Now We Are Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  OK, so it’s just a local interest piece for the twenty-four-hour news channel, but maybe they’ll edit it down and put you on the six o’clock too? Maybe then someone will finally recognise all your untapped TV potential?

  Maybe they’ll send you to exotic places to interview important people like the Dalai Lama? Maybe they’ll give you your own show? Then you’re on Strictly Come Dancing and there’s a massive book deal – not just a ghost-written autobiography either, a whole ghost-written series of bestselling children’s novels! An OBE for services to literature. A spot of charity work and BAM: Dame Anne Darlington, beloved by millions. I want to thank the Nobel Committee for this peace prize …

  And it all started right here, outside the Aberdeen branch of Markie’s.

  She pulled back her shoulders and sexied up her smile a bit.

  Maybe that was too sexy? Approachable but serious, that was what to aim for.

  She could do that.

  Chris the cameraman looked out from behind his viewfinder. Even with the sun blazing down he still had his bobble hat on, stubbled face pulled into a smile. ‘Don’t sweat it: you’re going to be great.’

  Yes. Yes she was.

  He pursed his lips. ‘Just as long as that copper in the background stops scratching at his arse.’ Chris stuck his hand out to one side, counting her down one finger at a time. ‘And we’re live in five, four, three, two …’ He made a swooshing gesture and she put on her approachable-but-serious voice to go with the approachable-but-serious smile.

  ‘Tensions are running high in Aberdeen today as the local Farm Workers’, Food Producers’, and Livestock Handlers’ Union protest about the proposed post-Brexit financial settlement.’ She turned and gestured across the square at a bunch of officers in their high-viz bobby-on-the-beat costumes. ‘As you can see, there’s a significant police presence here, after rumours circulated on social media that a number of extremist organisations were planning to use the protest as an excuse for violent clashes.’

  Bang on cue a vast combine harvester rumbled past, followed by a vintage tractor towing a trailer with an effigy of the Prime Minister being burnt at the stake on it – fake, tissue paper flames flickering in the breeze.

  A tad sinister, but great television.

  ‘So far, the demonstration has remained peaceful.’

  Bill’s voice sounded in her earpiece, all the way from the London studio. ‘And we understand the Cabinet Secretary for Rural Affairs has challenged Ronnie Wells to a debate.’

  She put a finger to her ear. ‘That’s right, Bill. Ronnie Wells has become a controversial figure since he took over the FWFPLH last May. He’s accused the Scottish government of abandoning Scotland’s rural communities in favour of an easy deal with Westminster.’

  The mock burning was followed by a jaunty pair of JCB diggers lofting a massive banner of their own: ‘FARMING LIVES MATTER!!!’ strung up between their raised backhoes.

  A mixture of cheers and boos rippled around the crowd as a handful of stodgy middle-aged men in bland suits clambered up onto a makeshift stage. The stodgiest and baldest of them shuffled over to the microphone.

  ‘Of course this is the Cabinet Secretary, George Rushworth’s, first public speech since the Arran-gate scandal, so we can expect some fiery rhetoric as he tries to put that behind him.’

  There was a squeal of feedback as he tapped the microphone, then George Rushworth MSP’s voice crackled out of the speakers. ‘Can you hear me OK? Good. OK. Right. I know feelings are running high, but I want you to know that the Scottish government cares passionately about farming in this country!’

  More booing.

  Alfie took one hand off the steering wheel, plucked the whisky bottle from the cup holder at his right elbow and knocked back a swig. It burned all the way down.

  Should’ve bought some of the good stuff, really. But how was he supposed to afford that? That was the whole point of this buggering exercise – how could he, or any other struggling farmer afford anything?

  Still. Would’ve been nice.

  The peaty fire spread out across his stomach then up into his chest. Then his brain, making it swell and tingle.

  I mean, take this big John Deere tractor, did anyone out there have the slightest idea how much it cost to keep one of these things going? The maintenance and servicing was bad enough, but what about all the diesel? And that was on top of the massive expense of buying the bloody thing in the first place. You could get a two-bedroom flat in Aberdeen for less than one of these.

