Bred in the Bone

by Christopher Brookmyre

  She had killed him, and locked his colleague in a car boot with his corpse.

  ‘You’re getting . . . you’re getting . . .’

  She saw again the future they had all seen for her father on that awful first day, when he came storming down the hall with the rifle; except this time it had happened, this time there had been no one to grab the gun and stop it. The process was in motion, one that would end with her in jail and her family torn apart, her parents crushed more devastatingly than by anything these crooks had wrought.

  Sweeney meanwhile began climbing to his feet, coils of rope falling away as he raised one leg and let them drop. Then she saw the flick knife.

  ‘Put the gun doon or I’ll fuckin’ cut ye,’ he vowed, his disorientation replaced by trembling anger.

  She tightened her grip on the gun, though she couldn’t have said whether this was to steady her aim or because one part of her was trying to wrestle it away from the other, like she and Lisa and Mum had done to Dad in the hall.

  She backed away a step, two steps, but as she retreated Sweeney began advancing, the knife gripped in front of his face.

  ‘I mean it. I’m gaunny fuckin’ slice you, hen.’

  She witnessed the fury in his eyes, heedless of the weapon. The fear was gone. He saw no threat in front of him, only vengeance.

  Catherine didn’t remember making a decision to pull the trigger: only an impulse, a signal from her brain to her finger and the bang, muted in the wind, blown away like the smoke from the muzzle.

  Sweeney flew backwards as though jerked on elastic, landing in a crumpled sitting position with his shoulders against the back of the BMW’s left rear wheel arch. He appeared dazed and startled for a moment, even as his hands reflexively pressed against the wound below his ribcage, then he looked up incredulously at her, his breathing a series of laboured, agonised moans.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ she said.

  She dropped to her knees on the dirt, the rifle falling into her lap, still hung around her shoulder by the strap. Her vision clouded as her eyes filled up.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  The blood spread across the front of his tracksuit, spilling through the gaps between his fingers; that awful laboured moaning beginning to take on a despairing, panicked quality. From inside she suddenly felt bile rise like something within her was being purged by a greater force than her body could muster. She vomited harder than she could ever remember, but at the end there was no sense of catharsis.

  The rifle suddenly felt heavy and shameful, diseased. She had to get it off, get away from it. She staggered to her feet and unslung it, letting it drop to the earth next to the puddle of sick, then she turned and began to walk away. She didn’t know where, didn’t think beyond each step, knew only that she had to put distance between herself and what lay behind her.

  That was when Sweeney managed to speak.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he said, a groaning, heartfelt plea. ‘Please stay with me. Please stay.’

  The words halted her like a brick wall across her path. She still wanted to flee, perhaps even more so, but she could not. She did not want to turn back, to confront what she had wrought, but she knew she would, knew she had to. Not for absolution, for she knew he could not give her that even if he wanted to: this was hers to carry always. She turned back to Sweeney, who had stolen from her family, tormented her, humiliated her, because it was how her father had raised her. This was the last kindness she could give him.

  She knelt down next to him, her back also against the rear of the car, and gently pulled his shoulders towards her until his head was resting on her chest. His breathing was irregular, sometimes jolting, sometimes long and slow.

  ‘I’m scared,’ he said. ‘I want my mammy.’

  Catherine cried silently. He couldn’t see her face and once again she didn’t want him to know she was in tears, but this time because it felt like something she wished to spare him, rather than deny.

  His eyes looked to be losing focus, gazing blankly into space as his lids fell halfway to closing. The moaning had all but fallen away, his breathing shallow now, shallower with every breath.

  She placed a hand on his head and stroked his lank, greasy hair.

  ‘Is that you, Mammy?’ he asked, his voice a broken whisper.

  Catherine swallowed to prevent a sob, replying in a whisper of her own as her voice would have broken had she spoken properly.

  ‘I’m here,’ she replied, feeling the warm waters run down both her cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he breathed. ‘I’m sorry, Mammy.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered.

  She shuddered as his right hand suddenly moved, reaching just a few inches to grip one of hers.

  ‘I’m cold,’ he said, then she felt the weight of his head shift slightly, and in that moment she knew he was gone.

  She remained there for a time, just in case it wasn’t over, in case he still needed her, and because it delayed the rest of her life that had to follow. Then she gently let his head come down to rest on the earth and crouched by his side. She stared at his face, peaceful and still, a ghost of the cocksure and restless visage that had walked into her kitchen only a few hours before, and she looked at the bloody mess beneath his chest.

  She felt the stirrings of panic about how her mind was going to cope with this. It seemed so big, so terrible, so frightening, something she couldn’t contain, like what she had vomited out but so, so much bigger.

  Something took control, something deep within. She dabbed her index finger in his blood, held it above his forehead and flicked it, marking him with a short spray. Then she dabbed it again and drew the arc.

  Sitting back to look at it, she felt calm and in control. In the ritual she found not absolution, but understanding: the knowledge that this was how it had to be. She had killed him so that her family could survive.

