Halfhead

15

‘Feelin’ any better?’ Special Agent Brian Alexander plonked himself down on the end of Will’s hospital bed. The little private room was comfortable enough, if you liked machines that pinged and gurgled at random intervals. ‘You look like a mouldy jobbie, by the way.’

‘What took you so long?’ Will swung his legs out of bed, then stood, his hospital-issue smock flapping open at the back. The left side of his face felt as if it had been stretched over a head three times too big for it. And every breath was like being stabbed in the chest.

‘Last time I do you a favour.’ Brian sniffed. ‘We knew they took all your clothes in as evidence, so me an’ Jo went shoppin’!’

Will stared at him. ‘Oh, no. Tell me you didn’t let…’ He ground to a halt-DS Cameron was standing in the doorway. She was still wearing the same florescent pink, triple breasted suit she’d had on in the park that morning. Given her taste in work clothes, and the dirty big grin on Brian’s face, Will got the nasty feeling they’d bought something that would make him look like a complete idiot. He forced a smile. ‘I mean…Thanks.’

It was the thought that counted. And besides, whatever fashion-disaster they’d bought, he’d only have to wear it from here back to the apartment. Twenty minutes, half an hour tops.

Will reached round and clasped the gown closed at the back, making sure DS Cameron didn’t get subjected to an eyeful of buttock. ‘Honestly, you shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble.’ They really shouldn’t have: they could have just gone past the flat and picked him up a change of clothes-and Brian knew it-but that wouldn’t have been as much fun as buying something hideous.

‘Oh no,’ Brian’s smile grew wider. ‘It was a pleasure! Wasn’t it, Jo?’

DS Cameron handed Will a bulky bag in luminous yellow with something trendy written on the side. ‘Hope they fit.’ Was she blushing?

Suddenly Will felt very uncomfortable. ‘Em…thank you.’

Brian let the silence drag on for a bit, before taking DS Cameron by the arm and leading her out into the corridor so Will could ‘get some privacy’. Wink, wink. The bastard was loving every minute of this.

Will dumped the bag down on the bed and opened it gingerly. There was no sudden flash of electric green, or yellow and blue stripes, or any of the other fashion eye-burners that were all the rage on Sauchiehall Street. Not believing his luck he tipped the contents out onto the scratchy sheets and began to dress.

Outside the room, Jo shifted from foot to foot. Brian nudged her. ‘You needin’ a pee?’

‘Don’t be daft.’ She scowled and stopped fidgeting. Then started again. ‘Think he’ll like them?’

‘Ooh, I get it,’ Brian’s eyes sparkled as he started to sing: ‘Jo and Wi-ill, up a tree, H.U.M.P-’

Smart arse.

She smacked him one.

‘Ow! Better watch that DS Cameron-don’t think Will likes rough girls.’

Jo turned and leant against the wall. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘OK…’ Brian held up his hands, pulling back the cuffs of his jacket. A ragged line ran all the way around the left wrist. The arm looked normal enough, but the hand didn’t-it was smaller than the right, and the skin was a strange pink colour: as if he’d borrowed it from someone shorter who didn’t get a lot of sun. Up till now she hadn’t even noticed there was anything wrong with it. So much for impressing everyone with her Bluecoat powers of observation.

He held both hands side by side. It just emphasized the difference. ‘Eleven years ago we were workin’ in one of them Rapid Response Teams, doin’ our best to stop them riotin’ bamheids from killin’ each other. Thirteen Service personnel got grabbed at Dexter Heights: poor sods were only there to pick up the dead. So we go in after them.’ He leant against the wall next to her. ‘There’s me: out on a wire with the rest of the pickup team, shootin’ back at a bunch of wee radges with Shrikes and Whompers; no way in hell we’re gonnae rescue the hostages, the buggers have got way too much firepower. So we do a runner: hard D, me and the guys all danglin’ about underneath the Dragonfly when it jumps into the air. Only we don’t make it.’

The smile slid from his face. ‘Somethin’ big hits the ship and we do a nosedive right into Sherman Heights. Bang!’ He slammed his hand with the funny borrowed fingers against the plasticboard.

