All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Well, you know what? He’d had enough. ‘Bye.’

  He was halfway to hanging up, but Barwell wasn’t giving up that easily – voice thin and tinny through the speaker. ‘Sure you don’t want to give your side of the story?’

  ‘I did that at the briefing, remember? Now, if you don’t mind—’

  ‘Oh, you got your “I was just there trying to impress a girl” thing out, but that doesn’t really cover what you did, does it?’

  Course it did.

  Didn’t it?

  He put the phone against his ear again.

  ‘See, I know way more about you than you think. And I’m betting way more than your colleagues do.’

  Frank turned in his seat, searching the street. A long terrace of flats, most of them the same shade of dirty granite as his own. A builder’s merchant opposite, all dark and plastered with warning signs. Parked cars crammed along both sides of the road. The shadows starting to lengthen, but the sun still hot enough in the sky to make the air above the bonnet shimmer.

  Was Barwell out there? Watching him? Some paparazzi scum sitting next to him taking shots with a telephoto lens? ‘DISGRACED ALT-NAT COP’S SECRET ALKIE SHAME!’

  He looked down at the bottle in his hand. Too late to worry about it now, then.

  Frank gave them something to photograph: gulping down half the bottle. Let loose a little hiss as the numbness turned to tingling.

  ‘Don’t know what you think you’ve got, but it’s a lie.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want to say a few words to the great unwashed? How about to Robert Drysdale’s family? Want to say something to them?’

  What?

  ‘Who the hell is … Drysdale?’

  He swallowed.

  ‘Well, well, well: is that the sound of a penny dropping, I hear?’

  ‘No idea who you’re talking about.’

  A laugh. ‘You keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, I’ll be telling everyone the truth.’

  Frank bared his teeth. Sat forward in the driver’s seat, half-bottle clenched in his fist. ‘Then I hope you’ve got a bloody good lawyer, cos I’m going to sue your rag for every penny it’s got!’ He jammed his thumb on the ‘End Call’ button. Slammed the phone down on the passenger seat. Bellowed out a howl of rage – flecks of spit spattering the windscreen.

  He knocked back a hefty swig of vodka. And another one. Then another, draining it.

  Screwed the top on like he was throttling that rancid wee shite, Barwell. Twisting the black metal till Barwell’s eyes popped out of his greasy little head. Banged the empty bottle down beside his phone.

  Hauled himself out of the car and slammed the door hard as he could.

  Stood there staring at it for a moment.

  You know what? No way he was suffering an evening with Gwen nipping at his head the whole time. Not without a lot more vodka inside him.

  And that’s exactly what he was going to get.

  32

  Logan hung up his fleece, took off his boots, and put a hand on the banister, looking up towards the top floor. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

  No reply.

  ‘Cthulhu?’ Sing-songing it out. ‘Where’s Daddy’s favourite kittenfish?’

  Still nothing.

  Hmph.

  He wandered through into the living room. No sign of anyone there either. ‘Hello?’

  A muffled shriek from outside.

  Ah, that explained it then.

  Logan stepped out through the open patio doors, onto the patio – the paving slabs warm beneath his socks.

  Tara stood in the middle of it with her hands over her eyes. God knew why, but she was wearing a ridiculous homemade tiara that looked as if she’d cobbled it together from half a ton of pipe cleaners, three gallons of glitter, and enough tinsel to strangle fifty department store Santas. ‘Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven.’

  Logan waved at her, even though she couldn’t see him. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety.’

  ‘Is no one happy to see me at all?’

  ‘Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three.’

  Typical.

  Welcome home, lovely Logan. How great it is to see you.

  Pfff …

  Cthulhu padded out from under a bush, tail in the air.

  ‘Ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six.’

  He squatted down and Daddy’s Favourite Kittenfish bumped her head against his knee, purring and prooping. Doing the LOVE ME dance with her big fluffy white paws. ‘At least you’re happy to see me.’

  ‘Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine.’

  ‘Unlike the rest of these bumheads.’

  ‘One hundred!’ Tara snapped her hands down and span around, staring out at the trees and shrubs. ‘Here I come, ready or not!’

