Billy reached out and lifted the painting off its hook, not even daring to breathe as he lowered it into the unfurled holdall. It almost hurt to zip it up.
There was a clink from the sideboard. Now thats more like it! Twitch stood up, clutching four bottles: Bombay Sapphire, Smirnoff, Talisker, and Courvoisier, wiggling his hips. Were on the bevy tonight. He gyrated to a halt. What? You look like someones crapped in your porridge.
Nothin. Billy picked up the holdall, clenched his jaw, ground his teeth. Lets get out of here. It wasnt fair why should Dillon get the painting? What the hell did he know about art? Nothing, thats what. Sweet bugger all. Dillon wouldnt have a clue how to appreciate something that beautiful. Dillon was a wanker with a line in drugs and violence. Billy had a GCSE in art got a B too by rights the painting should be his.
He followed Twitch out into the hallway. Yeah: should be his. . .
Suppose he just kept it? Suppose Dillon didnt get the real painting, suppose Dillon got a fake instead? Billys sister Susan fancied herself as a bit of an artist, she was always doing those paint by numbers things.
Nah, it was a shite plan. That picture she did of some penguins looked more like vultures in dinner jackets. Shed just screw it up. Susan was stupid.
The television was still blaring away as they passed the huge Christmas tree Twitch helped himself to a couple of the presents underneath it, slipping them into his backpack.
Maybe. . . Maybe Dillon could have an accident? A smile split across Billys face. Yeah, Dillon has an accident, their thirteen grand debt suddenly disappears, and Billy gets to keep Monets The Pear Tree. Put it up on his bedroom wall, smoke some weed and look at the colours. Sweet.
He followed Twitch up the stairs. What kind of accident should Dillon have: car crash? Down the stairs? Back of the head caved in with a claw hammer? Claw hammer was probably best, that way Billy could just nip around to Dillons flat, pretend to hand over the picture . . . and BANG! Soon as his backs turned. Maybe thered even be some stuff lying about? Big bag of weed and a wad of-
A plummy, public-school voice bellowed out from the foot of the stairs. What the hell do you think youre doing?
Twitch Froze. Fuck! Then they legged it, hammering up the stairs two at a time.
The old bastard ran after them. He was one of those smoking jacket and silvery hair types, but he could move. Come back here!
Billy nearly lost it on the last flight of stairs, but somehow managed to scrabble upright, bashing into the faded wallpaper, puffing and wheezing. Twitch screeched round the corner into the room with the stuffed black bear and the African masks.
A hand wrapped itself round Billys arm and he squealed, span round and flailed out a fist. Pain sparked across his knuckles and the old guy grunted. Falling back. Giving Billy just enough time to scarper through the door to the room theyd broken into, with all its boxes of junk. Billy shoved the stuffed bear, sending it clattering against the door. He leapt a cardboard box full of creepy china dolls and jumped for the window.
Bang!
He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, wondering why everything hurt.
Bloody idiot: the paintings frame was too big to go through the gap straight on.
The door rattled. Billy struggled with the large, painting-filled holdall, working it round onto the diagonal, easing it through the open window. Andy!
Twitch froze, halfway down the oak tree outside, glower-ing up at him, black eyes glittering in the Christmas lights. Dont use my real name!
Catch! Billy swung the painting out and let go. It got halfway. There was a loud ripping sound as the holdall caught on a branch. A huge triangle of fabric tore free. The holdall dropped four feet, snagged on something, and hung there, swinging. The pear tree glowed through the jagged-edged hole, thirty foot over the frosty ground.
A loud thump from the hallway and the black bear lurched. BANG: it lurched again. One more time and the door crashed open. The old guy charged across the room. Bring back my bloody laptop!
Billy crawled out onto the ledge and jumped for the nearest branch, just as a hand grabbed his ankle. Caught half over the gap, Billy twisted, didnt quite make it, banged his chin on the branch. He bit a big chunk out of his bottom lip; blood filled his mouth.
He scrabbled for purchase on the rough wood, but it was too late: he was falling, tangled up in the Christmas lights. The cold, thick, plastic wire wrapped around his throat. Ullk!
Billys fall came to a sudden halt, two storeys off the ground, legs kicking, jerking on the end of the electrical cable. Twisting. Spinning.
His chubby fingers clawed at the folds of fat on his neck. Cant breathe. . . Get the wire off. . . Oh God, oh God, oh God. . . CANT BREATHE.
White lights sparkled all around him, the bulbs breaking under his fingers, slashing his skin, leaving it slick with blood as he twisted and struggled.
And struggled.
And struggled.
And. . .
