Shatter the Bones

Chapter 22

An old man wheezed his way up the stairs, one hand on the black balustrade, the other clutching a rolled up, bright-pink Hello Kitty umbrella.

‘Morning, Doc.’ Logan leaned against the wall. ‘Back again?’ Doc Fraser scowled from beneath hairy eyebrows. Water dripped from the point of his brolly. ‘This is all your fault. I could’ve stayed retired, at home, chasing Mildred around the conservatory in my pants, but nooooo…’ The pathologist shook his shoulders, sending a little downpour pattering to the stairs at his feet. ‘Your mate Hudson’s called in sick again. So it’s either muggins here, or no one.’

‘Toes?’

‘Yes, toes. It’s always bloody toes these days.’

‘Erm…’ Logan glanced up the stairs, then down. No one around. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

Logan clicked the button and set the video playing again.

Doc Fraser leant forward in his seat until his nose was almost touching the screen.

Dr Dave Goulding had the room’s only other chair. He’d turned it the wrong way around, straddling it and leaning his arms on the back. Head tilted to one side, watching the pathologist watching the video. Goulding had on his little rectangular glasses, and a brand-new 1960s-Beatles-style moustache to go with his pelt-like hair. He ran a finger along the bridge of his hooked nose. ‘It’s an interesting choice, don’t you think?’ The voice was pure Liverpool.

Doc Fraser shrugged. ‘They obviously know what they’re doing. The stitching’s good — not wonderful, but good… Which button pauses it again?’

Logan clicked it with the mouse. ‘Thanks. Well, they’ve definitely got access to proper medical supplies. The brown stuff they’ve painted her feet with is Videne — it’s an iodine-based disinfectant used to prep people for surgery. She’s on an IV drip, so I’m assuming they don’t have access to a PCA system-’

‘PCA?’ Logan opened his notepad. ‘Patient Controlled Analgesia. You know, one of those machines where you press a button and it gives you more morphine? Well, until it thinks you’ve had enough, then it cuts you off so you can’t overdose.’

‘I see.’ Goulding pointed at the screen. ‘So they don’t want to cause Jenny pain.’

Logan tried not to laugh. ‘They cut off her toes, Dave.’ So much for a psychology degree.

That got him a shrug. ‘But that doesn’t mean they want her to suffer. First they try to fob everyone off with a surrogate big toe from another child — it doesn’t work, so they’ve got no choice, they have to amputate. It shows they’re serious about killing her.’

Doc Fraser nodded. ‘Aye.’

‘And I think, if they do end up killing her, they’ll do it so she doesn’t have to suffer.’

Logan settled back against the windowsill. ‘Kidnappers with a conscience.’

‘Make it play again.’

He clicked the button.

‘This is not a hoax. You have four days left. If you raise enough money, they will live. If you do not, they will die. Do not let Jenny and Alison down.’

A mobile phone rang.

Doc Fraser sighed. ‘That’ll be Finnie. Probably having a wee strop because the post mortem was supposed to start…’ Quick check. ‘Ten minutes ago.’ The pathologist gave a big, pantomime stretch. ‘Any more biscuits?’

Logan pushed the packet over. ‘Now what I find interesting,’ Goulding opened a pale blue folder and pulled out a half-dozen sheets of paper, placing them on the desk, ‘is the language used. The voice on the videos is precise — no contractions, no colloquialisms — but the notes…’ He read the latest one out. ‘“The police isn’t taking this seriously. We gave them simple, clear, instructions, but they still was late. So we got no other choice: we had to cut off the wee girl’s toe. She got nine more. No more fucking about.”’

Goulding let his fingertips drift across the surface of the note. ‘“The police isn’t.”, “But they still was.”, “So we got no other choice.”, “She got nine more.”’

‘Different people?’ Doc Fraser helped himself to another Jammie Dodger.

Goulding shook his head. ‘No … different media. If they were slapdash, they’d use a voice-changer — like you get in toy Iron Man or Dalek helmets — but they don’t. They know if we can get hold of the conversion algorithm we can decode their voice; and the pattern and rhythm of your speech stay the same anyway. So when they write the notes, they’re typing in a fake accent. Trying to put us off.’

The psychologist held the note up. ‘But even then they still use a colon to delineate two parts of the compound sentence, and all the apostrophes are in the right place — given the idiom. Even the commas are correct.’

Doc Fraser’s phone went again. ‘Oh … bloody hell.’ He gave a long sigh. ‘I suppose I should really get down there and start the post mortem.’ But he didn’t move.

‘I do wonder about the toes…’ Goulding fiddled with the mouse, setting the video playing again.

Doc Fraser’s phone stopped ringing. Then started again almost immediately. ‘All right, all right. Some people.’ He levered himself to his feet and stuck his hands in the pockets of his beige cardigan, pulling it all out of shape. ‘Well, if you need me I’ll be downstairs discovering traces of morphine, thiopental sodium, and Barbie-pink nail polish.’

‘Thanks, Doc.’ The door clunked shut and Logan stood in front of the window, looking out at the grey city.

