A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

So why were all the hairs standing up on his arms?

  Yeah …

  Maybe cutting through the woods wasn’t the best of ideas at this time of night.

  He turned the bike and pedalled. Onto the footpath, branches flashing past – caught for a moment in the front light before disappearing behind him. Heart thumping in his chest like a bear in a cage. On, through the gloom, and then BANG, he was out of Brothers Grimm territory and back in the real world.

  Oh the glorious joys of tarmac and concrete.

  Callum skidded to a halt on the pavement beneath a working streetlight. Sat there in the rain. Panting. Staring back towards the maw of Camburn Woods.

  No sign of anything following him.

  And breathe.

  Of course there wasn’t anything following him.

  Stupid.

  He ran a hand through his wet hair.

  Come on. Home.

  The windows on Flanders Road glowed like welcoming beacons. Even if it was mostly rabbit-hutch houses and rabbit-hutch flats. Could see his and Elaine’s one from here. Well, the side of it anyway. Top floor, third flat on the left, this side of the street. The light was on in the bathroom. Where he was going to take a long hot shower, thank you very much.

  He cycled up the pavement and onto the road, lined with bottom-of-the-range hatchbacks and battered estate cars. Let himself into the communal lobby and chained his bike to the rack beneath the stairs. Picked up three small stacks of mail from the windowsill by the back door, and squelched his way up the concrete stairs.

  Urgh.

  Socks were like sponges, water oozing out of his lace holes with every step.

  Callum took his jacket and rucksack off on the third-floor landing, gave them a shake to get rid of the water. Mrs Gillespie’s cats had been at Toby’s pot plants again – kicking soil in a fan-shape across the concrete in exchange for a little brown ‘present’. No wonder his spider plants looked half dead as they sprawled their way up and around the far corner of the landing.

  Well, if he didn’t want them piddled and crapped in, he shouldn’t leave them outside, should he?

  Callum poked Toby’s mail through the letterbox, then did the same for Mr and Mrs Robson. And, at long last, unlocked the door to his own sodding flat. Light caught the little brass plaque they’d screwed to the wood above the letterbox: ‘CALLUM, ELAINE, AND PEANUT ~ THE MACGREGOR-PIRIE CLAN!’ He slumped inside and thumped the door shut behind him. Sagged in place, and dripped on the laminate flooring for a moment.

  Puffed out a breath. Worked his way out of his shoes and left soggy footprints all the way to the bathroom.

  Raised his voice. ‘Elaine?’ Dumped his wet jacket in the corner and stripped off his shirt. ‘We have got to get ourselves a car. It’s like trying to cycle through a swimming pool out there.’

  Trousers, socks, and pants in a damp little pile. Then he cranked on the shower and stepped inside as soon as steam curled up from behind the curtain. Ahhhhh … Blissful heat.

  Should probably keep his bitten ear out of the water, but the taped-on wadding was already drenched from the rain. So too late now.

  A clunk as the bathroom door opened. ‘Callum?’

  ‘I know it’s not top of our priority list, but a car would make life a lot easier when Peanut comes. Nothing fancy. You remember Billy Jackson? Bet he could get us a wee second-hand hatchback on the cheap.’

  The curtain clattered back a couple of inches on its metal hoops and Elaine peered in at him as he soaked up the warmth. ‘Where have you …’ Her eyes widened. ‘What happened to your head?’

  ‘Want to get in with me? Be like old times, all soapy and slippery?’

  ‘Callum, your face is all scratched and you’ve got a bandage on your ear!’

  ‘Come on, when was the last time we took a shower together?’

  ‘Get out of there, now!’ She jabbed a finger towards the bathroom door, mouth curled down at the edges. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘DCI Powel.’

  Callum screwed his face shut and thumped his forehead off the tiles.

  Wonderful.

  28

  Poncy Powel sat on the sofa – in Callum’s spot, thank you very much – in his fancypants suit, top two shirt buttons undone, no tie. A mug in one hand. Look at me. Look how at home I am, slumming it with the common man.

  Callum loomed in the middle of the room, with a bathsheet wrapped around his middle. Dripping onto the rug. ‘What do you want?’

  A sigh, then Powel pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Constable MacGregor … Callum, I’m here to give you a bit of friendly advice.’

