Halfhead

by Stuart B. MacBride

  ‘Any other relatives?’

  ‘Only the one.’ Brian pulled out a datapad and fiddled with it. ‘Jillian Kilgour, John and Jocelyn’s daughter. This wis meant to be her eighteenth birthday party. I’ve got a team out lookin’ for her, but…’ He shrugged.

  They flashed their ID badges at a trooper Will didn’t recognize, ducked under the crime scene tape, and into the huge apartment. The sonics were in full swing through in the lounge, making conversation impossible, so they picked their way through the other rooms, not touching anything.

  The Kilgour home was palatial—just what you’d expect in this part of town. The walls were a warm shade of cream, punctuated with tasteful abstract art in minimalist frames. Expensive furniture in deep red velvet and burnished wood. The carpet was speckled with tiny clots of blood, hard and shiny against the cream pile.

  A flicker of hot green light spilled out into the hall, and the gurgling roar of the subsonics shuddered and died. Then came the swearing, followed by a couple of cloinging kicks of boot on metal. It sounded like Private Beaton.

  The lounge was huge, broken up into three different areas: eating, relaxing, and entertainment. The sonic booms and readers were arranged around a large dining table, and so were the Kilgours. They all sat bolt-upright, brightly coloured party hats perched on their heads, faces pulled into freakish smiles. The carpet beneath their chairs was stained, and there was the distinct aroma of old urine and faeces. Will didn’t blame them.

  A roasted joint of CheatMeat took pride of place in the middle of the table—one of the expensive ones, cloned around ceramic bones, not just a slab of flesh from the vats—the surface dried out and beginning to go mouldy. Wrinkly green peas and leathery-looking potatoes slumped in blue serving dishes. The gravy looked like burnt shoe polish.

  Brian sagged. ‘What a waste of good food!’

  Private Beaton looked up from fiddling with one of the scanners. ‘Afternoon, Brian. Wondered when you’d drag your…’ She shot to attention when she saw Will and snapped off a salute. ‘Sir! I didn’t know you were there. Aren’t you supposed to be—’

  ‘Apparently I’m a figment of your imagination.’ Will took a look around. This one room was bigger than his whole flat. ‘Having fun?’

  ‘Bloody SOC duty again. The Lieutenant says I have a talent for the kicking and the swearing, sir. Says it would be a sin to let that go to waste.’

  Beaton seemed to have got over her ordeal at Sherman House. It was strange to think that Private Stein had died only four days ago. A lot could happen in four days.

  ‘Have a look at this,’ said Brian, peering at Mrs Kilgour senior’s head, ‘be right up your street.’

  The back of the old woman’s skull was missing, the edges of the wound soft and rounded, no signs of cracking or impact. Impressive.

  Will snapped on a pair of gloves and ran a finger around the opening. ‘See how all the arteries are sealed off? This guy’s a whiz with a Thrummer.’ He picked a butter knife off the table and inserted it into the hole. ‘Must have taken it real slow and gentle, there’s not even any brain matter on the back of the seat.’ Will tilted the knife until it clanked on the roof of the skull. ‘Whole head’s completely empty. All the guests the same?’

  Brian wrinkled his nose. ‘Far as I can tell. No’ a brain cell between the lot of them.’

  Beaton gave the scanner’s casing one last kick and it roared back into life, rattling the cut-crystal on the table.

  ‘Hallelujah!’ She turned and shouted over the noise, ‘Anyone still in here in five seconds will forever remain part of the crime scene.’

  ‘Shite!’ Brian grabbed Will by the arm and dragged him out into the corridor. ‘You’re no’ supposed to be here!’

  Private Beaton squeezed out into the hall with them. Standing in the middle of a dark brown bloodstain she stuffed both hands in her pockets and leaned back against the door.

  ‘Funny thing is,’ she yelled, ‘you kinda get used to the noise after a bit. Did you meet the newbie?’ she pointed out through the hallway towards the front door.

  ‘Have you done the other rooms yet?’

  ‘Did them first. You can touch anything you like…’ She looked down at the butter knife in Will’s hand, closed her eyes, and gritted her teeth. ‘Where did you get the cutlery from, sir?’

  ‘Oops.’ Will handed it over.

  Private Beaton swore, stomped back into the dining room, switched off the scanner, reset all the booms and put the knife back where it’d been before he’d interfered with the crime scene.

  Brian shook his head as the array started up again. ‘You’re a disaster, Will. A total disaster.’

