Halfhead. Stuart MacBride B.

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СКАЧАТЬ make any difference: Services are a law unto themselves. Far as they’re concerned they run the city. Everyone else is just window dressing.’

      ‘Hmmmph,’ Jo folded her arms and slumped back in her seat, ‘and there was me thinking it was just us Bluecoats that never get any respect. Joined-up government my arse. Tell you: I had my way we’d slap the bloody lot of them in the Tin for obstruction. Bunch of tight-sphinctered, penny-pinching, halfwit—’

      ‘Excuse me?’ DS Cameron’s favourite ‘frumpy wee cow’ was waving at them. ‘Someone from records can speak to you now.’ She pointed to a short corridor next to the lifts. ‘Booth number three.’

      The cramped cubicle contained two seats and a narrow shelf bolted beneath the large screen mounted on the wall. Will and Jo squeezed in and closed the door. Thirty seconds later the screen flickered into life and the someone from records they’d been promised appeared: a man with a huge head, wild cloned hair and a trendy pixel tattoo that made abstract patterns as he spoke. ‘This going to take long? Only I’ve got a conference call in five minutes.’

      Will tried not to sound as pissed off as he felt. ‘I just signed over seventeen severed halfheads for identification: I need names, postings and dates to go with them.’

       ‘And you are?’

      ‘William Hunter. Assistant Network Director William Hunter.’

      ‘How nice for you.’ He looked off the bottom of the screen for a moment, and the sound of a keyboard clicked out of the speakers. ‘One moment.’ The screen went blank.

      Jo muttered something under her breath that would have made the Marquis de Sade blush.

      Three minutes later he was back. ‘And are these the same halfheads that a…’ Pause. Frown. ‘Detective Sergeant Campbell enquired about this morning?’

      ‘DS Cameron. That’s right.’

      The man on the screen sighed. ‘As we explained to DS Campbell, we can’t give out that kind of information over the phone.’

      Will gritted his teeth. ‘We’re not on the phone, you are.’

       ‘Have you signed over the severed halfheads to a representative from resourcing?’

      ‘I told you that at the start, remember?’

       ‘Until they’re signed over to a representative from resourcing we can’t give out any details.’

      ‘We signed them over!’

       ‘I see. And have you received notification of identification?’

      ‘No, that’s why we’re sitting here. I want you to tell me who the halfheads were!’

       ‘I’m sorry I can’t give out that information over the phone.’

      Jo couldn’t contain herself any longer.

      ‘Listen up you scribbly-faced bag of shite, either you get your finger out and—’ She was cut off by a beep from the speaker.

      ‘I’m sorry, our time is up.’ And with that the screen went blank.

      ‘What the fuck?’ She slammed her palm against the screen, making the whole thing shake. ‘WE’VE BEEN HERE HALF A BLOODY HOUR!’ Jo turned to Will. ‘Can you believe this shite?’

      ‘Watch the door.’ He pulled a small, flat pack from a hidden pocket in his Network-issue jacket. It was full of wire tools, a tube of metaliglue, and a battered cracker. Will slid one of the thin metal slices into the joint between the screen’s control panel and the wall, then twisted. The panel popped open, revealing a small chip rack and a rats’ nest of wires.

      ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

      He pulled a pair of wires from the jumble and slapped a connector onto each. ‘Most security systems are designed to stop people hacking in from the outside. So if you want to break into them, do it from the inside…’

      The cracker’s keypad rattled beneath his fingertips as he inveigled himself into Services’ local network. ‘Makes the guardian AIs a lot less sceptical.’

      Two minutes, thirty-seven seconds later the cracker bleeped. Will grinned. ‘We’re in. Who’s first?’

      Jo checked her notes. ‘S R dash O dash nine six two dash nine five eight.’

      Will punched the code into the cracker, and the room’s main screen filled with personal details.

      ‘Thomas Simpson, thirty-seven. Convicted of serial rape eight years ago, been missing for four. Working at Brewster Towers when he disappeared. Next?’

      ‘M H dash D dash five three two seven dash eight eight seven.’

      ‘Hold on…Alison Campbell, forty-five: multiple homicide. Halfheaded three years ago. Went missing from Sherman House.’

      It didn’t take long to see the pattern: Allan Brown liked to hunt close to home, only taking halfheads sent to clean the four connurb blocks that made up Monstrosity Square. Preying on a steady diet of murderers and rapists. There was even a serial killer in the collection of severed heads—a cannibal called Iain Foreshaw who’d butchered seven nursing students and two prostitutes. It was a fittingly ironic end to a predator’s life: brought down and eaten by one of its own kind.

      In his own twisted way, Allan Brown had put himself at the very top of the food chain.

      Now all they had to do was find out who’d killed him.

      The mop slops dirty water from one side of the toilet to the other, back and forth, back and forth. Greasy ribbons of filth making patterns on the grubby tiles. The smell doesn’t really bother her any more. It did when they’d dropped her off here this morning, bundling her out of the Roadhugger with a mop and a pail, speaking to her like some sort of trained monkey: ‘Go in. Clean. You come back when called. Understand? I said, do you understand?’

      Patronizing bastard.

      For a moment she thinks about taking her mop, snapping it in half, and using the splintered end to gouge the man’s face into tattered, bloody ribbons. Pluck the eyes right out of his head…

      She has always loved eyes. They look so pretty, lying in the palm of her hand.

      It takes a lot of control to squash the desire. She hasn’t had her medication and it’s getting more and more difficult to keep it buried deep inside where it can burn bright and fierce. But somehow she manages. She nods and trudges into the connurb block like all the other good little halfheads. Trembling inside with bees and broken glass.

      The morning passes in a reek of human waste and disinfectant, memories flickering in and out like a distant firework display. The sparks too far away to taste properly. On the tip of the tongue she doesn’t have any more.

      Some time around noon the front pocket of her jumpsuit starts buzzing and she stands staring at it. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Busy little bees. Buzzing against СКАЧАТЬ