  ‘Aye, right.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He put his mug on the coffee table. Stood. ‘But don’t say I didn’t try.’

  Callum didn’t move.

  Another sigh. ‘I don’t like you. I don’t think you’re a good police officer. I don’t trust you.’

  ‘If this is more crap about me taking a bribe to get Big Johnny Simpson off a murder charge, you can—’

  ‘I understand you arrested Ainsley Dugdale yesterday.’

  He bared his teeth. ‘So?’

  ‘I got a tip-off this afternoon from a nasty piece of work who breaks people’s legs when they don’t pay their loan shark. Dugdale’s going round shooting his mouth off about how he’s going to end you.’

  ‘Ainsley Dugdale can pucker up and kiss my soapy backside.’

  ‘Just … watch yourself, OK? Elaine here,’ Powel pointed at her, ‘swears blind that you’re not as big a disaster as you look, so I’m doing you a favour. Dugdale is dangerous. It’s not just the drugs and the protection rackets and the punishment beatings, he’s implicated in at least two murders.’

  ‘Fine. Consider me warned.’ Callum tightened his grip on the towel. ‘Now, feel free to sod off.’

  ‘Callum …’ Powel dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. ‘I couldn’t give a toss if Dugdale kills you, hacks you to bits and chucks them in the Kings River, but you’ve got a pregnant girlfriend to look after. You’re going to be a father in two weeks. Try to think of someone else for a change.’

  Think of someone else?

  It wouldn’t take much. Just two steps and slam a fist right in the middle of the smug git’s face. They weren’t on duty: it probably wouldn’t count as assaulting a superior officer.

  Elaine put a warm hand on his arm. ‘Callum, please. He’s trying to help.’

  But it would still count as assault.

  Deep breath.

  He relaxed his hand. Uncurled the fingers. ‘Right.’ Cleared his throat. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m not your enemy, Callum. And you’re not the only one he’s threatened.’ Powel buttoned his jacket shut. ‘Well, I’d better get going.’

  Damn right you’d better.

  ‘Thanks for the tea, Elaine.’

  She squeezed Callum’s arm and he stepped back, let Powel past. Then she smiled at the smug-faced lump of yuck. ‘Thank you, Reece. I appreciate you letting us know. Callum will be careful, won’t you, Callum?’

  What choice did he have? ‘Of course I will.’

  He stayed where he was as Elaine let Powel out of the flat. Sagged when he heard the front door lock thunk shut.

  A home visit from DCI Powel and death threat from Ainsley Dugdale. Lovely.

  She reappeared a minute later. ‘Are you proud of yourself?’

  ‘Since when were you and Poncy Powel on first-name terms?’

  ‘Since we worked that murder/suicide last January. And he’s trying to look out for us, OK? You didn’t have to be so aggressive – beating your peely-wally chest like a wee shaved monkey. I’m amazed you didn’t just drop your towel and measure dicks with him.’

  ‘He’s a dick.’

  ‘You know what, Callum MacGregor? Right now, so are you.’

  And the worst bit was, she was right.

  ‘Yeah.�
�

  She closed the blinds, shutting out the dark night. ‘But you’re my dick. Now go get dried and I’ll heat up some tuna casserole.’

  The flats on the other side of the railway line were mostly dark now. Lights off, time for bed. Wasn’t much brighter in the lounge, where only the red glow of the answering machine fought against the night.

  A faint rattling snore sounded in the bedroom, muffled by the wall. God knew how they were going to manage with a new baby in a one-bedroom flat. Wasn’t as if they were rolling in cash here, even with Elaine’s maternity pay.

  But they’d make it work. Wouldn’t they?

  Course they would.

  Callum toasted the faint reflection in the window and took another sip of wine. Dark in here, dark out there.

  Powel was such a dick. Dugdale’s going to end you. Yeah, right.

  Unless it was Dugdale in the woods – the noises in the gloom – following him home …

  Goose pimples rippled their way up his arms and across the back of his neck.

  Yes, but it was cold in the living room with the heating turned off.

  He’d beaten Dugdale once, he could do it again. In a fair fight, anyway. Which it wouldn’t be. Dugdale wasn’t a Queensberry rules kind of guy, he was a jump-out-of-the-bushes-with-a-baseball-bat/knife/illegal-firearm/attack-dog/three-friends-with-crowbars kind of guy. The kind you never heard coming until it was too late.

