Birthdays for the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  He half helped, half dragged me out of the car. ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘Isn’t… Yeah.’ Step, scuff… Step, scuff…

  He lifted my arm and hooked it over his shoulder. ‘Not much further.’

  The back door opened with a Yale key and we hobbled along a narrow corridor to a flight of stairs, going down. Bloody hell, why did it have to be stairs?

  Step, thunk… Step, thunk… Using my heel to take the weight.

  A blue door lay at the bottom with a letterbox in it. Dawson took out his keys again, fiddled with the locks, and we were through into a little basement flat filled with the sticky warm smell of baking.

  He closed the door and locked it again – three heavy deadbolts, and a metal rod that hooked into a big steel plate on the door and an eyelet in the floorboards.

  We had cannabis farms back home with weaker security.

  Dawson took off his coat and hung it on a hook. ‘Bren? Bren, it’s me.’

  A voice from down the hall. ‘How was practice?’

  He led me through into a little kitchen, painted a cheery shade of yellow. A young girl stood in front of an electric cooker, stirring something in a pot. ‘Fish fingers and apple crumble, if you’re…’ She turned – long blonde hair, with a razor-sharp fringe like her mum.

  The smile on Brenda Chadwick’s face disappeared. She dropped her wooden spoon and cupped her swollen belly with both hands. ‘Who’s this?’

  Dawson held up his hands. ‘It’s OK, I can explain.’

  ‘You’d better!’

  A cup of hot milky tea and a plate of fish fingers, mash potato, and spaghetti hoops sat on the table in front of me. Congealing while Dawson and Brenda wolfed down their dinner.

  Brenda scooped up the last of her hoops, then sat back – stroking the top of her bulge. ‘So you see, we couldn’t stay. If Dawson’s mum found out I was pregnant she’d kill our baby. And me.’

  ‘Could’ve run away.’

  Dawson shook his head, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. ‘You don’t know Mum. She’d find us, wherever we went.’

  Brilliant. I pushed my plate away. ‘But not if she thought Brenda was already dead.’

  ‘That’s why I said I saw Bren getting grabbed.’ He stared down at his hands. ‘Mum didn’t used to be like this, it’s only since they crippled Dad…’

  Just a working mother looking after the family business.

  Brenda stared at me. ‘It was my idea. They printed that Inverness girl’s card in the papers, and we made our photo look like that.’

  ‘You faked the abduction, you faked the card, and you got a flat in Gloucester to hide in.’

  Dawson nodded. ‘A man takes care of his family.’

  A pair of thirteen-year-olds playing house. Yeah, that was going to last.

  Brenda smiled up at him. ‘I know it’s not much, but it’s ours. Dawson skims a little from his mum every week: enough to pay the rent and buy things for the baby.’

  ‘I’m saving up for a deposit. We’ll have a real home soon.’

  My phone rang. Dawson and Brenda flinched. I let it go through to voicemail. ‘What about your mum and dad?’

  She lowered her head. ‘This way, she won’t hurt them either.’

  After dinner, Dawson helped me through into the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the toilet while Brenda cut away the scuffed black-plastic bag, then the duct tape underneath. The towel was stained dark red – it splatched down into the yellow bathtub, sending little droplets of blood up the sides.

  ‘Oh dear…’ She licked her lips, rubbed the fingertips of her Marigold gloves together. Stared at the dripping mass of duct tape and leather. ‘Do you want me to pull the shoe off, or should I, you know: cut it?’

  Now the bathroom smelled of fireworks and black pudding.

  ‘Cut it. It’s ruined anyway.’

  I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. Bits of shoe clattered into the tub.

  A clunk. A hiss. Then warmth spread across my foot.

  I peeked.

  Brenda played the shower head back and forth, washing off thick slugs of congealed blood. She puffed out her cheeks, brows creased. ‘Come on, Bren, you can do this…’

  Pink appeared through the red and black, then pale flesh. The whole thing was swollen and distended, like a massive wasp sting, centred around a dark circle – not much bigger than a garden pea – an inch from where the foot became toes. The starburst of black that had marked the shoe was there around the bullet hole too. Little black flecks of powder tattooed into the skin. Tiny slivers of cream poked out of the swollen mess. Bone.

