Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBride

      ‘IT’S NOT OK! IT’LL NEVER BE OK!’

      His leg jerked out, and Dr McDonald grunted again.

      ‘DOUGLAS: CALM DOWN!’ I twisted harder, shoving his face into the leather upholstery and keeping it there. ‘Come on, stop it …’

      He bucked, and writhed, and swore, and after what seemed like hours, finally went slack. Shoulders quivering, sobbing.

      Dr McDonald huddled by the fireplace, staring at the palm of her left hand. Scarlet trickled down her pale face from a gash in her eyebrow. ‘I’m bleeding …’

      I let go of Douglas and backed away from the couch. He didn’t even move, just lay there crying, so I helped Dr McDonald to her feet.

      She wobbled in her bright-red Converse Hi-tops. ‘I’m bleeding …’ She frowned. ‘Where’s my glasses?’

      I picked them out of the fireplace and handed them to her. One leg was bent and twisted.

      On the couch, Douglas drew his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball, arms wrapped around his head. ‘Hannah …’ He rocked back and forth. ‘Oh, thank God, it’s over …’

      ‘Ow …’ Dr McDonald held onto the wall outside with one hand, the other clutching a wad of bloodstained kitchen paper against her eyebrow.

      The rain was on again. Getting darker too. The Dickensian streetlights flickered on as the gloom tripped their automatic sensors.

      ‘He’s not normally like that.’ I looked back towards the house, where Douglas Kelly was finally getting to mourn his daughter. He was wrong though – it wasn’t over. Because next year, on the sixteenth of September, another homemade birthday card would slither through his mailbox and bring it all back again. And the year after that, and the one after that too … ‘Sure you don’t want some painkillers?’

      ‘Can we just get to the hospital, please?’

      High overhead, a plane roared across the dark-grey sky, navigation lights blinking red and green. Lucky bastards getting away from … Shite.

      On the other side of the road a woman leaned against the park railings, the smoke from her cigarette curling around beneath the dome of her black umbrella: long camel-hair coat and black suit, auburn hair tied back in a ponytail. Thin rectangular glasses. Jennifer.

      Shite and buggery.

      I dug out the car keys and slipped them into Dr McDonald’s hand. ‘Why don’t you go wait for me in the car. I’ll only be a minute.’

      ‘But I don’t—’

      ‘Two minutes tops.’ I put a hand in the small of her back and steered her down the stairs, onto the pavement, then gave her a nudge in the direction of my decrepit Renault. She stumbled a bit, but kept on going.

      Jennifer dropped the cigarette, ground it out with a black high-heeled boot, then crossed the road, hands in her pockets. Smiled like the sun coming out. ‘Ash: long time, no see. You’re looking …’ A pause as she frowned up at my face, and then the smile was back. ‘Good.’ Lying cow. ‘How’ve you been?’

      I nodded. ‘Jennifer.’

      She stepped closer so the umbrella covered us both. Rain pattered on the black fabric. Up close, she smelled musky and peppery with a hint of lemon – probably something French and expensive. ‘It’s been too long.’ She wrinkled her upturned little nose. Crow’s feet spread out from the corners of her eyes. They were new. ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’

      ‘Forget it.’

      ‘Oh, come on: lunch, my treat. Well, technically it’s on Uncle Rupert, but what’s the point of having an expense account if you can’t treat an old flame now and then?’ She nodded towards Dr McDonald – staring out at us through the Renault’s windscreen. ‘You can bring Katie, if you like? She’s gotten big, hasn’t she?’ Jennifer slipped her arm through mine. ‘Actually … might be better if you gave her a couple of quid to go to the pictures, then it’d be just you and me. Like old times.’

      I stopped, pulled my arm away from her. ‘How did you find him?’

      Jennifer’s eyes flicked towards a scarlet Alfa Romeo parked opposite Douglas Kelly’s house. The driver’s window was down, a telephoto lens poked out into the cold morning. Staring straight at me.

      She brushed something off my shoulder. ‘You used to love that little bistro on Castle Hill, remember?’

      ‘How – did – you – find – him?’

      She shrugged, pursed those perfect lips of hers. ‘All that digging in Cameron Park … You found Hannah’s body, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here.’

      ‘He’s ex-directory, the house isn’t even in his name … What did you do, follow me?’

      A pout. ‘Ash, I’m hurt. But it’s OK: if you don’t want to speak to me, I can go ring the bell and ask him. “How does it feel to finally get your daughter back?” The public love that kind of thing.’

      I leaned in close. ‘Pin back your pretty little lugs, Jennifer. If you so much as breathe in Douglas Kelly’s direction—’

      ‘What? You’ll put me over your knee and give me a good spanking?’ She ran her hand down my chest. ‘Have you still got those handcuffs?’

      I stepped back. Glowering. ‘Leave him alone.’

      ‘I’ll do that thing you like …?’ She closed the gap, pressing her breasts against me, looking up into my eyes. ‘And after – if I’ve been a very good girl – you can give me a wee exclusive on the Birthday Boy, off the record. You know you want to …’

      ‘Want to?’ I pushed her away. ‘There’s not enough Dettol in the world.’

      Streetlight glinted off the camera lens. Click, click, click. Photos for the late edition.

      ‘Oh, come on, Ash. You knew what you were getting into. We’re both adults.’

       Click, click, click.

      She licked her lips. ‘It is her, isn’t it? Hannah Kelly. And you’ve got other bodies too.’

       Click, click, click.

      ‘Go away, Jennifer.’

      ‘You’ve found the Birthday Boy’s body dump. Who is he? You’ve got DNA or something, don’t you? If you know who he is, you have to tell me.’

       Click, click, click.

      ‘We’re pursuing several lines of investigation.’ I stepped off the kerb and marched towards the Alfa Romeo. Rain soaked into my hair.

      The sound of high-heeled boots clattered along behind me. ‘Who else have you found? I want an exclusive, Ash. You owe me!’

      ‘Owe you?’ I kept going. ‘For what, Jennifer? What do I fucking owe you?’

      Click, click … The photographer looked up from his viewfinder. Too slow. I smacked the flat of my hand against the end of the lens, driving the whole camera into the hairy little shit’s face. Crack – his head jerked back, a bead of scarlet glistening in one nostril. Weak chin, pointy nose, hairy hands, hairy head. Like someone had cross-bred a rat with a chimp and given it a top-of-the-range Canon digital camera.

      ‘Frank!’

      ‘Gagh …’ Frank blinked, hairy paws smearing red across his face.

      I grabbed the lens and pulled; the camera strap yanked his head forwards, clunking it into the window frame. I twisted the Canon through ninety degrees – turning the strap into a noose. Pulled harder. Knuckles like burning gravel, fingers aching.

      ‘Ash! Don’t be a