A Song for the Dying

by Stuart MacBride

  Huntly might be a prick, but he was right.

  Didn’t mean he wasn’t crying out for a punch in the mouth though.

  Alice stopped outside Ruth’s building. ‘Here we go.’

  Ruth turned, leaned across the gap between the seats, and gave her a hug. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Mr Henderson?’

  ‘What about combings – they might have got pubic hair from him.’

  ‘Ah, now that is a possibility.’

  Ruth turned in her seat and waved at me. ‘It’s like … like a light’s come on in my life again. It’s been dark for so long…’ She reached back and placed a hand on my knee. ‘Bless you.’

  ‘Glad we could help.’

  ‘The only drawback being, they didn’t do any rape kits. I checked with the hospital staff – they were too busy trying to stitch them back together to do anything else.’

  Ruth blinked. Placed a hand flat against her chest, as if she was pushing her heart back into place. Then she nodded and climbed out of the car.

  ‘Of course, in an ideal world we could just check with the dead. But, Sheila tells me two of them were cremated, one disappeared, and – looking at her post-mortem photographs – it’s clear that Natalie May favoured… Shall we call it a “Yul Brynner bikini line”?’

  I folded the passenger seat forward and struggled my way into the front. ‘What about Claire Young?’

  ‘Ah yes, a woman favoured with a full and lustrous mons pubis. One moment.’ A soft bleep and the phone went silent.

  Ruth stood on her top step, turned and waved at us, before letting herself in.

  Soon as the building’s door swung shut again, Alice did a three-point turn. ‘We need to get some wine and beer, or should we just get beer, probably we should get both, I mean better safe than sorry, and—’

  ‘OK, OK: we’ll get some wine.’

  ‘Hello, are you still there? Sheila says the Tigerbalm pathologist did a rape kit. But, just in case the man’s an idiot, she’s done one too and sent it off along with the tissue samples and bloods. We should hear back in a few days. In the meantime I shall ask Sheila to unleash herself upon the old post-mortem reports.’

  Why couldn’t it be like it was on the TV, where DNA and lab results only took fifteen minutes? ‘OK, let me know when they’re in.’ I hung up, before he said anything else that deserved a thumping.

  The neon sign above the abandoned cash register buzzed and flickered as rain pelted the off-licence window. Bottles of violently coloured alcopops and minimum-unit-price booze lurked inside wire cages screwed to the wall, filling the six-foot gap between the front door and the short black counter that segregated the shop into two bits. Behind the counter, the whisky, wine, vodka, and beer were kept out of reach of the natives.

  Alice opened her satchel and pulled out her Inside Man letters, placed them in a pile by the register. ‘While we’re waiting.’ The yellow highlighter came out to join it.

  She streaked a fluorescent line across two-inches of scribbled handwriting.

  I turned my back on the counter, leaned against it. ‘Henry thought he called himself “the Inside Man” because of stitching things inside the nurses. What if it’s not, though? What if it’s because he’s on the inside?’

  ‘Mmm?’ More searing yellow streaks.

  ‘What if he’s one of us?’

  ‘Mmmmm…’

  ‘What if he’s literally on the inside: screwing things up, falsifying evidence, burying the truth so we can’t catch him?’

  ‘Hmmm…’ A sigh. She tapped the plastic end of the highlighter against the paper. ‘Listen to this: “The panicked surge of her breathing makes my nerves sing. A choir of power and control…”’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘At least, I think it says “panicked surge” – could be almost anything.’

  ‘What about it?’

  Wrinkles creased her forehead. ‘Not sure.’

  Dear Lord, a two-word answer. That was a first.

  She squeaked on another line of fluorescent yellow. ‘Doesn’t it seem a little verbose to you, like whoever wrote it was trying to make everything sound salacious, or like it was part of a book or something? All that imagery: the “panicked surge”, “choir of power”, “singing nerves”…’

  ‘So, he’s a pretentious nutter with literary delusions.’

  ‘Hmmmm…’ The highlighter picked out another sentence, then Alice stuck the tip of her tongue between her teeth. ‘Have you ever read the letters the police got from Jack the Ripper? Some are definitely fakes, but the “Dear Boss” and the “From Hell” ones are the most plausible.’