  Pink oozed out, staining the water.

  She looked up at me. ‘My sewing’s not very good, but I’ve got disinfectant…?’

  ‘Clean it up and bandage it. It’ll be fine.’ I tried for a smile while I bled into her bathtub. ‘You’re doing good. You’ll make a great mother.’

  Gangrene wasn’t fatal any more, right?

  Rain drifted down, shimmering in the streetlights. Dawson shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I’m sorry, I really am. You came here because of us, and I’m sorry we can’t help save your daughter.’ He dug into his pocket, and produced a clear plastic bag with a dozen little round pills in the bottom. ‘Amphetamines: they’ll help keep you awake. And I’ve put a full tank of petrol in the car.’

  I took the pills, slipped them into my jacket. ‘You can’t keep skimming product from your mum, someone’s going to notice.’

  His chin came up. ‘A man’s got to provide for his family.’

  ‘Parents fuck you up.’ I climbed in behind the Renault’s wheel. ‘You’re a good kid, Dawson: don’t turn out like your mum.’

  He grinned at me. ‘Don’t worry – I look shit in tights.’

  Headlights streaked past on the other side of the motorway, leaving glowing trails behind them that crackled and pulsed in time with my throbbing foot. Wasn’t easy working the accelerator and brake with my left, but it was do-able. Just.

  Bloody heroin was wearing off. My jackhammer heart wouldn’t slow down, no matter how much I ground my teeth. Bloody amphetamines. And the high blood pressure wasn’t exactly helping the hole in my foot either. But at least I was still going…

  The windscreen wipers groaned and squealed back and forth in the drizzle, sounding like angry crows waiting to tear out my eyes.

  Have to stop soon and get petrol. Take some of the Naproxen, Diclofenac, and Tramadol I’d rescued from the house. Keep the pain down far enough to drive.

  According to the dashboard clock it was a little after half ten. An hour and a half till midnight. Seventeen hours from then till five o’clock Monday evening. One and a half plus seventeen was… I ground the heel of my hand into my eye. Why did the headlights have to be so sodding bright? Eighteen and a half.

  Eighteen and a half hours until the Birthday Boy started cutting chunks off my little girl.

  I shifted my left foot slightly, keeping the Renault at a steady seventy up the M6. Flashing my warrant card might have worked on the way down, but that was before I had pupils like huge black buttons and a bullet hole in my foot.

  Preston went by on the left-hand side, nothing more than lights in the darkness and a name on a sign that glistened with rain.

  Eighteen and a half hours.

  My phone blared in my pocket. I dug it out: ‘Henry’. I pressed the button.

  ‘Is … isn’t working any more…’ The words were all slurred, running into one another.

  ‘You found Rebecca.’

  ‘I’ve been … I’ve been trying to think… But it’s so … difficult… I’m so sorry, Ash, so … so sorry.’ Unbelievable: I’d seen him down a whole bottle of Bells in one sitting and still look completely sober. ‘I want to … want to save her, but it… I can’t get… I don’t know what he wants…’

  ‘Henry, how much have you had to drink?’

  ‘I can’t do it any … any more. I’m… Shoul
d have stayed in Shetland. Ash, why … why did you make me come?’ A little sob. ‘She’s dead… It isn’t… I can’t.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Henry…’ I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. ‘You’re not the only one having a shite day, OK? Grow up.’

  Something roared past me in the outside lane, making the crappy little Renault lurch.

  ‘I should … should’ve caught him … years ago. Is all my fault. Is … no.’ Slurping, gulping, then a hissing breath. ‘I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry, Ash, I’m sorry. Is all my fault…’

  ‘Put the bloody bottle down, you useless drunken old bastard: I need your help! Katie’s still out there. There’s still time. We have to find him.’

  ‘Stupid, uselesssssss ol man… Should’ve … should’ve died years ago.’

  ‘Henry!’

  ‘Everyone I know … everyone’s dead.’

  A clunk, and then muffled crying.

  Thanks, Henry. Thanks a fucking heap.

