A Song for the Dying

Copyright

Harper

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Stuart MacBride 2014

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Type style by Blacksheep

Cover photographs © David Augustin/Getty Images (landscape); Shutterstock.com (birds)

Stuart MacBride asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental. The only exception to this are the characters Liz Thornton, Alistair Robertson, Millie Rose Stephen, and Julia G. Nenova, who have given their express permission to be fictionalized in this volume. All behaviour, history, and character traits assigned to their fictional representations have been designed to serve the needs of the narrative and do not necessarily bear any resemblance to the real person.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007344338

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2014 ISBN: 9780007344321

Version: 2020-10-27

Dedication

For Lorna, Dave, and James

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Without Whom

the end is nigh

Chapter 1

Six Years Later

Chapter 2

Eighteen Months Later

Chapter 3

Now (Six Months Later) Sunday

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Eight Years Ago

Monday

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Tuesday

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Wednesday

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Thursday

Chapter 52

Six Months Later

Chapter 53

Keep Reading

About the Author

By Stuart MacBride

About the Publisher

Without Whom

As always I’ve received a lot of help from a lot of people while I was writing this book, so I’d like to take this opportunity to thank: Ishbel Gall, Prof. Lorna Dawson, Prof. Dave Barclay, Dr James Grieve, and Prof. Sue Black, for all their forensic cleverness; Deputy Divisional Commander Mark Cooper, Detective Superintendent Martin Dunn, Detective Sergeant William Nimmo, Sergeant Bruce Crawford, Police Dog Handler Colin Hunter, and Constable Claire Pirie, without whom I would’ve been lost about the change to Police Scotland; Sarah Hodgson, Jane Johnson, Julia Wisdom, Louise Swannell, Oliver Malcolm, Laura Fletcher, Roger Cazalet, Kate Elton, Lucy Upton, Sylvia May, Damon Greeney, Victoria Barnsley, Emad Akhtar, Kate Stephenson, Marie Goldie, the DC Bishopbriggs Wild Brigade, and everyone at HarperCollins, for doing such a stonking job; Phil Patterson, Isabella Floris, Luke Speed, and the team at Marjacq Scripts, for keeping my cat in shoes all these years.

A number of people have helped raise a lot of money for charity by bidding to have a character named after them in this book: Liz Thornton, Alistair Robertson, and Julia G. Nenova.

And saving the best for last – as always – Fiona and Grendel.

the end is nigh

The time has come, the Raven said,

To close your eyes and hang your head,

And walk with me through barren fields,

To stand among the dead.

William Denner

A Song for the Dying (1943)

1

‘Now I’m no’ saying he’s gay – I’m no’ saying he’s ho-mo-sexual – I’m saying he’s a big Jessie. No’ the same thing.’

‘Not this again …’ A crescent moon makes a scar in the clouds, glowering down at them as Kevin picks his way through the frost-crisped grass, breath streaming out behind him. Nipples like little points of fire. Fingers aching where they stick out past the end of his sleeve, wrapped around the torch. The legs of his glasses cold against his temples.

Behind him, the ambulance’s blue and white lights make lazy search beams, sending shadows creeping through the trees at the side of the road. The headlights glint back from a bus shelter, the Perspex blistered and blackened where someone’s tried to set fire to it.

Nick clunks the ambulance door shut. ‘I mean, seriously, look at him: could he be any more of a Jessie?’

‘Will you shut up and help me?’

‘Don’t know what you’re so worked up about.’ Nick has a scratch at his beard, really going at it, like a dog with fleas. Tiny flakes of white fall from the face-fungus, caught in the glow of his torch like dying fireflies. ‘Just going to be another sodding crank call, like all the rest of them. Tell you: ever since they found that woman with her innards all ripped up in Kingsmeath, every time-wasting tosser in the city’s been on the phone reporting gutted women. Listen to them, the bloody place should be knee-deep in dead tarts.’

‘What if she’s lying out there, in the dark, dying? Don’t you want—’

‘And do you know why Spider-Man’s a big girl’s blouse?’

Kevin doesn’t look at him, keeps his eyes on the grass. It’s thicker here, the broken-glass stems dotted with rusty spears of docken and dead thistles. Something out there smells musty, fusty, mouldering. ‘What if it’s real? Might be still alive.’

‘Aye, you keep telling yourself that. Fiver says she doesn’t even exist.’ His fingertips scrabble through the beard again as he kicks through a pile of crackling leaves. ‘So, Spider-Man: action is his reward, right? Total Jessie.’