  And what if he came after Elaine and Peanut?

  What if all those silent phone calls weren’t some firm of PPI-claim tossers? What if it was Dugdale?

  Something hard and sharp rolled over in Callum’s chest.

  First chance he got, it was off to the B&Q in Cowskillin for some heavy-duty locks. Fit them to the flat’s front door. Maybe rig up a panic button or something? They probably wouldn’t let him put a grade-one flag on his own flat, but Poncy Powel could do it.

  Worth a try anyway, seeing as he was suddenly all concerned for their wellbeing.

  The Callum in the window shifted from foot to foot. Licked his lips. Blood fizzing at the base of his throat.

  Dugdale wasn’t taking his family away from him, and that was that.

  He couldn’t.

  Callum drained his glass, picked a book from the bookshelf, and went back to bed.

  Nothing could.

  — the four-minute warning —

  “I’m not sure about this,” said Russell. “My nose is twitching like it does when there are goblins around, and goblins are never a good thing.”

  “Don’t be silly,” giggled Martha, wriggling under the fence. “We’re rabbits! No horrible old goblin could ever catch us!”

  But little did they know that the Goblin Queen had sent her minions to the library for books about traps and snares and how to cook silly rabbits who stray into the deep dark woods …

  R.M. Travis

  Russell the Magic Rabbit (1992)

  My mother didn’t love me, so she gave me away.

  Man I hate that b*tch, every God-damned day.

  If she could see me now, she’d be proud as can be,

  Standin’ at the stage door, with her hand out for my money …

  Donny ‘$ick Dawg’ McRoberts

  ‘Mothers’ Day’

  © Bob’s Speed Trap Records (2014)

  29

  ‘… extensive roadworks for the next three weeks, so you’re going to want to find an alternative route. Jane?’

  ‘Thanks, Bob. It’s competition time and we’re giving away three pairs of tickets to Tartantula, this very weekend, folks. Stay tuned for how to win those. But first, how about some words from our sponsors?’

  ‘Here.’ Elaine held out the Sainted Tupperware Box of Lunch. Her pink furry dressing gown hung open, revealing the huge swell of her bulge. It poked out of the gap where her jammies didn’t meet any more, outie bellybutton on full display. ‘Tuna casserole buttie, with cheese and hot sauce.’

  Callum tucked his shirt into his trousers. ‘You do know I’m not the one who’s pregnant, don’t you?’

  ‘Funny. You’re a funny guy.’

  ‘… that’s right, this week only, you can get two ScotiaBrand tasty chickens for just eight pounds. They’re fan-chicken-tastic!’

  ‘How’s the ear?’

  A fresh wad of cotton covered the throbbing remains, glued to his head by half a dozen sticking plasters. Looked terrible, but at least it stayed on. ‘Have you seen my red tie?’

  ‘Cupboard.’

  He had a rummage through the box. Frowned.

  ‘… deal of the century at Mad Mark’s Motors! You want a new car? You got it! Nought percent finance? You got it! Easy payment terms? I must be mad, cos you got that too!’

  There was a yellow silk tie in there. A proper one, not a clip-on. He picked it up between two fingers, as if it was likely to hiss and bite him as it uncoiled. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘… confused about the new tax rates for business? Don’t worry, Davis, Wellman, and Manson – chartered accountants – are here to help …’

  ‘It’s a tie.’

  ‘Yes, I can see it’s a tie, what I want to know is: what’s it doing in my box?’

  ‘… Oldcastle’s premier pizza parlour just got even better!’

  ‘Isn’t it yours?’

  ‘I have clip-ons. Police officers don’t wear real ties unless they want throttled by lunatic members of the public.’

  ‘… three toppings and get another two absolutely free! That’s right: free!’

  ‘Hmm …’ She took it from him, turning it over in her hands. ‘I found it in the living room, beside the couch. Thought it was yours.’

  Oh great. It really was a snake. ‘It’s Poncy Powel’s, isn’t it? He waltzes in here like he owns the place, takes his tie off and leaves it. What a dick.’

  Elaine gave his arm a little punch. ‘You should be nicer about Reece. He was only trying to help.’