  Still no sign of the useless sod. The door at the back of the shop remained resolutely shut. ‘This is taking for ever.’

  ‘The “From Hell” letter goes: “Mr Lusk, Sor, I send you half the Kidne” – no “Y” – “I took from one women prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise” – N.I.S.E. – “I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer, Signed Catch me when you can Mishter Liusk.” No punctuation: no commas, apostrophes, or full stops.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ I rapped my walking stick on the counter, raised my voice to a shout. ‘Did you fall in and drown, or something?’

  No response from the closed door.

  Alice took her red biro and circled a couple of highlighted adverbs. ‘Anyway, the handwriting in the “From Hell” letter is nothing like the “Dear Boss” ones. Neither have any punctuation, but the “Dear Boss” one’s three hundred percent neater, and the spelling’s way better. Lots of people think the “Dear Boss” letters are genuine – because they describe events that you could only know if you were Jack, or on the investigation – but “From Hell” came with half a human kidney preserved in wine.’

  ‘Michelle used to get hers delivered from Tesco.’ I banged on the counter again. ‘Get a bloody shift on!’

  ‘They can’t both be from Jack the Ripper, can they? He goes from super-neat handwriting to badly spelled scrawl, and you can’t just pick up half a human kidney from the corner shop, so clearly that’s come from a very disturbed individual who’s probably killed and mutilated someone, but that doesn’t mean they’re the same person.’

  ‘Is there a point to this?’

  The sound of a toilet flushing filtered out through the door at the back.

  She circled another pair of words. ‘So what we have to ask ourselves is was “Dear Boss” the real Jack the Ripper and “From Hell” a copycat, or was it the other way around? Or were neither of them really him?’

  ‘Still not seeing how this helps.’

  ‘Just thinking out loud. “A choir of power and pain”… That’s how I’d put it. Power and pain.’

  The back door opened and the guy left in charge of the shop lurched out, face pale beneath the short spiky haircut and designer stubble. He had one hand pressed against the middle button on his chunky cable-knit cardigan, cheeks puffed out, a black spike sticking out of his left earlobe. Donald’s name badge was squint, a gold star stuck to the plastic. ‘Sorry about that… You wanted half a dozen Cobra and some alcohol-free lager, right?’ He crossed to the shelves on the right and picked up a pair of six-packs. Placed them on the counter beside Alice’s letters. ‘God knows what I ate, but dear God…’ He rubbed at the button. ‘Anything else?’

  She nodded. ‘Bottle of shiraz, a chardonnay – Australian if you’ve got it – and a bottle of Gordon’s. And some tonic.’

  ‘Right. Cool.’ Donald peered down at the photocopy with its whorls of red biro and streaks of yellow highlighter. ‘You see the documentary? I did it for my media studies dissertation. Some people think the hyperrealism of the re-enacted segments breaks the implicit contract of truth between director and viewer, but I think it represents a more fundamental inner truth by mirroring Laura Strachan’s emotional narrative.’ He pulled a little smile, waggled his head from side to side. ‘Got a two-one.’
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br />   I picked up the Cobra and tucked it under my arm. ‘Glad to see that’s working out for you.’

  He shrugged. ‘Recession.’ A bottle of red and a bottle of white got dumped on the counter, followed by one of gin. ‘Most people just don’t understand that the documentary works on so many levels. Take the characters: they’re not just people, they function as fable archetypes. Laura Strachan is the Imprisoned Princess, Detective Superintendent Len Murray is the Troubled Knight, the psychologist Henry Forrester is the Venerable Mage, and Dr Frederic Docherty is the Wizard’s Apprentice, isn’t he?’ Donald took a step towards the chiller cabinet. ‘You want regular tonic, or diet?’

  Alice slipped the letters back into her satchel. ‘Regular.’

  ‘He’s even got his own narrative arc, hasn’t he? From bumbling curly-haired sidekick to this slick TV personality in a suit, right? And we all know what Nietzsche says about staring into the abyss. Wouldn’t it be the perfect transformative actualization if it was classic Thomas Harris – the psychologist battles his patients’ inner monsters, but in real-life he’s the monster. You want a bottle or tins? Bit more expensive, but they don’t go flat as quick.’