Jo tried not to flinch.

‘Everyone on a wire gets flattened against the wall, an’ this is like thirty-nine storeys off the deck, mind. Will’s the only one still movin’. Pilot and Copilot’s dead, so’s the rest of the pickup team: squashed like fuckin’ bugs on the side of a dirty big buildin’.’

He pursed his lips for a moment. Frowned. ‘I’m no’ a hunnerd percent sure what happens next cos I’m all busted up and out ma face on blockers, but somehow Will hauls me back into the drop bay. Then he carries me on his back for about two days, climbin’ down the stairs an’ lift shafts: tryin’ to stay away from the locals. You know, proper hero stuff.’ Brian dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘They wis goin’ tae make a big film out of it, but the Ministry called copyright on everything involving government personnel. Thievin’ bastards. Anyway…’

Brian straightened up and showed her his hand again. ‘At some point in the proceedin’s Will gets jumped by the natives, and while he’s fightin’ them off, some noseless wee turd carries my poor, unconscious body away intae the depths of the buildin’. I come round for like about five minutes, an’ it’s real hazy: I’m in this parkin’ lot on one of the sublevels, and some bugger’s chewin’ on a severed hand…Takes me a while to realize it’s mine.’

He stared at that strange, pink-skinned palm. ‘So I scream. Will appears, chaos ensues, an’ next thing I know we’re out-him runnin’ hell for leather, me slung over his shoulder like a sack of tatties. He’d never set eyes on me before the crash, could’a left me to die on the wire, or in the basement, or half a million other times, but he didn’t. Came back for me, even though I wis a total fuckin’ stranger. You want to know what he’s like? That’s what he’s like.’

Jo looked at the hand again. ‘Not a very good cloneplant, is it?’

Brian shrugged. ‘Had it done eleven years ago; they’ve got a wee bitty better at it since then. James keeps tellin’ me to get a new one grown, get this one replaced. But I’m buggered if I’m gonnae sit back and let anyone cut ma hand off again.’

Jo had to admit he had a point.

Will examined himself in the mirror above the sink in the tiny en-suite shower room. Brian had been right-he looked bloody awful. The left side of his face was swollen and tender, covered in dark-purple bruises. An off-colour patch sat on his temple-just above the eyebrow-where Jacket-and-Scarf had tried to cave his head in with that metal rod. The surgical team had filled the wound with skinpaint, but it would take a while to blend in.

The rest of him looked…almost stylish. Black trousers, grey T-shirt, and a collarless thing in stone-blue. The unders weren’t covered in little hearts or bunny rabbits. They’d even thrown in a jacket that must have cost someone a small fortune.

Will limped out into the corridor with a small, ‘Tada.’

‘You still look like shite,’ said Brian, head on one side, ‘but at least now you look like well-dressed shite.’

‘This lot can’t have been cheap.’

‘Aye, well remember that when you’re signin’ my expenses this month.’

DS Cameron still hadn’t said anything. Maybe he’d offended her by being an ungrateful bastard when she’d turned up with the clothes. Will cleared his throat. ‘Thank you…both of you. These are really great.’

She smiled, obviously pleased. ‘It’s OK.’

Brian tugged at the jacket’s lapels, lining them up. ‘I wanted to get you somethin’ a bit more vivid, but she wasn’t having any of it.’

Jo shrugged. ‘Just thought these would suit you better.’

She looked at the floor, twiddling with her hair while Will tried to think of something to say.

‘So…’ Brian grinned. ‘Are we goin’ or no’?’

They’d almost made it as far as the escalator when a reedy voice piped up behind them, ‘And where do you think you’re going, Mr Hunter?’

‘Home?’

A short woman with greying hair and glasses marched in front of them, blocking the lifts. Dr Euphemia Morrison-if you worked for the Network, and you went into combat, sooner or later you ended up in her care. ‘You are kidding, right? You nearly died this morning, remember?’

‘Er…Pressing business. Can’t be helped.’

‘You just had major surgery.’

‘Really pressing business.’

