Now We Are Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Susan’s voice muffled out from somewhere down the hall. ‘All right, all right, keep your testicles on … I’m coming.’ Her shadow got bigger and bigger in the stained-glass panels flanking the door. Then the light in the peephole went out. ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’

  A clunk and rattle as she undid the deadbolt and took off the chain.

  Roberta stuck out her bottom lip and pulled on the puppy-dog eyes. ‘Before you say anything …’ She whipped out the bouquet of roses and chrysanthemums. ‘Ta-da!’

  ‘Stop by the petrol station on the way home, did we?’

  ‘Tesco’s, thank you very much.’

  ‘What happened to my lovely night out at a posh French restaurant?’

  ‘Operational difficulties.’ She leaned in and gave Susan a kiss on the cheek. ‘Now get your sexy bits upstairs and we’ll see how I can make it up to you.’

  Susan rolled her eyes. Sighed. Smiled. ‘Roberta Elizabeth Steel: you’re a terrible trial to your poor wife, you know that don’t you?’

  She buried her face in Susan’s neck and made buzzing noises till Susan shrieked and giggled.

  The downstairs was in darkness, but a light shone in the bedroom. One of those four poster beds. A bunch of mirrors and paintings on the walls. And those mirrors made it easy to see all around the room. At least they did from the other side of the street with a pair of binoculars.

  What was taking them so long?

  Ah, there they were. The wrinkly old lesbian bitch and her frumpy dyke wife.

  Snogging away, in full view, like teenagers. No shame at all.

  Disgusting really.

  The frumpy one danced over to the window and pulled the curtains shut, but not before the Steel bitch snuck up behind her and grabbed two handfuls of boob.

  And that was it. Curtains shut. Nothing more to see.

  A cat wandered past: big, fat and furry. Other than that, the street was dead.

  Jack Wallace lowered his binoculars and stepped from the shadows. Took out the little metal tobacco tin with his dad’s name scratched into the paint, and ground the stub of his cigarette to a grey powdery death. Adding it to the collection.

  See, some people would be pissed off right now – standing there for two hours casing the joint, nothing to do but smoke cigarettes and not attract anyone’s attention – but not him. The bit before. The calm bit. The quiet bit. The bit when they were so near every single tendon and sinew thrummed with it. That was the best.

  You could shove your coke, heroin, and crystal meth: they had nothing on it.

  Jack Wallace smiled up at the Steel bitch’s house. ‘Oh yeah, we’re going to have so much fun.’

  He turned and sauntered off, hands in his pockets, whistling a happy tune.

  So much fun.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  in which we meet a Bad Man

  and Roberta does a Very Naughty Thing

  I

  The muster room was packed – nightshift and dayshift all crammed in together, uniform and plainclothes, all grumbling and moaning.

  Standing in front of the door, Chief Superintendent Tony Campbell held up his arms and the angry muttering gave way to resentful silence. ‘Look, I know it’s not ideal, but we have reason to believe both camps have been infiltrated by violent elements.’

  The grumbling started again.

  Slumped against the lockers, Steel leaned over and hissed in Tufty’s ear. ‘You still look like a beetroot, by the way.’

  Tufty gave her his best evil eye, but she just grinned back at him.

  The Chief Superintendent let the complaining go for a couple of beats then stomped it into submission again. ‘I will not have people coming into my city and treating it as a battlefield!’ He gave them all a good hard stare. ‘Attendance at tomorrow’s farmers’ protest is mandatory. All leave is cancelled. And everyone will be in uniform. That includes you, CID! There will be a kit inspection at oh nine hundred hours.’

  Steel covered her face with her hands. ‘Noooooooo …’

  ‘We will be a united front. We will control the situation. And we will arrest the living bejesus out of anyone who crosses the line!’ He held out a hand and his deputy passed him a peaked cap. ‘We have a duty to protect Aberdeen and its citizens. We’re not going to let them down.’ He stuck his hat on. Straightened it. ‘Nightshift: go home and rest, you’ve got a green shift to work tomorrow. Everyone else: get out there and make a difference.’

  He turned and marched from the room, back straight as an ironing board.

  As soon as he was gone, the complaining started again. One by one the nightshift officers drifted away, moaning about having to work a double shift tomorrow. Then the dayshift slouched out, off to patrol the streets and all that kinda jazz.

