Gross Domestic Product: 12

Chapter Twelve.

He should have said something. He’d been right there, with Morton, talking to the old man like they were good mates. He just didn’t want to sound foolish, it had been his chance to impress the underworld equivalent of royalty. He wasn’t going to start snivelling about some lucky bet just because that little weasel Prince was freaked out. You didn’t ask Alec Morton for help, you waited on him to need you for something, Tommy rationalised as they drove through the early morning dark.

It had been snowing during the night and the dark streets were sprinkled with a white covering rapidly turning to brown slush. Tommy hated snow, too cold and damp, he never understood why people thought it fun. It seemed to cheer Docherty up, put him in a right annoying festive mood, which was even more irritating, being that it was February. Tommy was still going over the meeting from the previous night. It had been an accident, of sorts. He’d been in Billy McHarg’s pub, usual Wednesday night, playing cards and Morton, so it seemed, had taken a notion to play a few hands. He’d swanned in, him and his gang of geriatrics. They’d got chatting. It stood to reason he’d even heard of the “Big Win” as people had been calling it, though Tommy only saw it as a big loss. “Nothing I can’t handle.” Tommy had assured him, confidently.

He didn’t feel so confident now, rolling up to the bookmakers in the cold, oppressive dark of morning. It was early and all the other places had their shutters down, but the dull white strip-lighting spilled out the windows of the bookies. He sighed, looked at his watch and got out the car. He could have said something, just mentioned it, even as a half-joke.

Docherty left out the driver’s side and unlocked the boot. He pulled two heavy leather cases out from the back of the car and then both of them headed towards Morag who was standing outside the bookies, having a smoke before her shift started “Morning, Morag.” both said.

“Gentlemen.” Morag answered. She said nothing else, so he walked into the shop, past the booths and into the back. He dumped the two leather cases on the plastic table, it’s thin chrome legs buckled under the wait. Half six in the morning. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. One point eight million quid, gone. Over half his profits for the year. Tommy just wanted to give the bitch her money, put a professional smile on his face and get her the fuck out of his future.

Prince should be doing this work, not him, but Prince was having some sort of breakdown, refused to meet the girl. He’d been really frightened, which wasn’t like the pompous little shit at all, more frightened of what happened than of Tommy’s anger. That should have set alarm bells ringing. And Morton had been right there, he could have just said something.

“Morag?” He yelled. A few seconds went by before her mournful face popped round the door.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Prince told me that he… well that he vomited up cockroaches, is that true?” He asked, almost embarrassed by asking.

“True that he telt ye or true that he vomited up cockroaches?”

Tommy liked that. She was a survivor that one, hard as nails and tolerant of no shit. “The latter.”

“Aye, they burst oot of him. It wis that horrible wee cow that did it, she’s a witch or something, mark my words.” Morag warned.

That was not what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear her laugh it off, deny it, anything that could have made him dismiss Prince’s tale and subsequent behaviour. “Thanks. Any chance of a cup of tea?”

“There’s always a chance.” Morag said in a way that was more scathing than “fuck right off.”

That cheered him up slightly and he found himself laughing. “You fancy running this joint?”

“I’m doin’ that already, you fancy payin’ me fur it?” Morag retorted, folding her arms and raising one, thickly drawn-on eyebrow.

“You’re a cheeky bitch, you know that?” He laughed.

“That’s still a better answer than no.” She replied.

Tommy thought this was superb. “Morag, it’s half an hour before we open, what do you want for breakfast? I’ll send Doc out for it. Anything you want.”

“A Roll with cheese bacon, fried egg and a totty scone. And a cinnamon twist double choc latte.”

Docherty was already scribbling the order down. “What you havin, Tommy?”

Tommy was hungry but still apprehensive, still wondering whether he should have said something to Morton. “I dunno, whit you gettin’?”

“Square sausage, fried egg and tamatas,” Docherty suggested.

“Hmm, get me a bacon, tomatoes and totty scone roll. Thanks big man.” Tommy asked.