The last thing he saw before everything went black was the pear tree at sunset, hanging in an oak, lit by Christmas lights. Still beautiful.
2: Turtle Doves
A Christmas tree lurked in the corner of Oldcastle City Mortuary. Just a cheap artificial one covered with brightly-coloured tinsel, blinking lights, and little plastic angels but it lent the dissecting room a slightly festive air. Theyd even managed to find a big star for the top of the tree: a nodding Elvis doll that twitched and lolled every time a refrigerator drawer slammed shut. All shook up.
It wasnt exactly Santas grotto, but at least theyd made the effort.
Sandra leaned back against the sink, mobile phone jammed between her ear and shoulder, eating a Chicken-and-Mushroom Pot Noodle. Kevin? Hello? You there? Pause two, three, four. Pick up, OK? Kevin? The answering machine went bleep. She glanced at the pale mass of flesh on the cutting table, body cavity hollowed out and empty. Kevin? Im gonna be late, OK? Were up to our ears in some fat bastard got himself hanged. I wont be round till later. Sandra shovelled a forkful of noodles into her mouth and mumbled her goodbyes. Love you. Then hung up.
She was just sooking the last of the juice from the carton when Professor Muir muttered his way back from the toilets. He took one look at her and sighed. I wish you wouldnt eat those things in here: the smell upsets Elvis. He pointed at the King, who jiggled and nodded his agreement as the mortuary door banged shut.
Im finished anyway. She tossed the empty container in the bin and pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves. You want me to do the spine?
Please. Professor Muir went back to the mounds of offal piled up on the gurney next to the cutting table.
Sandra pulled out the bone saw.
Click and the vacuum whummmmmed into action, ready to whisk away any particles of blood and bone. Another click and the saw whined into life, the vibrating blade making her fingers tingle. You want the chord on its own, or attached to the brain?
Surprise me.
She smiled behind her mask that was a challenge. With all the insides scooped out, the body cavity was a purple and red void, lined with shorn ribs where Sandra had popped his ribcage off like the bonnet of a car. He was a huge fat bastard, so big she could almost crawl inside and pull the lid back on. The perfect hiding place. Whod look?
Grinning, she went to work on his spine, making the saw shriek.
She was bagging up the internal organs when the phone went: Oldcastle Force Headquarters, letting her know another pair of bodies were on the way. She slammed the phone down. Arrrgh. . . Its the same thing every sodding Christmas.
Professor Muir looked up from his preliminary report. Let me guess: suicide?
Two of them. Antisocial bastards. She slipped the guys lower intestine into a clear plastic pouch, sealed it, then hurled it into the open body cavity. Like weve got nothing better to do than piss about here dissecting them. Some of us had plans for tonight!
Dont sweat it. Well process the paperwork tonight and carve them tomorrow. Consider it a Christmas bonus.
Sandra stuffed the last of the bags into place, jammed the ribcage back on, then rolled the fatty skin back over the top, sewing it up with angry blanket stitches. She checked the clock on the wall: Six fifteen. She was already late, and two sets of paperwork were only going to make it worse.
Elvis danced for her as she wrestled the body back onto its refrigerated shelf and slammed the stainless steel door shut. She grabbed her mobile and stomped off to the viewing room to call Kevin, away from the professors big hairy ears.
The little room was practically empty: just her; a vase full of artificial lilies; and the table they stuck dead bodies on. The families would troop into the soundproofed room opposite, look through the curtained window at what was left of their loved one, cry a bit. . . Then someone would say, sorry for your loss and the dearly departed would be wheeled away so Professor Muir could gut them like a fish. All very tasteful.
Kevin?
The telltale click-hisssssss of the answering machine
picking up, then it went into its pre-recorded routine: Kevin singing a bit of Pink Floyds Comfortably Numb, only with different words. Asking her to leave a message. Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. . .
Kevin? Look I know Im late, but Ill make it up to you, OK? Ewans pulling a green shift, so Im yours all night. Better make sure youve got some baby oil in, cause Ive got a surprise for. . . A clunk on the line. Kevin? Kevin, is that you? And then a metallic voice thanked her for calling, and hung up. Shite.
Maybe hed gone out? Flounced off in a huff because she was late? No, Kevin wouldnt do that to her, not when shed blown forty quid on a kinky French maids outfit from the Naughty Knicker Shop on Barnston Street at lunchtime. Hed definitely want to be around for that.
She stuck the mobile back in her pocket, rearranged her underwear, looked up. And nearly wet herself. There was a man on the other side of the observation window, staring in at her. . .
Christ sake: it was Ewan with his face pressed up against the glass, leering. She slammed her hand against the window, making him flinch back. You scared the life out of me!