The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  It was some sort of machine shed: two tractors, a JCB digger, and a huge yellow combine harvester loomed in the darkness. The air scented with diesel and rust.

  He dumped Number Five behind the combine and gave him another free boot in the ribs. Then hissed his way down and rummaged through the stabby sod’s pockets.

  ‘Come on, you have to have a phone here somewhere.’

  But he didn’t. Nothing but lint, change, and a bunch of used tissues. Not even a wallet with ID.

  ‘Arrrgh! Bloody, bastarding…’

  Deep breaths.

  Logan slumped there, breathing, then forced himself to his feet. Wobbled a bit. Put a hand on the combine harvester to steady himself.

  The cottage – they’d have a phone. All he had to do was sneak in, call 999 and hope they could trace his location, because he didn’t have a sodding clue where in the hell he was right now. Get the cavalry to descend on the place like a million angry bricks.

  He lurched away, leaving a bloody handprint behind.

  All the breath rushes out of her body as the door opens and Number Four leads Aiden into the room.

  Her Aiden.

  Oh God, he’s beautiful. Her beautiful baby boy.

  The world blurs. She blinks and blinks, but more tears come.

  Aiden.

  Six and a half now, but still small, with blond ringlets hanging around his beautiful face in delicate curls.

  Oh Aiden.

  They’ve dressed him up in shorts, white socks, sandals, and a Paddington Bear T-shirt. He doesn’t smile. Or cry. In fact, there’s no expression on his face at all – like he’s been unplugged.

  Oh, Aiden, what have they done to you?

  Pig groans, both hands clenching and unclenching in front of his groin. Tiger stands up a bit straighter. Rat makes a nervous giggling sound. But everyone stares.

  The Auctioneer turns his palms upward and stares at Number Four, who shrugs in reply.

  Aiden’s so close now. It doesn’t matter what they’ve done: she can fix it. It doesn’t matter what she’s done: it was worth it. Everything was worth it, to be here and see him again. To save him. To bring him home.

  She would’ve killed a thousand Beckys, to hold him in her arms.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, before we begin, please remember that Aiden MacAuley has only had one careful loving owner since he was abducted three and a half years ago. And that this is a very reluctant sale, due to ill health.’ The Auctioneer claps his hands together. ‘Now, shall we start the bidding at twenty-five thousand pounds?’

  Logan hurpled around the side of the cottage, keeping to the shadows. Not that there was a lot of light about anyway. Rain thrummed against his peaked cap, thumped into his shoulders, dripped off his hands, stole warmth from his bare arms.

  What idiot decided it was a good idea to make police uniform a T-shirt? What happened to nice thick sleeves?

  He staggered to a halt at the gable end, where a big grey BT box was mounted beneath the guttering. A cable dangled from it, the end cut clean across.

  Great.

  He turned. A telegraph pole sat a hundred or so yards away, the other end of the cable drooping to the ground.

  Because it couldn’t be that easy, could it? No, of course it couldn’t. Nothing ever was.

  He lurched around the corner again.

  Well, if the cavalry wasn’t coming, he’d have to do it himself, wouldn’t he?

  Assuming he didn’t bleed to death first.

  Logan limped his way across the grass to the concrete slab between the two buildings. Then snuck over to the open door and peered inside.

  It was a space about the size of a really large double garage, walled off from the rest of the shed. An ancient tractor rusted in the corner with a couple of chunks of agricultural equipment stacked up beside it. Racks of tools around the walls, most of which looked as if they’d last seen service digging for victory. But the really interesting things sat in the middle of the straw-strewn floor: six wooden crates, each one with ‘LOT’ and a number spray-painted on the top.

  LOT 4 and LOT 6 lay open, but the other four were still bolted shut. Little eyes peered out at him from between the slats.

  And they weren’t the only ones in here, either. What looked very much like a body was bundled up in bloodstained plastic sheeting, beneath a rack of antique shovels.

  There, but for the grace of battering Number Five’s head off the concrete…

  Logan lumbered over and unbolted LOT 1.

