Twelve Days of Winter by Stuart MacBride Read Free Book Online Page A

pulled from the fingers of the dearly departed. He places Mrs McNulty’s ring on the pile, admiring the way it fits so neatly with the others. All those lives. All that love. All that grief.
    He has a separate box to keep the severed fingers in.
    Contact adhesive covers a multitude of sins.

6: Geese a Laying
     
    Kathy Geddes didn’t look in any fit state to do a runner − shuffling along, trying not to aggravate her piles and stitches − but that didn’t mean she was free to wander round Castle Hill Infirmary unsupervised.
    Val Macintyre dawdled along beside her, hands in the pockets of her uniform trousers. Of course she
could
have worn plain clothes, treated it as an undercover operation, but that was just asking for trouble. No, a prison officer wore a uniform for a reason – so everyone knew who was who. And besides, it wouldn’t feel right: escorting a prisoner out of uniform. Not having that comforting bundle of keys jangling against her leg.
    Geddes winced her way down the stairs, across the corridor and out into a small, bleak courtyard, lined on four sides with dirty brick and lichen-speckled concrete. The hospital had put up a bus shelter, smack bang in the middle, so patients could have a cigarette without setting off every smoke detector in the place.
    A wheezy old man huddled in the smoking hut, drip stand in one hand and a ratty-looking roll-up in the other.
    Val waited for him to finish and hobble off before crossing her arms and squinting at Geddes. ‘You shouldn’t be smoking.’
    ‘Bite me.’ She took a deep drag on her cigarette and oozed smoke towards the ceiling.
    ‘You’re supposed to be breastfeeding!’
    ‘Bugger that: little bastard’s chewed me nipples raw. They’re like half a pound of mince. He can go on the bottle.’
    ‘Don’t call him that.’
    ‘What, “bastard”? Why not? That’s what he is, isn’t he? Haven’t got a clue who his dad is.’
    ‘I don’t like it.’ Val turned her back and stared out of the rain-flecked glass. At least they didn’t have long to go. Thank
God
.
    Behind her, Geddes was humming something vaguely recognizable as a Christmas carol. Not that there was much sign of the festive season in the smoking hut, just a big poster reminding everyone that ‘S MOKING K ILLS !’
    ‘When you going to get me some more vodka then?’
    ‘You’re supposed to be looking after that baby, not boozing it up.’ She squared her shoulders and put on her prison guard voice. ‘That’s long enough. We’re going back to the ward.’
    ‘But I don’t
want
to!’ Whining and petulant. Like a child. ‘I’m fed up of this shite!’
    ‘You should have thought of that before you got pregnant, you selfish little. . .’ Val rubbed a hand across her face. Took a deep breath. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s been a long week.’
    Geddes shrugged and headed back out into the rain.
     
    Oldcastle Royal Infirmary sulked on the south-east corner of Castle Hill – the ancient building a testament to Vic-torian civic pride. The sort of place red brick and long, winding corridors went to die. Sometime in the late sixties the city council had added an extension: two massive wings in glass, steel and concrete.
    The maternity ward was in the older part.
    They’d put Kathy Geddes in a private room: somewhere secluded, where she wouldn’t upset the other mothers with her convictions for assault, lewd behaviour, drunk and disorderly, soliciting, robbery, and the
pièce de résistance
: attempted murder.
    She didn’t deserve to have a baby. She was a terrible mother to the three kids she already had, never mind a new one – drinking, smoking, doing drugs. . . Not like Val. Val and her husband did everything they were supposed to, followed the doctor’s instructions to the letter, but could
she
get pregnant? No. Geddes was like a bloody rabbit and Val couldn’t even have one.
    She sat in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair and watched the cot while Geddes ate