Halfhead

16

The Dog and Diode squatted beneath the Western Flyover, between two of the heavy support pillars. It wasn’t the best pub in the world, but it was within easy walking distance of Network Headquarters, and some days that was all that mattered. Inside, the bar was decorated in mockwood and leatherette. Booths lined the walls, loose tables filling the remaining space. A handful of off-duty agents were celebrating someone’s promotion by getting them blootered on happy hour drinks. So Will sat on his own in the corner-away from the speakers pumping out a mixture of frosty music and old rock classics-nursing a pint of Black Douglas and a large Macallan.

Trying not to think about the Birthday Party of the Damned. And failing.

The Kilgours were still alive as their unexpected guest worked his way around the table. Cutting a hole in the back of their heads, carefully evaporating their brains in a cloud of pink-grey mist, then stitching that obscene rictus grin in place. Before moving on to the next one in line. They watched their family die, unable to do anything about it, but wait for their turn.

Will shuddered and downed the last of his whisky.

Whoever the Thrummer man was, he’d done it before: there was no way anyone became that skilled at cranial evacuation without a lot of practice. What happened to the earlier bodies-the ones before the Kilgours-was anyone’s guess. Certainly the Network had never found them.

A shadow fell across Will’s table.

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ It was Brian, dripping from the downpour outside.

‘You don’t want them. Trust me.’

Brian shoogled himself into the booth and popped the console out of the tabletop. ‘Drink?’

Will clinked his empty whisky tumbler against his empty beer glass. ‘Where’s Jo?’

‘Reportin’ to Central. She’s got her Bluecoat mates runnin’ tests on the stuff we bagged and tagged at the Kilgours’.’

‘What about building security?’

Brian pulled a face. ‘Place that fancy, you’d think they wouldnae skimp on the cameras and scanners and that, but they got a cheap-arsed system. Bargain basement time. Whole bloody lot was hacked: sod all on the hard drives going back a week and a half.’ He ran his fingers over the drinks console, then struggled out of his coat while they waited for their order to arrive.

‘The missing girl: Jillian, wasn’t it?’

Brian nodded.

‘If our friend with the Thrummer wanted her dead, she’d be sitting at that bloody table with the rest of her family. He’s got something special in mind for her, something that’s going to take time and solitude.’

‘Jesus. Poor cow…’

An old man hobbled up to the table, plonked their drinks down, collected Will’s empties, and hobbled away again without saying a word.

‘Come on, put it away for the night.’ Brian helped himself to a Guinness. ‘Let the Bluecoats handle the legwork; you an’ me’ll get blootered, grab a curry or something.’

‘What about James?’

‘We’ve got an understanding. I don’t moan when he’s out with his horsey friends, and he doesn’t moan when I’m out with mine. Anyway, he knows fine you’ll keep me out of temptation.’

Which was true.

Half an hour later, George appeared, sniffing and snorting, all wrapped up in winter woollies. He had to peel himself like an onion before he could even fit into the little booth.

‘Sodding bucketing down out there.’ He blew his nose, then stared at Will. ‘What happened to you this morning? Twenty minutes I was waiting there. Felt like a right prat.’

‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ Will pointed at his bruised face. ‘Had a near-death experience in Kelvingrove Park with a couple of muggers. You’ll probably get one of them in the mortuary tomorrow…if they can scrape enough of him up.’

‘Oh thanks, just what I need: more work.’ The little pathologist ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Any chance of something medicinal? I’m dying here.’

They ordered another round, and when the old man had hobbled off with the latest set of empties, Will got George to tell Brian what he’d discovered in the brains of the bodies they’d dragged back from Sherman House.

‘You’re kiddin’ me,’ said Brian when he’d finished. ‘They’re givin’ people VR syndrome on purpose?’

George gulped at his double brandy and blue. ‘Yup. I went back to the mortuary and had another look at the bodies when Will didn’t show up; they’ve both got old injection marks at the base of their necks. At least two dozen each. Whoever it is, they’re going around manually infecting people.’

Brian said, ‘Dirty bastards…’ and Will had to agree with him.

George held up a podgy hand. ‘No, no: this is good news.’

‘What? How the hell is any of this good news?’

‘They’re still injecting people.’ He paused, obviously expecting some sort of reaction. Then sighed when he didn’t get one. ‘Look, VR syndrome is at its worst when loads of people get it at the same time, right? But this lot are still having to infect their test subjects by hand. You’d need to do a big chunk of the block simultaneously to really kick things off, and you can’t do that going round with a needle; you need to get it airborne, or in the water supply.’

