All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  So ‘Wallace’ had to mean something else.

  Wallace. Wallace. Wallace …

  ‘Who are you?’

  44

  The Transit van rattles and pings as Mhari pulls into the car park and switches off the headlights. This time of night, the only other vehicles belong to the overnight staff – going by the manky Citroën Picasso and the tricked-out Renault Clio, that would be Stupid Steven and Grandma Mags – abandoned near the main doors for a quick getaway when their shifts end.

  Mhari takes the ancient Transit and parks it in the corner nearest the residents’ wing. Where Grandma Mags won’t be able to see it from reception.

  She pulls on her black leather gloves and slips out into the warm night. Dressing like a ninja probably isn’t necessary, but it’s traditional, isn’t it?

  Not as if Mags pays any attention though. Could drive a herd of buffalo through here and she wouldn’t notice.

  Look at her, sitting behind the desk with her head buried in a breeze-block sized Stephen King, all lit up by the reception lights, because she doesn’t see why she should have to sit there in the dark. Not that it’s all that dark. Four in the morning, but the sky’s already slipping from navy to eggshell blue. Be sunup soon.

  Better get a shift on.

  Mhari jogs along the side of the building, past the dark windows of the residents’ lounge and around the corner. Pauses at the staff break room. The window’s open a crack, letting a faux-Scottish accent ooze out. One with more than a hint of the down-under about it. Banging on about freedom and battering the English army.

  She peers in through the window and there’s Stupid Steve – big and burly, with a spade-shaped forehead, slouched in an armchair in front of the telly, one hand tucked into the waistband of his trousers, mouth moving silently as he recites the words in time with the film. Hollywood karaoke, for the permanent wanker.

  Mhari keeps going, around the rear of the building, till she finds the fire exit she wants. The one that’s just down the corridor from where she needs to be. The one that’s never alarmed.

  She jimmies it open with a wee wrecking bar in about thirty seconds and slips inside.

  Course the other benefit to using this particular fire exit is that the nearest security camera faces the other way. And it’s not like they splurged on a fancy one that moves, either.

  A wheelchair sits in a small recess opposite, blocking the door marked ‘LINEN CLOSET’. She wheels it down the corridor to her dad’s room: ‘SAOR ALBA’ even thought it should be ‘ALBA SHAOR’. Still, that’s men for you.

  She lets herself in.

  The reading light is on above the bed, bathing its occupant in warm golden light.

  He’s asleep, flat on his back, with an oxygen mask on his face. Much paler than last time. Skin like paper stretched over a thin bone frame, tinged blue and purple and yellow. As if his whole body’s one big bruise, fading out of life. Even his tartan pyjamas look ready to die.

  Mhari reaches out and takes hold of his foot. Gives it a soft shoogle. Keeping her voice down. ‘Dad? You ready to go?’

  ‘Mnnnghnn …’ He shifts a bit, then settles into the pillows again.

  She gives him another shoogle. ‘It’s time, Dad.’

  He blinks, fumbles his way to consciousness. Face pinched, looking around like he’s never seen the room before. ‘Gnnn …? I’m … What?’

  Poor old soul.

  ‘I understand, Dad. Come on, we’ll get you sorted.’

  She pulls the horrible blue blankets off of him and piles them up on one of the visitors’ chairs, positions the wheelchair by the bed, sticks the brakes on, then scoops her arms around his chest – under his arms. Up close he smells sour and sickly sweet, all at the same time.

  In his heyday, “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead was a huge man, powerful, terrifying. But there’s so little of him left, it’s like he’s made of balsa wood. She lifts him into the wheelchair and covers him up with the blankets again. Clips the oxygen tank onto the support struts. Does the same with the morphine drip.

  ‘Haiden? Haiden, are we going home?’

  ‘No, Dad.’ She kisses him on his papery forehead. ‘We’re going somewhere much, much better, remember?’

  He nods, eyelids drooping as she makes him comfortable. And soon his breathing is shallow, but regular. She wheels him out through the door.

  Down the corridor.

  Turn at the emergency exit and …

  Damn it.

  Stupid Steve is right outside the door, standing there, facing away from the building, smoking a joint and fiddling with his phone. Paying no attention to anything but himself.