Docherty nodded graciously and walked off towards the car. Tommy turned back to Morag. “I was bein’ serious by the way. Prince has went a bit doo-lally efter yesterday.”

“Canny blame him fur that.” Morag shrugged. “Plenty of other things, but that would put the shits right up anyone.”

“Except you?”He asked incredulously.

“Aye well, I’m different.” she stated.

“How are you different?”

“You ever sat oot there Tommy? Takin’ punters bets?” She asked, rhetorically.

“I have not, no.”

“Naw. It’s no pretty, I can tell ye that. They come in here, fritter away money they need fur other things, week in and oot. I watch the poor sods you know. Can read their faces, know that look of desperate stupidity that says ‘I’m in deep, I need take get in deeper tae dig ma way oot’. I’ve been here fifteen year Tommy, watched boys become auld men in hauf that time. Saw people lose everything. You know how many of our regular punters have topped themselves efter a bad bet? This job eats away at yer decency, it might as well be robbery. So aye, I’m different. Tommy, I found out a way not to care about those stupid, stupid cunts.” Morag said too casually.

“Aye?” Tommy asked, wondering what her secret was.

“Aye. Ten milligrams of Diazepam.”

Tommy was in an uproar, he nearly had tears in his eyes with laughter. “Priceless!” he hooted. It took him several moments to settle down. “So, do you want the job, and the pay, or not?”

“£26 grand a year. That’s my offer.” Morag said.

That seemed fair. Tommy nodded. “Fine but you run all five shops then. I’ll chuck in a motor.”

Morag was stunned. “Mr Bryce...”

He raised his hand, gesturing her to stop. “Morag, Patrick Prince was a front man, little more. Things are looking up for me, more legit, I need real professionals on board, not some jumped-up yuppie tit. So do we have a deal?”

She beamed, which was the first time he’d seen her smile, the first time he realised she wasn’t middle-aged, she must have been in her early thirties. “We do. Thank you Mr Bryce.”

“Tommy.” Tommy said.

“Nah, I’m fine with Mr Bryce.” Morag answered. Tommy nodded, he wasn’t going to get annoyed about it, he wanted professionals.

“So, what does she look like, this witch girl?”

“Like death warmed up, to tell you the truth, creepy wee bugger, something aboot the eyes that jist disnae seem right, no’ hauf shut like a junkie’s, though the nick of her, widnae surprise me if she wis. Jist a real bad vibe from her.” Morag explained.

“Hmm, Well, maybe she’ll cheer up when she gets her money?” Tommy said, tapping one of the cases.

“Is that it?” Morag asked.

“It is indeed.” Tommy sighed.

From the front of the shop there was a yell. Docherty’s yell. Tommy shot up and rushed out. At the other side of the plastic barrier Docherty stared in wide-eyed shock at what stood in front of him. Tommy followed his gaze and gave a jump of fear when his brain registered the horror in the shop. “Doc… shut the door. Lock it.” He said.

Docherty nodded, and did as he was asked, not taking his eyes from the girl. Even though she did not seem to regard him at all, not even as he sidled past her.

Tommy also stared at her, aghast at the state of her. Her flesh was a spotty jigsaw of pale skin, stapled and taped into place, with a haphazard lack of thought. She stood motionless, ooze stained her filthy clothes and trickled down her skin. She spotted Tommy and from her wet grinning plae mouth came an inhumanly deep, imperious, sardonic, whisper. “Good. Shall we conduct business?”

A grin crossed her lips, causing the strips of tape and staples to dislodge leaving her bottom lip swinging from one stubborn staple in her jaw. Tommy looked at this horror as she approached and gulped. He should have said something to Morton.

Buer.

