Читать книгу Dark Blood - Stuart MacBride - Страница 8

Run. Don’t stop. Keep moving…

The big, fat moon makes everything black and white. Frost and shadow. Life and death.

Steve stumbles. The churned-up mud’s solid – up and down like a roller-coaster. One foot catches the edge of a rock-hard peak, and he goes sprawling across the icy ground. Tries not to cry out as his arm screams sharp-edged pain.

Somewhere in the darkness a dog barks. Big dog. Fucking scary big dog. You know? Rottweiler, Doberman: some bastard like that. Big and black, with thousands of teeth. Coming after him.

‘Fuck …’ The word disappears into the night sky on a cloud of white breath.

Big dog.

He scrambles upright; stands there, trying to get his balance. Feeling sick. Far too much whisky. Makes everything blurry and warm, even though it’s so cold out here his fingers ache with it. Makes the world smell like it’s burning.

Steve lurches forward, arm clutched to his chest, hugging the shadows along the edge of the building site. Trees blocking the searchlight moon.

With any luck no one’ll see the trail of blood he’s leaving…

The dog barks again. Closer.

But then his luck’s always been for shit.

Steve speeds up. Lurch, stumble, struggle.

His left foot cracks through an ice-topped puddle, and he stops. Holding his breath.

Steve turns, looking back towards the site office. Torches sweep the muddy ground, muffled voices coming this way. That fucking dog yammering and yowling, leading them on.

Keep going.

Keep moving.

One foot in front of the other.

Follow the eight-foot-high fence: chainlink and barbed wire, skirting the building site.

This time when he trips he goes head-first into a ditch, slithering down the bank, branches snapping, pain ripping through his arm, something raking his cheek with thorny claws. A shatter of ice, and then water so cold it’s like being punched in the face again.

He splutters to the surface of the little stream. It’s not deep but it’s freezing. He thrashes against the brambles, pulling himself out of the water. Shivers like he’s got a jackhammer jammed up his arse. Teeth chattering hard enough to chip the enamel.

The dog barks again. Definitely closer now. Probably let the damn thing off its lead. Go on, you dirty bugger, find Steve and tear his thieving, double-crossing throat out.

Steve slumps back against the bank, trying not to cry, frigid water soaking his trousers, jacket, socks, every-fucking-thing. Why do these Scottish bastards call it a burn when it’s so fucking cold?

Rest. Just for a minute. Rest in the darkness, in the safety of the ditch where no one can see him. Not really so bad. Get used to the cold after a while.

Just close his eyes for a second. Catch his breath.

Rest for a moment…

And the next time he opens his eyes something’s looking right back at him. A big, muscular shape in the darkness, breath steaming out between sharp teeth. Black coat shining in the moonlight.

Nice doggy.

It barks, lurching forward and back with every terrifying sound, spittle flying everywhere.

Oh Jesus fuck.

Knife. There’s a Stanley knife in his pocket, but his frozen, sausage fingers aren’t working. They fumble against his torn jacket. Swearing. Tears. Cold. GET THE FUCKING KNIFE!

And then he hears the voice: ‘Fuckin’ hell, Mauser, this better no’ be another bloody rabbit.’ Footsteps crunching through frozen grass.

Steve drags the Stanley knife out, holds it in his trembling hand, trying to press the metal slider down. Come on, come on, come on.

And then a man joins the monster. The moon’s behind him, hiding his face, making him a thing of darkness that breathes brimstone smoke into the sudden silence. ‘Hey Steve,’ he says. ‘Where you goin’, man? We’re only just gettin’ started…’