The Bug - Episode 1 (3 page)

Hoon dropped into his chair, spun away from his cluttered desk and gazed out over the city.

What the Hell was happening out there tonight?

The sky over Govan glowed an angry shade of orange. He could see the flashing blues of the fire engines heading out that way, although they could just as easily be the lights of his own guys, rushing off to deal with whatever new blister of madness had just burst open somewhere.

Twelve murders so far, and the night was still young. Five women, four men, three kids. Babies, practically. Some of them…

Hoon squeezed the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. He hadn't seen anything like them since that spate of 'devil dog' attacks back on his beat days. Poor bastards.

And then there was Lacey Crane. He wasn't even counting her in with the rest of the murders yet. He wasn't sure
what
that was.

There was a soft knock and his door creaked open.

“Press again, sir,” said a worried voice. “They want to—?”

“Tell them to away and get fucked!”

There was a moment of hesitation, then the door clicked closed again. Hoon took out his mobile and redialed the last number. It rang and rang until the voicemail eventually kicked in. Hoon drummed his fingers on the desktop impatiently, listening to the message drone on.

“Marshall!” he barked, the moment he heard the
beep
. “Where the fuck are you? I told you to go home, not vanish off the face of the Earth. Phone me back.”

He hung up and slammed the phone down on the desk with more force than he meant to, scattering a tower of paperwork that had been in danger of toppling over ever since he'd set foot in the room.

He gathered the files up, shuffling them roughly into a lop-sided stack. Assault, arson, rioting, rape – the top few files alone read like a psychopath's Bucket List. Only they'd caught some of the people in the act, and they weren't psychos. They had no priors, no history of trouble. They were just normal folk.

At least, they had been. Something had happened to them. Something that had turned normal folk off the street into the mindless animals that were banged up in the cells downstairs.

He looked at the pile of paperwork, then back out the window. The orange glow was brighter now. Tiny flames licked the night sky on the horizon. The fire was spreading.

But that was someone else's problem. Thank Christ. He had his own stuff to sort out. He called Marshall for the umpteenth time, waited as long as the voicemail, then hung up without leaving a message.

The door opened again. “I said to tell them to fuck off,” Hoon boomed.

“Told them sir. They didn't. But it's not that.”

Hoon squinted at the woman in uniform. Alessi or something. She was new. Not to the force, but new to him. She looked about twelve, which made him feel about ten times that. It was right enough what they said, they were getting younger.

“What now?”

“They've found another one, sir.”

“Another body?”

“Another Lacey Crane. Two of them, actually.”

Hoon stood up. “How d'you mean? Cut in half?”

Alessi nodded. “Top to bottom.”

Hoon sat down. “Fuck,” he said, then he stood up again. “Fuck! A serial killer.”

“Actually, no. Don't think so, sir,” said the constable. She handed him a sheet of paper. “Not unless he can fly.”

Hoon stared down at the page. It was a printout from the BBC News website with a photo of some uniformed types all gathered around a couple of white sheets. He tried to read the article, but one word kept rearing up at him.

“Egypt?”

“And there's this one,” Alessi continued. She passed him another printout. He read it in silence.

“I can't even pronounce that,” he said at last. “Where is it? Wales?”

“Thailand, sir.”

Hoon lowered himself onto his desk. The stack of paperwork slid off it and onto the floor.

“Same as Lacey Crane, sir. Sliced top to toe, organs missing, the works,” Alessi said. She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, then changed her mind again all in the space of a second. “What do you think it is?”

Hoon carefully folded the sheets and slipped them into his inside pocket. “Bad fucking news, constable,” he said. “Get on the phone, will you? Get Marshall in here.”

“I'll try, sir. Phone's playing up,” Alessi said. She headed for the door.

“And don't tell anyone about this.”

Alessi paused in the doorway. “Apart from the readers of the BBC website, you mean, sir?”

Hoon twitched. “Fuck. Aye. Apart from them.”

