Jaggy Splinters

by Christopher Brookmyre

  ‘There’s somebody in, Rab,’ Billy says. ‘The game’s a bogey. Let’s go hame.’

  Which was a very tempting notion, I’ll admit, but no’ as tempting as playin’ pick and mix in a mansion full o’ goodies.

  ‘Don’t be a numpty,’ I says. ‘They’ve just left a light on by mistake. As if there wouldnae be lights on doonstairs if somebody was hame. C’mon.’

  ‘Aye, aw right,’ Billy says, and we press on.

  We make oor way roon the back, lookin’ for a likely wee windae. Force of habit, goin’ roon the back, forgettin’ there’s naebody tae see us if we panned in wan o’ the ten-footers at the front. I’m cuttin’ aboot lookin’ for a good-sized stane tae brek the glass, when Billy reverts tae the mair basic technique of just tryin’ the back door, which swings open easy as you like. Efter that, it’s through and intae the kitchen, where we find some candles and matches. Billy’s aw for just stickin’ the lights on as we go, but I’m still no’ sure that sneaky bastard Sergeant isnae gaunny come breengin’ in wi’ a dozen polis any minute, so I’m playin’ it smart.

  Oot intae the hallway and I’m soon thinkin’, knackers tae smart, let there be light. The walls just disappear up intae blackness; I mean, there had tae be a ceiling up there somewhere, but Christ knows how high. Every footstep’s echoin’ roon the place, every breath’s bein’ amplified like I’m walkin’ aboot inside ma ain heid. But maistly it was the shadows… Aw, man, the shadows. I think fae that night on, I’d rather be in the dark than in candle-light, that’s whit the shadows were daein’ tae me. And aw the time, of course, it’s gaun through my mind, the Sergeant’s words… ‘queer, queer stuff… the occult’. Black magic. Doesnae help that it’s Halloween, either, every bugger tellin’ stories aboot ghosts and witches aw week.

  But I tell myself: screw the nut, got a job tae dae here. Get on, get oot, and we’ll be laughin’ aboot this when we’re sittin’ on that last train hame fae Central. So we get busy, start tannin’ rooms. First couple are nae use. I mean, quality gear, but nae use tae embdy withoot a furniture lorry. Big paintin’s and statues and the like. Then third time lucky: intae this big room wi’ aw these display cabinets. A lot ay it’s crystal and china – again, nae use, but we can see the Sergeant wasnae haverin’. There’s jewellery, ornaments: plenty of gold and silver and nae shortage of gemstones embedded either.

  ‘If it sparkles, bag it,’ I’m tellin’ Billy, and we’re laughin’ away until we baith hear somethin’. It’s wan o’ thae noises you cannae quite place: cannae work oot exactly whit it sounded like or where it was comin’ fae, but you know you heard it: deep, rumbling and low.

  ‘You heard it an’ aw?’

  ‘Aye. Ach, probably just the wind,’ I says, no even kiddin’ masel.

  ‘Was it fuck the wind. It sounded like a whole load ay people singin’ or somethin’.’

  ‘Well I cannae hear it noo, so never bother.’

  ‘Whit aboot that light? Whit if somebody is up there?’

  ‘It didnae sound like it came fae above. Maist likely the plumbing. The pipes in these big auld places can make some weird sounds.’

  Billy doesnae look sure, but he gets on wi’ his job aw the same.

  We go back tae the big hallway, but stop and look at each other at the foot of the stairs. We baith know what the other’s thinkin’: there’s mair gear tae be had up there, but neither ay us is in a hurry to go lookin’ for it. That said, there’s still room in the bags, and I’m about to suggest we grasp the thistle when we hear the rumblin’ sound again. Could be the pipes, I’m thinkin’, but I know what Billy meant when he said lots ay folk singin’.

  ‘We’re no’ finished doon here,’ I says, postponin’ the issue a wee bit, and we go through another door aff the hall. It’s a small room, compared to the others anyway, and the curtains are shut, so I reckon it’s safe to stick the light on. The light seems dazzling at first, but that’s just because we’d become accustommed tae the dark. It’s actually quite low, cannae be mair than forty watt. The room’s an office, like, a study. There’s a big desk in the middle, a fireplace on wan wall and bookshelves aw the way tae the ceiling, apart fae where the windae is.

  Billy pulls a book aff the shelf, big ancient-lookin’ leather-bound effort.

  ‘Have a swatch at this,’ he says, pointin’ tae the open page. ‘Diddies! Look.’

