Birthdays for the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Eugene grabbed a handful of my hair, then stuck the phone against my ear.

  ‘Are ye enjoyin’ the party I laid on for yez?’ Mrs Kerrigan.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Oh now, don’t be like that, Officer Henderson. Did I not tell yez I’d claim ye, ye little bollox? This is what ye get for stickin’ a gun in me face. Told yez ye should’ve pulled the trigger.’

  ‘You sent me down here for nothing? The bastard’s got my daughter and you’re fucking me about, wasting my time in fucking BATH?’

  ‘Listen up, gobshite: Mr Inglis went out of his way to get that lead for yez. He was doin’ you a solid. This little hooly yer havin’ now? That’s a gifter from me. Enjoy.’ She hung up.

  Terri smiled. ‘All done?’

  ‘Whatever she’s told you, it’s a lie.’

  ‘I don’t think so… Eugene?’

  He took the phone from my ear. ‘Sorry, Haggis.’ Hammered his fist into my stomach again.

  Fuck…

  Terri unzipped the holdall. ‘Maeve tells me Pitbull sent you all the way down here to talk to my Dawson. Imagine that? And I thought we’d got past the whole rat-poison-in-the-heroin thing. So tell me, Constable Henderson, what did Pitbull tell you to do?’

  I spat another mouthful of blood. ‘I don’t work for Andy Inglis. I … owe him some money, that’s all.’

  Eugene sucked in a breath, sounding like a car mechanic preparing to bend someone over the service desk. ‘Our mate here’s got six hunnerd notes on him.’

  ‘Constable Henderson: are you holding out on poor Pitbull?’

  ‘I’m not… I… You heard your monkey – my daughter was snatched. Dawson saw the Birthday Boy when Brenda Chadwick was abducted, I need to know—’

  This time the punch was hard enough to send the whole chair crashing over onto its back.

  Ahhh. Fuck… It was like being stabbed in the ribs with broken glass.

  The ceiling was bare joists, and cables, then the floorboards of the room above. Like the one in the birthday cards.

  ‘You’re awash with lies and deceit, Constable Henderson. That’s not good for the soul. You need to perform an act of atonement, like Virginia here.’

  I coughed. Little droplets of red pattered back down on my face. ‘I just want my daughter back…’

  ‘Brenda Chadwick was a cheap whore who tried to get her hooks into my son. Only twelve and she thought she could screw her way into my family. Imagine that?’ Terri frowned down at the table. ‘You can’t believe how delighted I was when Dawson came home and said she’d been abducted.’

  ‘He saw the Birthday Boy…’

  ‘Eugene: how much money did you say Constable Henderson had?’

  ‘Six hunnerd. Well, five hunnerd and eighty.’

  ‘Good, that’s more than enough.’ She picked my wallet off the table and counted out a wad of cash. ‘Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, and eighty. That’s enough to rent a gun for … oh, let’s call it fifteen minutes.’

  I blinked. ‘I don’t want—’

  ‘Of course you want a gun. You want to be saved don’t you?’ Back into the wallet. ‘Eighty for the gun and twenty for a bullet. But that’s not rental – you get to keep that.’

  Oh fuck.

  ‘Edward, help Detective Constable Henderson assume the position, will you?’

  Ed dragged the chair back upright, then cut the cable-tie holding my right wrist to the back of the chair. He grabbed my forearm in his huge scarred hand and hauled it up in the air, as if I was asking to go to the bathroom.

  ‘He’s all set, Terri.’

  She reached into the holdall and pulled out a freezer bag, the clear plastic kind with a zip-lock fastener. There was a gun inside, something big and black and deadly. She held the bag out. ‘Eugene, do the honours, will you?’

  ‘Pleasure.’ He snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, then took the gun out of the bag. ‘Bul Cherokee: nine millimetre, double action semiautomatic pistol; as used by the Israeli security forces.’ He drew the slide back and it stayed there. ‘Weighs seven hundred and five grams unloaded.’ He pressed a little black button on the black handgrip and the magazine slid out. Eugene caught it in his other huge hand. ‘Magazine takes ten rounds. You get one.’