It had heard a clever joke once, that it was the Illuminator’s critique of the creation that had caused the inevitable fall. “Nothing’s perfect” The Angel of Morning had said of The Word. For that, they had all burned. It had concluded that the joke contained some truth. Reality for all its mechanical nature and predictability was flawed in many ways, mostly its complexity at higher levels, where things could spin off wildly and took constant attention to predict. Like death. Olivia’s death in fact. It had tried everything it could to keep the girl intact, but whatever that struggling was, that thing inside her that fought it, that wanted to reject it, clearly decided her death was a more tolerable option than its continued parasitisation. It had barely noticed the weak flutter, but the cold tingling in the limbs, the world of perception fading, her brightness suffocated. It took everything it had to keep the vital functions going, to wear her, just long enough for another transaction.

A few hours later and the vessel’s skin began to liquefy, bubble, swell and burst. Large chunks of it began to separate and slide. It used what it could in order to remain presentable, at least for a few hours. Some household tools and products bound the rotting skin atop the running wounds, but it knew this was both a hasty and temporary solution. It had some time left to find a new host.

Everything, except for Olivia’s death, was continuing as predicted. It used the empty body with ease and ran through the darkness of the park which held the stones of dead names. It heard a scream but ignored it. It had moved plans forward by a few hours, there were other things to which it must attend. Maintaining control was primary, the whole shape was atrophying faster than it would like. It ignored the honking of traffic and shouts as it sped up the street and past some human. It stood in the bookmakers and glanced around, the human faces were stricken with disgust. The one behind the counter was Bryce. “Good,” it said, “Shall we conduct business?”

Tommy gasped at the thing. “Whit the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“It is irrelevant. Have you brought the money?” it answered.

The voice was like nothing Tommy could imagine even in a nightmare, it’s menace almost tangible. He wasn’t sure if he was going to live through this. If he did, he’d definitely have a word with Morton. “Aye, it’s in the back.”

As it got closer Tommy got a better look at the stained red sheen that ran like canyons around the edges of the taped up portions of her face. He see the lines of staples glint deep in troughs of tearing skin. Automatically, he lifted the movable part of the counter to let the thing in.

It gave the human a grateful nod for unbarring it’s way and walked towards the human it had deduced was Bryce, who would be a perfect host. Bryce shrunk away from it as it passed him and so it walked directly into the back room. The woman at the counter from the previous day was sitting there, her eyes wide and her hand covering her mouth. “Oh Jesus fucking Christ!” the woman exclaimed. It chuckled at her alarm.

Tommy watched Morag run out of the room and knew he was in deep shit, just not how deep or whether he could get out of it before swallowing any let alone drown in it. “There’s yer cases, it’s all there.”

“Of course it is. Would you like to keep it?” It asked, it was time, finally to get out of this dead thing.

“It’s yours, just take it an…” Tommy said but the question intrigued him. “Yes I would, what do I have to do?”

It pulled the card it had created from the girl’s pocket and said, “read that, and you can keep the money.”

Tommy reached over and picked up the card, some of it was sticky, where her fingers had touched it. He looked at it but there were no words on it, instead was a complex, maze-like pattern. Circles within circles and angled lines that repeated patterns on various scales. It pulled his gaze into it, it seemed to spread, fold outwards into three dimensions and then stopped. Tommy was frozen inside it, almost blinded by pain. He bagan to panic inside because he didn’t appear to be breathing, all he could see were sharp metal bladed lines all around him, going through him, affixing him to some distant, invisible floor. Each of these blades rotated slowly. Every instant was agony. He wanted it to stop. The words appeared. “I embrace you, lord and master, Buer.”

“Speak the words.” It ordered, its voice a hissing threat. It was time.

Tommy only wanted the pain to stop and so he complied. Immediately he wished he had remained pinned by metal blades. It shot through every inch of his nervous system, writhed through his cortex, scrambled through his synapses, an overwhelming agony that took over every piece of his body and mind.

It had no issue with assimilation other than the angry, threatening, pleading of Bryce as it faded into an echo, but it stifled even that. It had followed the rules, this one would be much easier to use, but there were other matters to attend to, the woman, Morag and Bryce’s henchman, Docherty would have to be killed.

“Guys, come in here!” He shouted in Bryce’s voice. It decided to have some fun.