‘Apart from anything else, you’ve got a concussion, you need constant supervision.’ Dr Morrison pointed back towards the private room. ‘Get your arse back in that bed.’

No one moved.

She stared at him, but Will didn’t flinch.

‘Fine…’ She said at last. ‘But if you drop dead in the middle of the night, don’t come crying to me.’ She turned on Brian. ‘Keep an eye on him this time, for God’s sake. If I have to glue his ribs back together again there’ll be no bloody bone left.’

Dr Morrison poked Will gently in the stomach. ‘Your insides are one big gristly ball of scar tissue. Next time I’m cutting all that gubbins out and replacing it, whether you like it or not.’ She handed Will a packet of blockers, the finger-length plastic tubes fluorescing slightly under the UV lights. ‘No more than one an hour. And I want to see you back here at four thirty on Sunday for a follow-up.’ She poked him again. ‘Don’t make me come and get you. And try to stay off your bum for a while, keep those bruises moving or you’ll seize up.’

‘Yes, Mum.’ He planted a small kiss on her cheek.

‘Don’t you “yes mum” me, you cheeky wee bugger. Go on: out. I have sick people to attend to.’

Will hobbled after Jo and Brian to the lifts, riding down in silence, till Jo finally asked, ‘So your mother’s a doctor?’

‘What?’

The doors pinged open and they stepped out into the hospital’s busy lobby.

‘The doctor: I didn’t know she was your mum.’

‘She’s not. Doc Morrison is like that with pretty much everyone. Even more of an old mother hen than Brian is.’

Brian didn’t rise to it, just kept barging a path to the front doors.

Will limped along behind him. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘We’re givin’ you a lift home, then me and Jo gotta crash a birthday party full of dead folk.’

‘Why don’t I just tag along with you?’

‘No chance. The Tiny Terror would have my balls: you’re on compassionate leave till Monday.’

‘Look, you heard what the Doc said-I’ve got a concussion. Someone needs to keep an eye on me just in case something-’

‘Nice try. You’re goin’ home.’ The automatic doors swished open.

Outside, it was still chucking it down.

People dashed in from the deluge, collars up, plastics down, looking miserable. The only ones not rushing about trying to get into the dry were the halfheads-they just went about their daily business, emptying the bins, polishing the plaques, mopping up the dirty water tramped in from the streets-as if today were a day no different from any other.

They didn’t mind the wet, because they couldn’t feel it. Some would get flu, some would get pneumonia, some would probably even die and no one would care. Not even them.

Brian hurried out into the rain, sploshing through the puddles towards the car park, while Jo and Will huddled under the hospital’s portico-watching the people go by.

Neither of them saw the halfhead shivering its way through the deluge towards them, pushing a wheely-bucket piled high with refuse sacks. They didn’t see it, but it saw them.

She recognizes Him, even with all the bruising and casual clothes. He’s lost some hair and gained some pounds, but it’s Him all right: The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit. The man who did this to her.

The BASTARD who did this.

He’s dead. He’s still walking about but he’s dead. Right now. Dead.

There’s a scalpel in her pocket-not as delicate as a surgeon’s wand, but it’ll open him up just as well. Spill his guts all over the concrete floor. Blood like a fountain. Screams. Begging to be put out of his misery as she jams her hand into his hollow stomach cavity and reaches for his heart…

Everything is bees and broken glass.

She steps forward, the scalpel’s handle cold against her palm.

And then stops. Too quick. It’ll be over too quick. The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit deserves to suffer.

We begin by splitting the lower jaw.

Deep breaths. Calm. Deep fucking breaths.

A battered people carrier pulls up outside the hospital entrance-The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit limps over and opens the back door, clambering inside, followed by some woman dressed in garish pink.

They drive off, sending up a wall of spray.

She stands there, watching as the car disappears into the waterlogged traffic.

It takes a lot of effort to calm her breathing. Slowly the buzzing in her head subsides and she can think clearly again. Focus. Not focusing leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to getting caught.

It has taken her four hours to traverse the city, depositing her bargaining chip in a safe place. Safe for her, but not so safe for her old friend Dr Stephen Bexley.

