A Dark So Deadly Read online

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street,

  London, SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

  Copyright © Stuart MacBride 2017

  Prelims show map of Oldcastle © Stuart MacBride

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

  Cover design © Blacksheep-uk.com

  Cover image © Jim Robertson (www.jimrobertson.co.uk)

  The quotation from the public information film Stay at Home appears courtesy of the British Film Institute © Crown Copyright (1975). The quotation from William Blake’s Songs of Innocence – The Chimney Sweeper (1789) is taken from the British Library’s first edition copy.

  Stuart MacBride asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organisations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental. The only exception to this are the characters Cecelia Lynch and Robert Shannon who have given their express permission to be fictionalised in this volume. All behaviour, history, and character traits assigned to their fictional representations have been designed to serve the needs of the narrative and do not necessarily bear any resemblance to the real person.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

  Source ISBN: 9780007494682

  Ebook Edition © APRIL 2017 ISBN: 9780007494705

  Version: 2017-03-16

  Dedication

  For Sue.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Without Whom

  Maps

  — Exhibit A —

  Chapter 1

  — Bodies of the Lesser God —

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  — Every Day We Live — Is a Day Closer to the Day We Die

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  — Callum —

  Chapter 16

  — Imhotep —

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  — The Four-Minute Warning —

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  — Protect and Survive —

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  — These Bones Beneath the Earth —

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  — Father —

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  — Open the Coffins —

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  — The Bonemonger’s Waltz —

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  — Dearly Departed, — We are Gathered Here Today

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  If you enjoyed A Dark so Deadly, try the latest novel in the Logan McRae series!

  About the Author

  By Stuart MacBride

  About the Publisher

  Without Whom

  As always I’ve received a lot of help from a lot of people while I was writing this book, so I’d like to take this opportunity to thank: Prof. Sue Black, Dr Roos Eisma, Vivienne McGuire, and Dr Lucina Hackman, all of whom do excellent work at the University of Dundee’s Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification; Sergeant Bruce Crawford who answers far more daft questions than anyone should ever have to, as does Professor Dave Barclay; Sarah Hodgson, Jane Johnson, Julia Wisdom, Jaime Frost, Anna Derkacz, Sarah Collett, Charlie Redmayne, Roger Cazalet, Kate Elton, Hannah Gamon, Cait Davies, Damon Greeney, Finn Cotton, the eagle-eyed Anne O’Brien, Marie Goldie, the DC Bishopbriggs Super Squad, and everyone at HarperCollins, for doing such a stonking job; Phil Patterson and the team at Marjacq Scripts, for keeping my cat in shoes all these years; Catherine Pellegrino, and Sandra Sawicka for translational help; and let’s not forget Cecelia Lynch, or James, Duncan, Katy, and Liz Shannon who helped raise money for two very worthy causes, and Matt Patterson whose wallet makes several guest appearances. And thank you to Tony Dykes of the British Film Institute for permission to quote Stay at Home within these pages.

  Of course, there wouldn’t be any books without bookshops, booksellers, and book readers – so thank you all, you’re stars.

  And saving the best for last – as always – Fiona and Grendel.

  Maps

  — exhibit A —

  1

  The wall whispers to him with splintered wooden lips. ‘They’ll worship you. They’ll worship you. They’ll worship you …’

  Its words fill the gloom, rolling around and around and through him, pulsing and pulling. ‘They’ll worship you.’

  Why?

  Why can’t he just die?

  ‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’

  Is this what gods feel like? Thirsty. Aching.

  Every muscle in his stomach throbs from the repeated heaving. Every breath tastes of bile.

  Bile and dark, gritty wood smoke. Filling the low room with its stained wooden walls.

  ‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’

  He slumps back, making the rusty links of chain rattle and clank against each other. Heavy around his throat. Heavi
er where it’s bolted into the wall. The wall that talks.

  ‘You’ll be a god.’

  He can’t even answer it, his mouth is desert dry, tongue like a breezeblock, blood booming in his ears. Boom. Boom. Boom.

  So thirsty … But if he drinks the foul brown water in the jug, he’ll be sick again.

  ‘A god.’

  He turns his face to the wall. Finds a silent crack in the wood. And stares through into the other room.

  ‘They’ll worship you. They’ll worship you.’

  Through there, it’s bright: a mix of light and shadow as someone stands on their tiptoes to slot another pole of fish into the rack. Herrings, splayed open, tied in pairs at the tail, their flattened sides like hands. Praying.

  Help me …

  He opens his mouth, but it’s too dry to make words. Too burned by the bile.

  ‘They’ll worship you.’

  Why can’t he just die?