  Another swig.

  Might as well enjoy it. There’d be sod-all whisky after they caught up with him. They were probably quite strict about that kind of thing in prison.

  Still, it wasn’t as if they’d left him any option, was it?

  They had no one to blame but themselves.

  The JCBs in front were all shiny and yellow, their banner strung between them crisp and clean.

  Not like the chunk of farm equipment he was towing.

  Look at it: lurking in the tractor’s wing mirrors. An evil black metal bomb. Big and dark and rusty at the edges. Ready to explode.

  His radio bleeped at him as the Royal Bank’s crisp granite frontage drifted by on the left – and there they were. Hundreds and hundreds of them, waving their silly little placards, as if that would make any difference.

  Nope.

  Only one thing ever made a difference. In a war you had to fight dirty.

  Henry’s voice crackled out of the set. ‘Go on, Alfie, let the bastards have it!’

  Alfie checked his mirrors again – Henry was there, giving him the thumbs up from the cab of his Massey Ferguson.

  It was time.

  One more swig of whisky for luck.

  Some of the crowd understood. Some of them were on the farmers’ side.

  Shame.

  But in any war there was always collateral damage.

  Alfie grabbed his radio handset and pressed the transmit button. Hauled in a big whisky-smoke breath. ‘YEEEEEEE-HAAAAAW!’

  He flicked the switch and pulled the lever.

  And may God have mercy on them all.

  II

  ‘Scottish farmers have every right to be angry. It’s vitally important that we sort this out, but we have to be realistic!’

  Tufty shrugged. Playing it cool. ‘So …’ not quite shouting over the speech belting out of the PA system, but close. ‘After the funeral, I thought we could pop round and see Mrs Galloway. I think she’d want to know that Pudding’s in safe hands till she gets out of hospital.’

  Constable Mackenzie nodded. ‘That’s true, but I don’t think she’d want to see me. After all, you’re—’

  ‘Nope. You arranged everything. You sorted out the crematorium. This wouldn’t have happened without you.’

  She went a little pink again. ‘It was nothing really.’

  ‘You did a lovely thing for a poor old lady. That’s not nothing, it’s …’ Tufty’s eyes widened. ‘Oh God!’

  The huge green-and-yellow tractor – the one crawling along behind the banner-flying JCBs – the one towing a big black slurry tank – the one whose driver seemed to be swigging from a bottle of supermarket whisky – gave a grumbling clunk and unleashed HORROR.

  The spray nozzle on the back burst into life sending out a massive brown peacock’s tail of foul-stinking liquid. Its leading edge spattered down on the crowd and their placards, painting them with filth.

  And that’s when the screaming started.

  The brown tide crawled forward.

  Spraying and splattering.

  Drenching everything it touched.

  Filling the square with the bitter-sharp stench of fermented pig manure.

  The people on the right-hand side of the square – the ones closest to the stage and furthest from the spray – struggled back, trying to get out of the way before the storm arrived. But there was nowhere to go. No escape. They just bunched up in a solid clump as the slurry rainbow got closer and closer.


  PC Mackenzie stared at him. ‘I don’t want to be covered in poo!’

  In the middle of the square, the steaming brown arc washed over the national media’s representatives, smearing the right and left wing alike. A woman with blonde curly hair screamed into her camera as she became a brunette.

  Oh no, here it came …

  Up on the stage, Boring Speech Man stood rooted to the spot, his voice still belting out of the PA system as the slurry found him. ‘AAAAAAGH! JESUS CHRIST! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! IT’S GONE IN MY MOUTH!’

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Tufty took a deep breath, grabbed PC Mackenzie and bundled her into a crouch, covering her with his own body – back hunched as foul coffee-coloured rain pattered against his high-viz jacket and drummed on his cap. Soaked into the sleeves of his T-shirt. Trickled down the back of his stabproof vest. Slithered between the hairs on his arms.

  Argh, the smell! The smell! The smell!

  It took a count of three for the downpour to pass.

  Tufty straightened up and PC Mackenzie came with him. Staring around her.

