Now We Are Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Barrett shook his head. Harmsworth grunted. Lund stuck her chin in the air: ‘Hell no!’

  ‘We’re going to make a sodding difference, aren’t we?’

  The response was a bit more enthusiastic this time. Dark mutterings and nods from everyone.

  ‘We’re going to show those felchmonkeys what real police officers can do!’

  ‘Yeah!’

  They were all on their feet now.

  ‘Jack Wallace isn’t getting away with it any more. We will find him in the bushes! We will find him in the nightclubs. We will find him in the streets and we will never surrender!’

  Lund gave her a big-throated, ‘WHOOOO!’

  Barrett burst into applause. ‘Damn right!’

  Tufty punched the air. ‘Testify!’

  ‘Hurrah, etc.’ Harmsworth sat back down again. ‘Can we eat the buffet now?’

  ‘Oh all right then, you unpatriotic sod.’ Steel rubbed her hands. ‘So: who’s in charge of the kitty? Your Aunty Roberta’s got a thirst on her the night.’

  Tufty stuck one finger in his ear and moved over to the other side of the lounge, by the pool table. Kept his voice all smooth and sober. No slurring or sounding drunk at all. Nope, nope, nopeitty, nope. ‘So, I was just wondering what you were doing tomorrow?’

  A slow song slunk out of the jukebox and Lund was up dancing on her own. Wiggling and doing stuff with her hands that bordered on the obscene without ever actually crossing over.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ PC Mackintosh had a sort of doubtful sound in her voice, like she wasn’t really certain what tomorrow was, or why some weird guy had phoned to ask her about it.

  ‘It’s DC Quirrel, by the way. From the crematorium?’

  ‘Yes, I know. You’ve said that three times already.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m not drunk or anything, we’re just celebrating a little. Because of the tractors.’ He was blowing it. He was definitely blowing it. Abort. ABORT! ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have called. I’m … Sorry.’

  ‘I’m off seeing my mother tomorrow till five. After that I’m doing my laundry. You can come over and help me fold, if you like?’

  Tufty’s chest went all tingly and big. ‘Cool. I would. Yes. Cool.’

  ‘Good. Bring wine.’ There was a small pause. ‘How are you with ironing?’

  They weren’t a bad bunch of spuds, really. Her team. Her minions. Her henchmen. And one henchwoman. Roberta smiled as Barrett placed a full shot glass in front of each of them. Even Harmsworth wasn’t that bad once you got to know him. And as long as you didn’t have to spend too long with the misery-faced old bugger. And could tell him to sod off and go be depressing somewhere else.

  ‘OK,’ Barrett knocked on the table, ‘we go on three. Not three and go, on three. OK? OK.’ His smile was getting a bit fuzzy at the edges, his eyes too. ‘One. Two. Three!’

  They all snatched up their shots and hammered them back. Thumped their glasses down on the table again.

  The floral-bitter-chemical hit punched its way down through her chest, breath like a gas leak awaiting a match. ‘Hoooo!’

  Lund drummed on the table with her palms. ‘More tequila!’

  ‘You heard the lady.’ Barrett dug a handful of change out of a Ziploc bag. ‘Come on, everyone: another twenty quid each for the kitty.’

  Because let’s be honest, two hundred and fifty quid didn’t go far split between five. Even at the Flare and Futtrit’s special Police Scotland discount mates’ rates.

  And the night was still young.

  Tufty poked her. ‘You’re snoring.’

  But it didn’t make any difference, Lund just stayed where she was: slumped back in her chair, mouth open, making raspy chainsaw-in-a-metal-dustbin noises. Mind you, she wasn’t the only one who’d had a bit much.

  Look at Harmsworth – one arm wrapped around Steel’s shoulders, shoogling her from side to side. ‘No, I mean it. I love you. I do.’ Another shoogle. ‘You’re the best DS in the world.’

  Steel nodded. ‘That’s … that’s very true. I’m—’ A hiccup. ‘I’m lovely.’

  Tufty nudged Barrett. ‘I think Owen’s a bit squiffy.’

  Barrett didn’t look up from the pair of chicken legs he was playing with – making them do the sword dance around a pair of crossed sausage rolls. ‘Hippity, hoppity, hippity hop.’