  Logan scooped Cthulhu up, turning her tummy-side-up as she stretched out her furry arms and legs. He raised an eyebrow at Tara. ‘Do I even get a hello?’

  ‘Don’t distract the Seeker! I’m hunting … monsters!’ And with that, she charged off into the garden, growling.

  They were all off their tiny rockers.

  More shrieks from the undergrowth, then Naomi charged out, wearing a pirate costume and a ridiculous homemade tiara of her own, both arms in the air, waving a water pistol around in one hand and Captain Bogies in the other.

  Tara lumbered after Naomi, not going anywhere near fast enough to actually catch her. ‘Bwahahahahahahaha!’

  And neither of them bothered to even look in his direction.

  ‘Fine. I’m going to get a beer and you can all go poop yourselves.’

  He carried Cthulhu inside, through to the kitchen, and plonked her down on the table. Opened the fridge – setting the huge collection of kids’ drawings pinned to it flapping – and dug out a tin of Stella.

  Had to admit, the room had turned out better than expected: granite worktops, a good gas cooker, decent units, nice tiles. Head and shoulders above the bargain-basement kitchen he’d DIYed into place at the Sergeant’s House in Banff. Even if the worktop by the microwave was almost buried under an assortment of metal coat hangers, packs of multicoloured pipe cleaners, balls of tinsel, and jars of glitter.

  He cracked the tab on his tin and froze.

  Was that giggling?

  He turned. Hunkered down. And peered in under the table.

  Jasmine stared at him, eyes glittering, both hands over her mouth. Shoulders jiggling from the effort of keeping the giggles in. And her tiara was the most OTT of them all.

  ‘Evening.’ He pointed at the monstrosity on her head. ‘Why are you wearing a—’

  ‘Shhhh! You can’t tell Aunty Tara where I’m hiding!’

  Not her as well …

  Logan held up a hand and backed away. ‘I know, I know: “naebody likes a clype”.’

  Tara stepped up behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest. Warm against his back in the sunshine as he finished off his tin of Stella. Naomi and Jasmine thundered about in the garden, Cthulhu sitting on a garden chair by the patio doors – staying well out of it.

  Logan put his tin on the windowsill. ‘I take it you rotten sods have eaten?’

  ‘Don’t sulk.’ She kissed his neck. ‘I saved some tuna casserole for you.’

  ‘Should think so too.’

  Naomi and Jasmine battered past, holding their oversized wobbly tiaras on top of their heads.

  He turned and frowned at the lurid concoction sitting on top of Tara’s. ‘OK, I’ll bite: what’s with the fancy headgear?’

  ‘Rennie’s daughter’s birthday party this weekend: it’s BYOT.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s what it stands for.’

  She smiled. ‘Don’t worry, we made one for you too.’

  Why did that sound like a threat?

  The bedside clock glowed ‘21:00’, but even with the curtains drawn, daylight crept in around the edges. Jasmine and Naomi, in their respective jammies and beds, clutching their respective stuffed animals – Capta
in Bogies the filthy octopus for Naomi, Mr Stinky the threadbare bear for Jasmine.

  Tara leaned against the door frame, wearing a huge smile. Probably very pleased with herself for talking him into wearing the monstrosity she and the kids had made. Which looked a bit like a cross between an explosion in a pipe-cleaner factory and a prolapsed Christmas tree. The others had been over the top, but his was definitely the over-the-topiest of them all.

  Everyone stared at him as he turned the page and hoisted the pirate accent up a couple of yardarms.

  ‘So Skeleton Bob grabbed hold with both hands,

  And decided that this was a ludicrous plan,

  The Kraken, you see, didn’t mean to eat Dave,

  Or chew through the ship as it sailed through the waves,

  The truth was the Kraken was just a bit lonely,

  And that’s why it ate those three whales and the pony,’

  Naomi’s eyes widened. ‘Ooooooh …’

  ‘A bus full of people, a bear, and a goat,

  Six taxis, a church, Captain Dave, and the boat,

  Now, inside its tummy, they’d all been condemned,

  To be mushed up and chewed to a sticky brown blend,

  And that’s where we’ll leave them, and call this …’

  Everyone joined in for the last bit, even Tara: ‘The End!’

