Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBride

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ catalogue, three charity begging letters, and the Royal Bank trying to flog her a credit card. I dumped the lot in the bin. Everything except for the birthday card.

      A plain white envelope with a second-class stamp and a stick-on address label:

      Rebecca Henderson

      19 Rowan Drive,

      Blackwall Hill,

      Oldcastle.

      OC15 3BZ

      It’d been done on a typewriter, not a laser printer, the words hammered into the paper, the letter ‘e’ a little out of line with everything else. Just like all the others.

      The kettle rattled to a boil, filling the air with steam.

      I took a tea towel to the window, making a gap in the condensation, sending droplets running down the glass to pool on the mould-blackened wooden frame.

      Outside, the back garden was a tangle of jagged silhouettes – the sun a smear of fire on the horizon, painting Kingsmeath with gold and shadows. Grey-harled council houses, pantiles jaundiced with lichen; the glistening slate roofs of the tenements; a primary school surrounded by chain-link fencing – squat and dour, its windows glowing.

      ‘Haha! Right, it’s Straitjacket Sweepstakes time and Christine Murphy thinks the answer is “Acute Polymorphic Psychotic Disorder”.’ An electronic quack. ‘Looks like the voices in your head got it wrong, Christine: better luck next time.’

      The cigar box was rough beneath my fingertips. A little bit bigger than an old-fashioned VHS case, decorated by someone only just old enough to be trusted with round-nosed scissors and glue. Most of the sequins had fallen off years ago, and the glitter looked more like grit than anything else, but it was the thought that counted. The perfect size for storing homemade birthday cards.

      I opened the lid. The woody smell of old cigars fought against the kitchen’s mildew fug and whatever the hell was wrong with the drains.

      Last year’s card sat on top of the little pile: ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!’ scrawled above a Polaroid photograph – a square picture set into a white plastic rectangle. Thing was virtually an antique, Polaroid didn’t even make the film-stock any more. The number ‘4’ was scratched into the top-left corner.

      I picked up the latest envelope, eased a kitchen knife under the flap, and tore straight along the fold, then pulled out the contents. A flurry of dark flakes fell onto the work surface – that was new. They smelled of rust. Some hit the edge of the tea towel, making tiny red blooms as they soaked into the damp fabric.

      Oh God …

      This year’s photo was mounted on plain white card. My little girl. Rebecca. Tied to a chair in a basement somewhere. She was … He’d taken her clothes.

      I closed my eyes for a moment, knuckles aching, teeth clamped hard enough to make my ears ring. Bastard. Fucking, bloody bastard.

      ‘Stick with us folks ’cos we’ve got another heeee-larious wind-up call after the news, but first it’s a golden oldie: Tammy Wynette and her crash-helmet hairdo, with “Stand by Your Man”. Good advice there, ladies.’ Another comedy horn noise.

      Rebecca’s pale skin was smeared with blood, slashed and burned and bruised, eyes wide, screaming behind a duct-tape gag. ‘5’ scratched into the corner of the picture.

      Five years since she disappeared. Five years since the bastard tortured her to death and took photos to prove it. Five birthday cards, each one worse than the last.

      The toast popped up, filling the kitchen with the smell of burnt bread.

      Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

      I lowered card number five into the box, on top of all the others. Closed the lid.

      Bastard …

      She would’ve been eighteen today.

      I scraped the blackened toast over the sink as Tammy got into her stride. The butter turned yellow-grey as I spread it with the same knife. Two slices of plastic cheese from the fridge, washed down with milky tea and a couple of anti-inflammatories. Chewing. Trying to avoid the two loose teeth on the top left, the skin tight across my cheek – swollen and bruised. Scowling out through the window’s new clean patch.

      Light flashed off the Kings River as the sun finally made it up over the hills, turning Oldcastle into a patchwork of blues and orange. In the middle distance, Castle Hill loomed over the city – a thick blade of granite with a sheer cliff on one side, steep winding cobbled streets on the other. Victorian sandstone buildings stained the colour of dried blood. The castle’s crumbling fortifications looked like broken teeth, perched right at the top.

      That was the thing about living here – you could get up every morning and look out across the crumbling concrete boxes of your crappy council estate, at all the pretty parts of Oldcastle. Have it ground in your face every day: that no matter how long you spent staring out at the nice bits, you were still stuck in bloody Kingsmeath.

      She would’ve been eighteen.

      I spread the tea towel out on the work surface, then pulled the plastic ice-cube tray out from the fridge’s freezer compartment. Gritted my teeth, and twisted. The ice cracked and groaned, a better soundtrack to my aching fingers than Tammy Bloody Wynette.

      Ice cubes tumbled into the middle of the tea towel. I folded it up into a cosh, then battered it off the worktop a few times. Fished a used teabag out of the sink and made a fresh cup in a clean mug – laced it with four sugars and a splash of milk – tucked the cigar box under my arm, then took everything through to the living room.

      The figure on the couch was huddled beneath an unzipped sleeping bag. I hauled the curtains open.

      ‘Come on you lazy wee shite: up.’

      Parker groaned. His face was a mess: eyes swollen and purple; a nose that would never be straight again; split lips; a huge bruise on his cheek. He’d bled during the night, staining the sleeping bag. ‘Mmmmnnnffff …’

      One eye opened. What should have been white was vivid red, the pupil dilated. ‘Mmmnnnfff?’ His mouth barely moved.

      I held out the tea towel. ‘How’s the head?’

      ‘Fmmmmmnnndfff …’

      ‘Serves you right.’ I stuck the icepack against Parker’s cheek until he took hold of it himself. ‘What did I tell you about Big Johnny Simpson’s sister? You never bloody—’ My mobile rang – a hard-edged rendition of an old-fashioned telephone. ‘God’s sake …’

      I put the mug on the floor by Parker’s head, pulled a blister pack of pills from my pocket and handed them over. ‘Tramadol. And I want you gone by the time I get back: Susanne’s coming round.’

      ‘Nnnng … fnnn brrkn …’

      ‘And would it kill you to tidy up now and then? Place is a shitehole.’ I grabbed my car keys and leather jacket. Dug the phone from my pocket. The name, ‘Michelle’, sat in the middle of the screen.

      Great.

      Because СКАЧАТЬ