Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy) (49 page)

‘What’s going on, Daddy?’

As McAvoy stares out across the square, the smell of snow grows suddenly stronger. He’s heard it said that it can be too cold for snow, but a childhood spent in the harsh and unforgiving embrace of the Western Highlands has taught him that it is never too cold for flakes to fall. This sudden plunging in temperature will harden the ground. Catch the snowfall without letting it settle. Cause the wind to rebound. Build a blizzard that will blind his young eyes and turn his fingers to blue stone . . .

In the back of his throat he tastes the metallic tang again, and for an instant wonders at the eerie similarity between the flavour of changing weather and the sharp, bitter taste of blood.

And then he hears screaming. Loud. Piercing. Multi-voiced. This is no drunken reveller, tickled by a boyfriend, chased by a pal. This is terror, unleashed.

McAvoy’s head snaps towards the direction of the sound. The movement in the square stops suddenly, as if the men, the women, the families moving on its surface are mere music-box ballerinas, spinning to a graceless, abrupt halt.

He stands, extricating his frame from the cramped confines of the table, and stares into the mouth of the church. He takes two steps and finds the table legs still blocking his thick shins. He kicks out. Knocks the table to the floor. Begins to run.

McAvoy sprints across the square, sensing movement on all sides. ‘Get back,’ he shouts, motioning with his arms as curious shoppers begin to jog towards Holy Trinity. His breathing becomes shallow, as adrenalin begins to pump into his veins. He feels the blood fill his cheeks. It is only as he runs through the open metal gates and into the shadow of the double doors that he remembers his son. He pulls up like a lame horse, all arms and legs and knotted, tumbling limbs. He stares back across the square. Sees a four-year-old boy sitting in front of an upended table, mouth open, crying for his daddy.

And for a moment, he is torn. Truly motionless with uncertainty.

A figure bursts from the doors. It is clad in black, head to toe.

There are fresh shrieks as this shadow springs forth from the open-mouthed House of God: a streak of silver in its left hand, stains upon its handle, damp upon its breast . . .

McAvoy has no time to raise his hands. He sees the blade rise. Fall. And then he is on his back, staring at the darkening sky, hearing running footsteps. Distant sirens. A voice. Feeling hands upon him.

‘You’ll be all right. Stay with me. Stay with me, lad.’

And harsher, stronger, like a firm black pencil stroke among shading and blurs, another voice, drenched in anguish . . .

‘He’s killed her. She’s dead. She’s dead!’

Staring wide-eyed into the sky, he is the first to see the snow begin to fall.