  Logan closed the book, stood and kissed Jasmine on the head. ‘Night Monster Number One.’ Then did the same with Naomi. ‘Night Monster Number Two.’

  She held up her grubby octopus. ‘Don’t forget Captain Bogies!’

  ‘OK.’ Captain Bogies got a kiss on his head too. ‘Night Monster Number Three.’

  He stopped in the doorway – ducking a bit so he didn’t lose his tiara on the architrave – and clicked out the light, leaving them with the rotating glow of a wee planetarium globe thing. Well, that and the sunshine oozing in around the curtains.

  Tara blocked his way out, so he kissed her as well. She tasted of cherries. ‘Monster Number Four.’ That seemed to do the trick, because she backed away far enough to let Logan close the door behind him.

  She reached up and adjusted his tiara. ‘Very fetching.’ A lopsided smile. ‘You make a good dad, you know that, don’t you?’ Then closed one eye and chewed on the inside of one cheek for a bit. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all?’

  Oh-ho.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing to stop us getting a bit of practice in.’ He wrapped her up in a hug, complete with very wandering hands. Getting a laughing shriek for his troubles as she grabbed hold of his bum for a revenge grope.

  Jasmine’s voice barged through the closed bedroom door: ‘GOD SAKE, YOU TWO. GET A ROOM!’

  Which wasn’t a bad idea …

  Sylvia’s voice purred in his ear. ‘And the sell-in’s great, Scotty. We’re talking potential top ten bestseller here.’

  Scott grinned. A top ten bestseller: how cool was that?

  Wait a minute … ‘Sylvia, does that mean we have to give the guy who wrote it more money?’ He stuck the phone on ‘SPEAKER’ and dropped it into his top pocket, freeing both hands to tip the remainder of his pear and Roquefort tarte tatin into the food recycling bin – well, you never knew when something like The Great British Bake Off might come calling. And lesser mortals than him had parlayed that into a lucrative media career, so why shouldn’t he?

  ‘You let me worry about that. Your name’s on the cover, you get all the fame and ninety-nine percent of the cash.’

  ‘Less your fifteen percent.’

  A laugh. ‘Hey, a girl’s gotta eat, right?’

  The kitchen, let’s be honest here, was an absolute triumph – lots of chrome and brushed steel appliances. A dark-maroon statement wall for the range cooker to sit against. Mahoosive fridge with separate wine cooler. But then the whole house was a monument to his superior taste, thank you very much.

  Shame no one had thought to get in touch with Grand Designs when he was having it built. Could’ve been great on that.

  ‘And have you thought any more about: you – know – what?’

  ‘Yeah …’ He sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘I’m not sure Strictly is a good fit for me. What about the charity single idea? Or … presenting something on TV, you know? Something with a bit of gravitas?’ He pulled the bag out of the recycling bin and tied the top edges together.

  ‘Scotty, you can’t just coast into a cosy media career off the back of four weeks in the Big Brother house any more. It’s not 2002 and you’re not Jade Goody.’

  Damn right he wasn’t. ‘How about Celebrity Mastermind? I could—’

  ‘Are you insane? No one in the history of ever got a career boost from Celebrity Cocking Mastermind, have you seen the Z-list nobodies they have on that show?’

  He carried the bag out into the hall – big, atrium style, with an Italian marble floor, huge rubber plants and citrus trees and the like. All of which had cost a small fortune. As had everything else in here, including the state-of-the-art home cinema setup in the lounge.

  ‘Listen to me, Scotty: you want the TV show and the turn on Desert Island Discs? You gotta do Strictly.’

  Groan.

  ‘And while we’re at it, have you done that opinion piece for the Telegraph yet?’

  ‘I’m a bit … Look, Sylvia, are you sure this is the right direction for me? My dad’s SNP and he’s still not speaking to me after the last one I wrote.’ Scott walked through the porch. Smaller in scale – so you’d get the wow factor stepping out of it into the hall: see, he knew what he was doing when he briefed the architect – but still pretty damned grand as far as designs went.

