Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas (short stories). Stuart MacBride

      ‘I was born ready.’

      ‘You were born a fat bastard.’

      Billy scowled at him. ‘Shut up.’

      ‘You shut up.’

      ‘Oh for God’s sake. . .’ Billy grabbed the bottom part of the window and hauled it up, gritting his teeth as the ancient wood squealed.

      Twitch gave him a slow round of applause. ‘Oh, my hero: you’re so big and strong!’

      Billy kept his voice low, going for a Clint Eastwood growl and failing miserably. ‘You want us to get caught? That what you want? You want to go back to prison? No?’ He gave the sarky bastard a wee shove. ‘Then shut up and get your arse in there.’

      Twitch pursed his lips. ‘Don’t be such a gaywad. Dillon said they were both deaf as a post. . .’ He slipped inside like a shadow.

      Billy took a deep breath, said a wee prayer, then scrambled across the yawning chasm into the house. Didn’t look down. Didn’t fall to his death. Didn’t crap himself.

      From the outside, Number Seven Fletcher Road looked all prosperous and well maintained, but the foosty smelling room Billy clambered into was piled with old boxes and tea chests, all just visible in the dim glow of the garden’s Christmas lights, and—

      MONSTER!

      Billy grabbed the window ledge, heart trying to kick its way out of his chest. They were going to die. . .

      No. Not a monster: a full-sized stuffed black bear leaned back against the wall at an alarming angle, next to a grandfather clock and a suit of armour. Creepy bastard taxidermy lurking in the shadows.

      ‘Look at this!’ Twitch dug into a box and pulled out a pair of matching African masks, like they had on the Discovery Channel. ‘These have to be worth a bob or two.’

      Billy snatched them off him and stuffed them back where they’d come from. ‘Don’t be an arse: everything in here’s junk. If it wasn’t they wouldn’t keep it in this shite hole.’

      He opened the door a crack and peered out into the corridor. Dark and empty, faded rectangles on the wallpaper marking where paintings used to be. No carpet, no furniture. Light spilled up the stairwell from the floors below, the tip of a huge Christmas tree almost coming level with the balustrade. The tree was festooned with shimmering white lights – like the garden – and covered in burgundy and gold baubles, ribbons and swags. A wee bit swankier than the four-foot high artificial thing clarted with pink and blue tinsel in Billy’s living room.

      A television blared out Britain’s Next Big Star from somewhere below as Billy and Twitch crept from room to room.

      The whole place was vacant bordering on the derelict . . . except for the room nearest the stairs. It had been done out as a study, the walls lined with books, and a desk facing the window complete with fancy-looking laptop and colour printer.

      Twitch rubbed his skeletal hands together. ‘Payday.’ He grabbed the laptop, pulling up all the cables and wrapping them round the thing before squeezing it into a leather case he found beside the desk. ‘That’s got to be worth a couple of hundred down the Monk and Casket!’ He went for a high five, but Billy missed. Twitch shook his head, slung the case over his shoulder. ‘Last one downstairs is a fat poofy bastard.’

      They snuck down to the middle floor. This bit of the house had more of a lived-in feel: carpets, sideboards, occasional tables, framed photographs. Six doors led off the corridor and they picked their way through them carefully, making as little noise as possible, even though there was bugger-all chance anyone could hear anything over the TV. Four dusty guest bedrooms with fading wallpaper, a huge, cold bathroom.

      Billy eased the final door open and peered inside: must be the master bedroom. Breathy snoring came from a large divan bed. A white-haired woman lay flat on her back in the darkness, wearing one of them sleeping masks, surrounded by a nest of frilly pillows.

      He scanned the walls. No sign of the painting.

      Time to close up, move on, and— ‘Hoy!’

      Twitch squeezed past him, into the room. Billy grabbed at his sleeve but the wee sod was too quick.

      Billy shifted from foot to foot on the threshold, voice a sharp-edged whisper. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Come back here!’

      But Twitch wasn’t listening, he was rummaging through the old lady’s drawers, pulling out camisole knickers and support stockings, letting them fall to the swirly carpet. ‘Shut up and watch the corridor.’

      ‘We’re going to get caught!’

      ‘You are such a fat. . .’ Twitch paused, smiled, then pulled a wooden box out of the bottom drawer. He cracked it open and the smile got even bigger. ‘Ya beauty!’ He scurried back to the door and showed Billy what was inside.

      ‘Fuck me.’ Gold and silver and diamonds: necklaces, rings, earrings, and a couple of watches.

      ‘See: you stick with your uncle Twitch, he’ll see you right.’ He shut the door, licking his lips as he fingered the rings out in the corridor. ‘This’ll keep Dillon off our backs for a bit. How about you and me bugger off out of it while we’re ahead?’

      Billy fidgeted, looking from the glittering jewellery to Twitch’s two black eyes and squint nose. Dillon’s instructions had been very clear. ‘He said we have to get the painting: if we don’t he’s going to break our legs.’

      ‘But–’

      ‘You want him to give you another spanking?’

      Twitch sighed, then closed the wooden box. ‘Maybe not.’

      Billy squared his wide shoulders. ‘Let’s do it. . .’

      They inched down to the ground floor.

      The massive Christmas tree dominated the front lobby. Gifts were piled round the base: all multicoloured and shiny with bows and ribbons, like something out of Harry Fucking Potter. Be lucky if Billy’s mum stretched to a selection box and a pair of socks this year, and these sods had all this? How was that fair? Rich bastard deserved to get his painting stolen. Serve him right.

      Billy made Twitch hide behind the tree and keep an eye on the lounge, while he checked out the rooms on the ground floor: kitchen, cloakroom, drawing room, sun lounge, conservatory. . .

      The painting was in the dining room. A large teak table sat in the middle, surrounded by a dozen fancy-looking chairs and a sideboard covered with silverware. A glass cabinet opposite the door was full of objets d’art: porcelain terriers, glass swans, ceramic clowns – that kinda thing. Some of which Billy’s mum was going to find under their crappy plastic tree on Christmas day. Grinning, he helped himself, slipping the choicer looking pieces in his hoodie’s pockets. And then it was painting time.

      Dillon had given them a big holdall to put it in and Billy unrolled the thing and spread it out on the dining table. Then he turned the torch on the painting. And everything stopped.

      A pear tree stood in the middle of a canvas as big as a widescreen telly – the leaves a mixture of delicate greens and dark blue, tinged with purple; the sky a riot of vermillion, ultramarine and gold as the sun set. And in the branches a single pear glistened. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.

      He was still standing there, mouth hanging open like a total mong, when Twitch shuffled into the room. ‘What the flying fuck on a bike’s taking you so long, Fatwad? And are those candlesticks gold, ’cause I’m having them if they are!’

      Slowly Billy came back to earth. The mood was ruined, but the painting still called to him like it was wired right into his bloodstream: like the first joint of the day, or an armful of smack. . . No wonder Dillon was willing to write off their debt. According to the little brass plaque on the ornate gilded frame, this was ‘THE PEAR TREE BY CLAUDE OSCAR MONET – 1907’. Thirteen