Rain hammered the glass, gusts of wind shivering the few straggly trees planted between FHQ and Marischal College, tiny green buds whipping back and forth. He couldn’t see the crowd gathered outside the front doors from here, but he had a perfect view of the outside broadcast units, parked illegally on the other side of the road.

The media must be loving this — the chance to whip up moral outrage, the chance to broadcast and print the most salacious and disturbing images and stories, all with the excuse that the kidnappers would kill Alison and Jenny McGregor if they didn’t… ‘What about the toes?’

‘How you getting on?’

He looked around, saw the psychologist starting at him, then turned back to the window. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You’ve not turned up for a session for five weeks, Logan.’ Someone hurried across the road, passing in front of a grey Transit van with a satellite antenna on top of it, struggling to control an umbrella that looked hell bent on making a break for freedom.

‘Do you think it’s important they’re sending toes, not fingers?’

Goulding sighed. ‘The big toe — that’s a huge loss to a foot, isn’t it? It’s the point of balance — cut it off and you’re facing months and months of physical therapy learning to walk again. But the little toe…’ A pause. ‘Not just one, but both little toes…’

The umbrella broke free, tumbling end-over-end away down Queen Street. Its owner lumbered after it, right out into the path of a taxi. A blare of horn. Flashing lights. Probably a few choice swearwords as well.

‘Logan, therapy isn’t a quick fix. You have-’

‘I had meat yesterday.’

‘You did? Really?’

‘Lasagne. Not vegetarian: proper beef sauce.’ Well, if you couldn’t lie to your therapist, who could you lie to?

The umbrella buried itself in a bush. ‘And how did that make you feel?’

‘Can we stick to the toes?’

‘This is quite a breakthrough, Logan. Seriously, well done — I’m proud of you.’

And there was the guilt. ‘Toes?’

‘I don’t think they’re going to go through with it. I think however much money they get, they won’t kill her.’

‘Why would they kill her when she’s worth a fortune on the paedophile livestock exchange?’

‘Ah… You think she’d be better off dead than being passed around, sold on, abused?’

Logan didn’t look around. ‘Don’t you?’

That artificial voice crackled out of the laptop’s speakers again.

‘This is not a hoax. You have four days left. If you raise enough money, they will live. If you do not, they will die. Do not let Jenny and Alison down.’

The umbrella’s owner dragged it out of the bush and struggled with the mechanism. It stayed resolutely inside-out.

He jammed the broken brolly back into the bush, stuck two fingers up to it, then marched off into the downpour.

Logan turned his back on the rain. ‘The other trouble is: we’re setting a precedent here.’ Goulding sat back, arms crossed. ‘They snatched two people everyone will recognize. They demand money from the public, but don’t say how much it’ll take to keep their victims alive. Everyone chips in, and they walk away with what: four, five million by the time Thursday morning comes around?’

‘I know, what’s to stop someone else from doing the same thing next week?’

‘How did your lasagne taste?’

‘Yeah…’ Logan bit his bottom lip. ‘Good. Meaty. Like I remembered it.’

‘Not like human flesh?’

Warm saliva filled his mouth. Stomach lurching two steps to the right. A warm dizzy fog behind his eyes. Logan swallowed hard. Looked away. ‘No. Nothing like human flesh.’

Furry. Warm and furry. She’s lying on her back, looking up at the ceiling, watching it twist to the left a bit, then jump back to where it was and twist again, and again, and again, and again…

Jenny McGregor blinks. It just sets the room spinning faster. Mummy’s face appears, big and pink above her. Nose all red at the end, like a cherry, eyes all pink. Mouth a wobbly line. ‘There, there, shhhh… It’ll be all right, I promise… Shhhh…’

A cool hand strokes her head. ‘Thirsty…’

A plastic bottle presses against her lips and wet dribbles down her chin. Jenny swallows. Some of it goes down the wrong way. Splutter. Choke. Cough. Barbed wire in her throat.

Mummy helps her sit up. ‘Are you OK?’

She can see the bandages wrapped around each foot. Big lumps of white, with faint yellow-and-pink stains. Pins and needles stab and jab and tickle her little toes… Which is silly, because she doesn’t have little toes any more. She saw them go into the envelope with the shiny CD circle.

This little piggy went to market,

This little piggy stayed at home,

This little piggy had roast beef,

This little piggy had none.

And these little piggies are gone…

The monsters are back. They’re standing in the corner of the swirly room, with their names stuck to their chests and their metal voices. Maybe they’ve come for more toes?

‘I’m just saying, OK? I don’t see why I have to be “Sylvester”.’

‘Jesus, not again…’ The one called TOM shakes his smooth plastic face from side to side.

‘I want to be “Tom”.’

‘Tough: I’m Tom.’ He settles back against the wall and crosses his white papery arms. ‘Anyway, could be worse: you could be “Christopher”, that’s like being “Mr Shit”.’

‘Hey!’ COLIN hits him in the arm. ‘He was a great Doctor!’

‘My arse. Doing a runner after only one series. Only seems better cos they threw all that money into special effects.’

