A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  And there, in the middle of the hurricane, was a man – long greasy hair dangling down his back, sunken eyes, cheekbones you could carve granite with, wrists like two bones wrapped in pink cling film. Skin so pale every vein popped out like a blue-green worm. A solid ring of love bites around his neck. Filthy hoodie, filthy tracksuit bottoms, bare, filthy feet speckled with blood.

  Full-on junky chic.

  He had both hands above his head – probably not helping with the rotting-cabbage stink of sweat and that stale spicy base-note of old marijuana – holding a desktop computer covered in stickers, cables and a keyboard dangling from the ports in the back.

  Captain Filthy just stood there, staring at them.

  Franklin whipped the baton back into first-strike position. ‘PUT THE COMPUTER DOWN AND GET ON YOUR KNEES!’

  He bared his brown-grey teeth.

  ‘I’M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN: KNEES, NOW!’

  ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!’ The computer went flying, hurled full force at Franklin’s head.

  She ducked left, but it still caught her on the shoulder, spinning her one way while it went the other, cables flapping.

  Captain Filthy lunged for Callum, arms out, hands like claws.

  So he got a face full of pepper spray.

  Oh crap …

  Might as well have sprayed him with lavender floor polish, because Captain Filthy just kept on coming.

  ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!’

  Sodding hell.

  A claw whipped past Callum’s face, close enough for every dirt-caked fingernail to stand out in perfect focus. And then Captain Filthy was on top of him, snarling, little flecks of stinking saliva spraying against his face.

  ‘Get off me!’ He grabbed the guy’s ear and twisted: nothing.

  A dirty hand raked down Callum’s cheek.

  The stench of pepper spray was like a mask, choking off the air, blurring his vision as the tears started.

  Captain Filthy wrapped his manky fingers around Callum’s tie and pulled, trying to throttle him. Must have got a bit of a surprise when the whole thing just pinged free of its clips and came off in his hand, because he reared back, staring at it. Maybe he was distracted by all the pretty colours?

  So Callum took a leaf out of Dugdale’s book and grabbed Captain Filthy’s crotch, digging his fingers into the tracksuit bottoms and crushing the contents. Twisting them.

  Still nothing.

  Then Captain Filthy threw the tie away and lunged.

  Oh dear Jesus, this was it, he was going to die.

  Those brown-grey teeth flashed in front of his face, dirty fingers digging into his cheeks.

  Callum heaved upward, and the guy’s head lurched past his, bashing into the bedroom floor, enveloping his face with that stinking greasy hair. Then knives and bees exploded through Callum’s left ear, jerking him to the side, and warmth trickled down and around the back of his head.

  ‘AAAAAAAAARGH! GET OFF ME!’

  And just like that, the weight was gone.

  ‘Sodding … fuck!’ He sat up, one hand clasping his left ear – the fingers slippery and sticky all at the same time.

  Captain Filthy was on his tiptoes, hauled back off balance by Franklin’s baton as she worked it in around his arm – pulling him into a hammer lock. Blood made a thin red line down one side of her face. ‘CALM DOWN!’

  Worth a try, but it didn’t work.

  His mouth opened in a roar and he jackknifed forward, sending Franklin tumbling over his back and crashing into the overturned bed. Then he was off, one foot catching Callum on the way past and thumping him back against the carpet again.

  Sodding hell …

  He coughed, rolled over. Struggled to his knees. His left hand: bright red and dripping. ‘Franklin!’

  A little chunk of bloody gristle – about the size of a Wotsit – lay on the bedroom floor in front of him. Complete with the little dimple where an earring used to go.

  ‘Franklin!’

  A rattling clatter and she tumbled off the ruined bedframe. ‘Bastard …’

  His poor ear.

  Callum snatched the bit up, clenching it in his fist. Lurched to his feet as Franklin did the same. Bared his teeth. ‘He is not getting away!’

  19

  Out the back door.

  The dirty little scumbag was halfway over the fence, leaving bloody footprints as he scrambled up and over the wooden panelling.

  Callum tucked the chunk of his ear in his pocket and charged after Captain Filthy. Leapt up. Swung his legs over and dropped down the other side.