  A little boy flinched away from him, cowering in the corner of his crate. Blond hair, a dark port-coloured birthmark reaching across his cheek and down one side of his nose. Stephen MacGuire. The wee boy abducted from East Kilbride.

  Logan put a finger to his lips. ‘Shh…’ Keeping his voice soft and quiet. ‘It’s OK. I’m a policeman.’ He reached in, took hold of Stephen under the arms and lifted him out. Ow! Ow! Flames raced around Logan’s torso. Put him down. PUT HIM DOWN!

  He lowered Stephen to the ground and promptly doubled over, both hands clutching at the hole in his side, eyes screwed shut, teeth gritted so hard his cheeks ached.

  Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

  OK. Not doing that again.

  Dragging was bad enough, but lifting was horrific.

  He straightened up and limped over to LOT 2. Undid the bolt. A little girl topped with an explosion of Irn-Bru-coloured curls glowered up at him, teeth bared. She lunged towards his fingers, mouth open.

  He snatched his hand away before she could sink her teeth into it. ‘Yeah, you can definitely get yourself out of there.’

  LOT 3 opened to reveal a small girl in pink dungarees with embroidered sunflowers on them. She clambered from her cage and stood there staring at him with her thumb in her mouth.

  Logan unbolted LOT 5. Smiled down at the wee girl with the blonde curls and big green eyes. Kept his voice down. ‘Ellie Morton, I presume?’

  For some strange reason, she was dressed up in a white smock with wings and a coat-hanger-and-tinsel halo. Ellie climbed out to join her fellow auction lots and the whole bunch of them stood and stared at him as if he was some sort of weird and amazing animal. Well, all except for Bitey McIrn-Bru, glowering away on the edge of the group, clutching a lumpy-looking teddy bear.

  He nodded at the open crate with ‘LOT 6’ painted on it. ‘Where’s number six?’

  Bitey bared her teeth again. ‘One of the tits took him!’

  ‘Shhh!’ Logan put a finger to his lips and hissed it out. ‘You have to whisper.’

  The little girl in the pink dungarees pointed towards the door at the other end of the equipment shed.

  ‘Thank you.’ Logan limped over, opened the door a crack, and peered through the gap.

  A cattle court, divided in two by a central walkway. Farm machinery on one side, people on the other. One, two, three … about a dozen of them in assorted animal masks, six in numbered masks, and a guy up on the central walkway in a grey one. The Animals were gathered around something, blocking Logan’s view – so probably LOT 6.

  A woman’s voice cut through the air. Hard and precise. ‘Thirty-seven thousand.’

  Then a different woman. Softer. ‘Thirty-eight thousand.’

  Nineteen of them.

  And he’d nearly died taking on just one.

  Logan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a harsh metallic taste behind.

  What the hell was he supposed to do?

  Couldn’t leave LOT 6 behind. Could he?

  No, of course he couldn’t.

  So what: charge in and get himself killed? Then all the kids he’d set free would be rounded up and handed over to whichever paedophile had bid the most for them? Yeah, that sounded like an excellent plan.

  Logan eased the door shut again, then winced down in front of Bitey. ‘You’re the bravest one here, aren’t you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘OK. Good. What’s your name? And quietly this time.’

  ‘Reb
ecca.’ She held up the bear. ‘This is Orgalorg.’

  ‘Rebecca. Right: I need you to look after the others, Rebecca, can you do that?’

  A frown put wrinkles between her orange eyebrows.

  He took off his peaked cap and plonked it on her head. ‘I’m making you and Organthingumy official deputy police officers.’

  It was far too big for her, but she frowned up at him from beneath the brim and nodded. ‘Does that mean we can arrest people for being tits?’

  Wow. Not so much as a smile. She was serious.

  ‘Er… Not today, but maybe tomorrow? Today you’re going to help me get these kids to safety.’ He winced his way upright again. ‘Everyone hold hands and follow me.’

  Logan stuck his hand out and Rebecca took it, gave him the bear, then jabbed her other hand towards Stephen MacGuire.

  He didn’t take it. He leaned over to one side and frowned at the courtyard instead. ‘But it’s raining.’

  ‘Don’t be a tit or I’ll arrest you.’