  ‘Did I tell you about her hair, Davey?’ Tufty nudged him again. ‘Police Constable Mackintosh’s hair is like … is like that wheat field at the start of Gladiator. Only … only not full of dead people.’

  ‘Hippity, hoppity.’

  Tufty thumped his hand down, making the sausage-roll swords jump. ‘Sambucas! We should do … should do flaming Sambucas!’

  ‘Oops.’ Every time they tried to pour Lund into the taxi, she poured right back out again.

  Didn’t seem to bother her though, she just kept on singing as Harmsworth and Barrett scooped her up off the car park tarmac:

  ‘My cowboy don’t love cattle, he only shags his horses,

  He used to shag his sheep dogs, till his sheep dogs got divorces …’

  The sun was slouching its way down to the rooftops, making everything all brown and yellow and orange – like an ancient photograph from the seventies.

  They bundled her into the back. ‘Stay. Stay …’

  She started to slump doorwards:

  ‘He’s shagged his pigs and chickens too,

  One time he shagged a kangaroo …’

  ‘OK.’ Barrett clambered into Lund’s taxi. ‘Wait, we come too … Come on … come on, Owen.’

  ‘One time he shagged a platypus, two times he shagged a duck …’

  Harmsworth climbed in too. ‘Whee!’

  ‘One time he shagged a gerbil, he just doesn’t give a—’

  Owen thumped the door closed, cutting her off.

  The taxi pulled away, the three of them waving out of the back window as it drove off, leaving Tufty and Steel all alone in the car park.

  Steel patted him on the shoulder, the other hand out, palm up in front of him. Wobbling on her wobbly feet. ‘No. Come on, gimme your keys.’

  He squinted one eye shut. ‘But—’

  ‘No. Keys!’ She patted him again, harder this time. ‘Friends don’t let friends drive … drive drunked.’

  That made sense.

  ‘Oh. OK.’ He dug the keys out of his pocket and dropped them into her palm. Lurched a little to the side and back again. Was OK, though: no one noticed. No one, no one, no one. Tufty reached out and patted her on the shoulder. Cos it was only polite. ‘Owen’s a miserable poohead.’

  ‘He is indeed.’

  ‘But!’ Tufty held up a finger. ‘But he’s right. He is. You’re a very lovely defective sergeant. You are. Yes you are.’

  A solemn nod. ‘I am.’ She wobbled a bit more. ‘And you … you are a lovely defective connsable.’

  ‘That’s why … That’s why we’re gonna catch Jack Wallace.’

  ‘DAMN RIGHT!’

  ‘Shhhh!’ Tufty had a quick check to make sure no one was eavesdropping. ‘We gonna … gonna come up with a plan and … and nab him red-handed.’

  ‘Right up the arse!’

  ‘Right up the …’ Tufty frowned. ‘Wait, wait.’ He pointed a finger at her clenched fist. ‘I don’t has a car here! Those … Those are your keys.’

  ‘Oh …’ She handed them back. ‘Maybe we should taxi?’

  ‘And … and I will see you to … to your door, because … is gentleman.’

  Steel smiled, nodded, then let loose a window-rattling belch.

  The taxi parked outside a big granitey house on a tree-lined granitey street. The sort of place investment bankers and hedge-fund doodahs probably lived. Up above, the sky faded from dark purple to wishy-washy blue, streetlights glimmering between the trees.

  The taxi driver looked back over his shoulder. ‘That’ll be fifteen quid.’

  Steel fumbled with the door and staggered out, sticking Tufty with the bill.

  W
hich was typical.

  He dug his wallet free and handed over the cash. Doing it nice and careful so everyone would know he wasn’t drunk at all. ‘Is fifteen.’

  The driver took it. Counted it. Then gave him a good hard stare. ‘Here, Min, I hope you’re no’ planning on taking advantage of that poor drunk auld wifie.’

  ‘Oh God, no.’ Tufty clambered out into the warm evening sun.

  Steel whirled around on the pavement. ‘Am not auld wifie: am LESBIAN!’ She threw her arms out, crucifix-style, probably copying Tommy Shand. Then stood there, wobbling, in her dungarees and flouncy red chiffon top.

  The taxi driver rolled his eyes. ‘Police officers are the worst drunks …’ He did a neat three-point turn and headed back towards town.

  Bye, bye.

  Tufty squinted up at the big granitey building. Something wasn’t right. ‘Do I live here?’