  He picked another zip-lock bag from the holdall. This one had a rectangle of black foam rubber in it – about the size of a box of kitchen matches – studded with little shiny dome shapes. He popped open the bag and dug something out of the foam: a bullet; it glittered like polished gold. ‘Nine-mill Luger, one-twenty-four grain, full metal jacket.’ He thumbed the thing into the top of the magazine and slapped it back into the handgrip. Released the lock and the slide clacked forwards again. ‘Ready to roll.’

  Terri smiled. ‘Eugene likes guns, what can I say?’

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the thing. ‘Look: I only want to know what Dawson saw, I swear, I don’t—’

  Ed clamped his hand across my mouth, thick fingers digging into my cheeks. Eugene marched over, took my wrist from his mate and wrenched my arm down, pulling me forwards until my chest was against my knees – left arm still fastened to the chair.

  Ed leaned on my back, holding me in place, his other hand still clamping my jaws shut.

  Bastards… Struggling did nothing: Ed was too heavy.

  Eugene pressed the gun into my hand, forcing my fingers around the handgrip. ‘This little lever’s the safety catch.’ A click. ‘And you’re good to go.’

  Fine I’ll blow your head off you big hairy… My whole arm trembled with the effort, but he wouldn’t let go. He shoved the barrel of the gun over my right foot, forcing the end against my shoe.

  Terri raised her arms. ‘It’s time to atone, Detective Constable Henderson.’

  Fuck that.

  ‘Pull the trigger.’

  No way in hell was I pulling the trigger.

  ‘Either the bullet goes in your foot, or it goes in your head. Your choice.’

  Ed’s spit flecked the back of my neck. ‘DO IT!’

  Eugene’s spattered against my cheek. ‘FUCKIN’ DO IT!’

  ‘Your time’s running out, Detective Constable.’

  ‘DO IT!’

  ‘PULL THE TRIGGER, HAGGIS!’

  ‘You’ve only got the gun for another eight minutes.’

  ‘PULL THE FUCKIN’ TRIGGER!’

  ‘One way or another you’re taking that bullet with you.’

  ‘DO IT!’

  ‘PULL THE TRIGGER, OR I’M GONNA SHOOT YOU IN THE FUCKIN’ HEAD!’

  ‘Not much of a choice really, is it?’

  Did they really think I was going to shoot myself in the foot? Like I was a bloody idiot?

  Get stuffed.

  Eugene shook his head. ‘He don’t believe us. Haggis here thinks we’re kiddin’ about.’

  ‘Hmm…’ Terri picked up the grey dust sheet and draped it over Virginia’s battered body again. ‘What can we do about that, Eugene? What can we do to convince Constable Henderson?’

  Eugene tore the gun out of my hand, stood, aimed, and pulled the trigger. A sharp crack boomed around the room, reverberating off the stone walls. Virginia’s head jerked back under the dustsheet, the fabric billowing out behind her. Red spread like a field of poppies, seeping into the dusty material.

  Jesus… Right there, in front of me…

  ‘Thank you, Eugene, that’ll do nicely.’ Terri took two more tens out of my wallet. ‘But now Detective Constable Henderson needs another bullet.’

  He killed her, right there…

  Terri sighed. ‘Oh don’t look so shocked: as if I was going to let the lying bitch live after what she did to my Kenneth.’

  Eugene loaded the magazine, then pressed the gun back into my hand and forced the soot-streaked barrel against the top of my shoe again. ‘Last chance, Haggis.’

  ‘Your rental time’s running out, Constable Henderson.’

&n
bsp; ‘PULL THE FUCKIN’ TRIGGER!’

  ‘It goes in your foot, or it goes in your head.’

  What choice did I have?

  ‘DO IT!’

  I squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter 44

  The harsh crack reverberated around the room, deafeningly loud.

  Nothing – no pain. The bastards were winding me up, using blanks. It was all a big…

  FUCK.

  Fire ripped up my leg, radiating out from my right foot like an earthquake of molten metal. AAARGH, fucking FUCK… I jerked in the chair, trying to get away, but the pain was still there, following me. Screaming into Ed’s huge callused hand.

  Eugene took the gun from me and dropped it back in its zip-lock bag.

  Fuckers…

  Ed let go and I grabbed the seat, my whole body rigid. ‘FUCKING … SHIT! AAAAAAAARGH! BASTARD.’ I slumped forwards, clutching my right foot. ‘AAAAAAGH, BASTARDING FUCK!’ The hole in the top of the shoe was tiny – ringed around with flecks of grey, like a dark sunburst. ‘JESUS!’ The underside was wet, covered in grit from the floor. Bright red dripped through my fingers, pattering onto the dirt. ‘AAAAAAAAAARGH…’

  ‘All right, that’s enough self-pity.’

