Blood, Rust and Steel

Chapter 1

it begins with a scream . . .

Alice glared at him from the passenger seat. ‘I don’t care: pull over.’

Scott forced a smile. Pregnancy hormones were supposed to make people all maternal and loving and caring, but Alice had turned into a proper jet-propelled—

‘Pull over! PULL OVER!’ Her face went the same shade of beetroot that had preceded every explosion for the last eight-and-a-bit months, turning her freckles so dark they were nearly as black as the shapeless summer dress that made her look a teeny bit like she was wearing a bin-bag.

Scott did not sigh. Because that just hastened an impending detonation. Instead, he peered out through the gritty windscreen: fog. Nothing but sodding fog since the Aberdeen bypass. A velvet-grey shroud that smothered the life out of everything.

Should’ve made good time, but not in this.

Could barely do thirty. Too risky. What if they rammed into the back of something? Even this early in the morning. And Alice was angry enough already.

She jabbed a finger at the fog. ‘There!’

A sign glowed blue at the side of the road: a capital ‘P’ for parking. But just beyond it lay a line of gloomy orange cones, with reflective stripes, flanked by ‘NO ENTRY’ and ‘WORK ACCESS ONLY’, blocking off the lay-by. So that was a non-starter.

‘Maybe if we—’

‘PULL OVER RIGHT BLOODY NOW!’ Eyes clenched, teeth bared, spittle flecking the dashboard.

So he did.

Hitting the brakes, swerving between the cones .

. . only maybe not one hundred percent successfully, because a horrible scraiking noise grated out from the front of the car.

Then the nose dipped as they hit a pothole the size of Belgium, and the cone they were pushing must’ve tipped over, because that grinding gravelly sound worked its way from beneath the bonnet to under his feet, then the box-laden back seat, and finally the boot.

Each crunk and scrrrrrrrrrrrrrit like tinfoil on a filling.

Then it was gone.

Hopefully not taking anything with it.

He steered through the minefield of ruts, dips, scars, holes, and dents, past a dark mound of gravel and another of macadam, then a pair of black wheelie bins, before coming to a halt.

Scott killed the engine.

Huffed out a breath as Alice struggled with her seatbelt.

Checked the rear-view mirror for evidence of the cone’s flattened corpse. But the boxes, piled up in the back, blocked everything. Two whole lives, packed into a beige Citroen C1.

Well, three now.

Which was a thought . . .

The car’s dipped headlights still made the fog glow, picking out the curve of the lay-by, the semicircle of grass between them and the A96, and the angry-pink spikes of fireweed with a dark mass of woodland beyond.

‘There we go. Pulled over.’ He turned off the lights.

Gloom swamped the lay-by. Like someone had just shut the lid of his coffin.

He turned the lights back on again.

‘Bastard thing!’ Alice wrestled the clippy end free and hauled off her seatbelt. Snarling out her cruellest impersonation of him: ‘Oh no, I can’t be arsed stopping for you, Alice. You’re not important enough.’

‘I didn’t say that. I just said you might be more comfortable if—’

‘You try being “comfortable” with a foot in your bloody bladder!’ She shoved the passenger door open. ‘This whole thing was a stupid idea! I should’ve sodding known!’

Difficult to tell if she meant the trip, the new job, the baby, or them . . .

Alice squeezed and wriggled, trying to birth herself through the car’s door. ‘Oh for God’s sake!’

He clambered out into the fog – so thick you could chew mouthfuls of it, heavy with that fusty soil smell, tainted with something rank and slithery. Cold enough to raise goosepimples on his bare arms as he hurried around to her side, ready to help. ‘Here, let me—’

‘Get off!’ She slapped his hand away. ‘I can do it myself.’

A septic glow bloomed in the fog, curving closer, then thundered by on the main road, hauling an articulated lorry behind it. The huge machine was only visible for a moment, before the grey world swallowed it again, leaving nothing but the bitter blue taint of diesel.

Scott reached for her again. ‘I was only trying to—’

‘I can do it!’ It took a lot of huffing and puffing and panting and wriggling, but eventually she levered herself out into the murk. Glaring at Scott till he retreated.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. We’ll be there soon. Promise.’ He checked his watch: 06:41. ‘Twenty minutes, tops.’

But Alice wasn’t listening, she was wading out into the fireweed that teemed along the lay-by’s edge.

She was stopped by a waist-high chain-link fence – where she turned her back on the looming woods, hitched-up her dress, dropped her massive blue pants, then squatted down to pee.

‘Told you to stop in Inver-sodding-rurie.’ A wobble, and she steadied herself against the fence.

‘Whose bloody stupid idea was it to leave at three in the morning?’

