The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Volume 8

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Milne sits back in his seat, face creased in thought, trying to get his drug-addled mind to work. Neil McRitchie … A small-time dealer on the south side of the city – Kincorth, Nigg and Altens. Milne’s bought from him before: blow, smack, and a bit of speed. Always from the guy’s house.

  A smile creeps on to Milne’s dirty face. McRitchie’s house is on the back road between Nigg and Charlestown, the end cottage in a row of four. Not so far off the beaten track that you can’t walk there, but far enough to need private drainage. And private drainage means a septic tank.

  The police won’t have a bloody clue. They’ll think it’s gone for good, but McRitchie’s kilo of heroin isn’t wheeching its way out to the North Sea – it’s bobbing about in a vat of shite, buried at the bottom of the garden. That’s one good thing about being the son of a plumber: Milne knows his drainage. And that’s when the plan—

  He’s hiding behind the Christmas tree, cowering down behind the sharp, dry needles, trying not to breathe, because he knows they’ll fall and spatter against the bare floorboards. And then his father will find him. A scream from the corridor and a thump – his mother hitting the floor, then a thud – his father hitting her. Other kids want Giga Pets and Furbies for Christmas. He wants his father to die. Six years old and all he wants—

  Milne spluttered, dragging his head back above the surface. Coughing. Shivering. He was burning up – cold, aching, feverish. It wasn’t just the DTs: it was the sewage. Oozing in through the open sores on his arms and legs. Spreading tendrils of septicaemia through his already battered system.

  And it was all for nothing. He’d searched the tank from top to bottom and there was no heroin. No kilo of smack wrapped up in a nice plastic package, sealed off with parcel tape. They’d been stupid to ever think there was: how was it going to get through the pipes? The package wouldn’t have got round the toilet U-bend. They’d been stupid and now—

  Half ten and Josie’s on her knees, earning them enough cash for three wrappers of heroin and a Big Mac with fries. The guy’s something in accounting from the look of him, dressed in a Barbour jacket and checked shirt with his chinos round his ankles. Leaning against the wall, grunting as Josie’s mouth works its magic.

  Hiding in the shadows, Milne gives the guy’s car a once over. It’s an anonymous Renault with all the panache of a bottle of brown sauce. Perfect. Milne fingers the half brick in his pocket and crosses the road. He doesn’t even let the guy finish before smashing him over the back of the head.

  Josie sits back on the doorstep, giggling as Milne pops the Renault’s boot and tries to manhandle the guy inside. He’s still breathing, but the bastard weighs a ton! A quick search of his pockets turns up car keys, house keys, credit cards, a wallet with a hundred quid in it – result – and half a packet of cigarettes. Milne strips him naked and ties him up with his own clothes. The man just lies there, pale, curled up like a foetus, bleeding into the dark blue carpet. Not moving. Milne slams the boot shut, then he and Josie smoke the guy’s cigarettes. Telling jokes about—

  It’s cold, barely past dawn, but he’s running for all he’s worth, chasing down the blond kid from Robert Gordon’s private school, diving at him, dragging him to the ground. The rugby ball flies off to one of the other wee boys on the opposite team, but Milne doesn’t care, just starts punching and kicking the blond kid. Hammering away until the teacher acting as a referee drags him off. Shouting and swearing.

  The wee blond kid lies on the frosty grass, curled up in a ball, bleeding and crying. And Milne has no idea why he did it. But he’s crying too. And the teacher hauls him round and screams in his face—

  ***

  It’s after midnight, but they’re nowhere near sleepy. A hundred quid goes a long way if you know what you’re doing. A woman Josie knows sells them a couple of wrappers of heroin each and a litre bottle of Asda’s own-label vodka – shoplifted fresh that afternoon by a gang of eight-year-old girls. And then Josie and Milne are driving off to McRitchie’s house in the guy’s stolen car, pausing to shoot-up in a lay-by off the A90. Taking the long way round.

