Shrike (Book 2): Rampant (12 page)

I feel as though the world has dropped away, like Atlas gave up and gave it a toss in the wrong direction, leaving all us little human creatures to float above the surface, suspended in nothingness until the globe hits something and we all crash to the ground.

My mouth feel sticky and gummy as if I drank a glass of milk before bed and woke up mid-nightmare at four in the morning. Tears prick at my eyes before I can form a sentence, and I concentrate on Magda's face. I remember how she closed her eyes and took three deep breaths, how the shaking fork in her hand steadied and she continued eating that night she heard Ross had been arrested for complicity in the bombing of our city.

It doesn't help. Two hot drops of water fall from my eyes, one for each of the dead bodies today has brought. Who are they? Who were they? Tasha's face swims in front of my eyes, and I can't bring myself to ask.

"One was in Stornaway, the other just outside Aberdeen." Trevor saves me the trouble.

I shouldn't feel the rushing swell of relief that fills me, but I do. God help me, but I feel relief. Not in Edinburgh, which means not Tasha and not Taog and not anyone else I know on Macy's sodding list.

"Gu Bràth?" Those two words are all I can get out.

"No. One UKIP and one anarchist."

Hearing them classified that way just feels wrong.

None of this is right.

How does Batman do it? How does he look out over Gotham each day and vow to make it better when he knows that there is blood soaking into the cracks on the pavements, coffins lowered into the ground every day, and screams that still fill the night?

Not for the first time, I wish I could tear these changes out of my veins. At least Bruce Wayne was able to make the decision. I'm neither the best nor the most worthy candidate for what I have. I'm not some bloody billionaire with a penchant for justice. I'm just an accountant.

The thought makes a laugh escape me, sharp and bitter.

Trevor is still silent on the other end of the line, but I think he understands I don't mean that anything is funny. Nothing's funny. 

"Anything I can do?" I ask, unable to think of anything useful to contribute.

That's the question, isn't it? Can I do anything? Any fucking thing at all?

"No the noo," Trevor says, and the expression is so familiar that in spite of its maddening lack of action, it comforts me. 

I hang up and almost fall onto Magda's bed. 

For a long moment, she says nothing. "You look tired."

It's the same thought I had when I saw her earlier, that she looked tired. Is there anyone in my life who doesn't wear exhaustion like a set of iron shackles these days?

I shrug off her declaration and ask my own question instead. "Did they tell you about the drugs?"

She nods. 

"Are you okay?" I search her face for any hint, but she looks fine. Together, if a bit worse for wear.

"I am fine."

I hesitate before asking the next one. "Do you remember seeing John Abbey last night?"

She looks at me for a moment, confused. I don't have to hear her answer to know that she doesn't, and it snuffs out the tiny remaining spark of hope I have. 

I drop the subject and instead hand her a scone.

Maybe I ought to tell her what I heard, what he said to me. But while I can handle Trevor's skepticism — it's practically a job requirement — I can't see that "you're mad" look in her eyes. Not hers.

We drink our tea in silence.

I don't know if it's out of a need to make something fit together or pure masochism, but I email Macy when I get home from the hospital. A text from Taog says he's coming over with fish suppers from our favourite chippie, and I hope Macy gets back to me in time for me to eat. Knowing Taog, he'll pick up at least two whole suppers just for me.

The sun has made a momentary appearance, and it shines down butter yellow from the winter sky. I go to the back garden and open the door, wanting to be outside and wishing I could jump up to the rooftop while it's light out. I've only taken a step out onto the grass when I hear a little, "
Chliep?
"

A great grey shrike flutters onto the birdbath, cocking its head at me. It's got a beetle wedged between one tiny claw and the stone of the birdbath, and when I give the wee birdie a sad smile, it tucks its head down and begins to eat its lunch. I think of Hamish, buried not far from where I stand. His tiny tomb is marked now; Magda and Taog and I all contributed fifty quid to get him a wee headstone. It's nothing stupid, and there's no "Here Lies Hamish" written on it. Just a swooping shrike and a Gaelic phrase.
Mo gaol ort.
My love on you.

The fluttering of wings reaches my ears, and two more shrikes arrive to watch me. Shrikes are very territorial birds, and seeing this many of them in one place is rare. I don't have to guess why. They're here for me. Something about them is a part of me, got coded into me. Maybe a stray bit of DNA from me handling Hamish before falling into de Fournay's underground lab. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

I don't know, and I don't think anyone alive could possibly tell me. 

One of the shrikes takes wing and lands on the ridgepole of my roof. I wish I could join her there, and she cheeps at me as if she expects me to come fly with her. 

"I cannae fly, birdie." I wish I could bring myself to name them all. I know them by sight, the birds who come to my house. I can tell them all apart.

"
Krr-pree?"
She comes back down and alights on the birdbath again, dipping one foot into the water, then the other. One of the others dives right in, splashing about even though it's cold outside and the sun isn't that warm. He hops out after a beat and preens his feathers.

I watch them until the clouds cover the sun again and the cold rain on my face startles me out of my reverie.

Going back inside, my phone flashes at me. I've an email from Macy.

It just says,
1600.
There's an attached screenshot of a map with a pin. I save the picture on my phone. The sight of the pin reminds me that I need to add two more murders to my map upstairs.

At three-thirty, I start on my way to meet Macy. I wear my Shrike outfit, but I tuck the tutu up into my shirt and wear a long coat over the trousers. The mask I shove into the coat's pocket. It's still broad daylight, and jumping rooftop to rooftop as a superhero tends to attract notice if any arsehole can look up and see you.