  ‘No … No …’ She lurched over to him, stiff-legged like a robotic chicken. ‘My house. But … but we’ve got whisky.’

  He held up a finger. ‘Say it proper.’

  ‘We does has a whisky?’

  ‘Yay!’

  ‘Shhhhh!’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Secret. Now gimme … gimme keys.’

  He dug them out and Steel took a while skittering a brass Yale one around and around the lock, before finally clicking it home.

  She eased the door open and crept inside. ‘Shhhhh!’

  Dark in here. No lights.

  But the orangey glow filtering in from outside was enough to lift the gloom a teeny bit. It was a highfalutin hallway with a big wooden staircase on one side and lots of holiday photos all over the other. Steel and a pretty blonde woman in swimsuits and shorts and flip-flops and … Oh dear. That one was Steel in a bikini, pulling some sort of Marilyn Monroe pose – all pouty and suggestive.

  Shudder.

  Bad enough this afternoon, when she’d stripped off for the communal hosing down, but at least she wasn’t trying to act all sexy and you couldn’t really see any …

  Oh, complete and utter shudder.

  It was like catching your granny in stockings and suspenders trying to seduce the milkman.

  Tufty slapped a hand over his mouth. Didn’t say that out loud, did he?

  Steel lowered her keys into a bowl by the coat rack, then turned and grinned at him.

  Oh thank God for that: he hadn’t.

  ‘And … and Tufty said, “Let there be light.”’ He reached for the switch, but she slapped his hand away.

  ‘No!’ Her voice rasped out in a smoky whisper: ‘Is … secret and quiet! Unnerstand? No telling Susan. Shhhh …’

  Ah. He nodded. ‘Shhhh …’

  ‘Good.’ She patted him on the cheek. ‘You go kitchen and … and get glasses. I go kiss Jasmine and Naomi goodnight. And … maybe have a pee …?’

  Peeing was good. But before he could ask where the room was for peeing in she was lurching upstairs, clutching onto the wooden handrail like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

  Have to pee later, Tufty. Glasses now. Pee later.

  Okeydoke.

  He took a deep breath and crept deeper into the house.

  Kitchen? Where are you little kitchen? Come to Uncle Tufty …

  Oh, there it was: at the end of the hall and left a bit. Down a couple of stairs.

  And it wasn’t a little kitchen at all, it was Godzilla massive. Big shiny work surfaces gleaming in the light that filtered through the French doors and kitchen windows. A garden lurking in the twilight outside, complete with swings and a climbing frame. Ooh, that’d be fun. Hadn’t … hadn’t been on a climbing frame in ages.

  No. Don’t get distracted. Find the whisky glasses.

  Right.

  He reached for the light switch, then snatched his hand back.

  Naughty Tufty. Secret, remember?

  Stealthy time. He dug into his jacket pocket and came out with his LED torch – long as a finger but much, much brighter. The narrow white beam swept the tiled floor and oak kitchen units. A breakfast bar and a table with six chairs. A dishwasher whooshing and buzzing away to itself. A great big American-style fridge freezer covered in truly terrible kids’ drawings.

  Was that meant to be a pirate Tyrannounicornosaurus Rex? Where was its parrot? Eh? Where was it? Kids these days.

  Wait a minute, why was he …?

  Oh, right: glasses.

  ‘Come out little glasses, don’t hide from Uncle Tufty …’

  The cistern refilling hissed out of the bathroom as Roberta eased the door shut. Adjusted her dungers. That was the great thing about dungarees – lots of room. And they didn’t creep down the whole time taking your pants with them. Should wear them all the time.

  Bit of a cliché, but they were comfy.

  Unless you sat down too fast.

  Right: time to be all motherly and sober-ish.

  She tiptoed her way down the hall to a pink door with a big sign stuck right in the middle of it: a skull and crossbones grinning away above, ‘JASMINE’S EVIL DUNGEON OF DOOM!’

  It creaked a bit as she eased it open, but the figure beneath the Skeleton Bob duvet cover didn’t stir. Had to be one of the best rooms in the house, this one. No’ all chintzy and floral and stuff. A funky mix of decor and ornaments – like My Little Pony does Game of Thrones – all just visible through the gloom.

