Birthdays for the Dead by MacBride Stuart

Author:MacBride, Stuart [MacBride, Stuart]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: Harper Collins, Inc.
Published: 2012-01-04T16:00:00+00:00

The Renault bumped over the rutted dirt of the parking lot. About half a dozen morons were marching in a little circle outside the main entrance to the Westing, each one carrying placards with things like ‘GAMBLING IS SATAN’S PATH!’, ‘HE THAT HASTETH TO BE RICH HATH AN EVIL EYE!’, and ‘JESUS WILL SAVE US FROM OUR SINS!!!’ Breath streaming out behind them.

From the front, the Westing had all the bland grey-and-blue-painted-corrugated-iron charm of a cash-and-carry on a rundown industrial estate. Six-foot-high plastic letters were mounted above a little recessed opening: ‘The Westing’, and the silhouette of a sprinting greyhound, bordered with blue and red neon. As if anyone didn’t know what this place was. Or who owned it.

I parked next to a dented minibus with ‘PaedoPopeMobile’ in spray-paint graffiti along the side, then climbed out into the cold afternoon.

The greyhound track sat on the edge of a sprawling Fifties housing development. A couple of pubs lurked on the other side of the road along with a minicab office, and a newsagents, the shiny modern bulk of the City Stadium looming in the background.

A stray beam of sunshine carved its way through the heavy clouds, glittering off Bad Bill’s Burger Bar – a jury-rigged Transit van that scented the air with the dark, savoury smell of frying onions and mystery meat.

The man himself lounged in a folding chair in front of the van, sunbathing and smoking a cigarette and scratching himself. His pale hairy stomach bulged out between a pair of fraying jeans and a pink short-sleeved shirt. Arms thick as cabers, tattoos snaking about beneath the fur.

He looked around, squinted at me, then jerked his chin in the air, setting everything wobbling. Nodded towards his van. He pinged his cigarette butt off into the shadows, levered himself out of the chair, stomped to the back doors, and clambered inside. The Transit rocked on its springs.

Dr McDonald shifted her feet. ‘Are you … it’s not exactly the most hygienic-looking of places. I’m sure it’s got its own rustic charm, but I can’t… Ash?’

I was already walking.

‘Great, now I get alcohol poisoning and food poisoning.’

By the time we’d reached the serving hatch Bill was tying an apron around his swollen middle, the rumble of a kettle filling the van’s interior with steam. A radio burbled out mass-produced plastic pop, fighting against the hiss and crackle of onions on a flat greasy griddle.

‘You believe these pricks?’ Bill jerked a thumb at the protesters. ‘Like that’s going to make a pube’s worth of difference.’

I sniffed at the menu chalked up on the side of the van – where the paint was matt, like a blackboard. ‘Two teas: white, sausage buttie, and a hangover special.’

Dr McDonald tugged at my sleeve. ‘But I don’t—’

‘Like I said: trust me.’

Bill took the stainless-steel lid off a deep-fat fryer and dumped six sausages into the hot oil. A handful of streaky bacon rashers went in after them, popping and crackling. He scratched himself with a pair of tongs. ‘These religious types get right on my moobs.

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