Macy's location isn't a long walk from my flat, and the proximity makes my nerves more jittery than they already are. I utilise the street view function on my map to get an idea of what sort of place I'm approaching and find a fire escape leading up the building bend it. It's there I aim, and I climb to the top without setting foot on the landings, taking the iron bars hand over hand. Once at the top and out of view of any windows, I tie on my mask and loop the arms of my coat around the rail of the fire escape. From this vantage point, I should be able to see Macy when she approaches.

As always, being up high calms me. I think of the shrike on my roof with envy. Up here, getting to survey the world, keep an eye out for both predators and prey — more and more, it's what I live for.

A tiny part of me worries that the instinct is not entirely human.

I don't care.

I do see Macy approach, her paisley mac clashing with the striped wellies on her feet. I'm not sure where exactly she wants me to meet her. She moves around the side of the building, toward a small close I didn't notice. It's not sheltered from the street, but it's abandoned and it's as close as we're going to get to privacy.

There's only one problem. 

I don't have a way down.

The two buildings she winds between don't have fire escapes — at least not on this side — and I can see no discernible platform below to break my fall. They're close together, though. Five meters at most. The stones are irregular enough for me to gain a toehold on the building I currently occupy, and I look over my shoulder. The building only has three storeys, but that's still a bit of a risk for me. I've taken half that distance without injury.

I see Macy stop and look around, but she doesn't look up. Humans never seem to look up.

What the hell. I may as well make an entrance. 

I shimmy down another meter or so to trim off the fall.

Then I drop.

I land the way David's taught me, bending my knees deep to absorb the impact as much as I can. The jolt of hitting the pavement in the close still hurts, but I can tell I didn't break anything. 

Macy, bless her, doesn't make a noise. Her eyes, a clear brown in the late afternoon dimness, show white all the way around her irises. Now she looks up, her mouth moving in silent speech. Her lips are almost as pale as her skin. She shuts it again and meets my eyes.

"You really do have powers." 

I shrug. Not my problem if people don't believe me.

She straightens her shoulders with a crinkle of rubber from her macintosh. "You wanted to see me."

"Aye, I did. Did you hear about the other two murders?"

She nods. "On the list. Randy Giles and Duncan Camis."

Those names are both at the top of the list. Trevor didn't tell me the names.

Taog is now the next name on the list. "Excuse me," I say to Macy, pulling out my mobile. I tug off one glove with my teeth and hurriedly type a text to him with one hand. 

Tell me you're okay.

I replace my glove but keep my mobile out where I can see if he answers.

My stomach feels like I've drank motor oil. "What can I do to stop Granger?"

Macy frowns. "Catch her in the act."

Bugger. I should have known she'd say that. I've already done that once, and she zapped me with electricity and left me to spasm inches away from a pool of her victim's blood.

"Anything else?"

The other woman hesitates, and I study her face. At first I assumed she was much younger than I — a student, maybe, like Seth Jones was — but now I adjust her age upward. She has the beginnings of smile lines around her eyes, even though she's doing anything but smiling now. Her hands clasp each other in front of her stomach, and I watch as she shifts her weight to her heels and back to her toes. She glances out at the mouth of the close where traffic rushes by, oblivious to the two of us.

"Can I trust you?" she asks.

"As much as you can trust anyone." 

It seems I've given her the right answer. Maybe a
yes, you can trust me
is anything but trustworthy in conspiracy theorist circles. On second thought, of course. She bobs her head and unclasps her hands, smoothing water droplets away from her macintosh where they fall to the pavement. My mobile buzzes. Taog. 

I'm fine. Why?

I hold the square of glass and plastic against my chest for just a moment before shoving it back in my pocket. Macy's watching me, brown eyes assessing. I don't offer any information, but I think she knows why I'm ruffled anyway by the sympathy I see reflected in those eyes.

"Granger hits in twos. Seth and Kinnon. Randy and Duncan. I think she's going to skip the next name on the list. Too high profile." Her gaze falls to my pocket where I just stashed my mobile, but she looks up again after a second. "She got interrupted after Timothy Strand, and she went to ground for a couple days. Got out of the city. But she'll be back, because the next several people on the list are in Edinburgh. She has to go after them. She won't skip around."

"How can you be so sure?" 

I've asked something she doesn't want to answer. 

Macy darts another glance toward the street. "I have some information, but I can't share it yet. Not until I'm sure."

Sounds dodgy to me, but you can't bleed an informant. At least if you're one of the good guys, which I am.

"So you think she'll go after Adair and—" I picture the list in my head, mentally crossing off all the names before Taog's, "—Sarah MacKay next."

"Aye, I do." Macy pauses. "You know Adair McCullough."

"We've met once or twice. How did you know?"

"You didn't include her surname."

I want to kick myself. Instead, I manage a tight smile. I'll have to be more careful with my words. "I'll try and make sure Sarah and Adair are safe," I say.

"Do that. Wednesday, same time. I'll email you a map. Can you make it?"

I'll have to leave work early — or just take a late lunch. "I can make it."

She turns toward the street. "And Shrike?"

"Aye?"

"Next time, please don't fall out of the sky."

twelve

The scent of fish and vinegar meets my nose when I enter my flat, and to me it just smells like relief. I doff my mask, but leave the rest of my Shrike outfit. Hurrying down the stairs from my bedroom, I peer out the door at the blue Volvo down the street where two of Gu Bràth's people sit, ready to rush in at any sign of trouble. One lifts a hand and then goes back to staring implacably.