A Song for the Dying. Stuart MacBride

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СКАЧАТЬ smell of dust and spent airbag and petrol.

      Everything clicked back to normal speed.

      O’Neil hung forward against his seatbelt, arms dangling at his sides, blood seeping down his face from the gash in his forehead and broken nose. The Transit van’s radiator blocked his window.

      I fumbled with the seatbelt, a high-pitched ringing filling my head.

      Out … I shoved open the door and stumbled into the road, holding onto the pool car’s roof to stay upright.

      Someone screamed.

      The Fiesta was bent around the lamppost, the passenger side all buckled in. The lamppost hadn’t fared much better. It was bent and twisted, the glass head dangling from a couple of wires.

      Yellow and black dots swirled around me, dimming the street.

      I blinked. Shook my head. Cracked my jaw. And the ringing dropped from deafening to just painful. Christ, what a mess…

      Glass crunched under my shoes as I picked my way across the road.

      Whimpering came from the back of the Fiesta – a pair of brown eyes stared out at me, wet nose pressed against the cracked hatchback glass. Then the driver’s door creaked open and the bastard fell out onto the road: baggy blue tracksuit, trainers, big woolly hat pulled down over his ears. Couldn’t see his face, just the back of his head.

      ‘You! You’re under arrest!’

      And that was it. He was up on his feet like he was on springs, not looking back, arms and legs pumping as he sprinted towards the blue-and-white monolithic Travelodge on Greenwood Street.

      No you bloody don’t.

      I lurched after him, dragging my handset out again. ‘I need an ambulance to the junction of Canard, Nelson, and Greenwood. Officer hurt. And get the Fire Brigade too – there’s a dog trapped in the wreckage.’

      Moving faster, pulse thudding in my throat, roaring in my chest.

      Around the corner of Greenwood. The train station loomed ahead – a big Victorian upturned boat in wrought iron and glass, with a blocky 1970s concrete portico stuck on the outside for taxis and smokers to loiter under.

      I shoved my way through the main doors, into a din of people shouting and pounding music. The interior was one big open-plan space, with walkways arching over the tracks, connecting the half-dozen platforms. Light filtered down through the dirty glass roof.

      Someone had set up a big tent-stage thing by the ticket office – the Castlewave FM logo emblazoned on either side with ‘TURNING MILES INTO SMILES!!!’ in the middle. A table at the front was draped in black, a pair of tossers standing behind it clapping their hands above their heads in time to the music, still holding their microphones.

      A sea of bodies clapped back at them, shoulder to shoulder, crowded into the concourse.

      ‘Ha, excelente mi amigos!’ The music faded out. ‘What’s the total, Colin?’

      ‘Well, Steve, we’re all the way to Calais in France already, how cool is that?’

      ‘Megatastic coolio!’ Followed by a grating honk from an old-fashioned horn.

      Where the hell was he?

      No sign of anyone running, or of anyone getting up, swearing, shaking their fists because they’d been knocked out of the way.

      ‘You’re listening to Sensational Steve and Crrrrrrrazy Colin. It’s five past one, and we’re live, live, live from Oldcastle train station in Logansferry!’

      The crowd roared out a cheer.

      Had to be here somewhere…

      ‘You’re not wrong there, Steve, and we’re here cycling all the way to the Philippines to raise money for the victims of Typhoon Nanmadol! Six thousand, six hundred and seventy-four miles!’

      I pushed into the crowd. There – blue tracksuit. ‘You! Don’t you dare run!’

      ‘That’s a lot of miles, Colin.’

      ‘It’s a lot of miles, Steve!’

      People complained as I shoved them out of the way and grabbed the guy by the arm. Spun him around… Only it wasn’t a he, it was a she. A lumpy woman with a short haircut.

      She wrenched my hand from her arm. Glared at me. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Get away from us, you freak!’ She backed up a pace, baring her teeth. ‘God, what happened to your face?’

      Sodding hell. There was another woman in a blue tracksuit over by the automatic ticket machines. And a couple of men too – all wearing blue tracksuits with the Oldcastle Warriors logo stitched onto the left breast. Bloody local football team colours.

      ‘So if you’re listening at home, why not come on down to the train station and take a turn on one of our stationary bicycles? Help us turn miles into smiles for those poor Philippine people!’

      ‘Guv?’

      I turned.

      Constable Rhona Massie had her hands in her pockets. Blue tracksuit top on over a sweat-stained red T-shirt and a pair of stonewashed jeans. The bags under her eyes were shiny with sweat, cheeks hot-pink against her long pale face. ‘You OK? Jesus, what happened? You’re bleeding …’

      What? I put a hand against my forehead, it came away red. That’s when it started to sting. And not just my head, a wave of aches and pains rolled up my right side, crashing at the base of my neck. Something sharp throbbed deep inside my left wrist. ‘Where is he?’

      ‘Right, time for another stellar tuuuuuune. I want to see everyone getting their funky thang on for Four Mechanical Mice and their “Anthem for a Shining Girl”!’ A big wobbling piano chord blared out of the speakers.

      Rhona grimaced, showing off a row of perfect white teeth. ‘You look like you’ve been in a car bomb, or something!’

      ‘A guy, ran in here a minute ago. Woolly hat, white trainers, blue tracksuit.’

      She stepped closer and brushed a flurry of safety glass off my shoulder. ‘We need to get you a doctor.’ She turned. ‘I NEED A DOCTOR OVER HERE! SOMEONE’S HURT!’ Then back to me. ‘You’re probably in shock.’ She held up a hand, the fingers splayed. ‘How many fingers am I—’

      ‘Get that out of my face.’ I slapped her hand away. ‘I want all the exits sealed. No one in or out. Get everyone in a blue tracksuit rounded up. And why aren’t you in uniform?’

      ‘She’s incandescent, she’s all ablaze…’

      Rhona stared at me. ‘It’s my day off, I’m down raising money for the typhoon victims.’

      ‘She is the sound of a million glass grenades…’

      ‘Not tomorrow, Constable, now!’

      ‘Yes, СКАЧАТЬ