  He had a point. Will sloped off before Beaton got back and scowled at him some more. He found DS Cameron on her hands and knees in one of the flat’s three bathrooms, backside stuck in the air as she peered round the back of the sink. It was far from being an unpleasant view. Will opened his mouth to say so, then shut it again. That was the trouble with blockers, they did a great job of killing pain and common sense.

  He cleared his throat and tried not to stare at her bum. ‘Found something?’

  She glanced up at him. ‘Tiny specks of blood. Looks like our killer was a clean freak. Outside of the sink’s been given a going over with some sort of detergent. Probably washed his hands and then cleaned the place up to remove any prints.’

  Will dropped to his knees to take a look. Jo was right, no bloody hand prints, just minute flecks of scarlet on the skirting board. There wasn’t so much as a streak on the sink itself. And it smelled lemony fresh too.

  He sat back on his haunches, and when Jo did the same, their faces were only a breath apart…They stayed like that for a moment, neither one of them saying a word.

  It was Brian who finally broke the silence, peering in from the bathroom doorway. ‘All clear. Beaton says the scannin’s done.’

  Will hadn’t even noticed the noise had stopped.

  ‘Says if youse want tae poke about in the lounge you’d better do it now, before it gets bagged and tagged.’

  ‘Yes.’ Will clambered to his feet, awkward and formal.

  ‘Right.’ Jo jumped up beside him.

  Brian raised an eyebrow, a smile blossoming on his podgy face. ‘I can come back later if you like.’

  ‘No. No need.’ DS Cameron brushed some invisible lint from the front of her bright-pink trousers.

  ‘OK…’ Brian stepped back, leaving the doorway clear. Then winked. ‘I’ll be givin’ Beaton a hand if you need me.’

  ‘No, we’ll just…em…’ She pointed.

  Will said, ‘Good idea.’

  Private Beaton and Agent Alexander stuffed the scanning booms back into their canister, while Will picked his way around the dining table, staring into the backs of the Kilgours’ heads. Every single one of them had been hollowed out—not so much as a scrap of cranial matter left. Very, very impressive work.

  Not surprisingly, the family’s freakish smiles were artificial. Someone had looped translucent wire through the corners of their mouths, hauling the lips back and stitching them to the gums at the back, near the molars. Happy families.

  Were they alive while their guest evacuated their skulls, one by one? Sitting there, waiting for their turn? Will looked at Trent—the little four-year-old girl—dressed up in her party frock, grinning away like the rest of them. Christ, he hoped not.

  He stood back and took in as much of the room as he could. Only one of the chairs was empty, the place setting surrounded by birthday cards with ‘EIGHTEEN TODAY!’ on them. The messages flickering as the batteries died. Jillian Kilgour—the birthday girl.

  A pile of presents sat in the middle of the floor. Only half of them were unwrapped, the rest probably being saved for after dinner. The wilted corpses of a dozen gold and silver balloons. A streamer with her name on it, stretching across the wall.

  Slowly, Will swivelled left to right and back again, eyes slightly unfocused, just letting the scene si
nk in: waiting for something to nag at him, something that was out of place. He found it over by the bay window.

  The view was spectacular, even through the rain. The monsoon had turned Glasgow Green into a lake—same as it did every year—the water dotted with islands and fancy little restaurants, raised up on stilts. A meal there would set you back a week’s wages, if you weren’t feeling too hungry. They’d strung golden lights between the trees, turning the scene into a glittering water world…

  But that wasn’t what had drawn his attention. The VR unit was on, a plain grey cable snaking out from it across the carpet—the gold jack glinting against the oatmeal weave. Will picked it up, then squatted in front of the unit, searching for a headset. There had to be one: Trent was only four, too young for a cranial implant.

  He found the headset. ‘Oh, that’s just brilliant…’ It was tiny, pink, and covered with little white daisies. He plugged the gold jack into the socket and loosened the head strap as far as it would go. It still wouldn’t fit over his bruised and battered head, but he was able to peer in at the pair of tiny screens.

  It was tuned into one of the children’s channels, all bright colours, unicorns, and talking toadstools, waiting for him to play with them. Squeaky voices coming from the earpieces, ‘Hey, I know, why don’t we go on an adventure, Jillian? Wouldn’t that be cool?’

  Jillian: still configured for the last person plugged into the system.

  Will dropped the headset.

  There was something wrong with the carpet in front of the VR unit: a circular patch, about the size of large pizza, was a slightly different colour. Cleaner than the rest of the floor. He reached out and stroked the surface with his fingertips. They came away dry, but with that same lemony smell as the bathroom sink.