  He’s right. There’s a picture ay a wummin in the scud lyin’ doon oan a table; no’ a photie, like, a drawin’, an’ aw this queer writin’ underneath, in letters I don’t recognise. Queer, queer stuff, I remember. Occult. Black magic.

  Billy turns the page.

  ‘Euuh!’

  There’s a picture ay the same wummin, but there’s a boay in a long robe plungin’ her wi’ a blade.

  ‘Put it doon,’ I says, and take the book aff him.

  But it’s no’ just books that’s on the shelves. There’s aw sorts o’ spooky-lookin’ gear. Wee statues, carved oot ay wood. Wee women wi’ big diddies, wee men wi’ big boabbies. Normally we’d be pishin’ oorsels at these, but there’s somethin’ giein’ us the chills aboot this whole shebang. There’s masks as well, some of wood, primitive efforts, but some others in porcelein or alabaster: perfect likenesses of faces, but solemn, grim even. I realise they’re death masks, but don’t say anythin’ tae Billy.

  ‘These must be thon arty hingmies the sergeant warned us aboot,’ Billy says.

  ‘Artefacts. Aye. I’m happy tae gie them a bodyswerve. Let’s check the desk and that’ll dae us.’

  ‘Sure.’

  We try the drawers on one side. They’re locked, and we’ve no’ brought anythin’ tae jemmy them open.

  ‘Forget it,’ I say, hardly able tae take my eyes aff thae death masks, but Billy gie’s the rest ay the drawers a pull just for the sake ay it. The bottom yin rolls open, a big, deep, heavy thing.

  ‘Aw, man,’ Billy says.

  The drawer contains a glass case, and inside ay it is a skull, restin’ on a bed ay velvet.

  ‘Dae ye think it’s real?’ Billy asks.

  ‘Oh Christ aye,’ I says. I’ve never seen a real skull, except in photies, so I wouldnae know, but I’d put money on it aw the same. I feel weird: it’s giein’ me the chills but I’m drawn tae it at the same time. I want tae touch it. I put my hands in and pull at the glass cover, which lifts aff nae bother.

  ‘We cannae take it, Rab,’ Billy says. ‘Mind whit the Sergeant tell’t us.’

  ‘I just want tae haud it,’ I tell him. I reach in and take haud ay it carefully with both hands, but it doesnae lift away. It’s like it’s connected tae somethin’ underneath, but I can tell there’s some give in it, so I try giein’ it a wee twist. It turns aboot ninety degrees courtesy of a flick o’ the wrist, at which point the pair ay us nearly hit the ceilin’, ’cause there’s a grindin’ noise at oor backs and we turn roon tae see that the back ay the fireplace has rolled away.

  ‘It’s a secret passage,’ Billy says. ‘I read aboot these. Big auld hooses hud them fae back in the times when they might get invaded.’

  I look into the passage, expecting darkness, but see a flickerin’ light, dancin’ aboot like it must be comin’ fae a fire. Me and Billly looks at each other. We baith know we’re shitin’ oorsels, but we baith know there’s no way we’re no’ checkin’ oot whatever’s doon this passage.

  We leave the candles because there’s just aboot enough light, and we don’t want tae gie oorsels away too soon if it turns oot there’s somebody doon there. I go first. I duck doon tae get under the mantelpiece, but the passage is big enough for us tae staun upright once I’m on the other side. It only goes three or four yards and then there’s a staircase, a tight spiral number. I haud on tae the walls as I go doon, so’s my footsteps are light and quiet. I stop haufway doon and put a hand oot tae stop Billy an’ aw, because we can hear a voice. It’s a man talkin’, except it’s almost like he’s singin’, like a priest giein’ it that high-and-mighty patter. Then we hear that sound aga
in, and Billy was right: it is loads ay people aw at once, chantin’ a reply tae whatever the man’s said.

  Queer, queer stuff, I’m thinkin’. Occult. Black magic.

  Still, I find masel creepin’ doon the rest ay the stairs. I move slow as death as I get to the bottom, and crouch in close tae the wall tae stay oot ay sight. Naebody sees us, ’cause they’re aw facin’ forwards away fae us in this long underground hall, kinda like a chapel but wi’ nae windaes. It’s lit wi’ burnin’ torches alang baith walls, a stone table – I suppose you’d cry it an altar – at the far end, wi’ wan o’ yon pentagrams painted on the wall behind it. There’s aboot two dozen folk, aw wearin’ these big black hooded robes, except for two ay them at the altar: the bloke that’s giein’ it the priest patter, who’s in red, and a lassie, no’ much aulder than us, in white, wi’ a gag roon her mooth. She looks dazed, totally oot ay it. Billy crouches doon next tae us. We don’t look at each other ’cause we cannae take oor eyes aff what’s happenin’ at the front.