  ‘Erm… OK, tins.’ She tilted her head to one side, staring at him as he got the tonic from the chiller cabinet. ‘So, you think Dr Frederic Docherty is a cannibal?’

  ‘Metaphorically – consuming his mentor’s knowledge and legacy to emerge reborn as a media celebrity.’ Donald returned with a box of six tiny tins. ‘And the Inside Man: he’s the Dragon. Lurking in the darkness, taking virgin sacrifices. Yes, I know they’re not actual virgins, but the analogy’s sound because he gets them pregnant with the dolls. Do you want to stick your card in the chip-and-pin thing?’

  The brand-new microwave droned its electronic monotone in the corner of the kitchen while Shifty popped the top off a bottle of Holsten and passed it over, then opened a Cobra for himself. Clinked it against my lager and swigged back a couple of mouthfuls. ‘Ahhh…’ Then nodded at the bottle in my hand. ‘A soft drink’s one thing, but alcohol-free lager? Bit gay, isn’t it?’

  ‘You can talk.’

  The working surface was littered with plastic carryout containers. Curries, rice, dals, side dishes, a silvered paper bag with garlic naan poking out of the top. A plastic bag of salad. Little polystyrene containers of dips and sauces.

  I had a sip of the lager. Malty and hoppy and bitter. Five years on the wagon and it was like being eleven again, trying it for the first time and wondering what all the fuss was about. Should’ve just got some more Irn-Bru. ‘So, where does she live?’

  Shifty peered through into the lounge, then lowered his voice. ‘Cullerlie Road, in Castleview? Victorian townhouse with private parking and big back garden. Mind that family where the dad stabbed them all to death in their sleep, then slit his throat in the bathroom? Just down the street from that.’

  Tendrils of cumin and coriander reached out into the kitchen as Shifty pulled open the microwave door, before it went bleep.

  ‘Security?’

  ‘Bluelight special. Window locks and three-point UPVC door with deadlock.’ The containers in the microwave got replaced by another set. ‘According to my bloke, she’s got a pair of dogs too – Doberman-Alsatian cross. So I win.’

  ‘Need a couple of tasers then.’

  Shifty sucked on his teeth as he programmed the microwave and set it going again. ‘No chance. They’re a lot stricter about that kind of thing since the merger. Could just pop the dogs, but … noisy. And bit of a shame too – not their fault their mistress is a bitch, is it?’

  Alice stuck her head in from the lounge. ‘Who’s a bitch?’

  ‘Erm…’ He pulled on a frown. ‘We raided a bondage dungeon in the Wynd this morning. Shocking language off the woman running it.’

  ‘We about ready to eat? I’m starved.’

  ‘Just got the rice and naan to do.’

  ‘Great. I’ll set the table.’ She opened three drawers before she found the cutlery, then went back through.

  ‘How about pepper-spray then?’

  He nodded. ‘That I can do. Been squirrelling it away for months: Andrew…’ Shifty cleared his throat. ‘Bastard was cheating on me. He’d come home reeking of Paco Rabanne, but he only ever wore Lacoste. Like I couldn’t tell the difference? Really?’ A shrug. Then Shifty stared down at his hands, the kitchen light reflecting off his bald head. ‘Was going to swap them over – you know, booby-trap his aftershave with it. Didn’t have the guts in the end. Didn’t want to confront him about it, in case he picked whoever it was over me. How pathetic is that?’

  The microwave bleeped time.

  I patted him on the shoulder. ‘He was an arsehole. And you were too good for him.’

  ‘You’re a lying bastard.’ A little smile curled the corner of Shifty’s mouth. ‘But I’ll take it.’

  ‘How about this – soon as we’ve dealt with Mrs K, we’ll pay him a visit with a baseball bat.’

  The smile became a grin. ‘Deal.’

  I swapped the containers in the microwave for the rice. Stopped with a finger on the controls. ‘One more thing: we’ll need a sedative. Something to keep Alice … comfortable in the car while we’re at—’

  ‘Nah, no way. You’re not taking her with you. Me, I don’t mind helping you kill the old bag, but Alice? No. You can’t.’