  Monday 21st November

  Chapter 45

  Cold…

  I coughed, shivered. Opened my eyes. It was still dark. ‘Urgh…’ Everything ached from the base of my skull all the way down to the tips of my toes. I was in the passenger seat – reclined back as far as it would go – my coat draped across me as a makeshift blanket, breath hanging in front of me like fog in the gloom.

  The Renault’s windows were all steamed up.

  I scrubbed a hand across the chilled glass, making it cry condensation tears.

  Outside, the sky was blue-black; no sign of any stars. The massive bulk of an artic lorry sat in the space next to mine, facing the boarded-up services. A sign hung on the temporary security fence: ‘CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT, BUT DON’T WORRY, WE’LL BE BACK SOON!!!’

  Moving sent burning needles tearing up my right leg. I gritted my teeth. Tried to ride it out. But it wasn’t working.

  Ah, Jesus…

  Then someone started pounding a hammer into my foot: thump, thump, thump, in time with the blood in my ears.

  Tramadol and Diclofenac: I popped three of each out of their blister packs and dry-swallowed them.

  Come on, come on, work. Work.

  The breath hissed out of my mouth, taking a shower of spittle with it.

  Fuck…

  I slammed a punch into my leg.

  ‘WORK!’

  Banged my head back against the seat.

  Not going away…

  God.

  Hauled in another breath.

  The pills weren’t working…

  I fumbled Eugene’s junky starter kit out of my coat pocket and unzipped the shiny plastic with trembling fingers. It looked like an exchange pack – the kind that chemists gave away free, trying to keep intravenous drug users from infecting themselves or anyone else. The only bits that looked as if they hadn’t come from Boots were the three tinfoil wrappers, the cheap plastic lighter, and the instruction sheet. A step-by-step how-to guide to forever fucking your life up.

  I followed it to the letter.

  Only a half-dose this time. That’d be safe, wouldn’t it? Enough to take the pain away and not leave me a dribbling wreck.

  Nothing. Nothing… And there it was – the same rushing warmth from last night, forcing down the stabbing, throbbing ache. I sagged back into the seat as if my joints were made of jelly. Brain all muggy. The sound of distant church bells. Melting…

  Maybe Dawson’s mum was telling the truth? Maybe there wasn’t rat poison and caustic soda scouring its way through my veins, killing me from the inside out. Just the heroin.

  Get up you lazy bastard. The Birthday Boy’s got Katie.

  I blinked at my watch, squinting to get it into focus. Nearly half-six in the morning.

  Get up…

  I knocked back a couple of Dawson’s little white pills, then lay back and waited for them to work their magic. Heroin and amphetamines for breakfast. Most important meal of the day.

  There was a slightly gamey smell in the car, as if something in the fridge was on the turn. Not rancid, but heading that—

  Oh God… My stomach rolled and boiled. Lurched.

  I scrambled out into the morning, fell on my knees, and heaved.

  A swirl of sour steam wafted up from the puddle of vomit. I spat, wiped the string of spittle from my chin with my sleeve.

  Foot felt a lot better now. No more throbbing.

  I limped across the car park, past the dark and silent lorries, to the garage at the end. Its forecourt and pumps were all lit up like Las Vegas. Even had a wee shop attached where you could pay for your petrol.

  I wobbled in, bought six bottles of water, a couple of Ginsters pasties, and a packet of extra-strong mints. The guy behind the counter looked at me as if I was about to bite him.

  I paid in cash. Turned. And stopped. Frowned. There were dark-red streaks on the grey terrazzo floor, as if someone had dragged a chunk of fresh roadkill across it. Didn’t notice them on the way in. Too focused on getting something to drink.

  Cheeky bastard: staring at me like I was some sort of freak, when he was the one with the filthy bloody floor.

  More streaks on the faded tarmac outside.

  Place was a pigsty.

  I limped back towards the car.

  The water was ice cold; I gulped down a whole bottle, scrunched up the plastic and dumped it in a forecourt bin. Then tore open the ham-and-cheese pastry. Wasn’t really hungry, but heroin and amphetamines probably weren’t a great idea on an empty stomach. I drained the second bottle and started in on the cheese-and-onion slice, getting flakes of pale gold all down the front of my shirt.

