Read on for an exclusive short story by Stuart MacBride
Without Whom
Books like this would be a nightmare to write without access to a bunch of very clever people who don’t mind me picking their brains and asking stupid questions. As usual, anything I’ve got right is down to them and anything I’ve got wrong is down to me.
So a big thank you is due to all of my forensic experts: Ishbel Gall, Dr Lorna Dawson, Prof. Dave Barclay, Dr James Grieve, and Prof. Sue Black.
More go to Dave Reilly, and Jon Lloyd for hints and tips and tricks of the trade.
Then there’s the excellently historical Chris Croly, and Fiona Musk. (If you’re in Aberdeen – go see the archives. They’re great, and they’re free!)
As always HarperCollins deserves a big shout out, especially those ninjas of publishy goodness Sarah Hodgson, Kate Elton, Jane Johnson, Julia Wisdom, Laura Mell, Oliver Malcolm, Laura Fletcher, Roger Cazalet, Lucy Upton, Damon Greeney, Catherine Friis, Emad Akhtar, Kate Stephenson, Anne O’Brien, Marie Goldie, and the DC Bishopbriggs Wild Brigade.
The same’s true of Phil Patterson, Isabella Floris, Luke Speed, and everyone at Marjacq Scripts.
A number of people have helped raise a lot of money for charity by bidding to have a character named after them in this book: Peter and Emma Sim, April Logan, and Ian Falconer. Thanks, guys.
And saving the best for last – as always – Fiona and Grendel.
1
She holds up the book of matches. Licks her lips. She’s practised the words a dozen times till they’re perfect. ‘Do you have anything to say before I carry out sentence? ’
The man kneeling on the floor of the warehouse stares up at her. He’s trembling, moaning behind the mask hiding his face. ‘Oh God, oh Jesus, oh God, oh Jesus. . .’ The chains around his wrists and ankles rattle against the metal stake. A waft of accelerant curls through the air from the tyre wedged over his head and shoulders. Black rubber and paraffin.
‘Too late for that.’ She smiles. ‘Thomas Leis, you—’
‘Please, you don’t have to do this!’
The smile slips. He’s spoiling it. ‘Thomas Leis, you have been found guilty of witchcraft—’
‘I’m not a witch, it’s a mistake!’
‘—condemned to burn at the stake until you be dead.’
‘I didn’t do anything!’
‘Coward.’ The lights are hot on her back as she strikes the first match, then sets fire to the rest. They hiss and flare, bright and shining. Pure. Glorious.
‘PLEASE!’
‘Burn. Like you’ll burn in hell.’ She drags the smile back on. ‘It’ll be good practice for you.’ She drops the blazing matchbook onto the tyre and the accelerant catches. Whoosh – blue and yellow flames race around the rubber.
Thomas Leis screams.
He jerks against his chains. Thick black smoke wreaths his face, hiding the mask from view as the fire takes hold. He pleads and screams and begs. . .
She throws her head back and laughs at the heavens. Spreads her arms wide. Eyes glittering like diamonds.
The voice of God crackles through the air, making the very world vibrate: ‘And . . . cut. Well done, everyone – break for lunch and we’ll go for scene two thirty-six at half one.’
A round of applause.
Then a man in a fluorescent-yellow waistcoat rushes into shot with a fire extinguisher. FWOOOSH – the flames disappear in a puff of carbon dioxide as the cameraman backs away, shielding his lens.
The runner peels off the bright green mask with the yellow crosses on it from the stuntman doubling for Thomas Leis. The stuntman’s grinning, even though he knows they’re going to digitally replace his face in post. Even though he barged over her line.
God save us from stuntmen who think they’re actors.
She puts her head on one side and frowns. ‘I don’t know. . . It felt a bit over the top at the end there. Really hammy. Wouldn’t she be more . . . you know, suppressed? Maybe even a bit sexual? Can I do it again? ’
2
‘I’m on my way. Tell everyone to—’ Something under his foot went crunch. Logan froze on the doorstep, mobile phone clamped to his ear. He slid his shoe to one side and curled his top lip. ‘Not again.’
Three little bones lay on the concrete slab, tied together with a tatty piece of red ribbon.
A hissing whisper came from the other end of the phone. ‘Seriously, Guv, Pukey Pete’s having ferrets up here, it’s—’
‘I said I’m on my way.’
Logan stuck the phone against his chest and scowled out at the caravan park in the growing gloom. Bulky static caravans, the size