  Clean freak.

  The birthday girl would be lying right here, plugged into a cheery kiddie’s VR game, hands and feet tied, sobbing behind a gag, wetting herself in terror while the mystery visitor Thrummed the back off granny’s head.

  Dirty girl. Leaving a mess. Couldn’t have that.

  ‘When you bag and tag this lot,’ said Will, making for the door, ‘grab any cleaning materials you can find. Watch for prints.’

  Brian looked up from forcing one of the scanning booms back into its casing. ‘Why, where you off to?’

  The muffled screams. The fake smiles. Everyone waiting for their turn to die.

  ‘Anywhere I can get a bloody stiff drink.’

  An electronic voice breaks the silence. ‘HELLO STEPHEN. DO YOU REMEMBER ME?’

  Stephen’s head snaps up as if someone’s just rammed an electric prod into his rectum…which isn’t a bad idea.

  He frowns, making little creases between his eyebrows. ‘Is there somebody there?’ he asks, completely ignoring her standing in the corner of the room. Holding the datapad.

  She hits the next button, and that same disembodied voice says, ‘WE WORKED TOGETHER OVER SIX YEARS AGO.‘

  ‘Is this some sort of joke?’ Stephen sits forward in his chair. ‘Show yourself or I’m calling security!’ He reaches for the phone and she slams the datapad down on his hand—hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to damage those delicate, skilful fingers.

  His eyes go wide as she pushes him back in his chair.

  ‘Hey! What…’ Look left, look right, look very, very scared. ‘Who’s doing this?’

  She types in two words into the pad: ‘I AM.‘

  His face falls open like a gash. Then his lips start to tremble. The poor wee soul must think he’s having a nightmare.

  ‘Who are you?’ he whispers.

  As predictable as ever. She only has to punch a button to bring up the preprogrammed reply. ‘STEPHEN I’M INSULTED. SURELY YOU REMEMBER ME? YOU WEPT WHEN THEY SENT ME AWAY FOR SURGERY.‘

  ‘Oh God…’

  Ah: now he remembers.

  ‘How did you…I saw you…But…Oh God, you can’t be—’

  She slaps him. Blood wells up from the new split in his lip.

  ‘I REQUIRE A NEW FACE, STEPHEN. A JAW, A LARYNX, VOCAL CHORDS, CHEEK MUSCLES, EVERYTHING THEY TOOK AWAY FROM ME.‘

  ‘I can’t—’

  She hits him again.

  ‘A CLONEGRAFT HEAD IS GROWING IN THE VATS. YOU WILL PERFORM THE SURGERY.‘

  ‘This isn’t happening…’

  This time she doesn’t slap him; she balls her hand into a fist and smashes it into the bridge of his nose. Stephen’s head snaps back, blood spraying from his nostrils. He grunts. Groans. Clutches both hands over his broken face. Probably in a lot of pain.

  Good.

  ‘YOU WILL PERFORM THE SURGERY AND YOU WILL TELL NO ONE.‘

  He glares up at her, blood seeping out between his fingers. ‘I’ll see you rot in Hell first!’

  At last, the mouse is showing some balls.

  Time to castrate him.

  ‘YOU WILL COOPERATE. I HAVE TAKEN OUT INSURANCE.‘ There’s a framed holo sitting on his desk. A happy family group, grinning at the camera somewhere exotic. She picks it up. ‘YOU HAVE TWO CHILDREN,’ says the electronic voice. ‘MARTIN IS FOUR. HE LIKES DINOSAURS AND WILL NOT EAT HIS VEGETABLES. JASMINE IS THREE. HER FAVOURITE THING IN THE WHOLE WORLD IS TEDDY ORANGE. YOUR WIFE IS BLONDE.‘

  Stephen’s hand falls away from his face as she pulls a clump of long golden hair from her bucket and throws it onto his desk. There’s a palm-sized chunk of bloody scalp attached to it.

  He’s making that whimpering sound again.

  ‘I…I don’t believe you!’

  She punches his home phone number into the unit on his desk.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  It rings for a moment, then an unfamiliar face fills the screen, a Bluecoat uniform just visible beneath the double chins. The man frowns. ‘Who’s this?’

  Stephen grabs the desktop. ‘Dr Bexley. Where’s my wife? Where’s Marilyn?’

  ‘You know your nose is bleedin’?’

  ‘I want to talk to Marilyn!’

