— the mourning after the night before —
1
The woman’s body lies on its back in the long grass, a pale slash of belly on show between the rumpled shirt and stained trousers. A flash of bra – the colour of old bones. Milkbottle skin speckled with tiny dots of red. One leg curled under the other. One arm stretched out in accusation. Head thrown back, mouth open. As if she’s beenscreaming.
Albert Nairn moves the shotgun to his other hand, the barrel still warm to the touch, that bitter-sweet scent of a recently fired cartridge. The smell of death.
Up above, the sky is a lid of dark greys and funeral blues, thick with heavy clouds. A faint bloody glow oozing its way along the horizon, not bright enough to taint the sickly grey light.
Not bright enough to illuminate the body.
Hmph...
He prods it with the shotgun.
Nothing.
Checks his watch, 04:28.
Better get her moved before the guests wake up. That’ll ruin someone’s morning – throwing open the curtains to find a dead woman on the lawn.
There’s a flicker of white, followed by a rumble of thunder, and a thin, cold rain. Pattering down around the body, making the grass quiver and bend, as if it’s in mourning.
No point standing here, Albert. Get her up and over your shoulder. Take her back to the cottage, where no one will ever find her – there’s plenty of room in his collection for one more corpse. Big day today, why spoil it by getting the police involved?
The rain thickens, getting into its stride, falling on the living and the dead alike.
Come on then.
He bends down, reaching...
And that’s when the body gasps and sits up, eyes wide and bloodshot, grey hair sticking out like she’s been dragged through every hedge in the place.
Roberta blinked as an auld mannie, in tweeds and wellies, screamed like a wee girl and danced away from her. The shotgun he was holding clunked down on the wet grass, freeing up both hands to clutch at his grey beard and tartan bunnet.
Then the ache hit her. The throbbingpoundinghorror headache from hell, swelling up inside her skull and threatening to push both her eyeballs out through her nose. Tongue like a mouldy flip-flop marinated in someone else’s vomit, then set on fire. Stomach like a washing machine full of bricks and bees as the world went into spin cycle around her.
Don’t be sick, don’t be sick, don’t be sick.
Instead a lung-rattling bout of coughing got its oar in, ending with something the size and colour of an oyster being spat out into the undergrowth.
Urgh...
‘Holy mother of God...’ The old man bent double, holding onto his knees, peering at her with yellowy eyes set either side of a great curved hook of a nose. ‘Scared the hairyarseoff us!’
Roberta screwed one eye shut and tried to get the world to stop whirling. Grabbing a handful of grass so she wouldn’t fall off and tumble away into the battleship sky. ‘Am I...’ She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Am I dead?’
‘Come on, let’s get you up.’
A rough, calloused paw grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Which, to be honest, just made the whirling worse.
Didn’t help that her legs were malfunctioning. Rotten pair of bastards refused to work properly, making her lurch into a wobbly stagger. Which—
Rancid gurgling erupted from her stomach, heat flushing through her neck and head.
Don’t be sick!
The auld mannie let go and scampered back a bit. ‘No, no, no, no, no...’