She has dozens of apartments dotted all over the city, all neat and clean, safe and tidy. The people who used to live in them are all dead. Have been for years. She didn’t list their names in court, kept them secret.

During the trial, the NewsNet channels had gloried in the size of her body count, gleeful indignation as the roll of the dead grew and grew. But to her it was little different from reciting a shopping list. No one cries when the fleshworks harvest their great vats of cloned meat do they? No, they eat their CheatMeat burgers and go on with their happy, dead, little lives.

It’s not her fault she has more refined tastes.

She stalks the corridors beneath the hospital buildings. Pushing her wheely-bucket and its special cargo.

All that fuss about a few hundred dead bodies. Ridiculous. Imagine the outcry if they’d discovered the real number of victims was even higher. But they didn’t. And best of all, they never found out about ‘Harbinger’. If they had they’d have rounded up all her special children before they had a chance to blossom and grow. And that would have been a terrible waste.

Back in the storeroom she finds a box of datapads and spends a happy fifteen minutes programming one. Then, when everything is perfect, she goes visiting.

Dr Stephen Bexley’s office is on twenty-nine, one level down from the incubators where her cells are multiplying and dividing. It takes all the control she has not to skip out into the corridor when the lift doors open on the right floor.

The people she passes up here don’t give her a second glance. They don’t notice that her wheely-bucket doesn’t contain the usual load of foamy water, just a bin-bag and a brand new datapad. They don’t wonder why, as the floors are all carpeted on this floor, a halfhead would need a mop in the first place. Because they don’t see her at all.

She pushes into Stephen’s office, pulling the bucket and mop behind her.

He’s alone. Good.

Stephen looks up as the door clunks shut. His eyes slide across her, then return to the papers on his desk. Just another halfhead. Nothing to worry about.

Mistake.

‘So what’s the story then?’ Will climbed out of the people carrier’s warm interior and into the cold rain.

‘The story,’ said Brian, locking the car, ‘is that you’re no’ here. Old Frosty Knickers has it in for me as it is. She finds out I let you muscle in on my investigation when you’re supposed to be on compassionate leave, I’ll be up to my ears in shite. So if anyone asks, you’re a figment of their imagin ation. Understand?’

Will popped a quick salute. He was feeling a lot better than he had when they’d left the hospital, mostly due to the blocker he’d snapped into his neck on the way over. Blockers always made the world a happier place. And given that he’d almost executed a mugger this morning, it’d probably do him good to get out of the house for a while. Stop obsessing about Ken Bloody Peitai and what was going on at Sherman House. Get a bit of perspective.

He looked up at the building Brian had parked in front of.

Montieth Row was an expensive address, commanding views of Glasgow Green that cost more money than Will would ever see in his life. The old red sandstone buildings were long gone, replaced by a gothic complex of terraced granite and pewtered glass. Buttresses leaped over the pavement into the road, creating parking bays big enough to hold a dozen private Hoppers.

‘The Kilgours lived at number forty-seven,’ said DS Cameron as they climbed the front stairs. ‘Six victims: two males, four females. Houseman found them sixty-seven minutes ago. Preliminary team ID’d the bodies and called for SOC support.’

Which explained the rumbling vibration Will could feel through the soles of his shoes as he pushed through the double doors.

‘Victims: John Kilgour and his wife Jocelyn. Agness Kilgour, her partner Ian Preston, and their daughter Trent-she was four. Mrs Helen Kilgour, John and Agness’s mother.’

‘What happened to Mr Kilgour senior?’

The lift doors opened on a little wonderland of polished wood and leather upholstery. Brian pushed the button for the eleventh floor. ‘Hopper crash nine years ago. Died before they could get him into surgery. The mother sues the arse off the ambulance firm and the other driver, takes the compensation and makes a killin’ on the stock market. That’s how come they live here. Nuevo riche.’

‘Any other relatives?’

‘Only the one.’ Brian pulled out a datapad and fiddled with it. ‘Jillian Kilgour, John and Jocelyn’s daughter. This wis meant to be her eighteenth birthday party. I’ve got a team out lookin’ for her, but…’ He shrugged.