  The boy in the red robe, who must be the magician that owns the joint, gie’s a nod, and two of the congragation come forward and lift the lassie. It’s only when they dae this that I can see her hands are tied behind her back and her feet are tied together at her ankles. They place her doon on the altar and then drape a big white sheet over her, coverin’ her fae heid tae toe. Then the boy in red starts chantin’ again, and pulls this huge dagger oot fae his robe. He hauds it above his heid, and everythin’ goes totally still, totally quiet. Ye can hear the cracklin’ ay the flames aw roon the hall. Then the congregation come oot wi’ that rumblin’ chant again, and he plunges the dagger doon intae the sheet.

  There’s mair silence, and I feel like time’s staunin’ still for a moment; like when it starts again this’ll no’ be true. Then I see the red startin’ tae seep across the white sheet, and a second later it’s drippin’ aff the altar ontae the flair.

  ‘Aw Jesus,’ I says. I hears masel sayin’ it afore I know whit I’m daein’, an’ by that time it’s too late.

  Me and Billy turns and scrambles back up the stair as fast as, but when we get tae the top, it’s just blackness we can see. The fireplace has closed over again. We see the orange flickerin’ ay torches and hear footsteps comin’ up the stairs, the two ay us slumped doon against a wall, haudin’ on tae each other. Two men approach, then stop a few feet away, which is when wan ay them pulls his hood back.

  ‘Evening boys. We’ve been expecting you,’ he says. The fuckin’ Sergeant.

  ‘I assume you took steps to make sure nobody knew where you were going tonight,’ he goes on. I remember the train, the guard, the bikes, the return ticket in my trooser pocket. The Sergeant smiles. ‘Knew you wouldn’t let us down. What’s bred in the bone, will not out of the flesh.’

  Four more blokes come up tae lend a hand. They tie oor hauns and feet, same as the lassie, and huckle us back doon the stair tae the hall.

  ‘Two more sacrificies, Master,’ the Sergeant shouts oot tae the boy in red. ‘As promised.’

  ‘Are they virgins?’ the Master says.

  ‘Come on. Would anybody shag this pair?’

  The master laughs and says: ‘Bring them forward.’

  We get carried, lyin’ on oor backs, by two guys each, and it’s as we pass down the centre of the hall that we see the faces peerin’ in. It’s aw folk fae the village. Folk we know, folk we’ve stolen from. I think aboot ma uncle and his blethers aboot secret gatherings. Auld bastard never knew the hauf ay it.

  ‘This one first,’ the Master says, and they lie me doon on the altar, which is still damp wi’ blood. I feel it soakin’ intae ma troosers as the boy starts chantin’ again and a fresh white sheet comes doon tae cover me.

  I don’t know whether there was ether on it, or choloroform, or maybe it was just fear, but that was the last thing I saw, ’cause I passed oot aboot two seconds later.

  So.

  Ye don’t need many brains tae work oot what happened next, dae ye? Aye, a lesson was taught. A wise and skilled man, that magician, for he was the man in charge, the village in his thrall, willingly daein’ what he told them.

  Suffice it to say, that was two wee scrotes who never broke intae another hoose, and the same’ll be true of you, pal.

  I can see fae that look in your eye that you’re sceptical aboot this. Maybe you don’t believe you’re no’ gaunny reoffend. Nae changin’ your nature, eh? What’s bred in the bone, will not out of the flesh. Or maybe you don’t believe my story?

  Aye, that’s a fair shout. I didnae tell the whole truth. The story’s nae lie, but I changed the perspective a wee bit, for dramatic effect. You see, if you werenae so blissfully oblivious of whose hoose you happen tae be screwin’on any given night, you might have noticed fae the doorplate that my name’s no Rab. I wasnae wan ay the burglars.

  I was the Sergeant.

  I’m retired noo, obviously, but I still perform certain services in the village. We’re a close-knit community, ye could say. So I ought to let you know, when you heard me on the phone earlier, sayin’ I’d caught a burglar and tae come roon soon as, it wasnae 999 I dialled. Mair like 666, if you catch my drift. ’Cause, let’s face it, naebody knows you’re here, dae they?