  Steel crumpled her face and stared at the ceiling tiles. ‘Uniform! I haven’t had to wear a sodding uniform since we buried DI Ding-Dong Bell.’

  Oh boo-hoo.

  The crowd of dayshift uniform parted slightly and there she was: PC Mackintosh, standing over by the vending machine, jabbing away at the buttons and hitting the thing with the side of her hand.

  ‘Look at me!’ Steel held her arms out. ‘I’m no’ built to wear a uniform like the rest of the plebs, I’m built for Armani, Gucci, Dolce and Gabbana …’

  ‘Says the woman in the Primark suit.’ Tufty pushed off the lockers and did his best impersonation of a swagger all the way across the muster room’s scuffed floor to the vending machines.

  PC Mackintosh thumped the machine again, voice a low bitter mumble: ‘Give me my goddamned Lion Bar, you thieving hunk of metallic …’ She froze. ‘There’s someone right behind me, isn’t there?’

  ‘Constable Mackintosh. No, I don’t mean Constable Mackintosh is behind you – that would be silly – you’re Constable Mackintosh.’ Yeah, this wasn’t going all that well.

  She turned and stared at him over the top of her glasses.

  He tried for a smile. ‘But you probably know that.’ Tufty’s mouth soldiered on, even though his brain was sounding the retreat. ‘I mean, it’s your name and everything.’ Shut up. ‘Well, not “Constable”, who calls their child “Constable”, and how weird would it be if they joined the police?’ SHUT UP! ‘I’m sure you’ve got a perfectly lovely first name. Nice. I meant nice first name. I wasn’t trying to sexually harass you in the workplace or anything …’ And finally, at long last, his mouth finally clicked shut. Leaving nothing behind but a high-pitched, ‘Eek …’

  Slick.

  She pulled her chin in. ‘What happened to your face?’

  He licked his lips.

  ‘Only it’s a weird red colour and you’ve got a massive black eye.’

  DO SOMETHING!

  ‘Sometimes it helps if you give the machine a bit of thump-and-shoogle.’ He bumped it with his hip and then his shoulder, rocking it on its feet.

  The errant Lion Bar wobbled, then tipped off the end of its coil and into the dispensing tray. And, as an unexpected bonus, a bag of Skittles decided that if the Lion Bar was going – it was going too.

  He jabbed both hands into the air. ‘Yay!’ Then lowered them again, heat flushing across his cheeks and up into his ears. ‘That would’ve been a lot cooler if I hadn’t done that last bit, wouldn’t it?’

  She dropped down and retrieved the machine’s offerings. Stood and gave him the Skittles. ‘I couldn’t get a burial plot for Pudding, but I pulled in a couple of favours and the council will do us a cremation for free. We don’t get an urn or anything, but they’ll give us the ashes in a cardboard box so Mrs Galloway can scatter them somewhere nice.’

  ‘Oh.’ He frowned down at the Skittles. ‘Given … you know, what happened to him, don’t know if cremation’s maybe a bit …?’

  Her cheeks went pink. ‘Ah. Yes. I see what you—’

  ‘No, but I’m probably being a little over—’

  ‘—poor wee thing, but a coffin and a burial plot cost so much and—’

  ‘Honestly I think
it’s a great idea. I was being daft …’ He huffed out his cheeks. ‘Sorry.’

  Steel’s voice came floating across the room like a vulture. ‘FOR GOD’S SAKE, SHUT UP AND SNOG HER YOU IDIOT!’

  PC Mackintosh’s blush darkened a couple of shades. ‘I better go.’ Her glasses were steaming up a smidge too.

  ‘Wait!’ He stuffed the Skittles in his pocket and pulled out a Police Scotland business card. Scribbled his mobile number on the back. ‘Call me.’ Argh. Now it definitely looked like he was coming on to her. ‘So we can work out the arrangements? Erm … For Pudding?’

  She reached out and took the card. Her fingertips were warm and smooth, the nails short and bitten ragged.

  ‘HUMPY, HUMPY, HUMPITTY, HUMP!’

  Tufty turned and glared at Steel. ‘You’re not helping!’

  But by the time he turned back, PC Mackintosh was already hurrying from the room. She thumped through the door, leaving Tufty alone with the Wrinkled Filthy Horror of Doom.

  Steel grinned at him. ‘Think you’re in there.’

  ‘I hate you.’

  ‘Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate …’ Roberta nibbled the coating off the top of her Jaffa Cake, exposing the tangy orangey bit sitting like a rubbery splot on top of the sponge base.