  ‘Bet he doesn’t have to go to work with a tuna-casserole buttie.’

  She rolled the tie into a neat little sausage and slipped it into Callum’s jacket pocket. ‘You can give it to him when you get there. And say thank you properly for coming round to warn us.’

  ‘Gah …’

  ‘And you mock the tuna-casserole buttie, but trust me: Heston Blumenthal wishes he thought of it first.’

  Yeah, right.

  Franklin beamed, showing off those perfect teeth of hers. ‘You look like crap, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Callum settled into his seat and covered a yawn.

  ‘And you missed a great night. We got everyone up for “We Are the Champions”.’

  He wrapped himself around his coffee. ‘Thought you hated karaoke.’

  ‘That was before I tried it.’ She turned as Dotty wheeled herself into the room. ‘Dot!’

  ‘Am I late? Have we started yet?’

  He checked his watch. ‘Still got five minutes.’

  ‘Oh, Callum, you missed such a—’

  ‘“We Are the Champions”. Franklin told me all about it.’

  Dotty wheeled Keith across to the tea- and coffee-making facilities, pausing to share a fist bump with Franklin on the way. ‘Rosalind, my man.’

  ‘We have got to do that again.’

  More grinning.

  ‘Where’s Whiney Watt the Wanky Waster?’

  ‘Not in yet.’

  ‘Good.’ Dotty spooned coffee granules into a mug. ‘I’m off to interview Brett Millar this morning. Assuming he’s not still doped off his monkey. Anyone want to come? Rosalind?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Callum groaned. ‘Noooo. Don’t leave me with …’

  The office door opened and in stormed everyone’s favourite sour-faced git. Watt glowered out from beneath his greasy floppy fringe. ‘What?’

  ‘Speak of the devil.’

  ‘Oh go bugger yourselves.’ He hung his coat on the rack by t
he filing cabinets, straightened his nasty brown tie, then thumped himself down in his seat. Powered up his computer. Had a wee seethe on his own.

  Ah, the joys of a happy team.

  He was still sulking when Mother sailed in, towing McAdams in her wake. ‘Gather round, my lovely ones. Time for assembly.’ She perched on the edge of Dotty’s desk. ‘Andy, would you like to lead morning prayers?’

  McAdams pulled some sheets of paper from a folder. ‘Listen up, both young and old, / For a tale of woe you must behold, / Attention pay, so you may see, / The path of others’ misery.’ No applause. ‘To wit, other stuff on the O Division books we don’t actually care about, but have to pay lip-service to. One: they’ve still not got an ID for any of DCI Powel’s severed feet. Two: someone set fire to an abandoned house, about halfway between Castleview and Auchterowan. Third house in a week, so there’s an arsonist on the loose who isn’t scared of a bit of graft. Three: someone ram-raided the Poundland in Logansferry, again. Guess some people just want to reach for the stars. Four: aggravated assault outside the Paris Casino on Holland Street. A group of young “ladies”,’ he made the quote marks with his fingers, ‘attacked a taxi driver and left him with serious internal injuries, a fractured skull, and no sight in his left eye.’

  ‘Ooh.’ Dotty bared her gritted teeth. ‘Not good.’

  ‘Also not good is number five: mother and teenaged daughter abducted from their home in Shortstaine. Best friend was on the phone at the time and recorded the whole thing. And last, but not least, they got a DNA match from one of the bodies found at the tip on Monday: turns out Karen Turner didn’t run off to Portugal with another man, like her husband claimed. She was too busy being battered to death with a golf club and stuffed into bin-bags.’ McAdams put his papers down. ‘Now, would anyone like to contribute anything to these ongoing cases? No? Didn’t think so. Moving on.’ He pointed. ‘Detective Constable Watt.’

  Watt’s eyes narrowed, little gingery beard bristling. ‘What?’

  ‘When I say you’re supposed to sign out at the end of a shift, what I mean is: you – have – to sign off – at the end – of a shift. Not: “Do whatever the monkey-spanking hell you like.” Am I getting through to you? Knock once for yes, twice for no.’

  ‘It wasn’t—’

  ‘Don’t even bother – I checked. And I don’t care how you did things in G Division, in O Division you clock off!’ He pointed. ‘Don’t think I won’t pull down your pants and spank you in front of the rest of the class.’