  ‘Don’t be daft: “Why Scotland should be scared to go it alone” was terrific. Best thing in the whole paper.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Scotty, darling, trust me. That “Tackling the Tartan Menace” shtick plays very well down here. London loves it. And where do you think all the casting decisions are made?’ She left an expectant pause, but there was no point answering the question, because they both knew it wasn’t Scotland.

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll write the piece.’ He checked his reflection in the gilt-edged mirror – not bad – unlocked the front door and stepped outside. ‘But if my dad disowns me, it’ll be your fault.’

  A proper gravel driveway led down to the large wrought-iron gates, bordered by waist-high drystane dykes that cost an eye-wateringly large amount to put in.

  The sun caressed the horizon, painting the sky with purple strokes, a smattering of clouds flaring fluorescent pink as the switch to twilight came … Hey, that was pretty good: ‘Painted the sky with purple strokes.’ Have to remember it for later, write it down when he got back inside.

  Maybe he wouldn’t need someone to write the next book for him? Couldn’t be that difficult, could it? All you did was stuff one word down after the next till a book plopped out the other end. Any idiot could do that.

  ‘Now, about Strictly …?’

  The gravel crunched beneath his feet as he made for the gates, skirting the brand-new, dark-blue, BMW Z4. ‘Not convinced.’

  She put on her patient voice. ‘Scotty, darling, let me explain Agent Sylvia’s patented Showbiz Hierarchy of Needs. I’d love to get you a presenting job, but to do that I need to get you on Strictly first. After that we go for a guest spot on Corrie, then EastEnders, Doctors, Casualty. How about Saturday Kitchen? You like your food, right?’

  ‘Oooh, I could do that.’ He pulled the little remote from his trouser pocket and pressed the button. The gates swung open on silent hinges.

  ‘TV exposure is the oxygen our entertainment ecosystem thrives on. The more of it you breathe, the more of you they want.’

  ‘And what about Celebrity Pointless?’

  A thinking sound, then, ‘Liking it.’

  He dumped the bag in the green recycling bin. Straightened up.

  Frowned.

  Was that …?

  ‘Hold on, Sylvia.’

  A sound.
Sort of scuffing, like someone trying to hide their footsteps?

  He stood there, head cocked to the left, listening …

  The sun was setting, but it’d be twilight for at least another hour yet. Longest day – wouldn’t be properly dark till after eleven. And yet … the shadows gathered. Deep blues and purples, reaching out from the drystane dykes, blurring the detail. Hiding things.

  Somewhere, off in the distance, a fox yowled.

  ‘You still there?’

  Nah. It was nothing. Badger or a vole. That kind of doodah.

  He shut the recycling bin’s lid. ‘Then there’s radio work, right? Bound to be something we could pitch to Radio Four.’

  ‘Not as good as TV, but all exposure is good exposure when you’re Feeding The Beast.’

  Scott started up the drive again, clicking the remote over his shoulder as he crunched across the gravel. The gates swung shut with a reassuring clang.

  ‘And there’s always my charity single idea! How does …’ He froze. There it was again. The scuffing noise. He inched his way around till he was facing the gates again, every single hair on his head standing to attention.

  ‘Scotty, you OK?’

  ‘Thought I heard something.’ He raised his voice at the growing shadows. ‘Hello?’ Trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’

  Give Sylvia her due, she had his back, without so much as a pause: ‘Do you need me to call the cops?’

  Silence.

  Not even the fox.

  Oh, what was he doing?

  A laugh bounced its way out of him. OK, it was a bit high and nervous sounding, but if you can’t laugh at yourself being an idiot, who could you laugh at?

  He shook his head and hurried back to the house. Not running, but not dawdling either.

  ‘Honestly, I genuinely terrified myself then.’

  Soon as he was inside, he locked the front door, double bolted it and put the chain on too. Gave himself a little shake. ‘Sorry, sorry. What were we talking about again?’

  ‘Brainstorming PR opportunities with my very favourite client.’ Bet she said the same thing to all her clients. But it was still nice to hear.

  Scott pushed through into the atrium – which, let’s face it, sounded so much better than ‘hall’. There was a bottle of Courvoisier XO in the kitchen. Big glass of that would go down very nicely indeed. Well, he deserved it, didn’t he? After nearly scaring himself to death.