  I brushed them away. Frowned again. My shirt was all stained with something reddish-brown. That wasn’t right… Oh, sodding hell: Big Ed’s fist in my face. My tongue found the gap at the side where those two loose teeth used to be, jagged stumps sticking out of the gum.

  You’d think it would hurt more.

  ‘Ash?’

  Must be the drugs.

  ‘Oh, Ash, what happened to you?’

  Raising my head was like dragging an anchor through mud. Getting her in focus was even harder. ‘Dr McDonald?’

  It was: it was her. She was standing beside the Renault, wearing a big thick parka jacket, both arms wrapped around herself. No glasses, but lots of black eye makeup, lipstick so dark it was almost black, straight black hair, just like Katie… She looked beautiful.

  She rushed over and threw her arms around me, buried her head against my chest.

  I dropped my shopping and hugged her back.

  My little girl.

  ‘Ash? Ash, there’s another sign for the hospital…’ The morning was dark as a funeral. A heavy lid of grey hung over the three lanes of motorway, tiny flakes of delicate white sacrificing themselves against the Renault’s windscreen, holding on for a moment before they melted, or the wiper scraped their corpses to one side.

  ‘Ash?’

  I blinked, squinted. All the motorway signs were perched on top of concrete lintels spanning the road, glowing orange lettering telling Dr McDonald to ‘BE A COURTEOUS DRIVER’, ‘USE YOUR MIRRORS’, and ‘SPEED KILLS’.

  Especially when you mixed it with heroin.

  ‘Ash, I said there’s another—’

  ‘No hospitals.’

  She bit her bottom lip, that little crease denting her forehead between her eyebrows. ‘You need to see a doctor, they—’

  ‘It’s a gunshot wound, they have to report it by law. Soon as they do, that’s it: the police turn up, I can’t leave, and Katie’s dead.’ I rested my head against the cool window. ‘Anyway, you’re a doctor.’

  ‘No I’m not. I mean I am a doctor, but not that kind of doctor, I don’t know anything about bullet holes, I’ve only ever seen them on dead bodies…’ She reached across and put a hand on my leg. ‘Please don’t—’

  ‘Oldcastle. We have to go to Oldcastle.’ I took another swig of w
ater.

  ‘Thirsty…’ I rubbed a hand across my gritty eyes. Squinted out at the snow. It was heavier now, still not enough to lie on the ink-black road, but working on it. The traffic crawled in front of us, corralled into one lane by a regiment of orange cones, yellow lights flashing.

  ‘You’re awake.’ Dr McDonald reached behind her seat and came out with a bottle of mineral water. ‘How are you feeling?’

  I screwed the top off and drank. Downed half the bottle and surfaced again with a gasp. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Coming up to Stirling. Traffic’s horrible.’

  ‘Stirling…’ A smile pulled at my face. ‘Rebecca loved the Wallace Monument. Every time we went south we had to climb the bloody thing… All the way up to the top so she could see everything.’

  ‘Ash, I’m worried about—’

  ‘Katie hated it.’ I drained the rest of the bottle. Frowned. ‘How did you find me? I turned round and there you were…’

  ‘You need someone to look at your foot.’

  ‘In the car park, at the services, there you were…’

  ‘We had fish and chips in the car on Saturday night: you let me borrow your phone because I told you my battery was dead… I knew something was going to happen, I was worried about you and everything was going wrong, so I downloaded an app onto your phone that would track where you were.’ She hunched her shoulders, getting closer to the steering wheel. ‘Don’t be angry with me.’

  ‘Dr McDonald—’

  ‘Alice. Why can’t you call me Alice? Please.’

  I nodded. Alice. Not Dr McDonald. ‘Alice: thank you for coming to get me. Thank you for not making me go to hospital. And thank you for helping me find Katie.’

  She turned and beamed at me. ‘We’ll find her, won’t we?’

  Ten o’clock. We had seven hours.

  ‘Have to stop…’ Something was eating my foot, chewing through the flesh and sinews and bone with sharp metallic teeth. ‘Stop…’

  Alice looked across the car at me. ‘You should sleep.’

  ‘Can’t…’ The River Tay was a flat grey smear on the far side of the dual carriageway, a long line of skeletal trees standing guard in front of it. Waiting to drag us down into the frozen earth. ‘Hurts. Need my medication.’