‘Haven’t heard it for ages.’
‘—a terrible shame. I mean the book’s genius, yeah? My kids loved it, my grandkids love it, I still love it. Open the Coffins: best children’s book ever written, that’s what I think.’
‘Leo McVey there. And you can catch him this Sunday at Tartantula, but tickets are going fast, with all proceeds—’
She turned and frowned across the car at him. ‘You didn’t answer the question: why didn’t they send you home?’
‘—diagnosed with Alzheimer’s last year. Weather now, and it looks like we’re stuck with this rain till—’
He clicked the radio off again. ‘What’s the point of going home early? Won’t bring my ear back.’
Besides, if he went home he’d have to explain what happened to Elaine. My earlobe and that gristly bit above it? Oh, nothing much: they were bitten off by a junkie. But at least my HIV test came back negative. Elaine? Hello, Elaine?
He shrugged. ‘At least this way I get the overtime. Need all we can get with Peanut on the way. Do you have any idea how much it costs to raise a kid these days?’
Finally the roundabout onto the main road crawled into view. Buses and eighteen-wheelers sending up huge drifts of spray, drenching the smaller cars.
‘Urgh.’ Franklin crawled the car forward, bumper inches away from the people carrier they’d been stuck behind since leaving the hospital. ‘All it ever does in this sodding town is rain.’
‘Sometimes.’ He drew a frowny face in the mist that crept up the passenger window. ‘Did they get any sense out of Brett Millar?’
‘Still off his face on mushrooms.’ Franklin tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, syncopating with the windscreen wipers. ‘They even tried giving him a shot of Narcan; didn’t make any difference though.’
‘Yeah, well magic mushrooms aren’t opioids, are they? Not surprised it didn’t work.’
‘At least they tried.’
He drew angry eyebrows on the frowny face. ‘So we’ve got Ben Harrington dead in the bath, Brett Millar’s so high he can orbit the International Space Station, and Glen Carmichael is missing … You know what I think? I think the three of them aren’t serial killers, they’re victims. You saw how emaciated Brett Millar was. He’s been starved.’
‘When did you ever meet a fat junkie? Maybe he’s …’ Franklin closed her eyes and swore. ‘Benjamin Harrington. We’ve still got to deliver the death message.’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Callum peered through the rain-smeared windscreen.
Traffic was solid northbound, so getting over Calderwell Bridge was going to be a nightmare. He checked his watch. ‘No point even trying till rush hour’s gone. Stick to the plan: at least it’s moving southbound.’
Assuming he hadn’t just jinxed it.
‘What if they find out from the radio, or some scumbag journalist doorsteps them?’
‘They won’t.’ Fingers crossed, anyway. ‘We pick up Dr McDonald and we head to the flat in Castleview. By the time she’s finished poking around, rush hour will have died down and we can sling past Ben Harrington’s parents on the way back to the station.’
Franklin edged them closer to the car in front, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. ‘Of course, the real question is: if Brett Millar’s running about all over Blackwall Hill, out of his head on magic mushrooms, where’s Glen Carmichael?’
‘He’s already dead.’
21
‘AAAAAAAARGH!’ The bucket sails through the musty air and bursts against the wall. Water makes a comet’s trail, soaking into the bricks.
Where the hell is he?
He should be right there – chained to the wall, but he’s not.
Instead, the chain sits on the ground, coiled like a snake. Venomous and treacherous. Useless. Four screws lie in the dirt, still in their Rawlplug shells, torn from the mouldering brickwork, letting the tie-up ring come free from the wall. It’s still fixed to the end of the chain by its padlock. The traitorous useless chain.
‘You had ONE JOB!’
He grabs it up and hurls it away into the gloom. It clangs and clatters against the long-dead boiler, hissing its way into a deceitful pile.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
All that time. All that energy. All those sacred herbs wasted.
Weeks and weeks of work. Gone, just like that.
He grinds his teeth, whole body trembling, blood surging in his ears. Whoom. Whoom. Whoom …
How could he be so stupid?