  Mhari sets the brakes on Dad’s wheelchair again and slips her hunting knife from its sheath. Sharp and glittering. Then creeps across to the other side of the emergency exit and flattens herself against the wall.

  Waiting.

  Waiting.

  Stupid Steve finishes his joint, pinching out the tiny roach and sticking it in a wee metal tin – the kind you get breath mints in. He puts his phone away, spits out into the dawn, turns and steps inside again.

  Stops dead and frowns down at the wheelchair and its occupant. ‘How did you get out here?’ A sigh. A shake of the head. ‘Bloody crips. Crips and old farts, far as the eye can see. Pfff … Come on then, you old git, let’s get you—’

  She steps up behind him and puts the knife to his throat. Twists it a little, so he knows what it is.

  Gets a wee squeak in return.

  Probably working his way up to wetting himself.

  Mhari leans in close to Stupid Steve’s ear. ‘That “old git” is more of a man than you’ll ever be, Steven. He’s a hero. What are you again?’

  ‘M … Mary?’ His voice trembles. ‘Have you lost your—’

  She gives the knife another twist and he lets out a tiny strangled scream. There’s the sound of water hitting the lino and the scent of warm fresh piss.

  ‘There are civilian casualties in every war. Do you want to be one of them?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then turn around. Slowly.’

  Stupid Steve puts his hands up. ‘Please don’t kill me! Please don’t—’

  ‘Turn around, or I will kill you.’

  And he does: cheeks wet with tears, blood trickling down his neck and into the collar of his nurse’s whites, bottom lip trembling. Aw, shame. Poor wee thing.

  She smashes the hilt of her knife into his forehead, hard. His knees wobble, eyes rolling back, then he collapses like a bag of wet laundry into the puddle of his own making. Should rub his nose in it. But instead she hooks her hands under his armpits and drags him over to the door marked ‘Linen Closet’. Unlocks it with the keys hanging from his belt. Bundles him inside.

  Hmm …

  Stupid Steve’s a bit too big to fit in the narrow space – what with all the shelves full of towels and bedding and the like. Never mind, she can make it work. Mhari shoves and kicks until everything but one arm is stuffed in there. Bad luck, Steve: she stomps on it till the bones snap and his arm bends enough to get the door shut.

  Mhari turns the key, then breaks it off in the lock.

  Well, wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it.

  ‘Come on, Dad.’ She clicks off the wheelchair’s brake and pushes him out through the emergency exit and into the dawn.

  Only been a few minutes, but it’s already brighter out here. Birds warming up for the dawn chorus. Some lights flickering on in the airport way beyond the chain-link fence.

  ‘It’s OK, Dad. The plan’s changed, but everything’s going to be fine.’ She wheels him down the side of the building, towards her ancient Transit van, a smile pulling her face wide. ‘Trust me.’

  45

  The canteen vending machines buzzed and gurgled in the gloom. Yes, officially the sun had risen, but it hadn’t climbed high enough to clear the grey granite walls of King Street yet, so gloom it was. Especially as Logan hadn’t bothered to switch on the lights.

 
After all, when you were trying to force down a plastic cup of ‘Instant Brown Horrible’ from the machine, not being able to see it was probably a bonus. How did they manage to get coffee to taste like that? As if someone had set fire to a used nappy and then boiled the blackened remains for three and a half—

  The overhead lights bing-ed and flickered, warming up to a soulless white glow.

  Tufty let the door swing shut behind him as he squeaked across the canteen. Yawning. Bags under his eyes. But dressed in his full Police Scotland black. He gave Logan a wee wave: ‘Sarge.’

  ‘What are you doing in at …’ Logan checked his watch. ‘half four in the morning?’

  Tufty grimaced and plonked himself down on the chair opposite. ‘I’ve got alerts set up so if someone posts certain “somethings” it pops up on my phone.’ He dug his mobile out, poked at the screen, and slid the thing across the tabletop. ‘Woke up to this.’

  Pale pink filled the screen, then a galvanised nail appeared – long and dark, with a round flat head, clutched between a couple of fingers. A hammer slid in from the other side.