The door closed. Hoon was halfway through gathering up the tower of paperwork when it opened again. He straightened up, knocking the back of his head on the underside of the desk.

“Ow! Christ. What now?”

“The super's on the phone, sir,” said another kid in uniform. A man this time, although his voice had barely broken and he still had a face full of plooks. “And the press really want to talk to you.”

“Tell the press to get fucked. And tell the super…” Hoon thought for a moment. “Tell her to get fucked an' all.”

The kid nodded. “Right, sir.” He moved to go.

“Don't actually tell her that,” Hoon said. “Tell her I'll phone her back.”

“Right,” said the kid. He looked agitated and unsure. No wonder with the world crumbling around them. “And the press?”

“Actually tell them to get fucked,” Hoon said. “Literally say those words.”

“Right, sir. Will do, sir.”

The kid had barely shuffled off when another face appeared. This time it was one he knew.

“Sergeant. Thank fuck. Someone out of nappies.”

“We’ve got him, boss,” said the sergeant, cutting the DCI short.

Hoon nudged the toppled tower of papers with his boot. “Which one?”

“Lacey Crane. The bastard that did it. We've got him downstairs.”

“You sure it's him?”

The sergeant nodded. “Oh it's him. He's confessed. In writing.”

“In writing?”

“Aye, boss.” The sergeant shifted uncomfortably in his polished shoes. “More or less.”

Marshall lay there. For a long time he just lay there on the carpet, the wind whistling through the broken window, his blood staining the neck of his pajamas.

There was a numbness in his chest, like the aftermath of an electric shock. His heart was no longer in there, it was up around his ears, surging the blood through his veins with a
whump-whump-whump
.

A breeze billowed the curtains towards him and he scrambled back, jolting from his daze. He leapt to his feet and frantically looked around. The phone. Where was the—

Aha! He pounced on the handset like a tiger, snatching it up and stabbing three nines. He listened to the faint hiss of static as lines clicked together in an exchange somewhere.

“Come on,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on the window frame. “Come on.”

There was a click from down the line, followed by a series of short rising beeps.

“Sorry,” chimed a polite female voice in his ear. “The number you have dialed has not been recognized. Please replace the handset and try again. You have not been charged for this call.”

Marshall pulled the phone from his ear and looked at the display. Three LED number nines stood shoulder to shoulder on the screen.

He hit the button to hang up and dialed again. This time there was no delay before the beeps.

“Sorry. The number you have dialed has not been recognized…”

“Fucking thing!” Marshall yelped. He hung up and dialed the station. He shifted anxiously from foot to foot while he waited for the ringing.

It never came. There were no beeps or recorded messages this time, just a hiss and a click and a continuous flat tone.

“Fuck!”

Marshall tossed the phone onto the couch and glared at it with contempt. He hurried through to the bedroom where he'd abandoned his clothes in a pile and fumbled through his trouser pockets until he found his mobile.

He pressed the top button and tapped his pin number on the screen. The phone unlocked and a message flashed up telling him he had missed calls.

Twenty-seven of them.

Marshall's stomach knotted as he swiped through the list. Hoon, Hoon, the station, Hoon. There were a few others, too. His mother (twice). His sister in Edinburgh (four times). Two random numbers he didn't recognize and a
Caller Withheld.
Mostly, though the screen was flooded with DCI Hoon.

With a few taps he called the number back. He held his breath and waited. The cold breeze from the living room swirled into the bedroom and Marshall shivered in his thin pajamas.

There was no sound from the phone. He checked the screen, which still claimed to be
Dialing Number
. It was taking it's time about it.

Keeping the phone to his ear, Marshall slipped off his pajama bottoms and pulled on the discarded trousers. He'd tossed his boxers in the washing basket and the others were piled up with the other clothes on the couch. He'd have to go commando for now. It was, he reckoned, the least of his problems.

He fumbled with the button and held the phone in the crook of his neck as he carefully zipped up the fly. Wriggling his bare feet into his shoes he checked the screen again. Still dialing.