  Milne parks down the road a bit, where they’ve got a good view of the cottages, but far enough away not to draw any attention. This is the difficult bit, figuring out where the septic tank is. Sometimes it’s right up close to the house, sometimes it’s more than a field away. But it always—

  He couldn’t tell if the noise was coming from inside his head or not. A dull rasping, grinding sound, like two stones being dragged apart. And then the air burst into fiery light. He opened his mouth to cry for help, but nothing came out. Not even a dry croak.

  “Bloody hell … ” A man’s voice. It took a minute for Milne’s brain to catch up, but he knew it was the same one who’d shouted at Josie. Who’d battered her head in with the heavy, metal torch. Milne had found it when he was searching the tank – lying buried in the bottom layer of sludge – the casing all battered and dented round the bulb end. Like someone had used it as a club.

  The sound of gagging from above and the light drifted away, then swung back in through the inspection hatch. Milne pulled back against the wall, screwing his eyes shut, unaccustomed to the change from perpetual darkness—

  Standing at the side of the grave, looking down at the shiny brown coffin. Holding his mother’s hand. Pretending not to see the woman in the dark blue uniform cuffed to her other wrist—

  A long pole reached in through the hatch, bringing the sound of muttered swearing with it. Something about backed-up plumbing and blocked pipes and people starting to notice … The pole slipped into the layer of frothy scum, leaving a trail behind it as the man above swept it through the sewage. Looking for something.

  Prod, prod, prod. And then Josie’s bloated corpse floated to the surface, bringing with it a smell even worse than before. Her face appeared above the froth for a moment, then slipped sideways. Eyes open, looking at Milne one last time, before sliding over on to her front.

  The pole clattered down into the tank as the sound of retching erupted from above. The light disappeared again. Then more retching. Spattering. Swearing. Coughing. And finally the light returned.

  The Angry Man’s voice: “Come on, you can do this … ” The pole, poking away at Josie’s shoulder, trying to hook on to the tatty lumberjack shirt. Failing. More swearing.

  Milne shook his head, trying to make things settle down. Trying to think clearly for the first time in a year and a half.

  A bright-yellow Marigold rubber glove appeared in the opening, and then another one, attached to a disgusted-looking man in his late forties with a plastic torch clenched between his teeth. His greying hair just visible in the torchlight as it bounced back from the layer of sewage-froth. He stretched out, reaching for Josie’s body … And that was when Milne grabbed him—

  Sitting cross-legged in Colin’s bedroom, ignoring the blaring of the television next door, sinking the needle into his virgin arm. Biting his lip at the bee-sting pain. Pressing the plunger—

  There was a high-pitched scream and the man toppled forward, dropping the torch as he pitched head-first into the tank. Arms flailing—

  Standing down the docks, selling himself for the price of a hamburger. Enough to pay for a single wrapper. Feeling disgusted as he goes down on a man old enough to be his dead dad—

  Milne curled a bony hand into a fist and slammed it into the screaming man. Over and over again, splashing and hitting and punching and biting in the dark. And all the time Josie’s body bumps against them. Like she’s trying to intervene. Trying to break it up. Make them—

  Breaking into an old lady’s house in the dead of night. Rifling through her things as she sleeps in the next room. Stealing anything he can sell down the pub for a couple of quid. Passing them out through the window to Josie, who’s standing watch. Punching the old lady in the face when she wakes up to see what all the noise is about. Watching as she lies there on the floor, not moving, too scared to check if she’s still alive—

&
nbsp; The man gurgled, struggling as Milne grabbed him by the lapels and forced his head under the surface. Holding him there. An arm swept up from the stinking water, catching Milne on the side of the head, but he didn’t let go. Grunting, teeth gritted, feeling the man start to go limp. Keeping him submerged. Drowning him in piss and shite—

  There’s no one in the cemetery at this time of night. No one to watch him drop his trousers and squat over his father’s grave—

  The struggling stopped after a couple of minutes, but Milne didn’t let go. Just in case. A long, slow count to 500: that should be enough. The bastard deserved what he got. Milne released his grip and the body bobbed to the surface.