  He did as he was told. Then Ellie took his other hand and Pink Dungarees took hers. All in one short-ish crocodile.

  ‘We have to be quick and super quiet, OK?’

  They nodded and he led the way out the door and into the rain. Across the concrete, past the parked cars and the big barky dog. Through the gap between the cottage and the machine shed, where the concrete gave way to a small grass verge bordered by a barbed-wire fence.

  Logan had a good long look at the farm buildings – no sign that they’d been spotted – then off into the night. Lights flickered in the distance, swimming in and out of view. Farms, houses, it didn’t matter. As long as it wasn’t here.

  He gritted his teeth and lifted the wee girl in the pink dungarees over the fence. Hissed out a lungful of broken glass, then did the same with Stephen MacGuire. Had to pause for a couple of deep breaths as fire raged through his stomach. It was Ellie Morton’s turn next, who, let’s be honest, looked utterly ridiculous in her primary-school-nativity angel costume. It had developed a big smear of red by the time he lowered her on the other side of the fence.

  He bent double, panting, left hand braced against his knee to keep him upright, right hand pressed against the stab wound to keep everything in.

  God…

  Come on. Only one more to lift over. Then you can go get yourself killed. At least then the pain would go away.

  Right.

  He straightened up in time to see Rebecca throw her teddy bear over the barbed wire, then climb the nearest fence post and jump down the other side.

  She reclaimed the bear, adjusted her oversized hat and nodded at him.

  He pointed over the wire, towards the furthest set of lights in the distance. ‘I want you to run all the way over there. Can you do that?’

  They all stared at him. Nobody moved.

  ‘Look, I’m not abandoning you, I’m… I have to go back and make sure the other little boy or girl is OK. OK?’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Please. Just stick to the shadows and don’t talk to anyone until you get there. If you see someone, hide.’

  For God’s sake, why wouldn’t they go?

  He winced down in front of Rebecca, smiling at her through the fence as he unbuttoned one of the epaulettes from his T-shirt. ‘You’re an official deputy police officer, remember?’

  ‘I can arrest people tomorrow.’

  ‘But today, you get these kids to safety and you call the police and you read them the number on this thing.’ He handed the epaulette between the strands of barbed wire. ‘You read them the number and you tell them “officer down”, OK?’

  ‘Officer down.’

  ‘Good girl. Now go. Run.’

  Please.

  Don’t stand there like a bunch of bloody garden gnomes in the rain.

  Run.

  Go.

  PLEASE.

  The tiny girl in the pink dungarees burst into tears.

  Rebecca’s scowl deepened, then she stomped over and thrust the teddy bear into her arms. ‘Orgalorg will look after you.’

  She blinked up at Rebecca, bottom lip trembling, then gave the bear a big squishy hug.

  Rebecca grabbed her hand, then turned and did the same with Stephen’s. ‘Come on, you tits!’ She ran and the others ran with her – Ellie catching up to make the crocodile whole again. By the time they’d reached the drystane dyke they were almost invisible in the dark, only Ellie Morton’s bloodstained angel costume gave their position away.

  Then they scrambled over the wall and were gone.

  Thank you…

  He sagged against the fence post, and breathed – great ragged plumes of fog that drifted away in the rain. In and out. In and out. Until the fire scorching its way through him had faded to glowing embers again.

  Cold water trickled down the nape of his neck. Wasn’t a single inch of him that was still dry. Or warm.

  He turned, teeth chattering as a wave of cold shivered its way through him. ‘Smart move, Logan. Sending five wee kids off to get help. On their own. In the dark. And the rain. When the place is crawling with paedophiles. Really smart.’

  He limped onto the concrete between the buildings again, sticking up two fingers as he passed the barking dog in its four-by-four. ‘Well what was I supposed to do, leave the sixth one behind? No. Of course not. So shut up and leave me alone.’

  His feet scuffed through puddles, making for the machine shed. ‘Assuming I don’t bleed to death first.’

  Logan hauled open the door and staggered inside. Lurched around the combine harvester to where Number Five lay. Spat. Bared his teeth. ‘Why did you have to have a bloody knife?’

  One more kick in the ribs for luck.