Two more hours till the shift’s over. Two more hours of inane drivel and bollocks …

Is something sticking out from underneath that whin bush?

The long dark seedpods clatter like a rattlesnake as Kevin pokes at the branches.

Just a plastic bag, the blue-and-red logo glittering with frost.

‘See me? See if I save some hot bird from a burning building? I’m expecting cash, or a blowjob at the very least. When did you last see someone going down on Spider-Man? Never, that’s when.’

‘Nick, I swear to God …’

‘Come on, if it was you or me running about in our jammies, squirting random strangers with our sticky emissions, we’d end up on the sex-offenders’ register, wouldn’t we?’

‘Can you not shut up for, like, five seconds?’ The tips of Kevin’s ears burn, like someone’s stubbing a cigarette out on them. Cheeks are going the same way. He sweeps the torch beam back and forth. Maybe Nick’s right? This is a waste of time. They’re out here, sodding about in the freezing cold, on a Thursday night in November just because some rancid wee sod thought it’d be funny to report a woman’s body dumped at the side of the road.

‘He’s not a superhero: he’s a pervert. And a Jessie. Quod erat demonstrandum.’

A hundred and fifty thousand people have a stroke every year, why can’t Nick be one of them? Right now. Is that really too much to ask?

The hairy git stops rummaging in his beard and points. ‘Aye, aye, looks like someone’s been getting lucky. Found a right nest of condoms here …’ He pokes the toe of his boot into it, rummages. ‘French ticklers from the look of it.’

‘Shut up.’ Kevin chews at the skin on the side of his index finger, breath fogging up his glasses. ‘What did they say?’

Nick sniffs. ‘Woman, mid-twenties, possible internal bleeding, A-Rhesus negative.’

The tarmac scrunches beneath Kevin’s feet as he picks his way around the bus shelter. ‘How did they know?’

‘That she was here? Suppose—’

‘No, you moron, how did they know what her blood type was …?’ Kevin stops dead. There’s something behind the shelter, something person-sized.

He lurches over, feet slipping on the icy tarmac. But it’s only a hunk of carpet, the faded green-and-yellow swirly pattern, spotted with darker stains. Dumped by some dirty scumbag who couldn’t be arsed going to the council tip. What the hell was wrong with people these days?

It wasn’t like …

There’s drag-marks in the grass, leading away from the carpet.

Oh God.

‘And don’t get me started on Superman!’

Kevin’s voice cracks. So he tries again. ‘Nick …?’

‘I mean, what kind of pervert goes to work wearing blue tights—’

‘Nick, get the crash kit.’

‘—bright red pants over the top? Could he be any more, “look at my crotch, for I am the Man of Steel!” And he’s faster—’

‘Get the crash kit.’

‘—speeding bullet. What woman wants—’

‘GET THE BLOODY CRASH KIT!’ And Kevin’s running, slithering through the grass at the side of the bus shelter. Crashing through the whip-fronds of dying nettles, following the drag-marks.

She’s lying on her back, one leg curled under her, the other pale foot smeared with dirt. Her white nightdress has ridden up around her thighs, a yellow cross staining the fabric across her swollen abdomen – distorted by what’s been stitched inside. Scarlet blooms through the nightdress: poppies, dark and spreading.

Her face is bone-china pale, freckles standing out like dried bloodstains, coppery hair spread out across frost-sharpened grass. A golden chain glints around her throat.

Her fingers tremble.

She’s alive …

2

The wall hit me between the shoulder blades, then did the same to the back of my head. An explosion of yellow light. A dull thunk deep inside my skull. A grunt broke from my throat. Then again as ex-Detective Sergeant O’Neil slammed his fist into my stomach.

Glass rippled inside me, tearing, shredding.

Another fist cracked my ringing head to the side, sending fire burning across my cheek. Not O’Neil this time, but his equally huge mate: ex-Constable Taylor. The pair of them must’ve spent most of their sentences in the prison gym. Certainly would explain how they managed to hit so bloody hard.

Another fist to the guts. Jerking me against the corridor wall.

I lashed out with a right, the knuckles screaming as they tore into O’Neil’s nose. Flattened it. Snapped his ugly, wedge-shaped head back. Painted an arc of scarlet in the air as the big bastard staggered away.

Right. One not so much down as on hold. A couple of seconds would be enough …

I threw an elbow at Taylor’s big round face. But he was fast. A lot faster than someone that size should have been.

My elbow cracked into the wall.

Then his fist smashed into my cheek again.

THUNK – my head battered off the wall. Again.