  Up above, high above the poles of praying fish, eight fingertips brush a blade of sunlight. They run their tips along its sharp edge as the body they belong to sways in the darkness. Caught in the breeze from the open door. Head down – like the fish – arms dangling. Skin darkened to an ancient oak brown.

  ‘You’ll be a god.’

  Then the person on the other side disappears. Comes back with a wheelbarrow piled up with sawdust and small chunks of wood. Dumps the lot in the middle of the room. Stoops to light it. Stands back as pale tendrils of smoke coil up into the air. Backs away and closes the door.

  Now the only light is the faint orange glow of the smouldering wood.

  ‘You’ll be a god.’

  He slides down against the wall. Too tired and thirsty to cry. Too tired to do anything but wait for the end to come.

  ‘They’ll worship you …’

  Why can’t he just die?

  — bodies of the lesser god —

  Then the little girl with the lizard’s tail jumped into the air with a whoosh! “I’ve got it!” she shrieked. “We can make an enormous pie out of all the bits of hair and beard!”

  Ichabod scowled at her. “That’s a horrid idea,” he said, because it was. “No one wants to eat a cake made of hair.”

  “Ah, but the hair of the Gianticus Moleraticus is magical and tastes of everything you like in the whole world! Gumdrops and sausages, baked beans and chocolate biscuits, custard and ham.” She scooped up a big handful of hair and shoved it in Ichabod’s mouth. “See?”

  But to Ichabod it just tasted of hair. The little girl was clearly insane …

  R.M. Travis

  The Amazing Adventures of Ichabod Smith (1985)

  And if some motherf*cker gonna call the police?

  I’m-a grab my nine-mill and I’m-a make him deceased.

  Donny ‘$ick Dawg’ McRoberts

  ‘Don’t Mess with the $ick Dawg’

  © Bob’s Speed Trap Records (2016)

  2

  ‘POLICE! COME BACK HERE, YOU WEE SOD!’

  Only that wasn’t really right, was it? Ainsley Dugdale wasn’t a wee sod – he was a dirty great big lumping hulk of a sod, hammering his way along Manson Avenue. Ape-long arms and short legs pumping, scarf flittering out behind him, baldy head glinting in the morning sunshine.

  Callum gritted his teeth and hammered after him.

  Why did no one ever come back when they were told to? Anyone would think people didn’t want to get arrested.

  Squat grey council houses scrolled past on either side of the street, lichen-flecked pantiles and harled walls. Front gardens awash with weeds. More abandoned sofas and washing machines than gnomes and bird tables.

  A couple of kids were out on their bikes, making lazy figure eights on the tarmac. The wee boy had sticky-out ears and a flat monkey nose, a roll-up sticking out the corner of his mouth – leaving coiled trails of smoke behind him. The wee girl was all blonde ringlets and pierced ears, swigging from a tin of extra-strong cider as she freewheeled. Both of them dressed in baggy jeans, trainers, and tracksuit tops. Baseball caps on the right way around, for a change.

  Rap music blared out of a mobile phone. ‘Cops can’t take me, cos I’m strong like an oak tree, / Fast like the grand prix, / I’m-a still fly free …’

  The wee girl shifted her tinny to the other hand and raised a middle finger in salute as Callum ran past. ‘HOY, PIGGY, I SHAGGED YER MUM, YEAH?’

  Her wee friend made baboon hoots. ‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH! PIGGY, PIGGY, PIGGY!’

  Neither of them looked a day over seven years old.

  The delights of darkest Kingsmeath.

  Dugdale skittered around the corner at the end of the road. Almost didn’t make it – banged against the side of a rusty Renault, righted himself and kept on going, up the hill.

  ‘RUN, PIGGY, RUN!’ Little Miss Cider appeared, standing on the pedals to keep up, grinning as she flanked him. ‘COME ON, PIGGY, PUT SOME WELLY IN IT!’

  Her baboon friend pedalled up on the other side. ‘FAT PIGGY, LAZY PIGGY!’

  ‘Bugger off, you little sods …’ Callum wheeched through the turn, into another row of grubby houses. Low garden walls guarded small squares of thistle and dandelions, ancient rusty hatchbacks up on bricks, the twisted metal brackets where satellite dishes used to be.

  ‘COME ON, PIGGY!’

  The gap was narrowing. Dugdale might have got off to an impressive sprint start, but his long game wasn’t anywhere near as good – puffing and panting as he lumbered up Munro Place. Getting slower with every step.

  ‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’

  He crested the hill with Callum barely ten feet behind him.

  The street fell away towards a grubby line of trees and a grubbier line of houses, but Dugdale didn’t stop to admire the view: he kept his head down, picking up a bit of velocity on the descent.