They flashed their ID badges at a trooper Will didn’t recognize, ducked under the crime scene tape, and into the huge apartment. The sonics were in full swing through in the lounge, making conversation impossible, so they picked their way through the other rooms, not touching anything.

The Kilgour home was palatial-just what you’d expect in this part of town. The walls were a warm shade of cream, punctuated with tasteful abstract art in minimalist frames. Expensive furniture in deep red velvet and burnished wood. The carpet was speckled with tiny clots of blood, hard and shiny against the cream pile.

A flicker of hot green light spilled out into the hall, and the gurgling roar of the subsonics shuddered and died. Then came the swearing, followed by a couple of cloinging kicks of boot on metal. It sounded like Private Beaton.

The lounge was huge, broken up into three different areas: eating, relaxing, and entertainment. The sonic booms and readers were arranged around a large dining table, and so were the Kilgours. They all sat bolt-upright, brightly coloured party hats perched on their heads, faces pulled into freakish smiles. The carpet beneath their chairs was stained, and there was the distinct aroma of old urine and faeces. Will didn’t blame them.

A roasted joint of CheatMeat took pride of place in the middle of the table-one of the expensive ones, cloned around ceramic bones, not just a slab of flesh from the vats-the surface dried out and beginning to go mouldy. Wrinkly green peas and leathery-looking potatoes slumped in blue serving dishes. The gravy looked like burnt shoe polish.

Brian sagged. ‘What a waste of good food!’

Private Beaton looked up from fiddling with one of the scanners. ‘Afternoon, Brian. Wondered when you’d drag your…’ She shot to attention when she saw Will and snapped off a salute. ‘Sir! I didn’t know you were there. Aren’t you supposed to be-’

‘Apparently I’m a figment of your imagination.’ Will took a look around. This one room was bigger than his whole flat. ‘Having fun?’

‘Bloody SOC duty again. The Lieutenant says I have a talent for the kicking and the swearing, sir. Says it would be a sin to let that go to waste.’

Beaton seemed to have got over her ordeal at Sherman House. It was strange to think that Private Stein had died only four days ago. A lot could happen in four days.

‘Have a look at this,’ said Brian, peering at Mrs Kilgour senior’s head, ‘be right up your street.’

The back of the old woman’s skull was missing, the edges of the wound soft and rounded, no signs of cracking or impact. Impressive.

Will snapped on a pair of gloves and ran a finger around the opening. ‘See how all the arteries are sealed off? This guy’s a whiz with a Thrummer.’ He picked a butter knife off the table and inserted it into the hole. ‘Must have taken it real slow and gentle, there’s not even any brain matter on the back of the seat.’ Will tilted the knife until it clanked on the roof of the skull. ‘Whole head’s completely empty. All the guests the same?’

Brian wrinkled his nose. ‘Far as I can tell. No’ a brain cell between the lot of them.’

Beaton gave the scanner’s casing one last kick and it roared back into life, rattling the cut-crystal on the table.

‘Hallelujah!’ She turned and shouted over the noise, ‘Anyone still in here in five seconds will forever remain part of the crime scene.’

‘Shite!’ Brian grabbed Will by the arm and dragged him out into the corridor. ‘You’re no’ supposed to be here!’

Private Beaton squeezed out into the hall with them. Standing in the middle of a dark brown bloodstain she stuffed both hands in her pockets and leaned back against the door.

‘Funny thing is,’ she yelled, ‘you kinda get used to the noise after a bit. Did you meet the newbie?’ she pointed out through the hallway towards the front door.

‘Have you done the other rooms yet?’

‘Did them first. You can touch anything you like…’ She looked down at the butter knife in Will’s hand, closed her eyes, and gritted her teeth. ‘Where did you get the cutlery from, sir?’

‘Oops.’ Will handed it over.

Private Beaton swore, stomped back into the dining room, switched off the scanner, reset all the booms and put the knife back where it’d been before he’d interfered with the crime scene.

Brian shook his head as the array started up again. ‘You’re a disaster, Will. A total disaster.’

