Flesh House (39 page)

63

Logan lurched along the corridor, clutching his left arm to his chest, following the Flesher and her accomplice as fast as his wobbly legs would go. The burning sensation was slowly giving way to a worrying numbness. Dislocated or broken, either was better than a bolt gun through the hands, or getting cut in half.

A pair of double doors at the far end led through into the cattle area: a tall, warehouse-style room with another mechanical conveyer built into the ceiling. Only this time it wasn't sheep dangling five inches off the floor, it was cattle: hanging head down, their rear hooves chained to the belt ten foot above Logan's head. He'd seen plenty of cows in the fields around Aberdeen, but he'd never realized they were so
huge
.

An elevated walkway ran along the twisting path the carcasses followed; men and women in blue and white overalls, Wellington boots, and hardhats; strange bits of equipment; the stench of rendering fat and hot copper and raw meat; gouts of greasy steam drifting out of circular holes in the floor.

There was music playing in here too, but no one was working - they were all staring at Logan in his blood-soaked suit.

A hydraulic noise, then a faint buzzing, and then a huge bullock fell out of a slot in the wall onto a knee-high plinth. It wasn't even twitching as someone in a long green apron shackled its back legs and winched it upside down to join the line.

'Which way did they go?'

No one could hear him over the clank of machinery and the roar of Tom Jones.

Three quick slashes to the throat and the bullock's blood gushed onto the killing floor, bright red.

Logan tried again. 'WHERE DID THEY GO?'

The man in the green apron pointed down the line - past where the emptied, skinned cattle were being sawn in half with an industrial band-saw - at a small area tacked onto the end of the cavernous room.

Logan lurched into a run.

The little alcove was full of plastic bins and metal racks: lungs, livers and tongues handing from stainless steel hooks. He slithered on the wet floor, bounced off the wall and round into a foetid recess where three industrial-sized spin-dryers shuddered away to themselves. A stunned woman stopped in the middle of stuffing a cow's stomach into one and watched him stagger past.

A door banged shut up ahead. Logan tore through the Den of Dung and wrenched it open just in time to see a pair of pink pyjama legs disappearing at the top of a flight of steps.

He hurried up after her, bursting out of the door at the top and into the deep, metallic rumble of the bone mill.

The Flesher and Pyjama Woman were scrambling up the stairs to the top hopper - the one they'd found Thomas Stephen's head in. Logan grabbed the handrail, shouting over the grinding noise,'STOP, POLICE!'

It never usually worked, but this time it actually did; by the time he'd got to the top they were waiting for him.

Oh shit.

He went for his pepper spray, but his left arm wouldn't work. Trying to move it was like jamming red-hot knitting needles into his shoulder. He fumbled for it with his right hand, then aimed the canister at the Flesher's face. 'I need you to lie down on the floor. Now.'

The woman in pyjamas shook her head. 'You can't.'

'You too: on the floor.'

'Jimmy's only doing it to make us pure.'

'Jimmy doesn't exist, it's ...' And that was when Logan finally realized why she so looked familiar. 'Heather Inglis...? You need to come with me, Heather. It's over. He ...
she
can't hurt you anymore.' Back to the Flesher. 'On the floor NOW!'

And then the Flesher stepped behind Heather and hefted her over the greasy handrail that ran around the lip of the hopper. Heather squealed and grabbed onto it, holding herself in place.

Logan risked a quick glance into the big, slope-sided metal bin. It was nearly empty, the last few bones disappearing as he watched - ground into bite-sized chunks and dumped into the next hopper down.

He held his hands up, placatory. 'It's over Elizabeth. By tomorrow morning your face will be on every television and newspaper in the country. There's nowhere you can go.' He inched his way forwards, eyes scanning the bone mill's walls. Looking for the off switch.

'Come on Elizabeth. You don't want to hurt Heather: she's eaten the food, hasn't she? She's pure.'

The Flesher raised a trembling hand to the mask and peeled it off. It was Elizabeth, but at the same time it wasn't. Her face looked different from before. It wasn't just that her nose was broken, bleeding, or that her left cheek was swollen, it was as if the rubber mask wasn't the only one she was wearing.

She threw Margaret Thatcher's face into the hopper. Logan watched it bounce off the far side, then slide down into the rotating metal teeth; they tore it apart like a slice of wet bread.

'Come on, Elizabeth, you don't really want to do this, do you?'

There was a long pause, and then,'No.'

Heather turned and looked at her, letting go of the handrail with one hand to touch Elizabeth's cheek. 'But I do, Kelley. For you.'

Logan crept another step closer. 'Heather, come on, don't do anything stupid. You've survived too much to throw it all away.'

Elizabeth leant forward and kissed her on the cheek. And then Heather jumped.

'FUCK!' The hell with inching - Logan leapt, snatching a handful of her pyjamas as she hopped off the railing and into thin air. He was off balance, dragged forwards by her weight as she fell. His stomach slammed into the guardrail. Pain, sudden and immediate, tore across his scarred stomach. He opened his mouth to shout, but all that came out was an agonized wheeze.