  It wasn’t another garden, it was a path, running straight downhill. Just the thing for little kids to break their necks skateboarding/cycling/rollerblading/sledging down. And Captain Filthy was well on his way, the dirty soles of his feet flapping as he ran.

  Franklin cleared the fence and landed on the path, just ahead of Callum. ‘Why didn’t you pepper-spray him?’

  ‘I did!’

  Downhill.

  It didn’t take much to get going, arms and legs pumping faster and faster as gravity took hold. How the hell did they get planning permission to put a near vertical path down a steep hill? How was this possibly safe?

  He leaned back, still getting faster.

  Oh sodding hell, this was going to hurt when the inevitable happened and his feet went out from under him and he went tumbling over and over down the tarmac path battering into the garden fences on either side and why did the inside of his head sound like Dr Alice McDonald now?

  ‘Aaargh!’ Franklin passed him on the path, leaning back like he was, arms stretched out on either side as if she was about to take flight.

  The path levelled out just for long enough to cross another residential street, houses flashing past on either side, and they were on the path again, running.

  Captain Filthy was lengthening the gap.

  Cannibalistic little sod was probably used to the thing, especially if he grew up here.

  Bdumph.

  Another residential street. More bungalows. More path. Then a set of bollards.

  Oh. No …

  No wonder there were bollards: that was Branton Street at the bottom of the path. Not a quiet cul-de-sac full of family homes, but a main road lined with shops.

  Which meant all three of them were now hurtling full pelt towards the traffic.

  A Transit van whizzed past the gap between buildings at the end of the path.

  Callum hauled in a breath. ‘DON’T BE AN IDIOT!’

  But Captain Filthy wasn’t listening. He shot between the bollards, still going strong.

  There was a squeal of brakes, then a terrible metallic crunch. A horn wailed, accompanied by a car alarm. More screeching tyres.

  Callum shifted his weight forward, leaning into it, gathering up a little extra speed, then snatched at the back of Franklin’s jacket and skittered and slid on his feet about a dozen yards.

  ‘Get the hell off me!’

  They lurched out between the bollards and onto the pavement, still going fast enough to carry them out onto the road. A tricked-out hatchback slammed on its brakes, slithering sideways, just missing Franklin as they stumbled to a halt six feet out from the pavement.

  ‘Wow …’

  A ScotiaBrand Chickens van was parked halfway inside an Audi estate, its grille cracked and steaming in the Audi’s crumpled interior. Curls of black were scrawled across the tarmac, ending in a Peugeot facing the wrong way with its rear wheels up on the pavement.

  And right in the middle of the road was Captain Filthy. Just standing there. Arms dangling at his sides. Head tilted. Staring at the front end of a number 18 bus, stopped about six inches from his nose.

  The bus driver still had both hands wrapped around the wheel, his eyes wide, mouth hanging open, shaking.

  Franklin shook off Callum’s hand.

  The hatchback’s driver’s door opened and a young man c
lambered out – all spots and sideburns. His car’s spoiler was bigger than he was. ‘Hoy, you stupid bitch! What the fffff …’ He pursed his lips into a perfect little bow as Franklin shoved her warrant card in his face.

  Callum pulled out his cuffs, marched over to Captain Filthy, slammed him face-first into the bus and snapped the cuffs on. ‘Go on: resist arrest. I dare you.’

  Callum washed two paracetamol down with a swig of tepid water from a plastic cup. Shuddered. Slumped.

  The treatment area wasn’t huge – just big enough for an examination table covered in a white paper strip, a plastic chair, and a short section of work surface with cupboards above and below it. A little sink with advice on how to wash your hands, complete with diagrams!

  Oh the sodding joy.

  A pair of nasty green plastic curtains separated the treatment area from the waiting area. Well, they called it a waiting area, it was really just a line of seven plastic chairs, up against the corridor wall, underneath a sign saying, ‘NON-EMERGENCY TREATMENT ZONE’ and one of a mobile handset with a line drawn through it.

  The curtains hadn’t been closed properly, so it was all on show. Including Franklin, sitting right in the middle as if laying claim to the whole thing. Exerting her dominance by ignoring the ‘PLEASE TURN OFF YOUR MOBILE PHONE!’ sign.