This time my elbow caught him right in the mouth, an electric shock charging up my funny bone where it mashed through his top lip and teeth. More scarlet in the drab corridor. It dribbled down the front of his prison-issue sweatshirt, spreading out like tiny red flowers on the grey fabric.

He backed off a pace. Spat out a couple of white lumps. Wiped a hand across his mouth, smearing the blood. The words came out all wet and lispy through the gaps where those teeth used to be. ‘Oh, you are tho dead.’

‘You really think two against one is enough?’ I flexed my right fist. The joints stabbed and screamed, every movement like someone was digging burning needles through the cartilage and into the bone.

Then O’Neil bellowed. Charged. Face a streaked mess of crimson and black.

CRACK I hit the wall again, all the breath abandoning my body in one tearing groan. A fist in the face. Vision blurred.

I swung, but it went wide.

Again.

O’Neil landed another one, and a choir of vultures screeched in my head.

Blink.

Stay upright. Don’t let them get you on the ground.

I wrapped my hand over his face and dug my thumb into what was left of his nose. Gouging into the warm slippery mess.

He screamed.

Then it was my turn as Taylor stamped his size elevens down on the bridge of my right foot. Something inside tore. Scar tissue and bone parted. Stitches ripped free, wrenching open the bullet hole. And all plans to stay upright disappeared in a wave of raw throat-tearing agony.

Like being shot all over again.

My right leg gave way. The granite-coloured floor rushed up to greet me.

Curl up. Make a ball of arms and legs, protect the vital organs, cover the head …

Feet and fists battered into my thighs, arms, and back. Kicking, punching, stomping.

And then, darkness.

…

‘… in’t de … with …?’

‘… bloody n … se, f …’

…

‘… n, he’s coming roun …’

A sharp jolt to my cheek.

Blink.

Blink.

Cough … It was like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my ribs, and every jagged heave from my lungs just made it worse.

O’Neil stood over me, grinning down with his blood-smeared face, nose skewed off to the left. Voice all bunged up, like he was doing an advert for decongestant. ‘Wakey-wakey, princess. Bet you thought you’d never see me again, eh?’

Taylor had a mobile phone to his ear, nodding while he explored the gaps in his teeth with his tongue. ‘Yeah, I’ll put you on thpeakerphone.’

He pressed something on the screen, then held the thing out towards me.

Fancy new phone. Definitely not allowed in prison.

The screen flickered, going from washed-out brightness to a close-up of someone’s face, the features all blurry. Then whoever it was moved back and the whole thing slithered into focus.

Mrs Kerrigan. Her brown hair was piled up in a loose bun on top of her head, the roots showing streaks of grey. A pinched face, with bright red lips and sharp little teeth. A crucifix floating in her cleavage. She pulled on a pair of glasses and smiled. ‘Ah, Mr Henderson … Or should I be calling yez, Prisoner Henderson now?’

I opened my mouth, but O’Neil placed his right foot on top of mine and pressed. Shards of burning glass dug into the skin, turning the words into a high-pitched hiss between clenched teeth.

‘Here’s how this works. Mr Taylor and Mr O’Neil here will be payin’ yez a little visit every now and then, and batterin’ the livin’ shite out of ye. And every time yez are coming up for review – ye know, when they’re thinkin’ of lettin’ yer sorry arse back out on the streets? Every time that happens they’re goin’ to give ye another doing and tell everyone ye’re the one who started it.’

O’Neil’s grin got wider, a dribble of bloody spittle snaking out from the corner of his ruined mouth. ‘Every time.’

‘This is what ye get for sticking a gun in my face, ye wee gobshite. Yez’re now my pet project, I’m going to screw with ye till I get bored of it, and then I’m goin’ to have ye killed.’ She leaned forward, out of focus again, till her red mouth filled the screen. ‘But don’t worry, I don’t bore that easy. I plan on screwin’ with ye for years.’

3

‘Sadly, we continue to see a deplorable level of violence perpetrated by Mr Henderson.’ Dr Altringham rapped on the table with his knuckles, as if it was a coffin lid. He blew the floppy grey fringe out of his eyes. Adjusted his glasses. ‘I really can’t recommend release at this date. He represents a clear and continued danger to the general public.’

Twenty minutes of this and I still hadn’t climbed out of my seat, limped over to where he was sitting, and battered his brains out with my cane. Which was pretty good going, given how ‘dangerous’ I was. Perhaps it was Officer Barbara Crawford’s calming influence? She stood at my right shoulder, looming over me in my orange plastic chair, her thick knot of keys an inch from my ear.

