And the Corpse Wore Tartan
Chapter 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 been screaming.
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 throbbing pounding horror 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 hairy arse off 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 . . .’
She swallowed it down, held up a hand, and huffed out a few deep breaths.
If she wasn’t dead, she was dying. This hangover was terminal, no doubt about it.
Which, if anything, was a relief if it meant the suffering would end.
A rumbling BOOOM made the air shake, jabbing red-hot knives through her forehead and out the other side.
Death was taking his own sweet time coming.
The auld mannie bent down and picked an empty bottle from the undergrowth, turning it in his hands. ‘Lagavulin, sixteen-year-old. You drink all of this?’ He whistled low and slow. ‘No wonder you smell like a skip full of burnt mattresses.’
A whole bottle of Lagavulin? Oh God.
Why would . . . Where was . . .
She did a one-legged lurcharound, keeping the other one firmly locked and straight.
Ah.
An ugly stately-home castle thing loomed in the rain, its thick stone walls painted a cheery shade of pinky beige.
Turrets. Mullioned windows. It lay at the far end of a manicured lawn, framed by thick pine forests with a background of purple-flecked mountains – their tops lost in the low cloud.
Sort of a Marks all the Tweedy Twats and Strapless Sharons in their wedding outfits staring at her like she’s some sort of leper, just cos she’s having a good time and singing along.
Hauling back a hand and slapping that smug git Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott right in his smug fat face, hard enough to make him land on his smug fat arse.
Stumbling out of the conservatory, stiff-legged like a drunken chicken, clutching a bottle of pilfered Lagavulin, swigging from it as she marches off into the darkness . . .
Oh.
Roberta wiped the slime from her mouth and spat into the toilet bowl. Did her best nonchalant shrug. ‘I might have had a little bit to drink, but I didn’t do anything that—’
‘Impossible!’ Susan stormed out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind her, setting the fluffy bathrobes swinging again.
Clearly, she hadn’t understood just how ill Roberta was.
Deep breath. ‘I NEED IRN-brU! AND MAYBE SOME BACON? I could go bacon . . .’ Another horrible gurgling noise erupted deep inside. ‘Hold on.’ She gripped the wooden seat and swallowed hard. No more being sick. No more being sick. No more being sick. ‘Urgh . . .’
Susan reappeared in the doorway, eyes blazing, mouth all pinched up like an angry fish.
Voice a hard, hissing whisper: ‘It’s five in the morning; will you keep your bloody voice down!
’ She turned to leave, then turned back.
‘And if you think I’m taking you to another wedding, or anywhere else, ever again, you can roll it sideways and cram it up there! ’
Wait, what?
‘Wedding?’ As soon as the word left Roberta’s bitter-yuck-flavoured mouth, it all came flooding back. She screwed her whole face shut. ‘Oh God . . .’
The horror.
THE HORROR!