  Callum sniffed. Curled his top lip.

  Why did disinfectant have to smell so bad? And why did it have to sting so much.

  The whole left side of his face throbbed, bleeding into the sharp stabbing grating pulses from what was left of his ear.

  Bloody Captain Filthy.

  Franklin stuck the phone against her chest and stood. Wandered over to his intimate cubicle of doom and stepped inside. The blood on her face had gone, instead a wad of white gauze, about the size of a Post-it Note, was taped to her forehead above her right eye. ‘What happened to the doctor?’

  ‘You tell me. Little git slathered me in Dettol and iodine, said something about consulting someone, sodded off with the chunk of my ear, and I’ve not seen him since.’ Callum shifted on the examination table, making it creak. ‘How’s the head?’

  She pointed at the phone. ‘I’ve got DS McAdams on, Custody Sergeant took one look at our boy and refused to take him into the cells till the hospital say he’s not going to die from the drugs or choking on his own vomit.’

  ‘We should be so lucky.’

  ‘So they took him up to A&E, where they stripped him to do a full medical, and guess what?’

  ‘He’s off his nipples on cocaine.’

  ‘Nope: they found a tattoo, from here,’ she tapped her shoulder with her other hand, ‘to here.’ Then did the same to her wrist. ‘Some sort of kids’ cartoon characters. Clangers? Whatever they are.’

  ‘You don’t know who the Clangers are?’ Some people had no appreciation of the classics. ‘When Peanut gets born, he’s being raised on a diet of Bagpuss, the Clangers, and Danger Mouse …’ Callum scrunched his face up. Sod. Of course it was. ‘The tattoo – it’s Brett Millar, isn’t it? He was breaking into his own house.’

  ‘Got it in one. And when they pumped his stomach, out came magic mushrooms. Lots of them.’

  No wonder the pepper spray didn’t work. Could have dumped him in a bath of the stuff and he still wouldn’t have felt it.

  ‘There were other things in there too, leaves and flowers, so they’ve sent it all off for testing.’

  ‘Just like Ben Harrington.’ Callum massaged his temple, wincing as it pulled at the scratch marks. ‘So much for Glen and Brett ganging up on him.’

  ‘Might still be down to Glen Carmichael. He gets the other two stoned, eggs them on to eat more mushrooms than they can handle, then …’ Her forehead creased. ‘Still doesn’t explain the herbs. Unless they thought they could get high from them too?’ Then a couple of blinks and she snatched the phone back to her ear. ‘Sorry, Sarge, I was checking on DC MacGregor … Yes, Sarge … I appreciate that, Sarge, but— … Sorry.’

  A young man in creased blue scrubs hauled the curtain back and joined them in the treatment area. Making it crowded. He cleared his throat and glared at Franklin. ‘No mobile phones.’

  She stuck two fingers up to him and wandered out into the corridor again. ‘Yes, Sarge … Thank you, Sarge.’

  ‘Honestly, some people think the rules apply to everybody but them, don’t they?’ He checked a clipboard. ‘Now: Callum MacGregor?’

  A nod.

  ‘Right, I’m afraid we’ve got a bit of a problem with your ear.’

  Of course they did.

  ‘You see, our cosmetic surgery department were going to try and reattach the bit that was … well, bit off. Unfortunate turn of phrase there, sorry. Only a wee girl’s come in with third-degree burns. She tipped a boiling kettle all over herself. She’s four.’

  Callum slumped back against the wall. ‘She going to be OK?’

  ‘We hope so, they’re taking her into surgery now. But she’s going to need a lot of skin grafts. So …?’

  He covered his face with his hands. ‘You can’t fix my ear.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr MacGregor, but the little girl …’

  ‘Yeah. I know. She needs it more than I do.’

  ‘But I can stitch up the wound and give you some antibiotics and painkillers. Have you had a tetanus shot in the last ten years? Oh, and we’ll need to take some bloods to test for Hepatitis and HIV.’

  And to think, this morning a visit to Professional Standards was the worst thing that could happen.

