his arm, ‘there might be a better way. Can I have his phone back?’

‘Of course you can, sweetie.’

She turned the thing over. Held it up so he could see the back. ‘See this round thing here? It’s a fingerprint reader, so you don’t have to keep putting your code in to unlock the phone.’ Leah reached up and grabbed my left wrist. ‘Open your hand.’

‘Get stuffed.’

Smith twisted the knife again. ‘Let’s not be rude to the young lady.’

‘ARRRRGH!’ Couldn’t help it. My fingers uncurled on their own, going from a fist to a claw as a fresh wave blistered out.

She grabbed the middle finger — yanked it back hard enough to make a dull pop sound deep inside my hand and red-hot glass exploded all the way up my arm.

‘ Jesus ...’

Leah pressed my dislocated finger’s tip to the phone’s sensor. ‘This little piggy isn’t working.’

Arthritis screamed through the twisted joint. Then she grabbed my index finger and hauled that one back too. More broken glass, lancing deep into the flesh.

The phone buzzed in her hands as she stuck the finger against the sensor. ‘And we’re in!’ Leaning back against the tractor bogey. ‘Now, texts, texts, text, texts...’ Poking at the screen while my hand burned. ‘Here we go. Oh, look, you’ve got a new one from someone called “Dr McFruitLoop”. Let’s see... “Ash, Mother has shown me some of Leah’s messages. They worry me. Something about them seems staged. As if she’s faking speaking like someone else.”’ Leah nodded. ‘You see, men aren’t bright enough to spot that kind of thing. Do you have any idea how much of a hassle it is to jump from the text keyboard to the numerical one and back again to write “into” with a number two instead of “T.O.”? Anyway, let’s see... What shall we say, Grandad?’

Smith pulled the knifepoint out of my chest. ‘How about we text whoever’s in charge first?’

‘Erm...’ Creases bloomed between her eyebrows as she prodded the screen. ‘We’ve got a DI Malcolmson and a DCI Jacobson. Ha! Henderson, Malcolmson, Jacobson — looks like Oldcastle Police hire a lot of wannabe Vikings, doesn’t it?’ More prodding. ‘He’s got lots more recent texts from the Malcolmson number.’

‘Then let’s start there. “I have searched the farm and there is no one there. No signs of habitation at all.”’

‘Good. Then, how about... “I don’t know what to do next. I’m sorry. I’ve failed you all.” Send.’

‘Do another one: “I am going to drive down the coast and try to think. There has to be a way I can make it up to everyone. I do not think I can live with myself if there is not.”

‘Hold on.’ Head down over the phone, fingers going. ‘Have to trim nine characters off, so it’ll fit... And: send.’ A grin. ‘This is fun.’

Gordon Smith turned to me. ‘Aren’t you going to say, “You’ll never get away with this?”’

‘You’re going to kill Leah, and she knows it. Sooner or later, whatever the hell is wrong with your twisted bastard brain will snap, and you’ll carve her up into little pieces.’

‘Dear, oh dear, your language really is atrocious. And you’re missing your cue .’ He stuck his feet together, arms outstretched, chin up, like a circus ringmaster about to announce the next act. ‘This is the part of the pantomime when Evil Uncle Abanazar explains his wicked plan to poor hapless Aladdin. You’re a police officer, surely you’re dying to know what my motivation is? When did Caroline and I start killing people and why? How did we ensnare darling Leah in our web of depravity ? What we’re going to do next?’ Smith gave a lopsided shrug. ‘To be honest, I never really like those Bond villain moments. Always seem rather staged, don’t they? Best to leave some things to the audience’s imagination.’

Shoulders back, Ash. Chin up. ‘The police are on their way. I called them before we came in here.’

‘Good job we’re not doing Pinocchio , or your nose would be three-foot long.’ He pulled a length of white electrical cable from his pocket. ‘Did you like being garrotted? I’ve never tried it before, but it was all over the papers this weekend, wasn’t it? “The Oldcastle Child-Strangler strikes again”, and I do so like to be “down with the cool kids”.’ That indulgent Santa smile spread across his face. ‘Apparently it’s all the rage.’

Don’t flinch. Don’t move at all.

‘Now, normally I’d take my time — get to know you better over the next three or four hours — but while I’m sure you’re lying about calling the cops, it would be silly to take the risk.’ He held up the electrical cable again. ‘Still, sometimes the important thing is to do your best and hope it’ll all turn out OK, don’t you think?’ He looped the cable over my head, wrapped the ends around his hands. Pulled till it bit into my neck again, not hard enough to choke off the air or blood. Not yet.

Deep breaths.

Stay calm.

Stay still.

This was a better, quicker end than his torture toys.

Be a man.

Don’t beg.

Don’t cry.

Don’t scream.

Don’t give the bastard the satisfaction.

‘Hold on a minute, Grandad.’ Leah frowned at my phone’s screen. ‘It’s locked itself again.’ A tut. ‘Going to keep doing that, I suppose.’ She wandered across to where the cutthroat razor had fallen and picked it up. ‘Still, as long as we’ve got his fingerprint, we don’t really need the rest of him, do we?’ Her grin was even more unhinged than Smith’s was as she twisted the blade, making it glitter. ‘We should take the whole finger, though. Better safe than sorry.’

Oh Christ.

So much for not screaming...

Cold. Cold and dark. And numb...

I hauled in a gritty breath, throat like a tombola full of razor blades.

Everything else, though: numb.

Then pins and needles.

Then the world burst into full-strength agony.

Clenched my teeth together. Hissing those razor-blade breaths in and out.

Something pressing down on my back.

I forced myself over and whatever it was shifted. Not heavy , but everywhere. A blanket of rustling plastic that slithered and clunked. Bin bags?

Shoving them aside revealed a square of grey corrugated roofing, far, far overhead, surrounded by a tunnel of black that narrowed away from me.

Still alive.

Then a coughing fit grabbed hold, slashing through my throat and battering my ribs, each convulsion like being stamped on by a horse.

And then the real pain set in. Someone had dipped my left hand in a bucket of petrol and set fire to it — flames searing the flesh all the way up to my elbow. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Squeezing my scalded hand in the other one didn’t make things any better.

It was too dark down here to pick out any details, but when I held my aching hand up it made an imperfect silhouette against that grey patch of roof. One thumb, three fingers — one poking out at an unnatural angle — and a ragged stump marking the first joint past the knuckle where my index finger used to be.