He had a point. Will sloped off before Beaton got back and scowled at him some more. He found DS Cameron on her hands and knees in one of the flat’s three bathrooms, backside stuck in the air as she peered round the back of the sink. It was far from being an unpleasant view. Will opened his mouth to say so, then shut it again. That was the trouble with blockers, they did a great job of killing pain and common sense.

He cleared his throat and tried not to stare at her bum. ‘Found something?’

She glanced up at him. ‘Tiny specks of blood. Looks like our killer was a clean freak. Outside of the sink’s been given a going over with some sort of detergent. Probably washed his hands and then cleaned the place up to remove any prints.’

Will dropped to his knees to take a look. Jo was right, no bloody hand prints, just minute flecks of scarlet on the skirting board. There wasn’t so much as a streak on the sink itself. And it smelled lemony fresh too.

He sat back on his haunches, and when Jo did the same, their faces were only a breath apart…They stayed like that for a moment, neither one of them saying a word.

It was Brian who finally broke the silence, peering in from the bathroom doorway. ‘All clear. Beaton says the scannin’s done.’

Will hadn’t even noticed the noise had stopped.

‘Says if youse want tae poke about in the lounge you’d better do it now, before it gets bagged and tagged.’

‘Yes.’ Will clambered to his feet, awkward and formal.

‘Right.’ Jo jumped up beside him.

Brian raised an eyebrow, a smile blossoming on his podgy face. ‘I can come back later if you like.’

‘No. No need.’ DS Cameron brushed some invisible lint from the front of her bright-pink trousers.

‘OK…’ Brian stepped back, leaving the doorway clear. Then winked. ‘I’ll be givin’ Beaton a hand if you need me.’

‘No, we’ll just…em…’ She pointed.

Will said, ‘Good idea.’

Private Beaton and Agent Alexander stuffed the scanning booms back into their canister, while Will picked his way around the dining table, staring into the backs of the Kilgours’ heads. Every single one of them had been hollowed out-not so much as a scrap of cranial matter left. Very, very impressive work.

Not surprisingly, the family’s freakish smiles were artificial. Someone had looped translucent wire through the corners of their mouths, hauling the lips back and stitching them to the gums at the back, near the molars. Happy families.

Were they alive while their guest evacuated their skulls, one by one? Sitting there, waiting for their turn? Will looked at Trent-the little four-year-old girl-dressed up in her party frock, grinning away like the rest of them. Christ, he hoped not.

He stood back and took in as much of the room as he could. Only one of the chairs was empty, the place setting surrounded by birthday cards with ‘EIGHTEEN TODAY!’ on them. The messages flickering as the batteries died. Jillian Kilgour-the birthday girl.

A pile of presents sat in the middle of the floor. Only half of them were unwrapped, the rest probably being saved for after dinner. The wilted corpses of a dozen gold and silver balloons. A streamer with her name on it, stretching across the wall.

Slowly, Will swivelled left to right and back again, eyes slightly unfocused, just letting the scene sink in: waiting for something to nag at him, something that was out of place. He found it over by the bay window.

The view was spectacular, even through the rain. The monsoon had turned Glasgow Green into a lake-same as it did every year-the water dotted with islands and fancy little restaurants, raised up on stilts. A meal there would set you back a week’s wages, if you weren’t feeling too hungry. They’d strung golden lights between the trees, turning the scene into a glittering water world…

But that wasn’t what had drawn his attention. The VR unit was on, a plain grey cable snaking out from it across the carpet-the gold jack glinting against the oatmeal weave. Will picked it up, then squatted in front of the unit, searching for a headset. There had to be one: Trent was only four, too young for a cranial implant.

He found the headset. ‘Oh, that’s just brilliant…’ It was tiny, pink, and covered with little white daisies. He plugged the gold jack into the socket and loosened the head strap as far as it would go. It still wouldn’t fit over his bruised and battered head, but he was able to peer in at the pair of tiny screens.

It was tuned into one of the children’s channels, all bright colours, unicorns, and talking toadstools, waiting for him to play with them. Squeaky voices coming from the earpieces, ‘Hey, I know, why don’t we go on an adventure, Jillian? Wouldn’t that be cool?’

