Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
— These Bones Beneath the Earth —
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
— Father —
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
— Open the Coffins —
Chapter 58
– Detective Constable John Watt –
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
— The Bonemonger’s Waltz —
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
— Dearly Departed, — We are Gathered Here Today
Keep Reading
About the Author
By Stuart MacBride
About the Publisher
As always I’ve received a lot of help from a lot of people while I was writing this book, so I’d like to take this opportunity to thank: Prof. Sue Black, Dr Roos Eisma, Vivienne McGuire, and Dr Lucina Hackman, all of whom do excellent work at the University of Dundee’s Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification; Sergeant Bruce Crawford who answers far more daft questions than anyone should ever have to, as does Professor Dave Barclay; Sarah Hodgson, Jane Johnson, Julia Wisdom, Jaime Frost, Anna Derkacz, Sarah Collett, Isabel Coburn, Charlie Redmayne, Roger Cazalet, Kate Elton, Hannah Gamon, Cait Davies, Sarah Shea, Damon Greeney, Finn Cotton, the eagle-eyed Anne O’Brien, Marie Goldie, the DC Bishopbriggs Super Squad, and everyone at HarperCollins, for doing such a stonking job; Phil Patterson and the team at Marjacq Scripts, for keeping my cat in shoes all these years; Catherine Pellegrino, and Sandra Sawicka for translational help; and let’s not forget Cecelia Lynch, or James, Duncan, Katy, and Liz Shannon who helped raise money for two very worthy causes, and Matt Patterson whose wallet makes several guest appearances. And thank you to Tony Dykes of the British Film Institute for permission to quote Stay at Home within these pages.
Of course, there wouldn’t be any books without bookshops, booksellers, and book readers – so thank you all, you’re stars.
And saving the best for last – as always – Fiona and Grendel.
The wall whispers to him with splintered wooden lips. ‘They’ll worship you. They’ll worship you. They’ll worship you …’
Its words fill the gloom, rolling around and around and through him, pulsing and pulling. ‘They’ll worship you.’
Why?
Why can’t he just die?
‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’
Is this what gods feel like? Thirsty. Aching.
Every muscle in his stomach throbs from the repeated heaving. Every breath tastes of bile.
Bile and dark, gritty wood smoke. Filling the low room with its stained wooden walls.
‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’
He slumps back, making the rusty links of chain rattle and clank against each other. Heavy around his throat. Heavier where it’s bolted into the wall. The wall that talks.
‘You’ll be a god.’
He can’t even answer it, his mouth is desert dry, tongue like a breezeblock, blood booming in his ears. Boom. Boom. Boom.
So thirsty … But if he drinks the foul brown water in the jug, he’ll be sick again.