  He rummaged through the guy’s pockets, taking everything he could find – keys, wallet, spare change, handkerchief – before releasing the body to sink into the sludge. And then he reached up and clambered out of the tank, back into the real world.

  He lay on his back, staring up at the night sky. Shivering. Steaming gently. According to Josie’s glow-in-the-dark watch it was half past eleven. Wednesday. Two days without food or water. He was lucky to be alive at all. And that thought set off a fit of the giggles. And then some coughing. And finally some sort of seizure. He was pouring with sweat, juddering away, teeth clamped shut so he wouldn’t bite his tongue in half. Not healthy. Not healthy at all.

  Milne rolled over on to his front and levered himself up on to his knees. Trembling all the time. Knowing that without something to drink soon, he was going to die. The world tangoed round his head as he stood upright, the night sky swirling and pulsing. He took a deep breath and lurched towards the darkened row of cottages.

  A security light blared into life, catching him halfway down the path, but he staggered on to the front door. Locked. Milne dragged out the keys he’d taken from the bastard who’d killed Josie and tried them in the lock, one by one. None of them worked.

  He lurched across the garden and nearly fell over the waist-high fence, clambering into next door. The keys still didn’t fit. But another dose of the tremors grabbed him, shaking him to his knees. Leaving him gasping and wracked with cramp on the top step. The third house was the same, only this time he had to crawl through the garden to get to the front door. The keys were useless.

  Give up. Just curl up on the path and die: get it over with.

  But there was one more house left – the one on the end. Where McRitchie lived. McRitchie would still be banged up in Craiginches, Milne could break in without having to worry about an irate householder coming after him with a shotgun.

  It was pitch-dark round the back of the cottages. Milne felt his way along the wall, stumbling over a pile of something that rattled and clattered, before finding McRitchie’s back door. It was one of the part-glazed kind beloved of housebreakers everywhere. Smiling, Milne tried to smash one of the panes with his elbow. It bounced, sending shooting pains racing round his body, making his whole arm feel like it was on fire. Biting his tongue he sank to his knees and nearly passed out.

  Deep breaths. Deeeeeeep breaths … Oh God, he was going to be sick. But there was nothing to be sick with, just a thin string of bile, spiralling bitterly down the front of his soaking, stained clothes. He grabbed a rock from the garden and did the window properly, sending shards of glass shattering into the kitchen. Fumble with the lock and doorknob. And he was in. Oh thank God.

  He slumped against the worktop and tried not to pass out. And tried—

  It’s his birthday and he’ll cry if he wants to. Nineteen years old and his present is getting the crap beaten out of him by Colin McLeod over a small matter of an unpaid debt. Fifteen pounds. That’s all it takes for Colin McLeod to give him two weeks in hospital. Happy birthday.

  The doctors come past and the councillors and the police too, but he doesn’t say anything. Just lies there and tries to move his toes again. They give him methadone and group therapy, but as soon as he gets out he’s back on heroin again. Borrowing money and—

  BANG! And his head hit the linoleum floor. Milne lay flat on his back, staring up at McRitchie’s kitchen ceiling, wondering how he got there. He was in hospital and the next thing … He closed his eyes and shivered. He needed a drink.

  There was a bottle of whisky on the kitchen table – illuminated by the faint green light from the clock on the microwave. He picked it up with trembling hands and fumbled the lid off, swallowing mouthful after mouthful, not caring that it burnt all the way down. Until it hit his stomach and bounced, spewing out through his mouth and nose, making a slick of alcohol on the kitchen floor.

  Water, he needed water, not whisky. Lurch to the sink, turn on the tap and stick his mouth against it. Sucking it down. This time he was bright enough to stop after a couple of mouthfuls, feeling his stomach rebel after two days on “nil by mouth”. Two gulps, then a break, then another couple. Slowly building up until he wasn’t thirsty any more. He was ravenous.