Jillian: still configured for the last person plugged into the system.

Will dropped the headset.

There was something wrong with the carpet in front of the VR unit: a circular patch, about the size of large pizza, was a slightly different colour. Cleaner than the rest of the floor. He reached out and stroked the surface with his fingertips. They came away dry, but with that same lemony smell as the bathroom sink.

Clean freak.

The birthday girl would be lying right here, plugged into a cheery kiddie’s VR game, hands and feet tied, sobbing behind a gag, wetting herself in terror while the mystery visitor Thrummed the back off granny’s head.

Dirty girl. Leaving a mess. Couldn’t have that.

‘When you bag and tag this lot,’ said Will, making for the door, ‘grab any cleaning materials you can find. Watch for prints.’

Brian looked up from forcing one of the scanning booms back into its casing. ‘Why, where you off to?’

The muffled screams. The fake smiles. Everyone waiting for their turn to die.

‘Anywhere I can get a bloody stiff drink.’

An electronic voice breaks the silence. ‘HELLO STEPHEN. DO YOU REMEMBER ME?’

Stephen’s head snaps up as if someone’s just rammed an electric prod into his rectum…which isn’t a bad idea.

He frowns, making little creases between his eyebrows. ‘Is there somebody there?’ he asks, completely ignoring her standing in the corner of the room. Holding the datapad.

She hits the next button, and that same disembodied voice says, ‘WE WORKED TOGETHER OVER SIX YEARS AGO.‘

‘Is this some sort of joke?’ Stephen sits forward in his chair. ‘Show yourself or I’m calling security!’ He reaches for the phone and she slams the datapad down on his hand-hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to damage those delicate, skilful fingers.

His eyes go wide as she pushes him back in his chair.

‘Hey! What…’ Look left, look right, look very, very scared. ‘Who’s doing this?’

She types in two words into the pad: ‘I AM.‘

His face falls open like a gash. Then his lips start to tremble. The poor wee soul must think he’s having a nightmare.

‘Who are you?’ he whispers.

As predictable as ever. She only has to punch a button to bring up the preprogrammed reply. ‘STEPHEN I’M INSULTED. SURELY YOU REMEMBER ME? YOU WEPT WHEN THEY SENT ME AWAY FOR SURGERY.‘

‘Oh God…’

Ah: now he remembers.

‘How did you…I saw you…But…Oh God, you can’t be-’

She slaps him. Blood wells up from the new split in his lip.

‘I REQUIRE A NEW FACE, STEPHEN. A JAW, A LARYNX, VOCAL CHORDS, CHEEK MUSCLES, EVERYTHING THEY TOOK AWAY FROM ME.‘

‘I can’t-’

She hits him again.

‘A CLONEGRAFT HEAD IS GROWING IN THE VATS. YOU WILL PERFORM THE SURGERY.‘

‘This isn’t happening…’

This time she doesn’t slap him; she balls her hand into a fist and smashes it into the bridge of his nose. Stephen’s head snaps back, blood spraying from his nostrils. He grunts. Groans. Clutches both hands over his broken face. Probably in a lot of pain.

Good.

‘YOU WILL PERFORM THE SURGERY AND YOU WILL TELL NO ONE.‘

He glares up at her, blood seeping out between his fingers. ‘I’ll see you rot in Hell first!’

At last, the mouse is showing some balls.

Time to castrate him.

‘YOU WILL COOPERATE. I HAVE TAKEN OUT INSURANCE.‘ There’s a framed holo sitting on his desk. A happy family group, grinning at the camera somewhere exotic. She picks it up. ‘YOU HAVE TWO CHILDREN,’ says the electronic voice. ‘MARTIN IS FOUR. HE LIKES DINOSAURS AND WILL NOT EAT HIS VEGETABLES. JASMINE IS THREE. HER FAVOURITE THING IN THE WHOLE WORLD IS TEDDY ORANGE. YOUR WIFE IS BLONDE.‘

Stephen’s hand falls away from his face as she pulls a clump of long golden hair from her bucket and throws it onto his desk. There’s a palm-sized chunk of bloody scalp attached to it.