  We’re taking this creature’s life to preserve our own. Killing something is a sacrifice – it’s always a sacrifice, and a sacrifice should be solemn. We’ll live off this creature today and tomorrow too. We owe it our gratitude and we owe it our respect, our courtesy . . . and our kindness.

  Leverage

  Fallan looked tortured and fraught, restlessly animated like a fly bashing itself against a window in confused desperation. He was soaking wet, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and a light jacket, nothing in the ensemble designed for a night like this. She realised he had to be kitted in the clothes he’d been wearing when they lifted him. No wheels either, as they wouldn’t have surrendered the Land Rover to him yet.

  ‘Why did you release me?’ he demanded.

  He sounded like an anguished ghost, blaming her for his exile from eternal rest.

  ‘We know you didn’t do it,’ she told him. ‘Jasmine Sharp spotted that the Defender at the car wash was a right-hand drive. You owe her big time.’

  ‘But why did you bring her into this?’ he asked, in a manner that had Catherine adjusting her grip on the nightstick.

  ‘That’s not something I can discuss with you. She came through for you, that’s the important part. What’s your problem with it?’

  ‘Because they’ve taken her.’

  ‘Who’s taken her?’ Catherine asked, but Fallan didn’t appear to be listening, or didn’t consider it worth an answer.

  ‘I was keeping her out of this. That was the deal. I take the fall and they leave her alone.’

  ‘What deal? Who are you talking about?’

  ‘The day Stevie died I got a text, purporting to be from Jasmine. It said she was in trouble and asked me to get to Glasgow right away. When I phoned, it just rang out. I dropped everything and drove. It wasn’t her, though: it was so I didn’t have an alibi. I was on my own, in my car, when Stevie got shot.

  ‘They phoned me after he was dead, again using Jasmine’s number. They were using her as leverage. They wanted me to go down for Fullerton, and if I took the fall they’d leave her alone. That’s why I said nothi
ng, even when I saw the stills of the Land Rover. But now I’m out and Jasmine’s missing. They’ve got her.’

  ‘Have you told the police?’ she asked, then promptly realised it was a stupid question. There were police in on this, and Fallan had to know that. ‘Why have you come here?’ she added.

  ‘Because you’re a part of this.’

  ‘I’m not a part of anything,’ she protested, wondering how crazed and paranoid Fallan might be. She edged a foot against the door, ready to close it if she felt the need.

  Fallan reached forward to one of the glass panes and drew a shape in the rain and condensation. It was crude and runny, but she knew immediately what it represented.

  ‘They’ve got leverage on you too. They hung this thing around your neck like a choke chain from day one, and I’m guessing they’ve started to tighten it. That’s why you’re the only person I can trust.’

  The rain continued to batter down, running off Fallan’s hair and on to his face.

  ‘You know what this means?’ she asked him, indicating the rune.

  He nodded.

  ‘Who’s they?’ she asked again, her insides turning to mercury. ‘Who’s got Jasmine? Who’s doing this?’

  Fallan’s face looked like a gravestone.

  ‘Tony McGill.’

  As soon as he said the words she could see that it had been in front of her all the time. Bob Cairns and Tony McGill went way back, and he must have been promoted to McGill’s principal tame cop following the death of Iain Fallan.

  What she couldn’t see was how McGill fitted into the Julie Muir killing, given the absence of any known connection between McGill and Drummond. She knew Fallan was right, though: knew it like you know winter is on the way.

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Can I come inside?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she told him. ‘If you know what this symbol means, you’ll understand why I’m not going to invite you over my family’s threshold.’

  ‘I’m not a fucking vampire.’

  ‘No, it was others who did the blood-sucking. You’re something worse.’

  She grabbed a jacket and lifted her keys. ‘We’ll talk in the car.’

  ‘Aye. Cannae be having a killer in the house, can we, McLeod? That would never do.’

  Truth and Reconciliation

  Anthony feared he was running out of time to say something.

  He was driving through the car park of the sports club looking for a space, the Vauxhall dwarfed among rows upon row of SUVs. Reassuringly he spotted Cal O’Shea’s Land Cruiser tucked between an Evoque and a Q7. Cal’s partner David had told them he was down here playing tennis, but he wasn’t sure how long Cal would be or where he was headed afterwards. Fortunately it looked like they would catch him.

  The club was in Hamilton, and Adrienne lived nearby in Motherwell. Anthony was going to drop her off at home after this last call, then take the Vauxhall back to Govan where his own car was parked.

  They were getting on fine, though it was difficult to say whether this was in spite or because of the situation in which they found themselves. It felt good to be talking again, to be working together. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but feel they were approaching the point where they either had to acknowledge the elephant in the room or they were mutually accepting that they never would. Beyond that point, they would both be entering another silent pact to pretend it never happened, and for some reason he just didn’t think that was good enough. It felt cowardly and dishonest, and though he knew it would keep things comfortable between them he also knew that it would also keep them at a distance too. It would mean they weren’t past it, and nor would they ever be.

  How did you bring up something like that, though?