There was a streak of red across the phone's plastic screen guard. Marshall felt the back of his neck, saw the blood on his fingers and spat out a curse. There was a half-empty box of tissues within easy reach of the bed. He tugged one out and pressed it to his nape.

He checked the screen again. It insisted it was dialing, but he was beginning to have grave fucking doubts. He returned the handset to his ear again, just in time for a garbled screech to come blasting out of the earpiece.

He hissed sharply, yanking the phone away. The noise kept coming, screaming and squealing like a dial-up modem, growing louder and more frenetic with each second that passed. Marshall jabbed the icon to hang up, but the din didn't stop. It was the same sound his old ZX Spectrum used to make as it tried – and inevitably failed – to load a cassette, only this one wasn't stopping.

The call had been ended. The screen was back showing the list of missed calls. But the noise kept coming.

“Shut up,” he muttered, tapping the screen and jabbing at the buttons to try to mute the racket. “Shut up!”

In the olden days, of course, you could have just yanked out the battery, but that was before some fucking bright spark had decided the battery should be sealed up.

No matter what Marshall tried, the screeching didn't stop. He resorted to shaking the phone vigorously and slapping his hand against the screen, but neither one made any difference.

With a cry of frustration he rammed the handset under his mattress, muting the din if not silencing it.

He left the bedroom and pulled the door closed, dulling the noise further. His eyes fell on the broken window and he stared, as if seeing it for the first time. The body was gone, but he could still picture it there. A man. No, a teenager, he thought. Eyes open, mouth slack, brain oozing out of the hole in his mangled skull.

Marshall shook his head, trying to push the image away. He checked the tissue. There was blood, but not too much, thankfully.

The initial shock was beginning to fade, and the first few rational thoughts came creeping in. He'd seen definitely one, possibly two bodies come plunging past his window. Or into his window in one case. It was only now that what should probably have been his first question reared its head.

Where had they come from?

Slowly – ever so slowly – Martin Marshall's eyes went to the ceiling.

“Aye, but I like you. I really like you. I've fancied you for ages. And you like me, don't you?”

Perched on the edge of her bed, Leanne nodded.

“Well then. What's the problem?”

Leanne lifted her head to look at the boy beside her. Dagan smiled. He had a nice smile. It was mischievous yet somehow honest at the same time, and made his dark eyes crinkle to narrow slits. He was seventeen – two years older than she was – and she still couldn't believe he was interested in her.
Her
!

“You trust me, don't you?” Dagan asked. He moved to stand up. “Because if you don't I'd better—”

“Don't go,” Leanne said. The pleading tone in her voice surprised her. But then again, not really. Half the girls in school fancied Dagan, and if he walked out the door she had a feeling he'd never be back.

The bed groaned as he sat down beside her, close in so his leg was touching hers. She hesitated, chewing her lip, then rested her head on his shoulder. They didn't talk, just sat there listening to the tinny tones of Ed Sheeran struggling from the speaker of Dagan's phone, and the
creak creak creak
of the bed next door.

“Sounds like someone's having fun,” Dagan whispered, his breath hot against Leanne's neck.

She giggled nervously. Owen, Dagan's friend was in the room next door with a girl in Leanne's year. Ashleigh something or other. Leanne didn't know her well. She was one of the quiet girls who hung out in the library every break time.

At least she was normally quiet. Now… not so much. She yelped in time with every creak, a high-pitched yap of pleasure or pain or something in between.

“She sounds like a monkey,” Dagan said. He scratched himself under the armpits. “Ooh, ooh, ooh!”

Leanne lifted her head and laughed. She turned to Dagan, and first his eyes then his lips met hers. He felt warm against her. She shivered as his fingertips traced the contours of her back through her t-shirt, and as they brushed against her bra strap she felt her blood bloom up her neck, making her face go red.

The strap tightened a fraction, then went loose as Dagan unclipped it through the thin cotton top. His lips brushed more firmly against hers, and she felt the tip of his tongue explore her mouth.