No strength in his fingers.

Logan tried to grab her with his left hand - his shoulder screamed at him as something inside gave way.

She was slipping.

Their eyes locked. Heather looked strangely peaceful as she fell the dozen or so feet into the hopper. Her feet hit the sloping wall and slid out from underneath her. CLANG: backwards onto the grimy metal. Her left foot jerked into the air. And then fell into the rotating teeth.

The only noise was the rumble of the metal driveshaft.

Foot. Ankle. Shin. Then Heather started to scream, pushing against the wall with her remaining foot, pyjamas drenched with fresh blood, hands scrabbling for purchase on the sloping sides.

The door through to the protein processing unit burst open: Jackie, her hands curled against her chest. She stopped, rooted to the spot, staring open-mouthed at the stuttering bits of leg falling into the lower hopper.

Logan forced himself upright and staggered across to the cutoff switch, slamming his palm down on the red button. The grinding noise whined to a halt.

He clambered over the rail and dropped down beside Heather, shouting at the top of his lungs:'GET A BLOODY AMBULANCE!'

The Flesher was gone.

Six Months Later

Heather dries her hands on a kitchen towel and limps over to the fridge. Twenty-eight weeks and they still haven't managed to get her a prosthetic that fits properly, but that's being ungrateful, isn't it? If it wasn't for Aberdeen Royal Infirmary she'd have lost the whole leg.

According to the clock on the microwave it's half past five. An afternoon in May - probably blazing sunshine, but in her little Fittie house it's black as the grave. The neighbours might not like that she's boarded up all the windows, but they don't say anything on account of her 'ordeal'. Dead husband, one leg, not right in the head ...

Stockholm syndrome - that's what Mr New called it. That's what the hospital's psychologists said as well. None of them understand.

Heather drops a chunk of lard in the pot and adds the sliced onions.

All this time and they still don't know where He is. But she does. Sometimes Kelley sends her a postcard from somewhere exotic like Prague. Heather keeps them in a secret box where the police will never find them.

'
Dinner going to be long then?
' asks Duncan, his little blood halo glowing in the darkness.

'Hours and hours.' She says, 'You can open a bottle of wine if you like.'

Three tablespoons of paprika when the onions are soft and translucent.

He wraps his arms around her and leans in close, smelling her hair. '
Mmmmm. Gorgeous.
' He kisses her neck and she giggles.

'I know what you're thinking, and you'll have to wait till I've peeled the potatoes.'

'
Damn potatoes.
' He steps back, leaning against the working surface, head on one side, questioning. A little physical tic he's picked up from the Flesher. '
Do you still miss Justin?
'

'Yes.' Into the other pan go the chunks of offal: heart and kidneys, browning on a high heat. For some reason she couldn't cope with Justin being alive - it just didn't seem right for him to be walking about when she knew he was dead. 'But I'm sure Mother's looking after him.'

The browned meat goes in with the onions, followed by a tin of chopped tomatoes, some white wine and garlic.

'
You never cooked this well when I was alive.
'

'That's because you were always so bloody precious about your boeuf bourguignon. I thought if I did anything fancier than fish fingers you'd be telling me I wasn't doing it right.' She grinds a few twists of pepper into the pan, adds a dash of salt, then sticks the lid on and puts it in the oven. One hundred and twenty degrees Celsius for two hours. And by that time she's drunk half a bottle of wine and the whole house smells wonderfully meaty and rich.

Heather changes into her good frock, does her hair, lipstick, and eye shadow. It's not every day she has someone for dinner.

She doesn't bother with the table anymore. Just puts their plates down on the carpet in the lounge, next to the mattress from the bedroom. It's the only piece of furniture in the place, except for one of the dining room chairs - for her guest - and a single candle that flickers on the mantelpiece.

It hadn't been easy, tracking down James Souter. He was so small and frail in his tatty little dressing gown, sitting in his room in the hospice. Shivering and terrified.

Hard to believe he was the man who'd done all those terrible things to Kelley.

And now look at him, all nice and quiet, tied to his chair, skin pale as bone china. Chest hollow and empty. The stump of his missing arm all shiny in the candlelight.

Heather digs her fork into the paprikash and pulls out a chunk of meltingly tender meat. Yes, James Souter was a nasty bastard, but his heart's in the right place.

And very tasty it is too.

By Stuart MacBride

Cold Granite
Dying Light
Broken Skin
Flesh House

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents either are 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 Tom and Hazel Stephen, Alexander (Zander) Clark, Dave Goulding and Stuart Singer, who have given their express permission to be fictionalised in this volume. All events and character traits assigned to these individuals have been designed to serve the needs of the narrative and do not necessarily bear any resemblance to the real people. Models have been used to play the parts of any individuals photographed (with the exception of Tom and Hazel Stephen who appear as themselves).

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Published by HarperCollins
Publishers
2008
1

Copyright (c) Stuart MacBride 2008

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

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EPub Edition (c) 2008 ISBN: 9780007283538

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