Will sat back in his chair. That was all they needed: Glasgow exploding into violence all over again. People killing their friends, neighbours, family and anyone else they could get their hands on. Little cabals of madness getting bigger and bigger until there were only two kinds of people: the cannibals and the dead. ‘If they can weaponize this stuff-’

‘The whole bloody city turns into bamheid central.’ Brian scowled at his beer. ‘Aye, and no’ just the connurb blocks like last time, everyone: you, me, Emily, Jo, James…’

The fat pathologist slurped at his vivid blue drink. ‘You don’t come up with something like this overnight. Whoever made this stuff spent a lot of time and money developing and testing it. Probably years.’

‘How the hell do you get away with pulling shite like this for years?’

Will closed his eyes and sighed. ‘You get away with it,’ he said, ‘by having someone very big and very powerful standing behind you.’

‘Corporate? One of them bio-research outfits?’

‘Whoever it is, they’re well connected-Governor Clark was on the phone to Director Smith-Hamilton shouting the odds about Emily and me being there half an hour after we left Sherman House.’ Will drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Peitai said he was with the Ministry for Change, kept going on about finding a cure for VR-’

‘Bollocks,’ said George. ‘This is weapons research, or I’m a ballerina.’

Will rolled the last of his whisky round his mouth and placed the empty tumbler in the centre of the table. ‘Question is, what do we do about it?’

‘We stop them!’ Brian thumped his fist down, making the glasses rattle. ‘Even termites’ve got a right to live without some murderin’ bastard usin’ them as guinea pigs. We go in wi’ all guns blazin’ and take the bastards down!’

‘Don’t be daft.’ George emptied his glass and placed it next to Will’s. ‘You can’t just march in there and start shooting. Could be hundreds, thousands of people already infected. Go in there and spark something off, you’ll be looking at a lot of dead bodies.’

Will held up his hands. ‘OK, we can’t storm the place, so we do what we always do: build a case. Find out who that little git Ken Peitai’s really working for, what else they’re up to. Then shut the whole place down.’

Brian snorted. ‘Aye, right-like the Poison Dwarf’s goin’ tae authorize an investigation with Governor Clark breathing down her cleavage. She’s after a seat on the board and there’s no way in hell-’

‘By the time we’re finished with him, Governor Clark’s going to be pushing a mop about with half his face missing. Just because you don’t like her, doesn’t mean the Director isn’t good at her job. We go to her with this, she’ll take it all the way.’

‘Still say you’re mental.’ Brian swallowed the last of his Guinness and plonked the empty down alongside the others. ‘I’ll get an incident room and team organized-’

‘No! No team.’ Will shoogled forward in his seat. ‘This has to be low key. Just the three of us.’

Brian rolled his eyes. ‘Fine. I’ll get Emily to-’

‘Emily can’t hear a word about this. I don’t want Peitai to know we’re after him.’

‘What? You’ve known her for years! She’s saved your arse more times than I can count, how can you no’ trust her?’

‘It’s not her he doesn’t trust.’ George pulled the console over and ordered another round. ‘If they put listeners and trackers in Will they put them in Emily. You speak to her you’re speaking to them.’

‘Fuck…’ He frowned. ‘Jo, then?’

‘Fewer people know about it the better. Besides, this thing’s a potential career-killer. I’m not putting her in that position.’

‘Aye.’ Brian winked at George. ‘It’s OK to kill ours, but.’

Will grinned. ‘Brian, your career couldn’t get any more diseased if it tried. It’d be a mercy killing.’

‘What would?’ Emily’s voice made all three of them jump. She was standing at the end of their table, her concrete-coloured jumpsuit replaced with a snazzy two-piece in dark burgundy, a blue overcoat leaving puddles of water on the pub floor. She hung it up, then squeezed in next to Will and stabbed her thumb down on the drinks console, ordering the same again.

‘Er…’ Will looked across the table, but no one came to the rescue. ‘We were…talking about how we can’t go back to Sherman House.’

‘Yup, it’s not safe.’ Sniff, snort.

‘Aye, place’s a fuckin’ powder keg.’

‘Bunch of old wifies.’ She shook the water from her close-cropped hair. ‘There’s something going on over there and that little MFC weasel Peitai is a lying tosser. “Finding a cure for VR syndrome” my mum’s hairy backside.’

‘You don’t know that, Emily.’ Will shifted in his seat. ‘If there’s any chance they can find a cure, we can’t risk jeopardizing it.’

‘Did those muggers knock something loose between your ears this morning?’ Her voice was rising. ‘Peitai’s bastards zapped us and tied us to a bloody chair! I am not turning a blind eye just because some jumped up little social-working shitebag-’

‘I’m serious, Emily. And it doesn’t matter anyway: Director Smith-Hamilton has ordered the place off limits till things have calmed down.’

‘Since when did you give a toss about what Smith-Hamilton says? Look, if we can get back into that underground lab I think I can-’

‘No! As far as the Network, you, I, and everyone else is concerned, Sherman House does not exist.’

‘Don’t be so bloody-’

Will slammed his hand down on the tabletop, making the glasses jump. ‘End of discussion Lieutenant! You are not to go near Sherman House, and that’s an order!’