  20

  Franklin kept sneaking glances at him across the car.

  He frowned back at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The road in front was a long line of vehicles, slowly crawling along in a stop-start-stop-again line. Traffic going the other way was doing the same. Giving everyone time to enjoy the rain.

  ‘How’s the ear?’

  ‘Sore. How’s the head?’

  She shrugged. ‘I dodged the tower unit, it was the keyboard that got me.’

  Then they listened to the windscreen wipers for a bit, until Callum reached out and clicked on the radio. ‘Should be about time for the news. Unless you mind?’

  ‘No.’

  Something bland and unthreatening filled the car, the beat just far enough out of time with the wipers’ week-wonk to be annoying.

  ‘I can switch it off if you like?’

  ‘Nah, it’s OK.’

  She was looking at him again.

  ‘Look, there’s obviously something, so—’

  ‘Why didn’t they send you home?’

  His fingers drifted up to the wodge of bandage covering his poor tattered ear. At least it didn’t hurt. Not right now anyway. Amazing what a wee injection of local anaesthetic could do. ‘Going to be nearly six before we get there at this rate.’

  The song on the radio dribbled to an end. ‘Wasn’t that spectonkular? You, my friend, are listening to Crrrrrrrrrrrrrrazy Colin’s Rush-Hour Drive-Time Club, right here on Castlewave FM, and we’re counting down the days to Tartantula! Oh yes indeedy-doody.’

  Franklin curled her top lip. ‘Why do they always have to be wankers?’

  ‘Going to be windup o’clock in fifteen minutes, but first here’s Gorgeous Gabby with the Naughty News!’

  ‘I think they grow them in special septic tanks.’

  ‘Thanks, Colin. Police Scotland refused to comment on claims that a new serial killer is operating in Oldcastle, following the discovery of three mummified bodies yesterday—’

  ‘Three?’

  Callum let his head fall back against the rest. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you? Oldcastle Division leaks like a chocolate condom. At least it wasn’t anyone on the team – we all know how many mummies we’ve got.’

  ‘—appeal for calm. A house fire in Logansferry this morning was probably arson, according to Fire Brigade sources. A mother of four was rushed to hospital suffering from
smoke inhalation—’

  ‘Unless whoever leaked said there were three mummies instead of two, so no one would think the informant was on the team?’

  ‘You’re very cynical, Detective Constable Franklin.’

  ‘—announcing road closures for this week’s Tartantula Music Festival. Diversions will be in place from Friday lunchtime, add in all the planned roadworks south of the river on Saturday and we can expect significant delays.’

  In Dante’s Divine Comedy, Hell was divided into nine circles, each devoted to punishing a particular group of sinners. But up here, in the land of the living, it was roadworks and rush hour.

  ‘And speaking of the festival, we managed to track down Oldcastle’s very own Leo McVey earlier and asked him about Sunday’s grand finale performance of his 1980s concept album, Open the Coffins.’

  Franklin turned up the radio and a dark warm voice gravelled out of the speakers. ‘Yeah, it’s going to be great. I mean we’ve got some great acts joining us on stage: Lucy’s Drowning, Mister Bones, Halfhead, Closed for Refurbishment, Catnip Jane, Donny Sick Dawg McRoberts, and loads of others, you know? Great.’

  The car crawled forward.

  Callum puffed out his cheeks. ‘It’ll pick up a bit when we get onto the dual carriageway.’

  ‘And we’re not just doing highlights, right? We’re doing the whole album, start to finish.’

  Let’s face it, the traffic couldn’t get any slower.

  A line of tail-lights, glowing like the fires of hell, flaring in the falling rain.

  ‘The public’s reaction’s been great. It’s kinda humbling that they still love it after all these years. And I’m loving strutting about like King of the Jungle again. Makes me wish I’d come out of retirement years ago.’ A laugh, black as treacle.

  Franklin smiled. ‘I loved Open the Coffins. We listened to it non-stop when I was at university. Drove the woman downstairs mad …’

  ‘And all the money’s going to charity, right? Which is great. Everyone’s giving up their time and their talent to raise money for Alzheimer’s research, cos of Ray, you know?’