  Are you a virgin, by the way?

  Aye, right.

  Doesnae matter really. Either way, you’re well fucked noo.

  * * *

  Aye, good evening officer, thanks for coming. He’s through there. Sorry aboot the whiff. I think you could call that the smell of restorative justice.

  Go easy on him. I’ve a strong feelin’ he’s aboot tae change his ways. A magical transformation, you could cry it.

  How do I know? Personal experience, officer. Personal experience.

  The Resurrection

  (i)

  He ignored the knocking at first, deceiving himself that it was merely the spiteful hand of the wind dashing another palmful of raindrops against the door barring its entry to light and warmth. Donald looked back down at the ledger, the sole text in the shop by his own hand; unfinished but already a tale more dismaying than was to be found in any of the volumes clinging so stubbornly to his shelves. He’d admit the scrawlings might not appear so dreadful to a stranger’s eye, but then the stranger would not have read the tome’s companion pieces, to be found in the respective libraries of a publican on Cowgate and a Musselburgh gentleman who dealt in an altogether different manner of book.

  The panes rattled once more, this time with a rhythm undeniably human. It was time. Inexorably it was time. He closed the ledger with a beaten sigh and sloughed towards the door, where outside a cowled figure waited in the rain. Behind him the black shape of the court building rose in silent admonition.

  Donald opened the door and stepped to one side, unable to look his brother in the eye as he entered. Rainwater immediately pooled beneath Andrew’s absurdly portentous cloak, and the sack he’d been carrying hit the floorboards with all the thumping weight of a gallows trapdoor.

  ‘You know, there was no need to dress quite so… appropriately,’ Donald muttered, fingering the ghoulish garment. ‘You look like you’ve been raiding warlock’s wardrobe.’

  ‘There is the slightest drop of rain outside, Donald,’ he replied, discarding the maligned mantle. ‘Though you may not have noticed from the recess of your snug wee sanctuary. Now then, are we ready?’

  Donald looked down at the sack, the lumpen head of a hammer jutting from the rude cloth. He swallowed, looking around the room for counsel. From his desk the ledger stared back insistently.

  ‘And Dr Knox definitely told you he…’

  ‘Yes,’ Andrew interrupted. ‘Are we ready?’ he repeated.

  Donald bit his lip and nodded.

  Andrew loosed the first stone after a candle-dancing age of worrying at its edges with his chisel. He passed it to Donald, who placed it delicately behind him on the basement’s flags. Soon enough the stones were coming loose with greater ease. Donald was building a pile of t
hem upon the floor, feeling as though he was burying his condemned soul beneath the rude cairn.

  It had been his incorrigible brother who’d mentioned that the bookshop’s storeroom abutted the Infirmary Street morgue, and oh how Donald had piled his rancour upon the rogue and his unspeakable suggestion. But that was back when he’d had money enough for pints, punts and piety. In time he’d been forced to remove each heavy stone he’d laid upon Andrew, as surely as his brother was now removing them from the basement wall.

  Edging through the gap, they found themselves in a tiny room, no more than a cupboard, but before Donald could suggest they’d made a mistake and bid they retreat, Andrew had found a door and pushed it open.

  The four bodies lay under colourless sheets, their shapes hazily described against the gloom once Andrew had kindled a wall-mounted oil-lamp. Donald, who had ventured no further than the cupboard’s doorway, wasn’t sure he didn’t prefer the dark.

  ‘Which one?’ he asked, trembling – as though it made a difference.

  Andrew was lifting each sheet in turn to examine the faces beneath, ignoring one corpse which looked too obese to carry, far less squeeze through their narrow aperture.

  ‘This one,’ he decided, and beckoned Donald to approach. As he did so there sounded a low, rumbling belch from somewhere in the room, causing both brothers to cease their breath in startlement. Andrew laughed after a moment’s pause.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s normal for them to do that, I’m told,’ he assured. ‘Come on. You take the feet.’

  Donald grimaced in anticipation of the cold flesh, then snapped his hands back in fright as the silence was punctured again, this time by a long and piercingly sonorous fart.

  ‘It’s normal for them to do that, too,’ Andrew said, giggling like a schoolboy. ‘Unless, of course, that was you.’

  ‘No it damned well wasn’t me,’ Donald hissed, fastening one reluctant hand around a clammy ankle. ‘It was the big fat one there.’

  ‘True enough. I forgot, yours always slip out in their stockings.’