  Jasmine lay on her side with a thumb in her mouth, one arm wrapped around Mr Stinky the teddy bear. All loved bald around the ears.

  Roberta crept in and kissed Jasmine on the forehead. Then kissed Mr Stinky too, so he wouldn’t feel left out. Then put a finger to her lips and shushed him, just in case.

  Slipped back out of the room again.

  Never mind Susan’s Great Hazlehead Ladies Challenge Cup, Roberta deserved one for Mother of the Motherfunking Year. Right. One daughter down, one to go. Then it was whisky time!

  She tiptoed over to the door opposite: bright orange with ‘NAOMI’S ROOM’ on it. Her fingers were inches from the handle when a floorboard creaked behind her.

  Then a man’s voice. ‘Did you miss me?’

  She put a finger to her lips. ‘Shhh … I told …’

  Oh sodding hell.

  That wasn’t Tufty.

  That was Jack Wallace!

  She spun around, snarling, fists ready to—

  Something hard smashed into the side of her head, making the whole house rock and throb. Warm behind her eyes. Knees no’ … wouldn’t …

  Then the hall carpet jumped up and grabbed her.

  Thump.

  Darkness.

  There was a thump upstairs.

  Kneeling on the kitchen floor, Tufty wobbled his torch beam up at the ceiling.

  And she had the cheek to tell him to be all secret and quiet? Charging about up there like a randy elephant on a pogo stick.

  Well, as long as she was getting the whisky.

  He lowered the torch back to the little cupboard. Glasses gleamed at him, caught in the hard white glare. ‘Whisky, whisky, whisky, whisky.’

  Be careful – don’t break any. Careful as a careful fish.

  Tufty eased two tumblers out, like they were nuclear fuel rods. Closed the cupboard door and stood. Crept across to the breakfast bar.

  The tumblers clicked against the granite worktop.

  ‘Whisky, whisky, whisky …’

  Uh-ho.

  His Tufty sense was tingling.

  There was someone behind him, wasn’t there? Someone—

  ‘Peekaboo.’

  Something whistled through the air and he jerked left, turning.

  Whatever it was it battered into his shoulder instead of his head, sending barbed wire digging into the muscle.

  A shadow-shape of a man loomed in the darkness, features just a hint of nose, mouth and glasses. Tufty broke them with his fist, snapping the scumbag’s head back with a very satisfying grunt.

  Shadow Scumbag grabbed at him, hauling Tufty down as he tumbled to the kitchen floor – the pai
r of them bashing into the tiles. Arms and legs. Elbows and knees. Rolling over and over.

  Two quick jabs to the ribs had Shadows grunting again.

  They thumped into a cabinet, setting the contents ringing.

  Back out onto the floor.

  Fire shredded across Tufty’s wrist as Shadows sunk his teeth in. ‘AAAARGH!’

  They rolled back the other way and BANG, right into the fridge, knocking the door open. A thin cold light spilled out across the room.

  He was big, hairy, ugly. Scarlet streaming down his face from a newly squinted nose. Teeth bared, stained pink with either his own blood or Tufty’s. Bitey sod. ‘KILL YOU!’

  A thick fist whistled past Tufty’s face.

  Oh no you don’t!

  He grabbed Shadows by the scruff of the neck and shoved his head into the open fridge, slamming the door on it over and over and over again, making the bottles and jars inside jingle and clink. Pats of butter and yoghurt pots cascaded out to thump and spatter against the floor all around them.

  One more slam and Shadows went limp.

  Tufty dragged him out of the fridge and shoved him onto his front. Hauled out his cuffs and grabbed the guy’s wrist, pulling it up behind his back. ‘You are comprehensively …’

  There was that tingling again.

  He twisted around. Too slow.

  Just enough time to make out a fat bald shape in the fridge’s ghostly glow before hard yellow lights exploded, wiping the kitchen from view. Didn’t even hurt when his head bounced off the cool smooth tiles.

  Fat fingers reached for him, and the world slowly disappeared …

  Mnnnghfff … DUNK. Everything snapped up, then down again. DUNK. Up, then down. DUNK. Up, then down.

  The alarm-clock was ringing, time to get up.

  DUNK.

  Or was it sirens?

  DUNK.

  Wait, that was … What was she doing on the stairs?

  Roberta opened her mouth, but all that came out was, ‘Unnnngggghhhh …’