  From here right back to the Royal Bank, people were yelling and spitting and swearing. On the other side – the as-yet unspattered side – everyone was backed up against the Clydesdale Bank, scrabbling to escape with nowhere to go as the slurry wrapped them in its stinky embrace.

  And finally, the tractor and its evil tank were past – probably busy painting the front of the building instead.

  Steam rose from the crowd.

  Someone retched. Then someone else. Then it was an epidemic, spreading through the crowd.

  PC Mackenzie blinked up at Tufty, mouth hanging open. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’

  A voice yelled out from the other side of the square: ‘OH GOD, NOT ANOTHER ONE!’

  The tractor right behind the slurry tank was hauling a muck spreader – it hurtled chunks of straw-studded manure at the crowd.

  Steel was over by the barrier, standing like a scarecrow, dripping. ‘Gaaaaahhh …’

  Harmsworth, on her left, turned in small circles with his arms out – dancing with a large invisible bear. ‘No, no, no, no …’

  Lund, on her right, stood immobile and splattered, eyes wide as the dung thudded into the crowd opposite.

  Then Steel shook out her hands and roared. Wiped her face. Looked around. And ran towards Tufty, boots slithery-slipping on the wet paving slabs. She grabbed him and pointed down Union Street, towards the rear end of the spraying slurry tank. ‘You take that one. Arrest the dirty bastard. NOW!’

  She let go and sprint-skated for the muck spreader.

  Tufty stared at the back of the slurry tank. The guy driving still hadn’t turned off the jets and the stinking plume was wide enough to paint both sides of Union Street at the same time. Oh bumholeing motherfunker: to get to the tractor he’d have to run right through the spray.

  Deep breath.

  Yeah, probably shouldn’t have done that, the air tasted horrible.

  He ran.

  Right at the edge of the crowd, a large woman in a duotone tweed jacket and skirt – grey at the back, brown and slimy all up the front – sat on the pavement making little squealing noises. She was still clutching her placard: a big one with ‘SUCK IT UP, LIBTARD SNOWFLAKES ~ YOU LOST!!!’ printed in big red letters.

  He snatched the placard out of her hands on the way past, holding it up like a riot shield. Here we go: event horizon in three, two, one …

  GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

  Right through to the other side.

  Oh God, it was everywhere…

  He threw the placard away and pounded along the pavement, past the slurry tank and up level with the tractor’s cab. Waved at the driver. ‘HOY, YOU! STOP RIGHT THERE! HOY! POLICE!’

  But the bulb-nosed, overall-wearing, baldy-headed scumbag just stuck two fingers up and kept the whole thing chugging along at two or three miles an hour.

  Right.

  Tufty veered closer, till he was four foot from the steps up into the cab. ‘POLICE! SHUT THIS DAMN THING DOWN, NOW!’

  Farmer Stinky had a swig of whisky and put his foot down till the tractor chugged along at a steady jogging pace.

  Nothing for it then – he’d have to get into the cab and shut it down himself.

  Easy as pie, beans and chips.

  Get a bit closer, jump onto the step, grab the metal bar holding the wing mirror on, climb up, and open the door. No problems. As long as he didn’t miss. Or slip. Or fall. Because if he did any of those things he’d end up right under that massive back wheel, which would then grind him into the tarmac of Union Street like fourteen stone of mince in a stabproof vest and itchy trousers.

  Urgh …

  Come on, Tufty, save the day!

  He went for it. Jumping at the last minute and scrabbling for the wing-mirror support, hauling himself up onto the step.

  Not dead yet!

  From up here there was a great view down Union Street to the council buildings and the Castlegate beyond. All closed to traffic with a line of metal barriers. The only other cars in sight were the patrol car parked at the junction with Broad Street and a shiny black Bentley with little flags flying from sticks either side of the bonnet and a swanky private number plate.

  Which was a shame. Would’ve been nice if someone had been around to witness his historic leap. Oh Tufty, you’re such an action hero! A kind of sexier Bruce Willis, only with more hair and not in a vest. And covered in shite.

  Tufty took hold of the tractor door handle, pressing the button to open it … Nothing. The rotten sod had locked himself in.

