Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

As always I’ve received a lot of help from many, many people while I was writing this book, so I’d like to take this opportunity to thank: Sergeant Bruce Crawford, star of Skye and screen, who answers far more daft questions than anyone should ever have to, as do my forensic gurus Professor Dave Barclay, Professor James Grieve, and her most excellent Dameness Professor Sue Black; then there’s Julia Wisdom, Jane Johnson, Kathryn Cheshire, Jaime Frost, Ann Bissell, Linda Joyce, Anna Derkacz, Isabel Coburn, Alice Gomer, Charlie Redmayne, Roger Cazalet, Kate Elton, Hannah O’Brien, Sarah Shea, Abbie Salter, Adam Humphrey, Charlotte Cross, Ben Wright, Anne O’Brien, Marie Goldie, the DC Bishopbriggs Naughty Book Brigade, and everyone at HarperCollins, for all things publishy; Phil Patterson and the team at Marjacq Scripts, for keeping my numerous cats in cat food; Craig Robertson, Alexandra Sokoloff and everyone at Bute Noir for their hospitality; and Allan Guthrie for being an excellent pre-reader yet again.

While I’m doling out ‘thank-you’s, here’s one for all the librarians and booksellers whose enthusiasm and dedication inspire us all to try something new. And let’s not forget you: the person reading this book! The world seems to get dumber and nastier by the day, but it’s people who read that keep the world that teeny bit brighter and saner than it would otherwise be. I salute you, my friend.

I’ve saved the best for last — as is my wont — Fiona and Grendel (with a nod to Onion, Beetroot, and Gherkin who weren’t that much help, but haven’t interfered too much [except for Beetroot]).

‘... after the New Aryan Crusade claimed responsibility for the bombing. The American Vice President described it as a cowardly and disgusting attack...’

How come there was never any nice news on the radio?

Margaret chopped a crunchy orange carrot and tossed it into the bubbling brown cauldron of mince, as rain rattled the fogged-up kitchen window. ‘You know what I think, Alfie? I think people are poopheads.’

No response, but then there never was. Once Alfie got himself into a colouring-in book, that was it. You’d get more response from a garden gnome.

‘... ongoing operation to rescue the crew of the Ocean-Gold Harvester , run aground against the cliffs at Clachmara. We spoke to Sophie O’Brien at the Coastguard...’

‘Ooh, did you hear that, Alfie? Clachmara! We got a mention on the radio, isn’t that exciting?’

Still nothing.

Honestly, might as well be on her own, here. Oh, it’d seemed so romantic on the website: ‘An unmissable opportunity to rent a delightful, period, seaside cottage, with traditional fixtures and decor, in a much sought-after location!’ Which meant a leaky roof, wood-panelled walls that hadn’t seen a paintbrush since Fred and Rose West were doing up their patio, and single glazing that fogged up if you so much as looked at it. The wind whistled right through the frames if you didn’t stuff all the gaps with scrunched-up newspaper, too.

Still, at least it was cheap.

Another carrot snapped and crackled into random-shaped chunks, because, let’s face it, rounds of carrot were revolting.

‘... extremely challenging conditions, but we’re doing everything we can.’

The warm brown scent of mince filled the room, comforting and familiar as a favourite jumper. Hiding the more usual dusty whiff of mice-and-mildew. Keeping the darkness at bay.

‘Well, I think it’s exciting, even if you don’t.’

‘Police, today, announced the discovery of a child’s body in woodland south of the city. The remains haven’t been formally identified yet, but are suspected to be those of Lewis Talbot — the four-year-old, missing since the fourteenth of October...’

‘Poor wee tyke.’ Margaret dumped the last carrot bits into the pot. ‘That’s why you should never get into a car with strange men, Alfie. Or take sweeties from them.’

‘... third victim, after Oscar Harris and Andrew Brennan’s bodies were discovered earlier this year.’

‘Actually, you know what? Stay away from men, full-stop.’ She rubbed at her swollen belly and puffed out a heartburn breath. ‘Wouldn’t be in this condition if I had. No, I’d be graduating tomorrow with a degree in forensic anthropology, and your granny and grandad would still be talking to me.’ Sounding kinda bitter, there, Margaret. And whose fault was it you got yourself knocked up?

Sigh.

‘Never mind, Alfie, at least we’ve got each other, right?’

Still nothing.

Seriously: a garden gnome.

‘Now here’s Doug with the weather.’

‘Thanks, Colin. Better batten down the hatches, folks, because it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better as Storm Trevor moves in from Scandinavia...’

‘Oh, that’s just fffff...’ Margaret pinched her lips together and bit down on a word that Alfie was definitely not meant to have in his vocabulary. Because knowing him , he’d parrot it at the top of his voice at playschool tomorrow and she’d have to go in for another ‘chat’ with that pudding-faced harridan Mrs Gillespie. Try again: ‘So, my teeny monster, how about you help Mummy and fetch some of those tatties from under the sink?’

She turned, speed-peeler in hand, holding it like a fairy wand about to grant Alfie’s fondest wish — as long as it was for mashed potatoes.

Then stopped. Mouth open.

‘... all down to this massive area of low pressure moving in from the east...’

‘Alfie?’

The scarred wooden table was home to a scattered rainbow of felt-tip pens, a partially coloured Tyrannosaurus Rex in garish shades of purple and green roaring out of the colouring-in book. A glass of milk and a bourbon biscuit, sitting next to them. But Alfie’s chair was empty.

‘Alfie?’ Margaret dumped the peeler on the worktop, wiping her hands on her pinny as she walked over and poked her head out into the hall. More so-called period wood panelling. ‘Alfie?’

The bathroom door hung ajar, but there was no light on in there. Nothing but the darkness of a stormy November evening.

‘Alfie, did you go for a wee-wee?’

No: the bathroom was empty.

‘Alfie?’ Getting louder now as she hurried through the two tiny bedrooms, the dining room — stacked high with all the boxes she still hadn’t got around to unpacking yet — and the living room with its gaping fireplace and water-stained ceiling. ‘ALFIE!’

Into the kitchen again.

Table. Pens. Colouring book...

Where were his wellies? His wellies should’ve been sitting next to hers, by the back door, but Alfie’s red wellington boots were gone. His yellow anorak and sou’wester too.

Her eyes widened as she stared at the fogged-up window and rain rattled the single glazing. At the grey-blackness on the other side.

Oh no.

Margaret wrenched open the door and stumbled out into the darkness, losing one of her slippers on the way. Rain slashing at her face with frozen, sharp little knives. ‘ALFIE!’

She hurried around the side of the house. Only a handful of streetlights were still working — trembling in the downpour, buffeted by the wind howling in from the North Sea, casting their sickly yellow glow out onto the cracked tarmac. The lampposts stopped a dozen yards past her house, leaving everything from there on — not that there was much of it — wreathed in gloom. Hiding the end of the world.