A Song for the Dying. Stuart MacBride

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.’

Eighteen Months Later

       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 СКАЧАТЬ