Babs was built like a fridge freezer, tattoos sticking out from the sleeves of her shirt, wrapping around her wrists and onto the backs of her meaty hands. Barbed wire, flames. ‘FAITH’ on one set of knuckles, ‘HOPE’ on the other. Her short hair stood out from her head in tiny grey spikes, dyed blonde at the tips. Very trendy.

They’d done their usual and arranged the furniture so the big table faced a single chair in the middle of the room. Me and Babs on this side, everyone else on the other. Two psychiatrists; one threadbare social worker with big square glasses; and the Deputy Governor, dressed as if she was on her way to a funeral. All talking about me as if I wasn’t even there. Could’ve stayed in my cell and saved myself the aggro.

We all knew where this was going anyway: release denied.

I leaned forward in my chair, ribs creaking from yesterday’s beating. Every time, regular as clockwork. The only thing that changed was the cast and crew. O’Neil got himself shanked in the showers four months ago. Taylor got released after serving half his term. Then it was two different Neanderthal bastards ambushing me in the corridors and delivering Mrs Kerrigan’s ‘messages’. And two more after them.

Didn’t matter what I did, I always ended up back here, bruised and battered.

Release denied.

Even managed to track down the guy who replaced O’Neil. Caught him on his own in the prison laundry. Broke both his arms, left leg, dislocated every finger he had, and his jaw. Mrs Kerrigan just got someone else to take his place. And I got an extra, unscheduled, arse kicking.

The Deputy Governor and the psychologists could hold all the review meetings they liked, the only way I was getting out of this place was in a body-bag.

I closed my eyes. Let it burn.

Never getting out of here.

The walking cane was cold between my fingers.

Should’ve killed Mrs Kerrigan when I had the chance. Wrapped my hands around her throat and throttled the life right out of her. Eyes popping from the sockets, tongue swollen and black, hands scrabbling against mine while I squeezed and squeezed. Chest heaving on air that wasn’t there …

But no. Couldn’t do that, could I? Had to play the good guy. The bloody idiot.

And what did that get me? Stuck in here till she got bored and had someone slit my throat. Or stab me in the kidneys with a home-made chib, sharpened on a cell wall and smeared with shit for a nice infected wound. Assuming I survived the blood loss.

No more stupid review meetings, just a trip to the infirmary, then on to the mortuary.

At least I wouldn’t have to sit here, listening to Altringham’s lies. Telling everyone how violent and dangerous I was …

I ran my fingers up the cane till they got to the handle. Tightened my grip. Pulled my shoulders back.

Might as well live down to his expectations and remodel his smug lying face a bit. Could do some serious damage before they dragged me off. Had nothing to lose anyway. And at least I’d get the satisfaction of—

Babs’s hand landed on my shoulder, her voice barely loud enough to count as a whisper. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

Fair enough.

I let my shoulders slump again.

Dr Alice McDonald – psychiatrist number two – held up her hand. ‘Now hold on a minute: the murder charge was dismissed.’ Her curly brown hair made a loose ponytail at the back of her head, a few stray wisps breaking free to glow in the overhead lights. Pale-lilac shirt cuffs poked out of the sleeves of her pinstripe suit. ‘Mr Henderson didn’t kill his brother, the evidence against him was fabricated. It’s a matter of record. The appeal judge—’

‘I’m not talking about his brother’s murder. I’m talking about this.’ Altringham plucked a sheet of paper from the table in front of him and waved it. ‘In the last eighteen months, he’s assaulted and seriously injured seventeen other inmates. Every time he gets anywhere near being released, he attacks someone.’

‘We’ve been over this, it’s—’

‘Yesterday, he broke a man’s nose, and left another with a fractured cheek!’ Altringham knocked on the coffin again. ‘Does that sound like the actions of someone we should be unleashing on an unsuspecting public?’

Yeah, I got in a couple of good punches, till they forced me into a corner. Grinning and laughing. Letting me swing at them, so it’d look better when they made their formal complaints. But what was I supposed to do, stand there and take it?

Even after all this time …

Alice shook her head. ‘It’s hardly Mr Henderson’s fault that he keeps being attacked. If the prison did a better job of managing inmate interactions, maybe he wouldn’t have to defend himself the whole time.’

The Deputy Governor narrowed her eyes. ‘I resent any implication that this institution isn’t doing its duty where custodial safety is concerned.’

Altringham blew out a breath. ‘No one’s safe where Mr Henderson’s concerned. He’s pathologically incapable of—’