Halfhead - Страница 32

‘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.‘

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…’