The Coffinmaker's Garden

by Stuart MacBride

  Henry’s barks rang out like a shotgun.

  Alice joined them: ‘GET OFF HIM, YOU BASTARD!’

  ‘Now, now, dear Doctor, let’s not escalate this situation unnecessarily. Control that animal, before it gets hurt.’

  I blinked away the tears. Brought my fists up.

  Francis’s head got smaller for a heartbeat, then swelled up like a meteorite, slamming into the bridge of my nose with the crack and pop of a thousand fireworks. Filling the world with the stench of raw meat. My right leg stopped working, the knee refusing to hold my weight as the café’s waltz turned into a polka and boiling petrol washed through my face. Bursting into flame as it touched whatever was left of my nasal cartilage. I grabbed a handful of table, keeping myself upright. But only just.

  FIGHT BACK!

  I swung. Missed.

  ‘That’s the spirit, Mr Henderson! Do not go quietly into that dark night!’

  That was the trouble with gobby bastards – too much time spent on word-of-the-day calendars and not enough learning the proper bloody quotes.

  More barking.

  I spat out a mouthful of copper pennies. ‘Come on then. That all you’ve got?’

  Effie emerged from the kitchen, teeth bared, a frying pan clutched in one hand like a mallet. ‘What the hell do youse bastards think you’re doing in my café?’

  ‘How unfortunate.’ Joseph raised his eyes to the grubby ceiling as if the answer to Effie’s question was written there. Then turned his cold hard smile on her. ‘I take it you are the proprietor of this fine establishment? Well, if you’d be so kind as to take a seat and remain silent, we shall try to conduct our business here with the minimum of disruption to your premises. It would be a matter of personal regret if we were forced to cause damage to your fixtures, fittings, and limbs.’

  Alice’s voice slashed through the muggy air: ‘EFFIE, CALL THE POLICE! CALL—Ulk …!’

  The clatter and scrabble of dog claws on the linoleum.

  ‘Now, dear Doctor, I do believe I counselled against interfering.’

  Alice.

  I turned, teeth bared and there was Joseph, standing behind her, with his right arm around her throat, left arm locking her head in and forcing it forward. Chokehold. Shutting off the blood to her brain.

  Henry charged at Joseph, jaws snapping, barks ringing out.

  Then a whimpering yelp as Joseph lashed out with a foot, sending the brave wee lad flying as Alice’s face darkened. ‘I warned you!’

  Right, that bastard—

  Francis’s left fist cracked upwards into my ribs, nearly lifting me off my one good foot. Taking all the breath in my lungs with it. And the other knee gave way.

  This was it.

  The scarlet-spattered linoleum rushed up to meet me. Now the kicking would start. The stamping. The broken bones and fractured skull. The internal bleeding.

  Clutching at the table didn’t help – it dragged the checked plastic cloth off, taking the sauces and salt and mugs and plate and chips and fish fingers with it. A shattering of crockery, the ping and clang of cheap cutlery bouncing.

  Then BOOM.

  The Tartan Bunnet’s front door burst open and Helen MacNeil charged over the threshold, screaming something without words in it, mouth wide, teeth flashing, all the cords in her neck standing out like the cables on a suspension bridge.

  Francis got as far as, ‘Naw—’ before she crashed into him, knocking him off his feet and sending him flying into the nearest table with a crunch of buckling chipboard. He was bent backwards over it, hips jutting, arms flailing as Helen leapt on him – one knee slamming down into his groin. And that was it for the table. The entire thing collapsed and Francis thumped into the floor with Helen still on top as she grabbed his ponytail and battered her other fist off his face five or six times in rapid succession, like a jackhammer, sending up tiny spurts of scarlet with every impact. Re-breaking that squint nose, shutting his eye.

  Then twisting around and onto her feet again.

  Can’t have taken her more than a dozen seconds, and Francis was a groaning mess of battered skin, blood frothing at the side of his mouth and dribbling down his cheek.

  Joseph swivelled, putting Alice between Helen and himself. Partially releasing his chokehold to dig a hand into his jacket pocket. ‘Now I know we haven’t been properly introduced, but I can assure you that this encounter will not go well for you if you don’t turn around and leave right now.’

  She kept her eyes on him as she picked up one of the broken table’s metal legs, holding it like a baseball bat, slapping the other end against her palm. ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘I haven’t had the pleasure.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no pleasure, I’m pretty sure of that.’ Stepping closer. ‘See, I know who you are.’

  ‘Then you know that, much though it may pain me, I shall not hesitate to do the good doctor here serious harm if you don’t depart as requested.’

  Helen shrugged. ‘Go on, then. She’s nothing to me. But this one?’ Pointing the table leg in my direction. ‘He’s mine. And you better pray he’s still useful to me, because see if he’s not?’