  ‘Self-pity? You fucking bastards! You fucking shit-eating wankers!’

  ‘Now, now, Detective Constable.’ Terri held up my wallet again, gave me a dazzling smile. ‘You’ve got more than enough money here; would you like to buy another bullet?’

  NO!

  I shook my head, clenched my teeth, hissed the breath in and out, in and out.

  Oh dear Jesus that hurt…

  ‘Would you like something for the pain?’

  ‘Yes.’ Forcing the word out like a gallstone.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…

  ‘Ed, would you be so kind as to fix Constable Henderson up?’

  ‘Pleasure.’ He grabbed my arm, held it out and twisted clockwise, so the elbow was locked, palm up. Ed dug his thumb into my skin, making a vein stand out, then pulled the safety cap off a syringe with his teeth.

  ‘I don’t want—’

  ‘Shhh, it’ll make everything all better.’

  ‘No, it…’

  The needle slid in. A small sting as he pressed the plunger.

  ‘There we go.’ Terri counted more money from my wallet onto the table. ‘That should be enough to cover our heroin starter kit. Don’t worry – it’s rat-poison free.’ She smiled. ‘Now, why don’t we give you a lift out of town?’

  Warmth sizzled through my body, radiating out from my heart. Making the walls pulse. As if the room was breathing…

  Terri’s mouth was moving, but the words didn’t make any sense, making far-off muzzy noises in the gloom.

  Foot didn’t hurt any more.

  ‘Right, Haggis, you got everythin’?’ Eugene stuck his hands under my armpits and levered me out of the Range Rover. Got me upright. Let go … then grabbed me again as the ground wobbled beneath my feet. ‘Whoa there, still not got your sea legs, eh?’ He leaned me back against the side of a wheelie bin.

  It was a lay-by, somewhere in the darkness outside Bath. Not even on the main road – traffic thundered somewhere off in the distance, just audible over the hissing in my ears.

  ‘Mmm’OK.’ Mouth wasn’t working properly. Numb, like the rest of me.

  ‘Right, I’m lettin’ go…’

  This time I stayed upright.

  ‘Good stuff. Open your hand.’

  I squinted at him, but he wouldn’t stay in focus. ‘Nnnn… Gnn shoot me gen.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Eugene dragged my hand up then tipped two little shiny things into my palm. Bullets. He squeezed my fingers around the gleaming brass casings, then took the bullets back and dropped them into a clear plastic freezer bag. Zip-locked it shut. ‘There you go. we get these, and you get this.’ He slid a plastic pencil case into my jacket pocket, then slapped me gently on the cheek. ‘Catch you later, Haggis.’

  Eugene peeled off his blue nitrile gloves, disappeared behind the car and climbed back in behind the wheel.

  Terri buzzed the passenger window down. She’d changed out of the dress into a yellow shirt, black denim jacket, and baseball cap. ‘Well, it’s been fun, but in case you’re thinking of hopping off to the nearest police station to file a grievance: please remember, yours are the only fingerprints on the gun.’

  I stared at her. Blinked in slow motion.

  ‘We have a dead slut with your bullet in her. And who knows where the gun will turn up next: armed robbery, dead cop, series of murdered prostitutes…?’ A wink. ‘You take care of that foot.’

  The Range Rover growled away from the lay-by, taillights glowing like the eyes of an evil cat. Shrinking. Then gone.

  All alone.

  All alone in the dark.

  Got to get back to Bath: find the car. Go home…

  My right foot dragged across the tarmac. Pins-and-needles wrapped in silver duct tape, wrapped in a towel, wrapped in more duct tape, wrapped in a heavy-duty bin-bag. Step, scuff… Step, scuff… Step, scuff, stumble. The ground rushed up to catch me. THUMP.

  Fuck.

  I lay on the road, in the dark and the cold, panting. Swearing.

  Katie…

  Crying.

  A thin frigid drizzle settled onto my face.

  ‘BASTARDS!’

  Deep in my pocket, my mobile rang. Took me three goes to drag it out. ‘DR MCFRUITLOOP’ flickered on the screen, then disappeared. Gone to voicemail.