  Was there any finer word in the English language than ‘chocolate’?

  Well, except for ‘Keira Knightley’, ‘nipples’, and ‘moist’.

  Better yet, a combination of all four.

  She had a lick of the orangey bit.

  The CID office was abuzz with the sound of pointless policework.

  Lund, Barrett, and Harmsworth were on the phones again – busy as busy buzzy bees being busy – reuniting stolen mobiles with their owners so DCI Pain-in-the-Rear Rutherford would take his pain and insert it in someone else’s rear for a change.

  No idea where the idiot Tufty was, though. Probably off having a stationery-cupboard fumble with his perky Wildlife Crime Officer. Dirty, lucky, wee sod that he was.

  A list of the day’s jobs was up on the whiteboard, along with the words ‘CRUDWEASEL’ and ‘RIPPA!’, two wanted posters: Lord Lucan and Philip Innes, and a drawing of a big hairy willy – which was hairy enough to be Harmsworth’s, but no’ small enough and no’ floppy enough either.

  Barrett ticked something off on his clipboard. ‘Hello? Yes, I’m calling from Police Scotland. Has your mobile phone been stolen recently? … Yes, that’s right.’

  The office door opened and Tufty backed into the room, carrying a tray laden with mugs.

  Lund helped herself to one. ‘Ooh, thank God for that. I’m gasping!’

  Roberta gave him a squint. ‘About sodding time! Running out of Jaffa Cakes here.’

  He handed her a mug. ‘If it’s not spanky hot don’t blame me. Got waylaid by DI Vine on the stairs.’

  ‘Oh aye? And what did Buggerlugs McVine want?’ She had a sip of her coffee. Bland and anaemic with a bitter edge to it. ‘Urgh … Did you put sugar in this?’

  ‘Two. And you’re welcome.’ He dumped a mug down in front of Barrett – got a thumbs up in reply. Did the same for Harmsworth.

  ‘That’s not my mug.’

  ‘It’s a mug and it’s clean.’

  ‘My mug has a thistle on it.’

  ‘It wasn’t there, I looked, OK?’ Tufty helped himself to the last one, then perched his cheeky wee bum on the edge of Roberta’s desk. ‘Spoke to the hospital this morning: Mrs Galloway woke up.’

  Now there was some good news for a change. ‘Excellent. We’ll pop over and—’ Her phone Cagney-&-Laceyed at her. ‘Hold that thought.’ She picked it up. ‘This better be important, I’ve got Jaffa Cakes on the go.’

  ‘Aye, it’s Benny. You wanted to know next time Tommy Shand’s spotted behind Airyhall Library? He’s there now.’

  Ha!

  Her cheeks tightened as a massive grin snapped into place. ‘Ooh, see if you weren’t so ugly? I’d kiss you, Benny.’ She hung up and grabbed her coat. ‘Tufty: forget your horrible coffee, we’ve got a drug dealer to lift.’

  The pool car snaked along Union Grove, engine growling as Tufty changed down and overtook a delivery van. Trees flashing past the windows. Grey tenements little more than a blur.

  Steel leaned across from the passenger seat and thumped his arm. ‘Come on, come on! Foot down!’

  He kept his eyes on the road. ‘I’m doing fifty.’

  ‘Well put on the blues-and-twos.’

  ‘Do you want to drive? Cos I can pull over, you know!’

  She hit him again. ‘You drive like an old lady.’ Then reached across the car and honked the horn. ‘MOVE IT, GRANDAD!’

  The Volkswagen in front of them didn’t.

  ‘Oh for … Right. That’s it. Pull over.’

  Tufty kept driving. ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Pull over, you big damp jessie. It’ll be Christmas by the time we get there.’

  You know what? Fine.

  He slammed on the brakes and pulled into the kerb. ‘Happy now?’

  She scrambled out of the passenger side and ran around the bonnet. Hauled open the driver’s door. ‘Shift over you idiot!’

  Tufty groaned and clambered over the gearstick and handbrake. He’d barely got his legs into the footwell before the tyres gave a tortured-pig screech and the car fishtailed away from the kerb again. ‘Let me get my seatbelt on!’

  She jabbed the ‘999’ button on the dashboard and the siren wailed, blue-and-white lights flickering out through the front grille – reflecting back from the Volkswagen’s rear as they got closer, closer, closer …

  ‘Too close, too close, too close!’ Tufty clutched at the grab handle above his door, other hand fumbling with the seatbelt catch. ‘Aaaargh!’

  She wrenched the steering wheel to the right and they swung out around the Volkswagen, right into the path of an oncoming Clio.

  ‘Car! Car! Car!’

  They lurched to the left with only inches to spare as the Clio slithered to a halt in a cloud of blue tyre smoke.

  ‘Are you trying to kill us?’

  She didn’t slow down for the roundabout onto Cromwell Road, throwing them around it like a runaway rollercoaster.

  Finally! The seatbelt buckle clicked into its holder as they flew past the playing fields.

  ‘I should never have let you drive!’

  ‘Will you shut up whinging? I’m concentrating here.’

  The houses screamed by and there was the roundabout with Anderson Drive. Anderson Drive the dual carriageway. The dual carriageway that was packed with traffic. Traffic like the dirty big articulated lorry just pulling onto the roundabout right now!

  And Steel wasn’t slowing down.

  ‘No, no, no, no, no!’ Tufty grabbed at the dashboard.

  It was going to hit them, going to hit them, going to hit them!

  ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

  Steel accelerated. ‘WHEEEEEE!’

  The pool car roared onto the roundabout and everything slowed to a crawl. The shrubs growing in the middle of it, in vibrant shades of emerald and olive. The blue of the sky. The massive enormous lorry with its black cab – the driver’s face pale, eyes wide, mouth open – big chunks of oil-industry machinery strapped to the back. The terrifying evil grin on Steel’s face. The pebbly surface of the dashboard as Tufty braced himself …

  And then it was back to full speed again.

  There was a brief crunching noise, swallowed by the lorry’s outraged horn, and the pool car flashed across the roundabout. Drivers on the north-bound carriageways hammered on their brakes, screeching to a halt halfway across the outside lane.

  Oh God … They were still alive!

  Seafield Road was a blur after that, the siren’s wail barely making it through the pounding surge of blood in Tufty’s ears.

  Steel poked the ‘999’ button again and the siren fell silent. Slowed to a more modest thirty miles an hour.

  She turned to him and put a finger to her lips.
‘Be vewy quiet, we’re hunting dwug deawers …’

  He peeled his fingers off the dashboard. ‘You’re completely and utterly insane!’

  ‘Aye? Well you look as if you’ve just crapped yourself.’

  ‘WE COULD’VE DIED!’

  ‘But we didn’t. So stop moaning.’ She drifted across the junction with Springfield Road, right beside Airyhall Library. ‘Where are you Tommy? Where are you …’

  The pool car pulled into the library car park.

  A neon-orange Peugeot sat beneath a tree, parked nose to tail with a lime-green Honda Civic – the drivers’ windows level with one another. Both had stupidly huge spoilers and racing skirts, oversized exhausts poking out the back.

  Tufty tried a few deep breaths. Wiped a hand across his damp forehead. ‘Going to need fresh underwear after that one.’

  ‘Here we go.’ The pool car did a sweeping turn, coming to a halt right across the front/back of the two cars, blocking them in. ‘Now, do you think you can act like a big boy, or does Aunty Roberta have to kiss it all better for you? No? Good.’ She climbed out into the morning and thumped the door shut.

  Horror. She was a cast-iron three-hundred-and-sixty-degree Horror, with a capital ‘H’.

  He reached for the passenger door handle, but there was no way he could actually open the thing – she’d parked too close to the other cars.

  Great.

  Tufty clambered back over the gearstick and handbrake again.

  Complete and utter Horror.

  Roberta sauntered around to the Peugeot’s passenger window and knocked on it. A wee pause, then Tommy Shand peered out at her. Buzzed the window down.

  ‘Hoy, shift your car, Granny.’ He was wearing a baseball cap – the wrong way around – a pair of sunglasses perched across the top like a black plastic tiara. Tracksuit top, black polo-shirt, and jeans. A couple of gold chains glinting around his neck.

  ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Tommy Shand.’ She flashed her warrant card. ‘Keys. Take them out of the ignition and hand them over.’

  ‘We wasn’t doing nothing!’ Voice getting higher and squeakier with every word. No’ very gangsta.

  ‘Give me the keys and get out of the car.’ She snapped her fingers at Tufty as he finally struggled his way into the sunshine. ‘You: search the other one.’