  I reached down and pulled up my left trouser leg. Flashed the grey plastic ankle tag. ‘Don’t have any choice. If the two of us are more than a hundred yards apart, this’ll bring the full force of the law down on me like a ton of incompetent lard. She’s coming.’

  Shifty started the microwave going again. ‘It’s not right. Alice—’

  ‘Will be fine. It’ll be clockwork: we drive over there… What?’

  Shifty’s grimace turned into a blush. ‘Bit of a wrinkle: we need another car.’

  ‘What happened to the Mondeo? I thought you—’

  ‘I parked it round the corner, yesterday.’

  Oh that was just brilliant. ‘You left it in Kingsmeath?’

  ‘Well, how was I supposed to know?’

  ‘It’s Kingsmeath!’

  He picked at the label on his beer bottle. Stared at the floor. ‘Yeah.’

  Deep breaths. OK… Not the end of the world. ‘We steal another car. Go over there, disable the alarm, in, stun the dogs, grab the murdering cow, out, woods, shallow grave, burn the car, home.

  ‘But what if—’

  ‘Nothing’s going wrong. Trust me.’

  Tuesday

  25

  ‘… that great? And they’ll be live at the King James Theatre in December. You’ve got Castle FM on the dial, I’m Jane Forbes, and you’re fabulous. Sensational Steve’s coming up at seven, but first here’s Lucy’s Drowning with their new single, “Lazarus Morning”.’

  I blinked at the ceiling, heart beating like a brick in a washing machine. Where the hell…

  Right. The flat in Kingsmeath. Not prison.

  Got to stop doing that.

  Closed my eyes. Let my head fall back against the pillow. Hauled in a deep trembling breath.

  A guitar jangled from the clock-radio, upbeat and jarring. Then a man’s voice: ‘It’s Monday morning, eight a.m., and my head’s on fire again, for you. For you.’

  Today was the day. Finally. After all this time.

  ‘Another night of cheating death, living with your final breath, for me. You see?’

  Bob the Builder grinned at me from the bottom of the bed.

  ‘And all the people on this bus, don’t know about the end of us…’

  Mrs Kerrigan’s last day on earth.

  ‘Can’t see the way I’m torn inside, my hollow heart is all untied…’

  The clattering in my chest settled down to a dull ache. It was one thing to fantasize about killing someone, another to plan and prepare for it, but to do it?

  ‘Like Lazarus crying, his soul t
o the stars…’

  To actually stick the barrel of a gun against the back of their head and pull the trigger?

  Couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘Filled up with strangers from desolate bars.’

  Of course Mrs Kerrigan deserved something a lot slower and more intimate. Something with knives and pliers and drills… But would that bring Parker back? Course it wouldn’t.

  ‘Lazarus morning, all wrapped in decay…’

  Come on, Ash. Up.

  ‘I will rise from this darkness, but just not today…’

  I stayed put, warm beneath the duvet.

  The gun cold in my hand, the barrel blazing as the bullet seared into her forehead, the boom mingling with the wet explosion as the back of her head splattered its contents out across the floor.

  Take her kneecaps first.

  Listen to her begging for mercy.

  Like she deserved any…

  The song played out. Was replaced by another one. Then one more after that.

  At least we didn’t have to go to morning prayers today. For the first time in two years I could stay in bed as long as I liked.

  ‘… new single from Closed for Refurbishment. What do you think? It’s growing on me. Anyway, it’s coming up for half past, and that means it’s Donald with news, travel, and weather. Donald?’

  I sat up, swung my legs out of bed.

  ‘Thanks, Jane. Oldcastle Police have appealed for volunteers to help search for missing five-year-old Charlie Pearce. The schoolboy went missing on Sunday night, and officials are becoming increasingly concerned for his safety…’

  My foot crackled and burned as I rolled it one way, then back again. Back and forth until it didn’t hurt quite as much. Shame the same wasn’t true about my ribs. The skin was purple, blue, and black – stretched all the way down my right-hand side, from armpit to knee. More on my shoulder and arm. As if I’d been battered with a two-by-four.