‘Yeah.’ SYLVESTER nods. ‘Sylvester McCoy would’ve been a great Doctor if they’d given him a decent bloody budget.’

Silence. ‘You are so fucking gay!’

‘Yeah, more Gaylord than Timelord.’

‘Fuck the pair of you…’

The door opens and everyone stops talking. They stand up straight like pale white soldiers. DAVID walks into the room.

He looks around, breath hissing in and out. Then the same, dead, robot voice as all the other monsters. ‘Has she been given her antibiotic yet?’

COLIN looks at the other two, then takes a step back. ‘I was … erm … just about to start-’

‘Well get on with it.’ He steps up so close that Jenny can almost see the horns under his crime-person suit. But she can see his tail: long and red, with a forky bit on the end, swishing back and forward — like an angry cat.

COLIN picks up his little plastic box and hurries over. Opens it up. Pulls out another needle. Fills it with milk. ‘I…’ He glances at DAVID, then kneels down at the side of the bed.

Mummy flinches back. ‘Don’t hurt her!’

COLIN reaches out and strokes Jenny’s hair with his rubbery purple fingers. ‘It’s OK. I just… I have to give you a little injection to stop you getting sick. Is that all right? I can’t give you tablets in case you throw them back up.’

Jenny looks at him. His face looks like a dead person. Like Daddy in the box. Like the goldfish on the bathroom floor.

She reaches for him, little fingers grasping his sleeve. ‘Please, don’t … don’t take my toes away…’

‘Fuck…’ COLIN rests his head against the stripy mattress. ‘I won’t, OK? You’re going to be fine. It’s just a little scratch.’ He holds it against her skin. ‘Sorry…’

She barely feels the jaggy needle as it goes in. Doesn’t feel the bee’s sting. ‘I want to go home…’

‘I know you do, sweetheart. I know you do.’ COLIN stares at the floor for a bit, then stands. Makes himself look bigger by putting his shoulders back, bringing his head up. He turns, and walks across the swirling room to DAVID. Then slumps. ‘I can’t do this any more.’

Mummy strokes her forehead. ‘Shhhh… It’ll all be over soon, and we’ll go home. Don’t be scared.’

‘You know fine what you signed up for, Colin.’

‘It… It’s different, OK?’

‘Don’t be an arsehole, we-’

‘You’re not the one had to cut off a little girl’s toes!’

‘Here, look, it’s Teddy Gordon.’ Mummy holds that horrible stitched-on smile in front of her. Twitches his head left and right, like he’s having a fit. Like that girl in primary three they have to watch in case she bites off her tongue.

‘So what, you’re chickening out?’ DAVID pokes COLIN in the chest.

‘I’m…’ He looks at his feet. ‘You know what? Yeah, I’m chickening out. I’ve had it. I’ve had it with this whole fucked up-’

DAVID moves fast as a tiger. Grabs COLIN and thumps him into the scribbly wall. BANG — the room goes left to right for a couple of twists.

‘You listen to me, you rancid little wanker: you don’t get to chicken out. You do what your fucking told, understand?’

‘You can’t make me-’

DAVID slams him into the wall again. And again. Then punches him in the tummy.

‘DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?’ DAVID’s robot voice fizzes and crackles.

He lets go, and COLIN falls to his knees, crying. Holding his head in his purple hands.

DAVID backs away. ‘Do your bit.’

TOM twitches, then walks over and puts his arm around COLIN. ‘Come on, you just need a bit of air, yeah? Yeah, course. We’ll go outside, get you a can of Coke, or something, OK?’

He helps COLIN to his feet and out the door. It slams shut like a fist.

DAVID rolls his shoulders back, then walks over, till he’s standing over Mummy, looking down at them both. Breath hissing in and out.

Mummy’s voice wobbles. ‘Please, she’s not feeling-’

‘The antibiotics will take down her fever. She’ll be fine.’ DAVID tilts his head to one side. ‘As long as you both do as you’re told.’

‘But she-’

‘Misbehave, and I’ll execute the pair of you. Do you understand?’

‘We-’

‘Do we need to have another fucking talk about how this works?’ Silence. ‘Well, do we?’

He throws an arm out, it leaves oily trails in the air. ‘Sylvester: key.’

SYLVESTER shuffles his feet. ‘Are you-’

‘Give me the fucking key!’

SYLVESTER holds out a little bit of metal and DAVID snatches it, then grabs Mummy’s ankle and unlocks the padlock that holds the chain around her ankle.

‘I didn’t mean any-’

‘You’re not on TV now.’ He grabs her arm and hauls her off the bed. ‘This is my house, and in my house you do what you’re fucking told.’

The rooms spins.

Teddy Gordon smiles his horrible smile.

Jenny’s missing toes throb. ‘Oh yeah.’ DAVID drags Mummy away. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

‘Please! I don’t-’

The door bangs shut. Like the lid on Daddy’s box.

Jenny feels warm tears rolling down her cheeks.

SYLVESTER’s chin drops against his chest. ‘Fuck…’

The room lurches like a drunk man.