  The officer looks down, out of shot, as if consulting something. ‘You Dr Stephen Bexley? Two, two, three, seven, Niven Towers, Cowcaddens?’

  ‘I…Yes.’ He goes pale. Swallows. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We got an anonymous nine, nine, nine call. Said two wee kids were here unsupervised.’

  ‘My children?’

  The officer’s frown turns into a scowl. ‘You do know it’s an offence to leave minors on their own?’

  ‘Oh God.’ That’s all he says, over and over. ‘Oh God.’

  The man on the other end of the phone sighs. ‘Look, sometimes it just gets a bit too much for the mums every now and then, you know? Your wains are fine, but I need you to organize someone to look after them, OK? Then talk to yer wife. Give her a bit of support, but.’

  Stephen snivels. ‘Oh God, Marilyn…’

  ‘Dinna worry, she’s probably just out takin’ a breather. Doin’ some shoppin’. Blowin’ off steam.’ The officer pauses, staring out of the screen at Stephen. ‘I’d get that nose looked at if I wis you.’ And with that the Bluecoat kills the connection.

  Stephen picks the chunk of scalp off the desktop with trembling fingers, sniffs the blonde hair, and starts to cry. It’s sweet the way people become attached to things. A wife’s fragrance. A clump of skin. A limb. Their lives.

  Dr Westfield lets him have his little moment before holding up the datapad again. It says: ‘I HAVE HIDDEN HER SOMEWHERE SAFE. IF I DO NOT RETURN TO FREE HER, SHE WILL DIE. SLOWLY. IF YOU DO NOT PERFORM THE SURGERY, SHE DIES. IF YOU TRY TO CONTACT THE AUTHORITIES, SHE DIES. IF YOU DO NOT DO EXACTLY WHAT YOU ARE TOLD, SHE DIES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?‘

  His face moves as if there are snakes buried under the skin. ‘But you can’t…she’s pregnant! You…I’m calling security!’ Stephen goes for the phone.

  She grabs him by the lapels and drags him across the desk. Throwing him to the floor. Papers go flying, the heart-warming family holo hits the floor and she stands on it. Stephen’s family goes cru
nch beneath her feet.

  ‘LOOK AT ME.‘ She hammers one-handed at the datapad’s keyboard, as he scurries backward into the bookcase, nose streaming blood down his pale face. ‘WHAT CAN THEY DO TO ME TO MAKE ME TALK? WHAT? WHAT HAVE I GOT TO LOSE?‘ All spoken in that same, flat, artificial voice.

  ‘You can’t do this!’

  ‘I ALREADY HAVE.‘

  ‘Please…’ He struggles to his knees, hands clasped in front of him, tears streaming down his face. ‘Please, I’m begging you! Let her go, for the sake of the baby. It’s not too late—’

  She would laugh if she could. ‘DO YOU REALLY THINK ONE MORE TINY DEAD BODY MAKES ANY DIFFERENCE TO ME?‘

  He slumps back against the bookcase and sobs. ‘Please…give me back my wife!’

  She tilts her head to one side and watches him bawl like a small child covered in cigarette burns, then gathers up her bucket and mop and makes for the door.

  ‘CELL DIVISION WILL BE COMPLETE IN THIRTY-TWO HOURS. MAKE SURE THERE’S A PRIVATE OPERATING THEATRE READY FOR THE TRANSPLANT.‘

  ‘What…’ He wipes a hand across his eyes, leaving a bloody smear. ‘What if I can’t get a theatre ready in time?’

  She stops at the threshold.

  ‘THEN YOUR WIFE DIES AND WE MOVE ON TO YOUR CHILDREN.‘

  16

  The Dog and Diode squatted beneath the Western Flyover, between two of the heavy support pillars. It wasn’t the best pub in the world, but it was within easy walking distance of Network Headquarters, and some days that was all that mattered. Inside, the bar was decorated in mockwood and leatherette. Booths lined the walls, loose tables filling the remaining space. A handful of off-duty agents were celebrating someone’s promotion by getting them blootered on happy hour drinks. So Will sat on his own in the corner—away from the speakers pumping out a mixture of frosty music and old rock classics—nursing a pint of Black Douglas and a large Macallan.

  Trying not to think about the Birthday Party of the Damned. And failing.

  The Kilgours were still alive as their unexpected guest worked his way around the table. Cutting a hole in the back of their heads, carefully evaporating their brains in a cloud of pink-grey mist, then stitching that obscene rictus grin in place. Before moving on to the next one in line. They watched their family die, unable to do anything about it, but wait for their turn.