Emily stared at him, eyes narrowed, top lip curling. ‘Yes, sir.’ She stood, grabbed her overcoat off the hook, then threw him a curt salute.

‘Emily don’t-’

‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I have to get some fresh air. It suddenly stinks of shit in here.’

Emily turned and marched out of the pub, back straight, chin up.

As the door slammed shut, the old man reappeared, his tray loaded down with two of everything, and a single glass of Methven Bay chardonnay. Emily’s drink.

When he’d shambled off again, Brian reached forward and picked a large Jack Daniels from the collection. Took a sip.

‘That went well,’ he said into the silence. ‘I particularly liked the bit where you pulled rank on her. Good move. Smooooooth.’

‘Oh bugger off.’ Will sank back in his seat. ‘Didn’t see either of you two leaping in to help.’

‘You know,’ said George, helping himself to another brandy and blue, ‘looking on the bright side: anyone listening in is going to think they’re safe.’

Will shrugged. ‘Suppose you’re right.’

But it didn’t make him feel any better.

She snuggles deeper into her little nest of toilet paper, feeding tube in her arm, warm, comfortable, and content. Two kiddiewinks and a pregnant wife. Dr Stephen Bexley, you virile stud you.

Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant…She loves pregnant women-they add such a sparkle to proceedings. Especially when itcomes to the vivisection.

She makes a sound that could be mistaken for a sigh. On Sunday she’ll lie back on an operating table and have her face restored. Her very own face…Of course, the sensible thing to do is take someone else’s face. But she doesn’t want to be sensible. She wants to look in the mirror and recognize the person looking back. She wants to be whole again. Then, when she’s all healed and beautiful, she’ll have to leave the country.

A shame. This city has been good to her-let her hunt its inhabitants for years-but if she remains in Glasgow someone’s going to recognize her. At first they’ll see nothing more than a striking resemblance to the notorious Dr Fiona Westfield, but then they’ll begin to talk. And eventually someone will listen.

They’ll start asking difficult questions. Then someone takes a fingerprint, or a DNA sample and they’ll know she’s not dead. Then they’ll strap her to another operating table…only this time she won’t come back.

She shakes her head and tries to think happy thoughts. But Stephen Bexley and his screaming wife no longer light her candle. All she can see is a long dark tunnel with an operating slab at the end. The sound of bees and broken glass.

Deep breaths.

It’s just paranoia. Nothing to worry about. Don’t let it take control.

Deep breaths.

Kill something.

That’ll make her feel better. Kill something slowly and bathe in the screams.

No.

Deep breaths.

Kill something.

Not yet.

Please.

Focus!

She snaps another ampoule of medicine into her neck and waits for the chemicals’ soothing touch.

Focus.

She can’t risk staying here. Soon as her new face has healed, she’ll leave. Bye-bye Glasgow. Bye-bye Scotland. Well…First she’ll see how her children are getting on and then she’ll leave.

Yes. Somewhere far, far away.

But not before she pays an old friend a visit.

His face doesn’t have the long, winding scar she’d given him anymore, which is a shame. It suited him: raw and painful. He was limping as he ran for the people carrier, bruised and battered, probably fresh from surgery…

Perfect. If he’s had medical treatment he’ll be in the hospital records-she can just waltz up to any terminal and find out what was wrong with him and where he lives.

She stretches in her toilet-paper boudoir like a cat in the sun.

It’s been a long time since she has visited friends.

The birthday girl sobs and moans as he drags her off the bed and over to the chair. The older woman-the one he found in a bar a week ago-lies on the table next to the window. She was a lawyer, but now she’s all peaceful and still. Content and happy. Ready to become one with the angels.

He hauls the new girl into the chair. She struggles, but a punch in the face quietens her long enough to shackle her arms and legs. After all, it wouldn’t do to have the birthday girl falling off and hurting herself. Not when she’s so close to finding salvation.

Then, when she’s all nice and secure, he turns to the older woman, stroking her cold white cheek. It’s got that lovely, waxy pallor of the soul departed. Lucky lady.

He pulls an old, battered, but well-loved Palm Thrummer out of his pocket, twists it open, and powers it up. Then opens the living room window, high above the streets. The rain hisses and roars outside, tearing from the sky in its rush to know the ground. Silly rain. The sky is where it should be. The sky is its home.

The Thrummer buzzes in his fingers as he strips the woman’s face away, leaving nothing but a bare, empty skull behind. The skin and fat and fibre of her sinful life is whipped into a dark purple mist that drifts out the open window into the night, pulled away by the rain. The body will take a while to dissolve, but it’s worth the effort to give her salvation.

He purses his lips, whistling the DinoPizza jingle while he works.

In her seat the birthday girl watches, screaming behind her gag: knowing that she’s going to be next.