  He had been looking for the right moment, but it never seemed to come. It wasn’t like they had nothing else to talk about. The end of the day seemed an appropriate time, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to do this parked outside her house. It would be too much like he was making a play, as though he was angling to be asked in or something.

  So maybe there would never be a right time; or maybe he just didn’t want it enough.

  He pulled into a space at the far end, next to a jogging trail, and killed the engine. The light smir of rain that was blowing around occluded the windscreen now that the wipers were off, causing the world outside to blur.

  Adrienne reached down into the footwell for her bag, and it was as she moved to grab the door handle that he forced himself to speak, feeling like it really was now or never.

  ‘Adrienne, sit tight a second.’

  ‘What is it?’

  He sighed, which felt like such a conspicuous overture that she surely had to see what was coming: the three words neither of them had yet been able to bring themselves to say.

  ‘About that night.’

  ‘Oh, God, look, just don’t,’ she said, grabbing the handle and tugging it open.

  Anthony reached out with his left hand and gripped her wrist.

  ‘I need to explain myself,’ he implored.

  She looked aghast, like she desperately wanted out of the car. Something kept her there, though, and for that he was grateful.

  ‘I’m the one who needs to explain myself,’ she protested. ‘I’m just mortified. I was a bit pissed and I threw myself at you. I’m sorry. I must have looked totally desperate.’

  ‘You didn’t. It was me. I just wasn’t ready for things to move that fast. I thought I was, so I’m sorry I led you on.’

  ‘I didn’t need much leading.’

  ‘It’s not that I didn’t want something to happen, it’s just . . . It had been a long time. Not a lot of match practice, you know?’

  ‘Me neither. Why do you think I was throwing myself at you?’

  ‘I don’t just mean, you know, the physical. It’s a long time since I’ve been involved at all.’

  ‘How long?’

  He sighed. After so much tension over the months, this conversation had been surprisingly easy. They were both almost giggly with the relief of getting it out in the open. But now came the truly difficult part.

  ‘About four years,’ he told her.

  ‘Four years? But you’re only in your twenties.’

  ‘I was in a relationship for a long time.’

  ‘Painful break-up? I hear you. Four years, though. Must have been a pretty bad one.’

  ‘The worst kind.’

  ‘What kind is that? Because you’ll have to go some to match me, pal.’

  Anthony swallowed. He’d come this far, laid the groundwork. Only a few more words now.

  ‘The kind where she dies.’

  The rain was growing heavier. A gust of wind rattled a volley of drops against the windows, like it had tossed a handful of gravel at the car.

  Adrienne squeezed his hand and gave him the look that he’d been praying for: the one that told him he didn’t have to say anything else for now.

  ‘You win,’ she said quietly.

  Fellow Travellers

  The lights changed to green and Catherine steadily pressed the accelerator. The beams of her headlights ventured ahead hopelessly like cannon fodder into battle, swallowed by darkness and rain. It was not, by anyone’s measure, a fine night for a drive.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Fallan asked.

  ‘Nowhere. I just want to be moving.’

  ‘Helps you think?’

  ‘Yes. Inasmuch as previously all I could think about was getting you as far as possible from my house. Now I can think about something else. Like how do you know what this . . . leverage is that they’ve got on me? Have you always known?’

  ‘No. That time you came to gatecrash me and Jasmine having breakfast a couple of years ago, I realised I recognised you but I didn’t recall from where. All my wee guilt neurones were firing – I do have those, by the way – but all I knew was that you must have been there in the background when I was doing something I’m not proud of.’

  ‘I’m guessing that didn�
��t narrow it down.’

  ‘Not exactly, no. It was when you showed me the symbol in the interview room that it all came together, like it was the primer for a code. Even the name resonated suddenly. You kept it when you married, didn’t you? Until then I had assumed McLeod was your husband’s name.’

  ‘I’ve always been Catherine McLeod. Except when I was Cassie, which was what my big sister called me when I was a baby because she couldn’t pronounce Catherine.’

  ‘When I saw the symbol on the page I could picture it on the ground at a farm long ago, blood on frosted grass. I remember stopping to look at it that morning with old Walter. He was Tony’s collector.’

  ‘You weren’t just there that morning though, were you?’ she stated, stealing a glance across to the passenger seat. ‘You were there the night before too.’

  ‘No. That wasn’t me. I wouldn’t do that. Christ,’ he added, giving a dry laugh of exasperation.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was about to say I couldn’t harm a defenceless animal, which is true. Just pondering why that is, when I’ve never had a problem harming the higher mammals.’

  ‘You and the ALF. So who was there the night before? Who was the psycho who slashed my horse?’

  ‘Sweenzo. Paul Sweeney. A headcase, right enough: like a permanently shaken-up bottle of ginger. Probably a putative serial killer, but we’ll never know, seeing as he was shot dead and left in a field with a weird symbol painted on him in his own blood.’

  Catherine changed up, hitting a slip road on to the motorway. She wanted to move faster, and it was better lit.

  ‘Are you telling me Sweeney did it because you think it will make me feel better, or because it’s true?’

  Fallan ignored this.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked.

  ‘They were killing my family.’