He’s making that whimpering sound again.

‘I…I don’t believe you!’

She punches his home phone number into the unit on his desk.

‘What are you doing?’

It rings for a moment, then an unfamiliar face fills the screen, a Bluecoat uniform just visible beneath the double chins. The man frowns. ‘Who’s this?’

Stephen grabs the desktop. ‘Dr Bexley. Where’s my wife? Where’s Marilyn?’

‘You know your nose is bleedin’?’

‘I want to talk to Marilyn!’

The officer looks down, out of shot, as if consulting something. ‘You Dr Stephen Bexley? Two, two, three, seven, Niven Towers, Cowcaddens?’

‘I…Yes.’ He goes pale. Swallows. ‘What’s happened?’

‘We got an anonymous nine, nine, nine call. Said two wee kids were here unsupervised.’

‘My children?’

The officer’s frown turns into a scowl. ‘You do know it’s an offence to leave minors on their own?’

‘Oh God.’ That’s all he says, over and over. ‘Oh God.’

The man on the other end of the phone sighs. ‘Look, sometimes it just gets a bit too much for the mums every now and then, you know? Your wains are fine, but I need you to organize someone to look after them, OK? Then talk to yer wife. Give her a bit of support, but.’

Stephen snivels. ‘Oh God, Marilyn…’

‘Dinna worry, she’s probably just out takin’ a breather. Doin’ some shoppin’. Blowin’ off steam.’ The officer pauses, staring out of the screen at Stephen. ‘I’d get that nose looked at if I wis you.’ And with that the Bluecoat kills the connection.

Stephen picks the chunk of scalp off the desktop with trembling fingers, sniffs the blonde hair, and starts to cry. It’s sweet the way people become attached to things. A wife’s fragrance. A clump of skin. A limb. Their lives.

Dr Westfield lets him have his little moment before holding up the datapad again. It says: ‘I HAVE HIDDEN HER SOMEWHERE SAFE. IF I DO NOT RETURN TO FREE HER, SHE WILL DIE. SLOWLY. IF YOU DO NOT PERFORM THE SURGERY, SHE DIES. IF YOU TRY TO CONTACT THE AUTHORITIES, SHE DIES. IF YOU DO NOT DO EXACTLY WHAT YOU ARE TOLD, SHE DIES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?‘

His face moves as if there are snakes buried under the skin. ‘But you can’t…she’s pregnant! You…I’m calling security!’ Stephen goes for the phone.

She grabs him by the lapels and drags him across the desk. Throwing him to the floor. Papers go flying, the heart-warming family holo hits the floor and she stands on it. Stephen’s family goes crunch beneath her feet.

‘LOOK AT ME.‘ She hammers one-handed at the datapad’s keyboard, as he scurries backward into the bookcase, nose streaming blood down his pale face. ‘WHAT CAN THEY DO TO ME TO MAKE ME TALK? WHAT? WHAT HAVE I GOT TO LOSE?‘ All spoken in that same, flat, artificial voice.

‘You can’t do this!’

‘I ALREADY HAVE.‘

‘Please…’ He struggles to his knees, hands clasped in front of him, tears streaming down his face. ‘Please, I’m begging you! Let her go, for the sake of the baby. It’s not too late-’

She would laugh if she could. ‘DO YOU REALLY THINK ONE MORE TINY DEAD BODY MAKES ANY DIFFERENCE TO ME?‘

He slumps back against the bookcase and sobs. ‘Please…give me back my wife!’

She tilts her head to one side and watches him bawl like a small child covered in cigarette burns, then gathers up her bucket and mop and makes for the door.

‘CELL DIVISION WILL BE COMPLETE IN THIRTY-TWO HOURS. MAKE SURE THERE’S A PRIVATE OPERATING THEATRE READY FOR THE TRANSPLANT.‘

‘What…’ He wipes a hand across his eyes, leaving a bloody smear. ‘What if I can’t get a theatre ready in time?’

She stops at the threshold.

‘THEN YOUR WIFE DIES AND WE MOVE ON TO YOUR CHILDREN.‘