He twisted towards her, using his weight to gently guide her down onto the bed. She squirmed as he turned her head away and began to nuzzle at her neck. Her fingers gripped her
One Direction
duvet and scrunched it tightly.

The button of her jeans loosened with a pop and Dagan's hand thrust down inside, his gentle touch becoming more forceful. Through the wall, the headboard began to thud against the wall and Ashleigh-something's yelps were drowned out by Owen's breathless grunts.

“Wait,” Leanne said. She caught Dagan's wrist. “Stop. My mum and dad.”

Dagan drew back. “They're in Spain.”

“I know but… I promised them I wouldn't... That nothing would...”

“They'll never know,” Dagan insisted. He kicked off his shoes and wriggled out of his jeans, never once removing his hand from Leanne's. He leaned into kiss her again, but she shied away.

Dagan yanked his hand free. “Jesus,” he snapped. “What are you, fucking twelve? I thought you said you were grown up? You're a wee kid.”

“I'm not.”

“Well quit fucking acting like it, then,” Dagan said, all softness gone from his voice. He pushed down his boxers and stepped closer. “Put it in your mouth,” he urged.

Leanne shook her head and quickly turned away. Her eyes burned. She dug her fingernails into her palms and chewed on her lip. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn't cry.

“Fuck's sake,” Dagan barked. He kicked her desk, knocking over the laptop he'd first contacted her on. “Give me my phone, I'm phoning Kit-Kat.”

Leanne watched him snatch up the phone and shut up Ed Sheeran. She kept her gaze fixed on his top half, not letting it wander
down there
.

“Wh-who's Kit-Kat?”

“She's in my year. A fucking adult, no' a silly wee lassie. She knows the score.”

He made a show of scrolling through his contact list.

“Why do they call her Kit-Kat?”

Dagan grinned, but this time there was no honesty or even mischief in it, just a sort of demented glee Leanne had never seen before. He held up a hand, the thumb tucked in tight against the palm. “Cos she likes four fingers.”

Leanne let out a shaky breath. “Was she your girlfriend?”

Dagan laughed. “Fuck me, you really are a kid, aren't you?
Was she your girlfriend?
Get with the fucking program, sweetheart, eh?”

“Ow, stop!”

Ashleigh-something's voice was sharp and sudden through the wall. The headboard had stopped thumping, but Owen's grunts came fast and loud, forming almost one continuous growl.

“Stop, Owen, stop please!”

Leanne stood up. Dagan blocked her path.

“Leave it,” he said.

“But she's—”

“She's fine.”

“Owen, please. Jesus! You're… stop!
Stop
! Don't!”

“She's not fine,” Leanne said.

Dagan loomed over her. “They're having fun,” he said, looking her up and down with contempt. “At least someone knows how to.”

Leanne met his gaze and held it. Half the girls in school fancied him.

What were they thinking?

“Fuck you,” she said, and she brought her knee up sharply between his legs. His breath exploded from his lungs in a short sharp gasp and he sort of melted down onto the floor, clutching his groin and wheezing.

Leanne stepped over him. She was halfway to her bedroom door when Ashleigh-something's screaming started. Not the pained protests she had been making, but full scale screams of panic.

“Ashleigh?” Leanne shouted, racing into the narrow hallway. She made for the door to her parents' room where Ashleigh's screams had risen to fever pitch. “Ashleigh, are you—?”

The door exploded outwards, filling the flat with the sound of splintering wood. A limp shape came hurtling through. It hit the laminate flooring, bounced once, then slid to a stop by Leanne's feet.

Ashleigh-something was dead. That much was obvious, even to Leanne. Her head hung at a right angle to her body, twisted so it was looking back over her naked shoulder.

Blood spurted like a fountain from a wound in her throat, spattering the walls and the floor. Leanne felt its warmth spray like a mist across her face. She pulled back, and that was when she saw Owen.

He stood in her parents' bedroom, hunched over. He was naked, his bare skin slicked all over with smears of red. He was staring at his hands, his eyes wide, his fingers flexing in and out, in and out.