  Logan flinched away from Tufty’s phone. ‘Please tell me that isn’t …’

  The point of the nail rested against the pink and the hammer battered down on the head, driving straight in. Blood welled up around the nail shaft as the hammer swung in again and screaming bellowed out from the speakers. The footage shaky, going in and out of focus as the hammer battered into shot again and again and again.

  The instant coffee turned to battery acid in Logan’s stomach.

  ‘Jesus …’ He pushed the phone away. ‘Get it taken down. Get it taken down, now!’

  Tufty paused the video. ‘I’m trying. But soon as it went up it got spread across the Alt-Nat message boards like Marmite.’ A long deep sigh. ‘Not sure if it’s bots, or people in the US, or what spreading it, but you’d think all our home-grown nutters would be asleep right now.’ He curled his top lip and turned the phone screen-side down on the tabletop. ‘Some people are sick.’

  Logan groaned.

  They were screwed. Completely and utterly screwed.

  ‘It’ll be all over the morning news, won’t it?’

  Just when things couldn’t get any worse: they did.

  ‘Sorry, Sarge. Don’t know if this means we missed the Scotty Meyrick video, or if Mhari didn’t bother posting it, because this one was better.’

  He thunked his head on the table, making his plastic coffee jiggle. ‘Steel was right: I should’ve gone home to bed!’

  ‘Yeah … Erm, Sarge? I bumped into Bouncer on my way in. From Scene Examination? Wanted me to give you this.’ Tufty held out an Audi key fob. ‘Said they’ve finished doing the swabbing and taping and photographing and you can have your car back now.’

  Logan closed his eyes and groaned again.

  ‘They’ve parked what’s left of it in the Rear Podium car park.’ A pause. ‘He says sorry about all the fingerprint powder, but they didn’t have time to clear it up, what with everything going on out at Renfield House.’

  Even better.

  Logan sagged in his seat. ‘I hate this job.’

  Tufty tried for a smile. ‘Anyway …’ He picked up his phone and poked at the screen again. ‘I’m still not having any joy finding out who the fake Mhari Powell really is. Her social media profile twists like an eel in a tumble dryer, and it’s got all these weird layers to it too. Loads of different aliases and usernames, but they’re all definitely her.’ More poking. ‘Some of her accounts are screamingly Alt-Nat, some of them are rabid Alt-Brit-Nat. Sometimes she starts flame wars with herself, then goes quiet and lurks as everyone else piles in. Poking the bear every now and then.’ Tufty frowned as he scrolled. ‘It’s weird.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing at all?’

  ‘Only that she’s been using “Mhari Powell” as an alias for about two years.’ He scooted forward in his seat. ‘But you’ll like this: I does has a hypothesis! The real Mhari Powell works in a psychiatric facility, so maybe that’s where the fake Mhari Powell met her? Maybe we should try sending the fake Mhari’s photo to the real Mhari and see if she rings any alarm bells?’

  What?

  Logan tried to keep his voice level. ‘Are you telling me no one’s actually done that yet?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Oh for God’s sake, he was working with MORONS.

  He covered his face with his hands and strangled a small scream.

  How could King not get that organised? How could he be so sodding …

  Lying, unconscious, in a hospital bed, with nails sticking out of his head.

  Gah …

  Logan stared up at the ceiling tiles.

  Steel was right: the whole thing was a complete and utter cocking disaster.

  ‘Erm, Sarge? Does that mean you want me to try?’

  He forced the word out between gritted teeth. ‘Please.’

  ‘Okeydoke.’ More fiddling with his phone. ‘Done. Emailed it off to that bloke at Northumbria Police with the warty nose.’

  Though, knowing their luck, it would be a complete dead end. As per.

  Logan sagged even further. ‘What does “Wallace” mean to you?’

  ‘And Gromit?’ A pause – and swear to God, you could actually see the hamster wheel inside Tufty’s head spinning until he finally got it. ‘Oh, from the chest freezer. Right. Yeah. Probably not “and Gromit” then. So …’ He wrapped one arm around himself, the other hand tapping at his forehead. Then his eyes widened. ‘Ooh, ooh, I know: William Wallace!’