  Pff…

  ‘OK, I’m going to need your jacket, your mask, and your hoodie.’

  Only there was no way they were coming off with Number Five’s hands cable-tied together. Should have got his clothes off before tying him up. And while we’re picking holes, it might have been better not to leave the packet of cable ties back at the Clio, unless the idea was to let the guy go free.

  ‘Oh yes, thank you, Captain Hindsight. Very helpful.’

  Logan lumbered back to Danielle’s car, stuffed the packet into his pocket, grabbed the duct tape for good luck, and returned to the machine shed. Swearing all the way.

  He unfolded the butterfly knife, squatted down and heaved Number Five over onto his side. Sawed through the plastic strip. Stole his gloves. Then struggled him out of his jacket and hoodie, leaving him in a Stereophonics T-shirt.

  Good. He could freeze his nipples off for a change.

  It took a bit of doing, but Logan got one of the guy’s arms up behind the combine harvester’s bottom step, then out through the gap between the treads. Hauled the other arm up the front and zipped a new cable tie tight around both wrists. Number Five was going nowhere.

  And then, just to be petty, he wrapped a strip of duct tape around the guy’s head, making sure it was nice and stuck in his eyebrows and hair. ‘Serves you right.’

  The hoodie made Logan’s T-shirt stick to his torso like a clammy claggy hug. The jacket was too tight across the shoulders, but good enough. Now all he needed was the mask.

  Back outside.

  He inched down and felt under Danielle’s Clio. Had to be somewhere around here… Aha! It was lurking behind the passenger-side rear wheel.

  Logan picked it up.

  Sod.

  The plastic face was cracked down the middle, probably due to all the punching, and the strap was broken on one side so it wouldn’t stay on. Not even duct tape was going to fix that.

  Well, it’d have to do.

  He limped across the concrete and into the equipment shed.

  Someone had filled his boots with lead as well as rainwater – that’s why they were so heavy. Number Five’s jacket must’ve been lined with it too, because the weight of it made his arms droop at his sides. Pushed his shoulders down.

  Come on, at le
ast he was warming up a bit. That was something, right?

  ‘I need a sodding holiday…’

  OK, to-do list.

  Empty crates: check.

  Body wrapped in plastic sheeting: not check.

  He stumbled over there, unfolded the butterfly knife again – not easy with gloves on – and slit the plastic from head to chest. A man. Dressed in black. With a black fabric bag covering his face. It probably wasn’t him that put it on, though.

  Logan took hold of the bag’s top and pulled it free. Stared down at the battered and bruised head it’d been covering. Was that…?

  He got closer. It was. Angela Parks – the journalist from Ellie Morton’s house. The one Russell Morton called a ‘skinny munter cow’. The one desperate to know if the Livestock Mart was real. The one who now looked as if she’d been run over by a minibus. Repeatedly.

  ‘Great…’

  He laid the bag over her face like a veil and hauled himself upright again. ‘Come on, Logan: how do we do this? How do we do this?’

  One old tractor. Six empty crates.

  ‘I know: I’ll ask them nicely to surrender or I’ll bleed on them.’

  What else?

  ‘Need a weapon.’

  He held up the butterfly knife. ‘And you’re sod-all use, there’s hundreds of them.’ He folded it shut and stuffed it in his ‘borrowed’ jacket’s pocket. Needed something a bit more heavy-duty than that.

  How about the racks of ancient equipment?

  Logan hefted a rusty crowbar from a collection of clamps, shovels, and fencing tools. Substantial. Solid. Nearly as long as his arm. ‘Not perfect, but you’ll do.’

  He slapped it into the palm of his other hand, smacking it against the leather. ‘And stop talking to yourself. You sound like a mad person.’ Then he pulled up the hoodie’s hood, held the mask over his face, opened the door through to the cattle court and slipped inside.

  46

  The circle of animal masks had widened. Now, a little boy in shorts, sandals, and a Paddington Bear T-shirt was clearly visible – standing between a woman in a sort of crocodile mask and the woman in the snake mask. The boy looked a bit older than he had in Cold Blood and Dark Ganite, but it was definitely him: Aiden MacAuley.