Once Upon A Time
There’s a jackdaw hanging on the fence behind the house. Like a little black kite, caught on its own strings. Wings outstretched. Beak hanging open. Eyes like marbles that’ve been rolled too many times on rough concrete and gravel, till they’re all white and scratched.
The jackdaw is dead.
Everything dies.
He reaches out and touches its feathers. They’re cold and soft.
Sometimes things die because they’re old, or ill, and sometimes they die because Father makes them dead. Sometimes they get hung from the fence with wasp-eaten wooden clothes pegs. And sometimes they get buried in the cold dark ground.
Justin stands in the kitchen, sniffling. Outside the sun is going down, making the fields look like they’re bleeding.
The fields are bleeding and the house is full of smoke.
And Father howls his anger at the walls. Using it like a stick to beat the smoke with. Only the smoke doesn’t break as easily as Justin.
The kitchen door bursts open, bouncing off the wall, making the mugs and plates rattle in their cupboards. Father stabs a finger at him. ‘It’s those bloody jackdaws again!’
Justin doesn’t move.
‘Building their sodding nests in the bloody chimney …’ His face is dark as the smoke, teeth shining like sharp white stones. ‘Get the ladder.’
‘I …’ Justin licks his lips.
Father’s hand is like a claw, fingers digging into Justin’s arm, squeezing so hard it sends needles and pins and knives stabbing all the way up into his shoulder.
‘Aaaaaagh!’
‘You’re making your mother cry. Can you hear her? Can you?’ He shakes Justin, making his teeth clack together. ‘CAN YOU HEAR HER?’
Faint, muffled sobs come from downstairs, working their way up through the floorboards like sad little seedlings looking for light. But there’s no light up here, only blood and smoke.
‘I’m sorry, Father, I’m sorry.’
Another shake. ‘Then don’t make me tell you again.’
A nod. Teeth biting his bottom lip. Blinking back the tears.
Father lets go and Justin runs. He runs out the back door and round the side of the house to the garage. Fights with the slippery doorknob. Stumbles into the darkness, wiping tears from his cheeks.
The ladder is bigger than he is, but he gets it down and hauls it out into the back garden. Sticks it up against the wall, so it reaches way up to the guttering. Shuffles his feet on the damp grass, his breath pink and cloudy in the fading light.
Father steps out onto the path. Looks at the ladder. Then looks at him. ‘Well?’
Justin stares at his trainers.
‘Up you go.’
‘But the jackdaws hate me.’
‘Of course they hate you. You’re destroying their home and killing their babies.’ Father smiles his nastiest smile. ‘Why would they like you?’
‘They’ll peck my eyes out and I’ll fall off the roof and I don’t want to—’ The fist is nearly too fast to see, but it smashes into his cheek like a hammer, snapping his head away, making him stumble and fall across the damp grass. The world sounds like symbols and drums. Then all the air whoomps out of him as Father’s boot smacks into his tummy, lifting him off the ground and spinning him over onto his back. Rats gnaw through him, their little pink tails burning his insides.
He rolls over and curls up into a ball. Cries.
/> And finally, Father squats down beside him. ‘Hey, come on, slugger. Dry your eyes, champ.’ Gentle hands wipe the tears away. ‘There we go. All better.’ He helps Justin to his feet. Brushes the grass and dew from his jumper. ‘You good?’
Justin nods. Don’t tremble. Don’t cry.
‘Course you are: big boy like you.’ He guides him over to the bottom of the ladder. ‘Now up you go, and don’t forget to kill the babies, OK? OK.’
He stands at the top of the stairs. Father must’ve left the basement door open again, and a bare lightbulb casts sharp shadows on the rough brick walls.
Justin’s not allowed to step on the stairs. If he puts one foot on the stairs something horrible will happen. Father will make sure of it.
So he doesn’t. He just stands there, with his face all swollen on one side and bits of stinky bird droppings and sticky blood on his hands. Looking.
New Mummy is there. She’s sitting on the dirt floor with her back to an old radiator – all rusty and lumpy edges. She’s got her knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, face buried in her yellow hair. Shoulders quivering as she cries.