  Well, asking Tufty had always been a long shot. It wasn’t as if he was renowned for his Sherlock-Holmes-style steel-trap intellect, was it? He wasn’t completely thick – the boy was great on sci-fi trivia, so if Star Trek, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or Battlestar Galactica came up at a pub quiz, he was your man – but actual police work? Might as well ask a drunken hedgehog to fill out your tax return.

  ‘Nope: already thought of that. Wallace is a hero to her, the other chest freezers are named after punishments. Betrayals. It doesn’t fit.’

  Tufty rolled his eyes. ‘No, listen, Sarge: they captured him at the battle of thingummy and took him down to London, didn’t they? Hanged, drawn, and quartered him.’ Wrinkles appeared on that hollow forehead. ‘Though technically it should be drawn, hanged, and quartered. A lot of people think drawing was taking out your inside bits, but it was really them dragging you through the streets to your place of execution. And if we’re being pedantically technical, it should be drawn, hanged, castrated, disembowelled, and dismembered. Cos they hack you into more than four bits and they’re not of equal size, so—’

  ‘OK! I get it: Wallace is a hero and a punishment.’ Logan held up a hand. ‘You can stop talking now.’

  ‘Oh, and after they cut off your gentleman’s relish they burn it in a fire, right in front of you. Then do the same with your intestines: the world’s most horrible barbecue.’ A nod. ‘You should ask Rennie about it. He’s the history buff. I only know this stuff cos it was in a game of Dungeons and Dragons.’ Tufty smiled, eyebrows up. Eager. ‘Have you played?’

  ‘No, genuinely: stop talking.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s not just for kids, you should try it!’

  Logan covered his face with his hands again. ‘Kill me now.’

  ‘I’m playing a dwarf called Tuftin Oakenbeard and she’s got this enchanted axe that—’

  The canteen door banged open and a uniformed PC bustled in, red-faced and breathless. Lanky, with a prominent nose, like a human ice axe. She had a quick scan of the empty room then hurried over. ‘Inspector McRae!’

  ‘Oh, thank God.’ Saved.

  ‘Been trying to get you on your Airwave. And I was up and down them stairs a million times looking for you! I’m absolutely—’

  ‘Can we skip straight to the message, please?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ PC Godsend pouted a little, as if she’d been rehearsing her moan and now didn’t have anyone to perform it for. ‘OK, w
ell, there’s been a break-in at that Ravendale Sheltered Living Facility. Someone’s abducted “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead.’

  Logan stared at her, then at Tufty.

  Tufty’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

  Then they were both on their feet, running for the door.

  Bang: out into the stairwell.

  Tufty screeched to a halt on the grey terrazzo flooring, arms pinwheeling to keep himself upright. ‘Wait, wait: stabproof!’ He turned and scurried off down the stairs, voice echoing against the concrete. ‘I’ll catch up; don’t go without me!’

  A couple of security lights broke through the grey shadows that swamped the Rear Podium, reflected in the windscreens of half a dozen parked patrol cars. And what was left of Logan’s Audi.

  Overhead, the sky was already heading towards a bright cheery blue, but down here it was definitely bloody horrible.

  His poor car …

  Sitting there, exposed in the security light’s merciless glow, it actually looked worse than it had when he’d found it abandoned near Renfield House. More battered and scraped. More falling to bits.

  He was still staring at it, mourning, when Tufty lurched up, struggling under the weight of two stabproof vests and a pair of utility belts.

  ‘Argh … Heavy, heavy, heavy!’

  Logan popped the boot and Tufty dumped the lot inside with a grunt.

  Then staggered away a couple of paces, wiping at his shiny face. ‘I nicked one off the rack for you too, and a full Belt-O’-Many-Things as well. Don’t tell anyone, but I might have forgot to sign for it, OK?’

  ‘Promise.’ Logan clunked the boot shut and climbed in behind the wheel.

  The inside was dusty with fingerprint powder – making it look even more grey in the dim light – and turning the key set the engine rattling and groaning like a tractor. His lovely Audi was not a well car.

  Tufty got in the passenger side, mouth stretched wide and down, eyebrows pinched up in the middle. ‘Oh dear.’

  It backfired twice as Logan reversed it out of the space, and again on the way down the ramp onto Queen Street. He frowned: there was something buzzing and squeaking that didn’t buzz or squeak before.