Scott looked out into the fog. Away. Anywhere but at the grown woman peeing in the weeds at the side of a lay-by. Because even after six years together some things were not meant to be shared. ‘We didn’t want to be late for the movers, did we? No. Of course not. It’s just a little—’

‘Should never have listened to you. I had a perfectly good job in Dundee!’

Because everything always had to be his fault, didn’t it.

A car grumbled by, taking with it the sickly glow of headlights – arcing through the fog.

Then silence.

Except for Alice’s . . . widdling.

Two crows cawed their way out of the woods, like ragged scraps of black plastic caught on the non-existent breeze. They settled on top of the wheelie bins. And stared at him.

He cleared his throat.

Shuffled his feet.

Fiddled with the tatty collection of friendship bracelets that dangled from his left wrist.

And Alice was still going.

Should’ve put the car radio on. At least that would mask the—

A snap rang out, sharp and jagged, in the woods behind the lay-by.

Scott whirled around. Staring at the out-of-focus grey mass of trunks and branches. ‘Hello?’ Backing away a pace. ‘Did you hear that?’ He swallowed. Pulled his chin up. ‘Hell-oh-oh? Anyone there?’

Silence.

Then another crack.

His bladder clenched.

He retreated a little further. ‘There’s definitely someone out there.’

More silence.

‘Oh, for God’s sake. It was a badger, or a fox, or a . . . whatever. Grow up. You’re such a baby.’

But what if it wasn’t?

What if someone was out there?

Scott went up on his tiptoes, ears straining to pick out the telltale sounds of a pervert or murderer, creeping through the woods towards them.

Nothing, just the horrible sound of Alice—

Another ghostly artic roared past, and Scott flinched hard enough to leave the ground for a second – a startled squeal shrieking free as the lorry’s frosted headlights swept across the lay-by.

He spun around just in time to catch the HGV disappearing back into the fog. Yeah. That was . . .

Gave himself a little shake. ‘Just . . . caught me by surprise, that’s all.

’ Nothing wrong with that. He was on high alert, protecting his family.

Like a ninja. Scott cleared his throat. ‘Look: the satnav said we passed a sort of bus-that’s-a-diner thing just back there.

The Pitstop?’ Pointing away into the gloomy grey murk.

‘Think they might be open yet? You know, for bacon butties and things? Maybe you’d feel better with—’

‘Tissue.’

Bit random. ‘What?’

‘TISSUE!’ She waved a hand at him. ‘I need a tissue. You buried the bloody toilet paper at the bottom of the boot, didn’t you. Because you always know best.’

How was that fair?

He was the one who packed everything. He was the one who put it all in the car. And he’d be the one unpacking it all again when they finally got to the new house.

Scott blinked. ‘I was only trying to . . .’ What was the point? He sagged: giving up. Again. Because it was easier than fighting. ‘Yes. No. You’re right. Sorry. Sorry.’ Scurrying back to the car. ‘Have we still got paper towels in the glove compartment?’ Going in for a rummage. ‘Right. Here we go.’

He carried his fistful of McDonald’s napkins back to the mother of his child – holding them out to her, with his head facing the road. Not looking. Because . . . urgh.

She snatched them from his hand, without so much as a thank-you. Leaving him standing there while she did whatever it was she had to do. Then: ‘Well? Don’t just stand there: help me!’

Scott risked a look, and there she was, hauling her pants up with one hand, the other outstretched towards him. ‘Oh, erm . . . Yes. OK . . .’ He rubbed his fingertips together. ‘Only you haven’t washed your hands or anything and—’

‘SCOTT WILLIAM BAIRD, you will help me out of these bloody weeds, or I swear to Christ I’m going to cut your bloody knob off and feed it to those bloody crows!’

At which point, one of the dark feathery bastards opened its beak wide, like it was ready to feast.

OK.

Right.

Scott buried a grimace and helped Alice to her feet. ‘There: all better. And—’

She slapped a wodge of damp napkins into his open palm.

Oh God . . .

They were still warm.

‘It’s only pee!’ She pointed at the wheelie bins. ‘Honestly, how are you going to cope with shit-filled nappies if you can’t handle a little pee?’

A full-on shudder stampeded down his spine. ‘It . . . I . . . Urgh . . .’ He stuck his arm straight out, away from his body, to minimise contamination, as he headed for the twin bins with a clenched-buttock shuffle.

The bins were boxed in with a few bars of thin rusty metal, presumably there to stop them from blowing away in a strong wind.

And the closer he got, the louder this strange buzzing sound grew.

It was coming from inside the nearest bin – low and sleepy, like someone had thrown away a phone on vibrate.

Or a sex toy that was running out of batteries.

Both crows pop-hopped onto the other bin’s lid. Watching. Heads cocked. A hungry look in their shiny black-button eyes.