Birthdays for the dead

Chapter 19

Missed. The bastard missed! Everything was crystal clear, each detail rendered in glowing HD Technicolor, with Dolby surround: the slap of the water against the platform, the grain of the wood on the walkway, the flecks of rust on the handrail, the golden flash as the brass cartridge spun through the air, the ping as it bounced off the shed wall.

MOVE!

I rushed the fat bastard, head down like a battering ram.

Nothing hurt any more. Like being reborn.

I slammed into Burges s swollen stomach, sending him crashing back into the door frame. He wasn t just big, he was solid too it was like rugby-tackling a sofa. The two-twenty-two went flying, clattered against the wooden platform.

Get off me!

I did: coiled a fist back, ready for the fat bastard s face, but he was faster than he looked barging past, making for the railing where I d been standing, feet thumping on the walkway, making it judder.

I grabbed the rifle, hauled it up and round until it was pointing right in the middle of Burges s huge back.

He stood there, at the railing, staring out at the water.

Why didn t he go after the gun?

I racked another bullet into the chamber.

Burges jabbed a finger at the loch. There! Got you, you little shit!

A grey shape floated past, about eight-foot from the barge skin like freckled neoprene, a ragged scarlet hole in its side. The body rolled and twitched, one flipper making eddies in the bloody water. The thing had to be at least five feet long. Jesus

Burges turned and grinned at me, like a crack-head with a chainsaw. The boathook give me the boathook. Quickly!

On your knees. Hands behind your head.

The boat puttered towards the platform, PC Clark in the prow holding a coil of rope at the ready while Benny peered out through the wheelhouse window.

The constable s mouth worked up and down, but no sound came out, his eyes wide, staring at the thick smear of blood that went from the open shed doors to the edge of the walkway. Then he stared at me instead: sitting there on a folding chair in the sunshine, the rifle across my knees.

Finally Royce found his voice again. Oh God

The boat bumped against the platform and he fumbled the rope around the cleat. We heard a shot; where s Arnold Burges? The constable scrambled onto the walkway, one hand over his mouth, staring down at the blood. What did you do? I told you! What am I going How am I supposed to explain this?

Benny nodded. Yokkit horns, did dey? What did I tell du: rile Arnie and he s laek ta glaep du.

Royce took a couple of deep breaths, hands fluttering at his sides. Got to call it in. Get on the radio and call it in. Not your fault, Royce, nothing you could do. Oh God

Benny picked up a sack of fish food and thumped it down on the walkway. There s no point being aff a leg an on a leg, Royce ma darlin, Arnie s Arnie, du knows that.

The constable shifted from foot to foot. Oh God, we ll have to drag the loch: what if the body drifts out to sea? They re going to blame me!

Arnold Burges walked out of the shed, drysuit peeled down to his waist, the arms knotted around his massive stomach. His white T-shirt was stained red across the chest, blood smeared up to his elbows. He wiped his hands on a towel. You got the rest of that feed, Benny?

You re alive Royce grabbed the handrail with both hands and closed his eyes, then bent forward until his forehead rested on the rusty metal. Oh thank God

Where du been, Arnie? Poor Constable Clark was worried: thought du d gien da lang gaet.

Burges grinned. I got him.

No. Benny s mouth fell open, showing off more fillings than teeth. Du got the greedy bugger?

A nod towards the shed. Inside.

Ha, ha! Benny did a little dance, then scampered in to see for himself.

Royce straightened up, wiped a hand across his forehead, then turned and peered into the shed. Bloody hell

The seal s body hung, head down, over a sheet of tarpaulin, split from tail-flippers to throat, innards piled beneath it steaming in the chill morning air. The smell of rancid fish was strong enough to make Royce gag a little. Couldn t blame him.

He cleared his throat. You shot it

Big bastard, isn t he? Burges squatted by the pile of offal and cut free a slab of purple, about the size of a large hot-water bottle. He slapped the liver onto a chopping board.

Guess what s for lunch.

Ha! Benny loped out through the doors. I ll get the beer.

Royce stuck his chest out. Arnold Burges, I m arresting you for violation of the Marine Scotland Act, 2011, making it illegal to shoot seals without

It s OK. I put a hand on the constable s shoulder. I ve already done this bit: he s got a licence.

Burges pointed at an official-looking letter pinned to the shed wall, beside the feed cage. We ve tried exclusion nets, tensioners, sonic scarers and the greedy bastard kept coming. Had about three thousand fish off us. He squatted back down and hacked out what looked like a kidney. Got what he deserved.

Burges and I sat on the walkway with our backs against the shed, out of the wind, bathed in sunshine. The view on this side of the barge was spectacular: mountains on both sides, sweeping down to the sparkling water, islands in the middle distance like emeralds on blue silk, the Atlantic Ocean a line of hazy sapphires beyond.

A rattling whoosh came from inside Benny and Royce tipping bags of fish feed into the metal hopper. It was warm, in the sun. And the smell of cat biscuits wasn t that bad once you got used to it. Better than disembowelled seal at any rate.

Burges looked out at the rippling water, his eyes swollen and pink. Can you believe we actually thought the cards would stop when we moved?

I m sorry you had to find out like this. Someone should have told you yesterday when we identified Lauren.

He drained his can of Stella, scrunched it in his car-crusher hand and dumped it on the wood beside him. Cracked open another one.

Been out here since yesterday morning, trying to catch that frigging seal He bent forwards, head hanging over his gut. Does Danielle know? Did someone tell her?

I don t

Can t get a mobile signal out here. Should phone her. See if she s OK

We sat in silence.

Burges knocked back a mouthful of lager. Wiped a hand across his eyes. How? How does he find us? How are we supposed to A sniff. Another drink. Can we bury her? Our Lauren: do we get her back, can we bury her?

They ll release the remains soon as they can. You ll get her back.

He nodded and a tear plopped onto his bloodstained T-shirt.

We thought she d run away from home. Thought we d done something. Danielle still blames herself. Spent months searching every street in Edinburgh, London, Glasgow posters in shop windows, pestering the papers to print her photo, talking to every homeless bastard and junkie we could find. He gave a little laugh, then bit his bottom lip. Thought she d just come back one day. Then that first card arrives: happy fucking birthday

Yeah. I stared out over the water. My daughter, Rebecca, went missing five years ago. She was nearly thirteen Never heard from her again.

Burges nodded. Hurts, doesn t it? Wondering if it was your fault. He stared at the tin in his hand. At least you still get to hope.

No. That died four years ago with card number one.

I took another mouthful of luke-warm coffee. I meant what I said: Henry Forrester did everything he could. We all did. Still are.

The diesel generator chugged and rumbled into life, then a clunk came from inside the shed, followed by a deep rattling sound. A pipe jutted out of the shed wall, connected to a thick plastic hose that disappeared into the loch. It shivered and shook, then out in the middle of one of the salmon cages a spray of food leapt into the air, then pattered down on the water. The surface boiled with fish.

Burges finished his second can and cracked open a third. She was our little girl

Henry did his best, he really did. Lauren was missing for over a year before we even found out she was a victim. Twelve months for everyone to get hazy on the details. Even the CCTV footage gets erased eventually. It s not his fault.

Burges rested his arms on his knees. Every year we get another card, and it s like a knife: gouging How are we supposed to deal with that? He drank, chugging back at least half the can in one go. Henry Forrester doesn t deserve to forget. And neither do you.