New Mummy must’ve been bad, because she’s got no clothes on. She has to be naked and cold, because she’s been bad.
It’s like a lump of coal in the middle of his chest. You have to do what Father says. That’s the Number One Rule.
Justin moves his foot and the floorboard groans beneath him.
Mummy flinches, like she’s been slapped. Then stares up the stairs, eyes wide and soggy, ringed with red. The gag in her mouth has darkened to a deep blood red where the tears and bogies have soaked into it. And the chain around her neck sparkles like no diamond necklace ever did.
She makes … noises. All muffled by the gag. Strangly, angry, pleading noises.
As if he’s the one who can help her. As if he isn’t every bit as trapped as she is.
Justin reaches out and swings the door closed.
He’s never making that mistake again.
There’s only one thing for it.
The God-In-Waiting is gone and he’s not coming back. Oh, he’ll regret running away soon enough. Come crawling back, pleading to be released from his impurities, but as Mummy always found out, pleading never worked. Once you broke the rules you had to take your punishment, because that’s how it works.
He had his chance at being a god and he threw it away.
Of course, there’s very little chance of him being able to find his way back. The purification ritual is mind-expanding, but often makes the Gods-In-Waiting confused. As if their brains have been rewired to run on a foreign voltage. The signals from the real world get scrambled until they finally achieve divinity and all becomes clear again.
He won’t be able to lead anyone back here.
Probably.
But probably isn’t definitely, and that was one of Father’s many lessons. You never trust a probably, because ‘Probably’ can’t be trusted like ‘Definitely’ can. A thing is either dead or it’s not, ‘probably dead’ isn’t good enough.
So yes, there’s only one thing for it.
He unscrews the cap of the petrol canister and pours it down the basement stairs.
It cascades like a little waterfall, making the air swim and wobble in front of him. The sharp heady scent of pear drops and sweet vinegar.
The living room smells of cloves and smoke, with its open fireplace full of twigs and bones. The jackdaws always win in the end. But they won’t be back this time. He covers the mouldering furniture in unleaded, sploshes more on the dusty carpet. Pours what’s left across the bathroom floor and into the kitchen. Upends it and gives it a little shake, getting the last dribbles out.
Steps out of the back door and into the rain.
Father would not be happy if he could see the garden. His precious vegetable plot disappeared under a war zone of brambles and nettles, battling it out for the last scraps of nutrients from the dark thick earth. The trees heavy with unclaimed fruit, rotting and wasp-riddled on the branches. The garden shed, where so many nights were spent learning not to be a bad little boy.
He dips a strip of fabric into the empty plastic container, strikes a match and puts it to the hanging end. Still enough petrol in there to soak through the scrap of T-shirt and turn it into a torch. Then the whole thing goes in the kitchen door, tumbling over and over, making the same fluttering roar as baby jackdaw wings when they’re caught in their nest.
It bounces off the wall, and lands halfway between the kitchen and the living room. Blue flames rush across the floor in both directions, eating their way into the house. Popping and crackling like a baby jackdaw’s bones when you hold one of their fluttering little bodies in your hand and squeeze.
Two minutes later the basement goes up, growling out its decades of pain.
He waits until the fire has taken hold, then goes back to the van.
It doesn’t matter if the ex-God-In-Waiting leads them back here – there will be nothing left to find. And he will have moved on to somewhere new.
The only thing left to do is find someone else to take their place.
22
‘Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker.’ Dr McDonald stood in the middle of the filthy room, dressed in the full-on Smurf outfit: booties on her feet, gloves on her hands, mask, and safety goggles covering most of her face. She had an oversized smartphone in one hand, held out at head height.
Scenes Examination Branch had left the windows alone – still covered with their layers of hardcore pornography, blocking out the evening light, leaving them to the mercy of the single lightbulb dangling from a wire in the ceiling. They’d left everything else as it was as well – the ladder, the wallpaper table, the power tools, the radio. The stack of empty cans in the kitchen and the half-full bong.