  Farmer Stinky grinned through the window and glugged back another mouthful of Sporran Rot McTurpentine’s finest.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Tufty whipped out his extendable baton and clacked it out to full length. Then battered it down, shattering the window, sending thousands of little cubes of glass flying.

  He stuffed the baton back in its holder, reached through the gaping frame and grabbed Farmer Stinky, raising his voice over the engine’s diesel roar. ‘YOU’RE WELL AND TRULY NICKED!’

  Farmer Stinky laughed at him, enveloping him in a barrage of whisky fumes. ‘You’re too late!’ He slapped at Tufty’s hand.

  Tufty slapped back.

  Another slap. Then it was on! Chins pulled in, heads stretched back out of the way as they went at it, two handed, like schoolkids in the playground. Leaving the steering wheel to its own devices.

  The tractor drifted to the left, lurching as the front tyre bumped up onto the pavement.

  Then a squealing crunch.

  Tufty risked a glance: the tractor’s front loader shoved its way into the wall of a bus shelter, deforming the metal supports and ripping them out of the concrete. The Perspex walls snapped and pinged out of their frames as the massive green and yellow monster crashed through the thing at a walking pace.

  The structure peeled apart, buckling and crumpling its way along the bonnet, a blade of Perspex scraping at the paintwork. Getting closer to where Tufty clung on.

  Eek!

  It was going to scrape him right off the side of the tractor and under the back wheel. Mince. Squish. Pop goes the police officer.

  He wrapped both arms around the wing-mirror stand as the Perspex tried to shove its way through him. Head down. Pressing himself in against the cab. Holding on tight as it grabbed at his stabproof and twisted him around …

  ‘Aaaaaaargh!’

  Then poing! And it was past.

  A tortured squeal tore through the engine noise as what was left of the shelter got crushed beneath the back wheel.

  The tractor lurched again, back down onto the road.

  Farmer Stinky was laughing. Steering with one hand and swigging whisky with the other. ‘Hike up my council tax, will you?’

  What?

  Tufty looked in the direction they were going: straight for the liveried Bentley.

  Yeah … that lo
oked expensive.

  The tractor’s front loader whirred up on its pneumatic rams, the scoop big and black against the blue sky. Then it crashed down on the Bentley’s bonnet, crushing bodywork and flags alike. Farmer Stinky didn’t slam on the brakes, though – he just kept going. Up went the front loader again. Down again – shattering the windscreen and flattening half the roof. The tractor’s front end reared up as it mounted the ruined car.

  Tufty grabbed the shattered tractor window frame and dragged his top half into the cab as the tractor climbed the Bentley, getting higher and higher and—

  Something must’ve given way in the car beneath them, because the tractor’s front end crunched down again.

  Farmer Stinky dropped his whisky bottle.

  Tufty wriggled his way across the guy’s lap to the other side of the steering column. A set of keys poked out of the ignition. He grabbed them, twisted them left, then hauled them out.

  The tractor lurched to a halt.

  Silence.

  Then the spattering slop of a lot of liquid hitting concrete and tarmac from a great height.

  Then nothing but the pings and groans of the dying Bentley.

  Tufty pulled his cuffs out. Urgh … He gave them a little shake to dislodge a blob of slurry. ‘Let’s try this again, shall we? You’re comprehensively nicked!’

  Oh God …

  Everything. Was. Ruined.

  Her Nobel peace prize. Her interview with the Dalai Lama. Her series of bestselling children’s books. Dancing the tango with a perma-tanned man wearing too many sequins.

  RUINED!

  All around her, Aberdeen was straight out of a zombie movie – everyone shuffling around, groaning and filthy. Or huddled against the walls crying. Or just being violently and copiously sick in the background of the shot.

  Anne blinked into the dead black eye of the camera.

  Chris was just standing there, horrible brown stuff dripping off his bobble hat, filming.

  That’s because he’s a professional, Anne, like you’re supposed to be!

  She wiped the slurry from her face, cleared her throat, and raised the microphone again – making sure the logo faced the camera. Gave the nation her approachable-but-serious face. ‘Back to you in the studio, Bill.’