  McRitchie’s fridge wasn’t exactly packed with tasty goodies, but Milne didn’t care. He grabbed things at random, stuffing them in his mouth, barely chewing. Eating by the cold-white glow of the fridge light. Cheese, cold mince, raw bacon. For a moment he thought he was going to bring it all up again, but it stayed down. Now all he had to worry about was the—

  “Click.” Light blossomed in the kitchen and someone said, “What the FUCK?”

  Milne span round, eyes wide, cold beans falling from his open mouth. It was McRitchie, looking very pissed off. The man was easily as tall as Milne, but a hell of a lot broader. Muscled, not junky stick-thin. Someone who didn’t sample his own product.

  Milne raised his hands, dropping the tin of beans. It bounced off the linoleum, exploding red sauce and pale beans everywhere, joining the whisky vomit. He tried to explain what he was doing there, but his throat wouldn’t work.

  McRitchie yanked a drawer open and dragged out a long-bladed kitchen knife. “Break into my house? You stupid smack-head bastard!” He charged forward. “I’ll fucking—” and stepped right in the slick of spilled beans and whisky. His left leg shot out from underneath him and for a brief second everything went into slow motion: the knife sailing through the air, his head sweeping downward and catching the edge of the kitchen table. The loud “thunk!” as it hit. The knife skittering away across the working surface, clattering into the sink. Another thump as McRitchie hit the floor hard. Eyes shut, mouth open wide. Not moving.

  Milne grabbed the knife from the sink and crept forward. Trembling. McRitchie was still breathing. But it didn’t take long to fix that.

  The guy’s car was in exactly the same place he and Josie had left it two days ago. It even started first time. Milne sat behind the wheel, shivering and shaking, coughing until the world slipped into shades of black and yellow then disappeared.

  He came to with his head resting against the wheel and the car’s horn braying in his ear. Snatched himself back upright, felt everything whooooosh around him. And closed his eyes. Forcing it all back down. Turning the key in the ignition.

  It had taken every last ounce of strength to drag McRitchie’s heavy arse round to the septic tank, tumbling him in with Josie and her killer. Then a considerable breather before levering the inspection hatch cover back into place. Good job McRitchie had a HUGE stash of speed hidden in his bedroom or there was no way Milne would have managed it. In fact all of McRitchie’s stash was now stuffed into the glove compartment, Milne’s pockets, and under the driver’s seat. He had enough to last a couple of months, if he was careful and didn’t go mad in the first week.

  All he had to do now was get back to the squat and he’d be fine. Sell the car, get some spare cash and live on drugs and delivery pizza until April. Every junkie’s dream.

  The A90 was quiet as he pulled on to it, face screwed up in concentration, keeping the car at a steady thirty, trying to stay between the white lines. And doing a pretty good job of it too. Three tablets of speed and he was back on form. No more shakes and shivers. No, he was feeling— Oh shite.

&
nbsp; A flash of blue light in the rear-view mirror. SHITE!

  Eyes front. Maybe it wasn’t for him? Maybe the police wanted to pull someone else over and they were just … No. It was him. And he was too wasted to make a run for it. He pulled over.

  The traffic policeman was a woman. She rapped on the driver’s window and Milne fumbled with the electric button thing until it slid down. She recoiled back, one hand covering her mouth, gagging. “Holy shit!” she said at last, spluttering. “What the hell is that stink?”

  Milne shrugged. After two days in the tank he couldn’t smell himself any more. “I fell in some shite,” he said, trying not to twitch, or shiver, or sound like he was out of his face on stolen drugs.

  “You OK, sir?” she asked, shining a torch into the car, spotlighting him in all his manky glory. “You look ill.”

  Milne nodded, she had him there, he could see himself in the rear-view mirror: pale-grey, sweaty, dark purple bags under his eyes, threads of fiery red spreading through his skin. “I fell in some shite.”

  She turned and shouted back at the traffic car, “Norm, get an ambulance up here sharpish!” then knelt down, breathing through her mouth, like she didn’t want to smell him any more. “You’re going to be OK, we’re going to get you to the hospital.”

  He opened his mouth to tell her he just wanted to go home, but couldn’t. All that came out was, “I fell in some shite … ”