Most of the flies were gone from the floor though, so at least every step didn’t scrunch.
And Callum’s ear throbbed. So much for local anaesthetic. No one said the sodding stuff would wear off in less than an hour.
McDonald poked at her phone’s screen and a semi-posh Scottish accent crackled out of the speaker. ‘Can you hear me?’
Franklin stood in the corner, notebook at the ready. But Callum leaned back against the wall, by the porn-covered window, with Cecelia. All of them done up in blue Tyvek oversuits with matching accessories.
Cecelia made a raspberry noise behind her facemask. ‘To be perfectly honest, I find this more than a bit insulting.’
Callum shrugged.
‘My team’s been over this flat with the proverbial nit-comb. We did our job.’ She folded her arms, her suit making crinkling noises with each movement. ‘And for your information: Tina’s confronting Yashnoor about having an affair on Enders tonight. In ninety minutes.’
He groaned. ‘You’ll be back in time for EastEnders.’
‘I better be.’
Dr McDonald did a slow pirouette, showing the phone the flat. ‘Say “stop” if you spot anything.’
‘Ooh, is that pornography on all the windows? I wouldn’t mind a gander at that.’
Cecelia shook her head. ‘Pervert.’
‘Who said that?’
‘Hold on …’ Dr McDonald turned the phone around, so they could see the screen.
A creased face blinked out at them – steel-coloured short back and sides, two prominent grey eyebrows, a matching moustache lurking beneath a puckered golf-ball nose. Little rectangular glasses. ‘Greetings, minions of Police Scotland! Fear not, for your salvation is at hand.’
‘Bernard, this is Cecelia Lynch, head of the local Scenes Examination Branch. And standing next to her is DC Callum MacGregor and DC Rosalind Franklin. Everyone, this is Professor Bernard Huntly – he’s a physical evidence specialist. A bit of an acquired taste, but he’s annoyingly good at what he does so we put up with it.’
‘Quite right too.’ He gave them all a grin. ‘Can you turn me up a bit, Alice?’
She poked at the controls and Huntly’s voice got louder.
‘Well, why don’t we cut straight through the meat to the bones beneath, Cecelia my love? Bloods?’
Cecelia pointed at the doorway by the kitchen. ‘Biggest quantity was over there, and even then it was less than a teaspoon. Going by the little dots on the floorboards, it wasn’t a gusher, more like a hammered thumb.’
‘Semen?’
‘I’d prefer an ice cream, if it’s all the same to you?’
‘Oh, we’re feisty, are we?’
‘Nothing in the living room, bathroom, kitchen, or hall. There’s three sleeping bags in the bedroom, and they’re like large down-filled condoms. Scrape them clean and you could artificially inseminate half of Fife.’
‘So our three property tycoons were enthusiastic onanists. Everyone needs to have a hobby.’ The little face pulled on a smile. ‘That’s why I wanted to see the pornography, Cecelia. Is it the sort of thing to encourage Ben, Glen, and Brett’s nocturnal manipulations, or was it put there by whoever left a drugged body floating in a bathtub full of brine? Alice?’
Dr McDonald walked over to the window and held the phone up to the bits of magazines taped there.
‘Hmm … Interesting.’
‘You see something?’
‘No, I just didn’t think anyone actually bought dirty magazines any more. You can download all this for free from the internet, what sort of idiot pays for it?’
‘It’s all heterosexual, well, I mean it’s mostly heterosexual except for the lesbian photoshoots and they’re basically only there to appeal to heterosexual men, so what I meant is that there’s nothing that would suggest the three of them were involved in a romantic way.’
Callum sniffed – the air still had that mouldering sausage smell. ‘Unless they’re overcompensating? Big display of testosterone: look how manly and laddish we are, and next thing you know they’re all running around sharing sleeping bags and playing with power tools.’
‘Does it really matter? No one cares if they were gay or not.’ Cecelia pulled back the edge of her glove and checked her watch. ‘Enders starts in eighty minutes.’
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