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Stuart MacBride

Close to the Bone

Saturday

1

She holds up the book of matches. Licks her lips. She’s practised the words a dozen times till they’re perfect. ‘Do you have anything to say before I carry out sentence? ’

The man kneeling on the floor of the warehouse stares up at her. He’s trembling, moaning behind the mask hiding his face. ‘Oh God, oh Jesus, oh God, oh Jesus. . ’ The chains around his wrists and ankles rattle against the metal stake. A waft of accelerant curls through the air from the tyre wedged over his head and shoulders. Black rubber and paraffin.

‘Too late for that. ’ She smiles. ‘Thomas Leis, you-’

‘Please, you don’t have to do this!’

The smile slips. He’s spoiling it. ‘Thomas Leis, you have been found guilty of witchcraft-’

‘I’m not a witch, it’s a mistake!’

‘-condemned to burn at the stake until you be dead. ’

‘I didn’t do anything!’

‘Coward. ’ The lights are hot on her back as she strikes the first match, then sets fire to the rest. They hiss and flare, bright and shining. Pure. Glorious.

‘PLEASE!’

‘Burn. Like you’ll burn in hell. ’ She drags the smile back on. ‘It’ll be good practice for you. ’ She drops the blazing matchbook onto the tyre and the accelerant catches. Whoosh — blue and yellow flames race around the rubber.

Thomas Leis screams.

He jerks against his chains. Thick black smoke wreaths his face, hiding the mask from view as the fire takes hold. He pleads and screams and begs. .

She throws her head back and laughs at the heavens. Spreads her arms wide.

The voice of God crackles through the air, making the very world vibrate: ‘And. . cut. Well done, everyone — break for lunch and we’ll go for scene two thirty-six at half one. ’

A round of applause.

Then a man in a fluorescent-yellow waistcoat rushes into shot with a fire extinguisher. FWOOOSH — the flames disappear in a puff of carbon dioxide as the cameraman backs away, shielding his lens.

The runner peels off the bright green mask with the yellow crosses on it from the stuntman doubling for Thomas Leis. The stuntman’s grinning, even though he knows they’re going to digitally replace his face in post. Even though he barged over her line.

God save us from stuntmen who think they’re actors.

She puts her head on one side and frowns. ‘I don’t know. . It felt a bit over the top at the end there. Really hammy. Wouldn’t she be more. . you know, suppressed? Maybe even a bit sexual? Can I do it again? ’

2

‘I’m on my way. Tell everyone to-’ Something under his foot went crunch. Logan froze on the doorstep, mobile phone clamped to his ear. He slid his shoe to one side and curled his top lip. ‘Not again. ’

Three little bones lay on the concrete slab, tied together with a tatty piece of red ribbon.

A hissing whisper came from the other end of the phone. ‘Seriously, Guv, Pukey Pete’s having ferrets up here, it’s-’

‘I said I’m on my way. ’

Logan stuck the phone against his chest and scowled out at the caravan park in the growing gloom. Bulky static caravans, the size of shipping containers, all painted a uniform institution green. A patrol car idled on the square of tarmac that acted as a turning circle, its blue-and-whites strobing in the warm late-evening air. The driver hunched forward in his seat, peering out through the windscreen at Logan, working his hands back and forth along the steering wheel — as if he was trying to feel it up.