Leanne let out a gasp and Owen's gaze flicked in her direction. His brow furrowed and his face twisted into a snarl. He launched himself at her like a sprinter off the starting blocks, going from stationary to full speed in the blink of an eye.

Ducking into the living room, she slammed the door. Owen thudded against it from the other side. Again. Again. The force of the impact shook the walls and Leanne stumbled backwards as the door's hinges gave way with a
KER-ACK
.

She turned, but there was nowhere to go, no other way out. Owen lumbered into the room, like he wasn't quite sure what he was doing there. The sight of Leanne seemed to jog his memory, though. The face drew up into a snarl once more and he hurled himself towards her, arms reaching, fingers curled up like claws.

Leanne grabbed the glass ashtray from the coffee table and swung. It hit Owen on the temple with a sickening
thonk
. He staggered, thrown off balance, purple-red blood already flooding his right eye.

It took just a second for him to recover. He pounced, moving too quickly this time. His fingernails dug into Leanne's forehead and cheeks and his weight brought her crashing down, his naked body pinning her to the floor.

“S-stop!” she squealed. A hand was drawn away. She glanced up and—

BANG!
His fist smashed against her face, splitting open her cheek and snapping her head to the left.

Owen roared and spat like a demented animal, but the sudden rushing sound in her ears all but drowned him out. She coughed and a trickle of vomit spilled out onto the carpet.

The floor rolled beneath her like the deck of a boat, and shadows rushed in to fill her field of vision. The stink of Owen's sweat flooded her nostrils and smothered her lungs as he pressed down on her. She could only sob as his thumbs pressed against her eye sockets and the darkness was replaced by a rainbow of swirling colors.

“What the fuck?”

Dagan
.

Owen hissed and Leanne felt his weight spring off her.

“Owen? What are you—?”

There was a crash and a sharp yelp of pain. Leanne dragged herself backwards across the carpet, the blaze of color fading from her vision.

She saw Dagan swing a punch at Owen. It cracked across his jaw, but Owen didn't flinch. He caught Dagan by the hair and pulled back suddenly, bending him backwards. Owen's fist struck like a hammer in the center of Dagan's face. Once. Twice.

Dagan's howl burst in a bubble of blood on his lips. He held up his arms to shield himself, but Owen's teeth snapped down on his flesh, tearing free a chunk of skin and sinew.

With a triumphant cry, Owen turned towards the window. He charged forwards, Dagan held in front of him like a toy.

“N-no!” Leanne yelped, suddenly realising what was going to happen next. “No, no, don't!”
The window erupted outwards as Owen forced Dagan backwards through the glass. For one frantic fleeting moment Dagan seemed to hang there in space, his eyes wide, his face a mangled mess of blood and snot.

And then, like that, he was gone.

Owen stood by the broken frame, his back to the room, chewing noisily on the chunk of meat in his mouth. Leanne looked to the door on the other side of the room. Could she make it? Owen seemed to have forgotten about her again. Maybe if she was quiet…

Supporting herself on the wall, she stood up. The ashtray was still in her hand. She held it out like a shield and began to back towards the door.

Owen stopped chewing. He cocked his head, like a dog listening to some distant sound, and Leanne knew in that moment she would never get away. He'd catch her before she even reached the hall. There was only one choice left.

She closed the gap in four quick paces, the ashtray raised above her head. Owen spun, but by then she was swinging, bringing the heavy chunk of glass down, down, down with all her might.

It caught Owen higher this time, just above where she'd hit him before. He buckled awkwardly, like a puppet whose strings had all been cut. His hands grasped limply at Leanne, but she hammered down with the ashtray again.

Owen stumbled. He hit the gaping wound where the window had been and for a heart-stopping moment just stood there, flailing his arms and trying to catch his balance, his teeth still chomping furiously on the chunk of meat in his mouth.

Leanne let out a sob as Owen seemed about to find his balance, but then he toppled past the point of no return, and fell screeching into the darkness.