  The wee kids freewheeled alongside him, Little Miss Cider swigging from her can. ‘RUN, BALDY – PIGGY’S GONNA GET YOU!’

  One last burst. Callum accelerated. ‘I’M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN!’

  Dugdale snatched a glance over his shoulder – little eyes surrounded by dark circles, a nose that looked as if it’d been broken at least a dozen times, scar bisecting his bottom lip. He swore. Then put on another burst of speed.

  ‘NO YOU DON’T!’

  ‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’

  Closer. Eight foot. Seven. Six.

  Here we go …

  Callum leapt. Arms out – rugby-tackle style.

  His shoulder caught Dugdale just above the waist, arms wrapping around the top of the big sod’s legs. Holding on tight as they both crashed onto the pavement, rolling over and over. Grunts. More swearing. A tangle of arms and legs. Then something the size of a minibus battered into Callum’s face.

  Now the world tasted of hot batteries.

  Another punch. ‘GET OFF ME!’

  Callum jabbed out an elbow and connected with something solid.

  ‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’

  ‘FIGHT, PIGGY, FIGHT!’

  Then the pavement battered off the back of his head and a fist slammed into his stomach. Fire roared through his torso, accompanied by the sound of a thousand alarm clocks all ringing at once.

  He swung a punch and Dugdale’s nose went from broken to smashed.

  ‘Gahhhh!’ Dugdale reared back, blood spilling down over his top lip. He lashed out blind, eyes closed, and that massive fist came close enough to ruffle the hair above Callum’s ear.

  Distance. Get some distance.

  A big black Mercedes slid past, the sweaty-sweet scent of marijuana coiling out from the back windows, a deep BMMTSHHH, BMMTSHHH, BMMTSHHH of hip-hop bass rattling the air. It stopped in the middle of the road, where they could get a good view of the fight. But did anyone get out to help? Of course they sodding didn’t.

  ‘KILL HIM, PIGGY, FINISH HIM!’

  ‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’

  Callum scrabbled back against a rusty Volkswagen.
Yanked out his handcuffs. ‘Ainsley Dugdale, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure – Scotland – Act 1995—’

  ‘FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!’ The kids pulled up their bikes, blocking the pavement, making an impromptu brawl-pit in the space between the Volkswagen and a garden wall. ‘COME ON: KILL HIM!’

  ‘Shut up!’ Back to Dugdale. ‘Because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment, namely the—’

  ‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’

  ‘GAAAAH!’ Dugdale lunged, but not at Callum. He grabbed the wee girl by the throat and yanked her off her bike.

  Her tin of cider hit the deck and bounced, sending out a spurt of frothy urine-coloured liquid. ‘Ulk …’ Eyes wide, both hands clutching onto Dugdale’s forearm, legs pinwheeling and kicking at the air.

  Oh sodding hell. And things had been going so well right up till that point.

  ‘No, no, no!’ Callum scrambled to his feet. ‘That’s enough. Let the girl go.’

  Her wee mate hurled his roll-up. It burst against Dugdale’s chest in a little hiss of sparks. ‘LET HER GO, YOU DIRTY PAEDO!’

  ‘Come on, Dugdale … Ainsley. You don’t want to hurt a kid, right?’ Hands out, open, nice and safe. ‘You’re not that kind of guy, are you?’

  ‘PAEDO! PAEDO! PAEDO!’

  Callum hissed the words out the side of his mouth. ‘You are not helping.’

  Dugdale stuck out his other hand. ‘Money!’

  ‘Come on, Ainsley, let the girl go and—’

  ‘GIVE US YOUR MONEY!’ He gave the girl a shake, sending her legs swinging wildly as her face turned a darker shade of puce. ‘NOW!’

  ‘OK, OK. Just let her breathe.’ Callum dug out his battered old wallet. The one with the threadbare lining sticking out. He took the last tenner and crumpled fiver from inside. ‘Here.’ He placed the cash on the floor.

  ‘Is that it?’ Dugdale glowered at the two sorry notes. ‘ALL OF IT, OR I SNAP HER NECK IN HALF!’

  Baboon Boy’s chant died. ‘Paedo …?’

  The kicks were getting weaker: those Nike trainers barely moving.

  Her wee friend snivelled. Wiped his top lip on the back of his sleeve. ‘Please, mister. Don’t hurt my sister …’

  ‘That’s all the money I’ve got, OK? Now let the girl go.’

  Dugdale growled, then chucked the little girl at Callum.

  He ducked for the fifteen quid as Callum dropped the tatty wallet and caught her wee body before it hit the pavement. And that’s when everything slowed down.

  The tatty wallet bounced off the paving slabs, spinning away, its torn lining waving like a flag.