  ‘Unnnnnngh …’ Francis rolled over onto his front. Struggled up to his hands and knees. Blood dripping onto the linoleum beneath his face. Another grunt and he was sitting back on his haunches, face already swelling up. Wobbling in a circle, as if the whole café was swaying.

  Welcome to the dance.

  Helen didn’t even look at him. Instead she swung the table leg in a fast, flat arc behind her.

  A muffled clang as the metal cracked off Francis’s head, and gravity reclaimed him. On his side, lying there, mouth open, eyes closed.

  But at least he was still breathing.

  Alice, on the other hand, was going a darker shade of red, hands scratching at Joseph’s arm, mouth opening and closing on nothing. Feet scratching across the linoleum. One arm wasn’t enough to cut off the blood flow, but plenty to make sure she couldn’t breathe.

  I hauled myself up the nearest chair. ‘LET HER GO!’

  ‘Going to give you a choice, Joseph. Either you take your boyfriend and you run away, or I do the same thing to you that I did to Neil Stringer.’ The table leg slapped into her open palm again. ‘Five … Four.’

  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 tisssshhhed 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—

  ‘Oh my God, what happened?’

  When I looked up, there was Alice, staring, drinks wobbling on a round brown tray.

  ‘Fixed his nose.’ Helen toasted her with the pint. ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I’ll get a cloth …’ And she was gone again.

  ‘The exchange rate is: your life, Dr Weirdo’s, and the dog’s for Gordon Smith’s. I think that’s fair, don’t you?’

  The throbbing was settling into a dull ache – as if someone was squatting inside my skull trying to shove my eyeballs out of their sockets with hobnail boots on. ‘What happened to the six million?’

  ‘That’s gone down to two again.’

  Not to be sniffed at – assuming my nose ever worked again. Two million would set us up somewhere new. Somewhere that wasn’t Oldcastle. Somewhere Alice could retire and maybe we could open up a bookshop or a pub or a wee hotel or something. Somewhere no one would come looking for us after I skinned Joseph alive.

  — sauf’, und würg’ dich zu todt! —

  (drink, and choke yourself to death)

  34

  ‘… afraid you’re right, Jane. We’ve barely caught our breath from Storm Trevor and here comes Storm Victoria …’

  ‘Gah!’ Fumbling for the alarm-clock radio, mashing the button to make the idiots shut the hell up.

  ‘… have to batten down the hatches for the next three, maybe four days as this area of low pressure—’

  Blessed silence.

  And then the real pressure kicked in – as if someone had jammed a bicycle pump into my sinuses and was ramming the piston home with every beat of my heart. Mouth, sandpaper dry. That’s what happened when you couldn’t breathe through your nose.

  Probably didn’t help that I’d packed it full of cotton wool to stop the bleeding.

  And still the world stank of burning bees.

  Getting back to sleep wasn’t going to be an option, was it? At least not without a shedload of painkillers and a big glass of water.

  I struggled out of bed, ribs screaming like a slaughterhouse, grimaced and winced my way into the tartan dressing gown hanging on the back of the door, and hobbled
into the corridor.

  Clicking the lights on sent frozen daggers stabbing through my retinas, so I switched them off again. Limped through the gloom.

  No sign of Henry in the living room. Probably curled up at the foot of Alice’s bed.

  Which was good, because no way in hell could I face any sort of enthusiasm this early in the morning. 06:25 according to the microwave clock.

  Two amitriptyline got washed down with a glug of water, followed by a tramadol for good measure.

  Getting old, Ash. Used to be a time you’d shake something like this off, and be up and doing the next day ready for anything. But now?

  Two punches and a head-butt, and it was as if I’d been run over by a tank.

  Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city was a shroud of faded streetlights, draped over the valley’s corpse. But the glass was cool against my forehead.

  Question was, what was I going to do about it?

  How about arranging a small accident for Jennifer Prentice? The kind that ended up with her missing a limb or two … Or was that OTT? Didn’t feel like it, going by the rusty sawblades hacking their way through my head and ribs, right now. Something had to happen, though: she wasn’t getting away with it.

  And she wasn’t the only one.

  No prizes for guessing how Joseph and Francis had found me – that would be PC MacAskill / McAllister. Sitting there fiddling with his phone. Texting them to say I was in the Tartan Bunnet Café. ‘COME GET HIM! LOL! XXX!’ And probably some sort of thumbs-up emoji. Hanging about in the café, till they turned up to take over.

  And if he was taking money from ‘J&F ~ FREELANCE CONSULTANTS’ chances were he was doing favours for other scumbags too. Have to add him to the list.

  My phone was where I’d left it: plugged into the wall, recharging. When I picked the thing up, the screen came to life, displaying the icon that meant a text message had come in while I’d been asleep / unconscious.

  More than one message, as it turned out.

  LEAH MACNEIL: