Now We Are Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  DUNK.

  And why was her leg …? Someone was pulling her down the stairs by the leg.

  What?

  A blurry figure oozed into focus. Jack Wallace. He smiled at her. ‘Oh, we’re going to have so much fun!’

  DUNK.

  DUNK.

  DUNK.

  And it all went black again.

  III

  Sleepy sleep. Warm cosy sleepy—

  ‘AAAARGH!’ Tufty jerked upright. Or almost.

  His head moved, but the rest of him stayed exactly where it was: tied to a chair with his hands held tight behind his back. And from the feel of it, those were handcuffs. How did …?

  Oh. Right, Shadows had a bald fat friend.

  He blinked. Shook his head. But that only made things swoop and swing around from left to right and back again. The floor pitched and heaved. The ceiling rocked. The walls lurched.

  Tufty screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth till the ferry-in-a-force-nine-gale subsided. Peeled one eye open again.

  Oh crap.

  It was a fancy-looking living room, with a collection of standard lamps, a pair of brown buttony leather sofas with matching armchairs, a fireplace with flowers in it, golfing trophies on the mantelpiece above. Happy family photos. An upright piano. A set of rusty old golf clubs in an elephant’s-condom leather-and-fabric bag. A huge Middle-Eastern rug surrounded by polished wooden floorboards. Like he’d woken up in a photo shoot for a boutique hotel.

  They probably weren’t going to get five stars, though. Not with what was going on in the middle of the room. Three wooden dining chairs were arranged in a triangle. The blonde woman from the photographs – that would be Steel’s wife, Susan – was gagged and tied to the one on the right, glaring out. Nostrils flaring. Steel was tied to the one on the left, hanging limp against her ropes. And lucky-old-Tufty was the pointy end furthest from the fireplace.

  Jack Wallace was leaning back against it, sipping from a tumbler of deep amber liquid. The glass looked weird in his black leather gloves, but the smoky scent of whisky oiled its way through the air anyway.

  Baldy McFatface was on one of the sofas, nursing a dram of his own.

  A third man, vaguely familiar – maybe one of the guys from the security footage of Wallace going to the pictures? – poured a good stiff measure into another tumbler and passed it to a ruinous wreck in a bloodstained shirt.

  Bright red leaked from the wreck’s nose, ears, and mouth, dripping onto the tea towel he held in his other hand. That would be Tufty’s old friend Shadows then. Which explained the fridge-door-shaped dents in his ugly-shaped head.

  Tufty nodded at him. ‘You want to put something cold on that. Like the fridge freezer.’

  Shadows knocked back a mouthful of Steel’s whisky, winced, then glowered at him through puffy squinted eyes. Oh, right: no glasses – those got all broken in the kitchen.

  Diddums.

  Wallace snapped his fingers. ‘Richard: gag him.’

  The vaguely familiar one put his tumbler on the piano and marched over, grabbed a handful of Tufty’s hair and yanked his head back.

  Needles and pins dug their way through his scalp. Then a chunk of fabric was jammed into his mouth. Held in place with another bit – tied around the back.

  Now everything tasted of fusty towels.

  ‘OK, I think it’s about time we got this party started!’ Wallace gulped down his drink and stuck the empty on the fireplace. Flexed his gloved hand as he marched across the rug and slapped Steel, hard.

  Nothing.

  Still unconscious.

  ‘Shall we try that again?’ Harder this time – the whole chair rocked with the force of it.

  She surfaced, coughing and spluttering. ‘Gnnn …’ Scarlet dripped from the side of her lips.

  ‘Welcome back, sleepyhead! Did you have a nice snooze?’

  She shook her head. Blinked. Then snarled – yanking herself back and forward against the ropes holding her to the chair. Going nowhere. ‘GRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAA!’

  Wallace grabbed a handful of her chiffon top. ‘You really thought you could get away with it, didn’t you? What you did to me.’ A laugh. ‘Told you one day I’d tear your little world to pieces. Well, today’s the day!’

  Steel’s voice was sharp as a prison chib. ‘Get out of my sodding house!’

  ‘All those months, locked up with dirty paedophiles and rapists.’ He gave his mates a little salute. ‘No offence, guys.’

  ‘If you’ve hurt Susan …’ Steel’s eyes bugged and she struggled against the ropes again. Still nothing doing.

  What they needed was a plan. Something clever. Something that ended with everyone currently tied up changing places with everyone currently not tied up. And Jack Wallace kicked in the balls three or four times.

  Think.

  Had to be something …

  Ah ha! A plan!

  Breaking the chair would do it! Break the chair and the ropes wouldn’t be tying him to anything. They’d slither right off. Wriggle his arms down over his bum and get his hands back round the front again. Leap free and … do something heroic.

  Like punch Wallace in the throat. Then kick Baldy McFatface in the knee. Open-palm thrust to Vaguely-Familiar Richard’s nose – shattering it – and they were done. Shadows was too busy scowling and bleeding to put up much of a fight.

  Free Steel and Susan.

  Oh, Tufty you’re our hero.

  Medals. A parade. And a promotion.

  Yeah, definitely a plan.

  Come on, Tufty: they’re all depending on you!

  He took a deep breath, shrank into himself, then bounced back. Hard and fast. LIKE – A – NINJA!

  The ropes creaked. The chair creaked.

  Come on, damn it: break!

  …

  But it didn’t.

  All that happened was his bitten wrist ached a bit harder.

  Vaguely-Familiar Richard cuffed him over the back of the head. ‘Sit still, you wee fanny.’ He pulled out a Stanley knife and slid the blade out. Turning it under Tufty’s nose, so the edge caught the light. Gleaming and shiny. ‘Want me to start cutting bits off you? Cos I will.’

  Ah … Right.

  Wallace picked a book out of a leather holdall and turned back to Steel. ‘One thing you can say for prison: gives you lots of time to read.’

  She stared at him. ‘If you let Susan go, we can talk about this.’

  ‘They had this in the prison library.’ He held it out to her for a couple of beats, then read from the cover. ‘“Take it a Mile”, subtitled, “How a Detective Inspector went from chasing serial killers to making blockbuster movies.” “A fascinating and heart-rending book …” says the Scotsman. “I can’t recommend this book highly enough.” Daily Mail. “Completely and utterly magnificent.” William Hunter.’

  Steel cleared her throat. Put on that faux-reasonable voice she sometimes used to get around DCI Rutherford. ‘I mean it, Jack. Let Susan go.’

  ‘He was a colleague of yours, wasn’t he, this DI Insch guy? Ooh, you should see the things he says about you in here. Tsk, tsk.’

  ‘Susan had nothing to do with it. This is just between us.’

  ‘Oh! Nearly forgot: I’ve marked my favourite bit.’ A wink. ‘You’ll like this.’ He opened the book. ‘“Then Ken Wiseman said the most horrible thing I’d ever heard in my life. He was going to take my little girl, my Sophie, and sell her to paedophiles. That they would train her. That they would do whatever they liked.” Oooh …’ He shut the book. ‘That’s harsh, isn’t it?’

  Baldy McFatface shuffled his feet. ‘Can we move this along, Jacky? Only I’m getting a bit … you know. Keen.’

  Wallace didn’t even look at him. ‘Keep it in your pants for two minutes. We’ve plenty of time.’ He squatted down in front of Steel, looking up into her face. One hand on her knee. ‘See, thanks to you, they locked me up with all those sex offenders. And the funny thing is: paedophiles? On the whole, they’re pretty nice guys.
Well, other than the shagging little kids thing. And here’s you with two beautiful baby girls.’ He let go of Steel’s knee, running his gloved finger up the inner thigh of her dungarees instead. ‘How much do you think I’ll get for them?’

  Susan roared behind her gag, thumping against her ropes and chair, making it rock. The chair legs bounced and skittered off the rug and onto the floorboards.

  Richard marched over and backhanded her hard enough to send the whole chair tipping over backwards. It crashed to the ground.

  Susan grunted. Something splintered.

  He rubbed at his knuckles. ‘And bloody stay down, you manky dyke bitch! You’ll get your turn.’

  Wallace took hold of Steel’s face, turning it away from Susan and back to himself. ‘All that time you wasted chasing me. But it was never just me, was it? Nah, it’s a team sport. One of us on the pitch, the other three on the bench, being their alibi.’ He pointed at Mr Bloodstains. ‘Terry’s the one did that teacher while her kid watched. Lovely work, Terry.’

  Terry scowled at Tufty, voice all wet and slurred. ‘That bastard cop knocked out half my teeth …’

  Good.

  ‘So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to have some fun. Then you and your little friends are going swimming. With breeze-blocks chained to your ankles.’

  Baldy McFatface grinned. ‘Terry’s got a fishing boat. And I’ve got this.’ He clutched a hand to his crotch and squeezed the contents. ‘Oooh, yeah.’ Rubbing himself through his trousers. ‘I know you lezzers are just gagging for a real man. Nice bit of cock to get you on the straight again.’

  Wallace stood. ‘See? Told you we were going to have fun. Eric is on sloppy seconds, Richard’s on tacky thirds, and Terry’s on filthy fourths. Which means I get first dibs.’ He unzipped his trousers and pulled out his erection. Waved it in Steel’s face.

  Eric – Baldy McFatface – whooped. Clapping his hands as Wallace got closer. ‘Go on, suck it you wrinkly old bitch. You know you want to. Suck it!’

  Steel flinched her head away.

  ‘Hoy!’ Eric pulled out a six-inch hunting knife, serrated along one edge, gleaming sharp on the other. ‘Suck it or I’ll carve your frumpy lesbian bitch wife like a Sunday roast!’

  Wallace gave his hips a twist, setting things swaying. ‘He’s not joking either. The mess Eric can make of a woman, it’s quite something. Your dignity’s not worth that, is it? Your pretty lesbo wife all slashed up?’

  Tufty had another go. Shrink. And snap, LIKE – A – NINJA!

  Straining.

  Teeth gritted.

  The muscles burning up and down his back …

  Nope.

  He collapsed again with nothing more than a creak to show for it.

  Steel hung her head. Sniffed. Shuddered out a long breath. Then nodded and opened her mouth.

  Wallace grinned. ‘There we go! I knew you were gagging for it.’ He took his cock in one hand, the other grabbing the back of her neck so she couldn’t retreat. ‘Now: here comes the aeroplane …’

  Steel’s head flashed forward teeth snapping shut with an audible clack. Tearing from side to side.

  Wallace staggered back a couple of paces, staring at her blood-drenched chin, then down at himself as more blood pulsed out. A high, sharp, whistling noise scraped its way out of his mouth, then the screaming started. He hit the rug like a sack of tatties, rolling around between the two sofas, clutching his groin, bright red pulsing out between his clenched fingers. ‘AAAAAAAAAAARGH! GOD, GOD, GOD, GOD!’

  Steel spat the severed chunk out onto the rug at her feet. ‘Was it good for you, darling? Thought you liked it rough!’

  Richard slid out the blade on his Stanley knife again and lunged for her.

  Oh no you don’t!

  Tufty snapped his foot forward, kicking it hard into the side of Richard’s knee. Making something inside go pop!

  He crashed to the floor, just short of Steel, shrieking, clutching his freshly deformed leg. The Stanley knife skittering away under the piano.

  Steel jerked her left boot up and stamped the heel down on his face. Once. Twice. Three times. Bones snapping and crackling under every blow.

  Two down, two to go.

  Wallace rolled and screamed. Legs kicking out as he curled up even tighter. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAARGH! JESUS, GOD, CHRIST, AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Painting the rug scarlet with his blood.

  ‘You’re dead, bitch!’ Eric shifted his grip on the hunting knife, making little figure of eights with the tip, snarling his way towards Steel. ‘Dead!’

  Tufty raised his own foot, slamming it down and back into the leg of the chair he was tied to – the crack of battered wood muffled by Wallace’s screams. Again. The leg snapped and the chair collapsed sideways onto the rug, the whole frame creaking as it hit. He thumped forward and back against the ropes.

  Ha: it was working! They were getting looser. Just take a second more and he’d be—

  Oh crap.

  Terry loomed above him, ruined teeth bared: bloody stumps and ragged gums. He took a little run up and slammed a kick into Tufty’s stomach. Flipping him and the chair over onto their backs.

  A thousand burning spiders scuttled through his guts, burrowing, scorching. He wheezed in a broken-glass breath, fanning the flames.

  Then Terry was squatting over him, knees on his chest, hands around his throat. Squeezing. ‘Think it’s funny slamming people’s heads in fridges, do you? Think it’s funny?’

  Susan reared up behind him, holding one of those rusty old golf clubs. Blood ran down from the corner of her mouth, dripped off the end of her chin. ‘I am not frumpy!’ She smashed the club down on Terry’s head with a resounding thungggggg!

  His eyes went crossed, then dim, then he pitched forward onto Tufty.

  ‘Mmmmnph!’ God, he weighed a ton! Tufty hauled a breath in through the gag. Struggled and wiggled … But the fat sod just lay there, pinning him to the carpet. ‘Mnnghfff mnngg mmn!’

  But Susan didn’t. Instead she tore her own gag off and turned – squaring up to Eric and his six-inch hunting knife.

  She took the club in both hands, feet planted shoulder-width apart, the club’s head resting against the rug. ‘HEY, NUMB NUTS!’

  Steel’s eyes went wide. ‘SUSAN, NO! RUN!’

  ‘Think your wee golf stick’s going to save you and your friends? Nah.’ Eric grinned. Knife shining. Blade snaking back and forth through the air. ‘I’m going to slash your guts open, then I’m going to—’

  ‘FORE!’ Susan swung back and then forward, fast, twisting her hips into it, the golf club’s head whistling in a low flat arc and up, right between Eric’s legs – THUD – so hard it lifted him up onto his tiptoes.

  Oooooooh …

  That had to hurt!

  Eric’s eyes bugged. Then he dropped the knife and toppled forward, squealing like a pig in a cement mixer. Tears streaming down his face. Mouth moving, but no words coming out.

  Susan tossed her golf club on the couch and kicked him. ‘Great Hazlehead Ladies Challenge Cup winner three years in a row, motherfunker!’

  Blue-and-white lights strobed out, turning everything into a flickering mess of silhouettes and reflections. Three patrol cars and four ambulances were parked outside Steel’s house, blocking the road, and every single window in the street was ablaze – a knot of people in expensive-looking casual clothes standing on the pavement to watch the show.

  Logan pulled into the nearest parking space, two doors down. Stared through the windscreen.

  Two stretcher trolleys were being wheeled out of the house, their occupants strapped-down motionless lumps wearing oxygen masks. Paramedics bustled them down the garden path, and into the back of the waiting ambulances.

  OK, that wasn’t a good sign.

  He clambered out of the Audi and plipped the locks. Hurried up the pavement as the lead ambulance pulled away. Closely followed by the second one. Sirens wailing in the darkness.

  ‘Excuse me …’ Logan squeezed his w
ay through the clump of people, then flashed his warrant card at the uniformed officer keeping them there. ‘Are they still inside?’

  ‘Inspector McRae?’ The PC snapped to attention. ‘DI Vine’s SIO, the IB are processing the scene, DC Goodwin’s CSM, and DCI Rutherford’s ETA is twenty-two hundred hours. He’s at some sort of black-tie dinner. Sir.’

  ‘OK.’ Not really what he’d meant, but never mind.

  Logan marched over to the front gate. Shrank back as another stretcher trolley was wheeled out onto the pavement. A fat bald man with tears streaming down his face and a patch of red seeping out through the fly of his trousers. Making high-pitched squealing sobs as he got shoved into the back of Ambulance Number Three. Another wail of sirens.

  The blinds were down in Steel’s living room, but the indoor lightning strikes of flash photography lit up the room.

  He hurried up the path, then had to step back into the gravel border as a fourth trolley was hefted out through the front door. Didn’t need a Police National Computer check to know who that was.

  Jack Wallace groaned behind his oxygen mask, skin pale as paper. he’d been handcuffed, trousers pulled down around his knees, a big wodge of blood-soaked gauze taped over his crotch.

  The paramedic at the front shuddered. ‘Oooh, makes you wince just to think, doesn’t it?’

  His colleague took up the rear, pushing. ‘Shame we couldn’t find the missing bit …’

  Down the path, into the last ambulance, and away.

  OK, that was … weird.

  Logan crossed the threshold into Steel’s house and there was DC Goodwin, with his floppy hair and squint nose. ‘What do you think you’re doing, this is a crime … Oh.’ He tucked his clipboard under his arm and saluted. ‘Inspector McRae. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Dougie. Is Steel still here?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. They’re in the kitchen.’ He pointed down the hall, as if Logan had never been here before. ‘DI Vine’s with them.’

  Logan stayed where he was, staring down at Goodwin. ‘And?’

  ‘Er … DC Quirrel and Steel’s wife’s there too?’

  ‘No: you’re Crime Scene Manager. You have to make me sign in, remember?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Right. Signing in.’ He held out the clipboard and a pen. ‘Sorry, Inspector. I just … Sorry.’