  My legs wouldn’t work.

  I fumbled with the buttons for a while, and finally her recorded message crackled out of the speaker. ‘Ash? Hello, it’s Alice, Alice McDonald? OK: so Henry was right about everything – the Scenes Examination Branch have dug up all the spots he marked on the map and they’ve found the other bodies. All of them.’ A pause. Somewhere in the distance, a fox shrieked. ‘We’ve got eleven sets of remains in total – so there really was another victim five years ago. I wanted… I thought you’d like to know. Call me back when you get this… Please?’

  ‘End of message. To delete this message, press three.’

  They’d found Rebecca.

  I covered my face with my hands and sobbed. All these years, and my little girl was finally dead. Rain soaked through my hair, into my clothes, cold and damp on my numb skin.

  Katie and Rebecca…

  No.

  Get up: still got till five o’clock tomorrow.

  Get up.

  ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!’

  Up. NOW.

  I hauled myself onto my knees, then up onto my jittery feet. Step, scuff… Step, scuff… Step, scuff…

  Find him and kill him… Step, scuff… Step, scuff… Wrap my aching fingers around his throat and squeeze… Step, scuff… Step, scuff… Tie him to a chair in the basement… Step, scuff… Step, scuff… Carve shapes into his skin, listen to him scream… Step, scuff… Step, scuff…

  Headlights glittered in the darkness, getting closer.

  Step, scuff… Step, scuff…

  The car slowed, then rolled to a halt, right in front of me.

  Step, scuff… Step, scuff…

  The driver’s door opened, and a light came on inside. ‘Are you all right?’

  I blinked, rubbed a hand across my eyes.

  It was a kid: skinny, blond floppy hair, big gap between his front teeth. Dawson Whitaker, Terri’s son.

  I screwed up my face till the car came into focus too. A shitty Renault with dents down the side. My car. ‘That’s my car.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He opened the passenger door, hurried over and took hold of my elbow.

  Step, scuff… Step, scuff…

  ‘Watch your head.’

  I collapsed into the seat. ‘Want to go home…’

  Dawson licked his lips, fidgeted for a moment. Then got back in the car.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault.’ The kid
changed down, drifting into the outside lane to overtake a motor home. ‘I knew something was up – Mum won’t let me go to rugby practice without protection, not after what happened to Dad… But it’s usually just Eugene, or Ed, or Derek, never all three…’

  A motorway sign loomed out of the darkness: South Wales M4; Bristol (West), South West, Midlands (M5); Bristol M32.

  Dawson drove past the junction. ‘Can’t take you into Bristol – Mum does all her business there, if we show up at A&E she’ll know in fifteen minutes. We’re going to Gloucester.’

  I sagged further back into my seat. ‘No hospitals…’

  ‘You should settle down. Try to sleep or something.’

  Fat chance. ‘How did you find me?’

  He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. ‘What happened to your foot?’

  ‘An act of atonement.’ I made a gun from my fingers and pointed it at him. ‘Bang.’

  ‘Mum always dumps them on the way to work. I thought… Well, if you were still alive…’ Streetlights sparkled in the distance. We overtook a scabby Transit van. ‘Did the Birthday Boy really take your daughter?’

  ‘You drive pretty good for a wee boy.’

  ‘I’m thirteen. I’m not a child.’

  ‘Right.’

  He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, twisting his hands as if he was trying to wring its neck. All he needed was arthritis, a dead daughter, and a hole in his foot.

  The steering column’s plastic casing was cracked open like a big grey pistachio nut. Wires stuck out, their shiny copper ends twisted together. ‘You hotwired my car…’

  Dawson took a deep breath. Then the words came out in a rush, like a shaken can of Coke. ‘The Birthday Boy didn’t kill Brenda.’

  I sighed. Let my head fall against the cool glass of the passenger window. ‘It was your mum, wasn’t it? She didn’t approve.’

  ‘Thought she was a gold-digger, but Mum’s wrong.’

  ‘So she killed Brenda.’

  Silence.

  ‘No. Because I got there first.’

  The street was quiet and dark as Dawson pulled the Renault off the road and onto the square of gravel behind a bland concrete building: three storeys tall, lights glowing in the windows.

  I blinked. Arms were like lead, legs too. Probably lost a fair bit of blood.