SAVAGE NIGHT
by Allan Guthrie
Extract and introduction from the author.
Savage Night is a bloody revenge tragedy about two Edinburgh families: the Parks and the Savages. Various members of both families pick up the story at different intervals and tell it from their own perspective. The lines between good and bad, right and wrong, hero and villain, continually shift throughout an intense six hours of one Edinburgh night in spring.
The story unfolds by means of a narrative that’s as chopped-up as the body in the tub in the opening scene. We open with a splash – a literal bloodbath – as Fraser Savage arrives home with his new friend, Effie, to discover a body in his living room that he thinks might be his Uncle Phil. He can’t tell for sure, though: the head’s missing.
The first page or so deals with his immediate bewilderment and horror. The extract below follows immediately afterwards:
“DRINK THIS.”
He took the glass of vodka from Effie, the liquid sloshing around as his hand shook. Steadied it with his other hand and knocked it back. It burned his throat nicely. He gave her back the glass and she poured him another. He took it, drank it. Felt warmer now, less shivery, hands not so shaky.
Effie didn’t appear fazed by the situation at all. Almost as if she was used to stumbling over corpses in her boyfriends’ homes.
Not that he was her boyfriend, exactly. But they’d been getting along well and maybe something would have happened tonight. It certainly wouldn’t now. A headless corpse was a major turn-off.
Jesus, he had to grow up.
Maturity, that’s what it was. Fraser was twenty-five. Effie’d have to be around the thirty mark. He hadn’t asked her, didn’t want to risk screwing things up. Anyway, she’d had more experience than him, which is why she was so much more composed.
Although it was unlikely, however old she was, that she’d seen a naked, headless corpse before.
And yet, Fraser couldn’t help but think of the way Effie had introduced herself when they first met. Wearing a two-tone orange blouse, open at the back, checked headscarf, sandals, almost a hippy thing going on. Said the cold didn’t bother her, although her nipples suggested otherwise.
That was less than a week ago.
“Effie,” Fraser had said, shaking her hand, feeling her cool palm in his. “Nice name. And what do you do?”
Her grin brought out tiny wrinkles round her eyes. “I kill people,” she’d said.
Fraser grabbed her hand tighter, laughing. Played along with her. “Like a mercenary or something?”
Effie squeezed his fingers hard, then slid hers out of his grip.
You just had to take one look at her to know she didn’t have what it took to be a paid killer. She was no more than an inch over five foot.
But, Fraser wondered now, staring at the tub in his sitting room, what if it was true?
Shock. Had to be. Starting to suspect Effie was plain fucking crazy. She’d been at the pub with Fraser, so she couldn’t have done it. Even if she was some kind of psychokiller. What the hell was he thinking? He should concentrate on more important questions.
Like, where the fuck wasthe head? And why would anybody want to run away with it? Jesus, maybe it was lying around somewhere. Under one of the chairs, or beneath a cushion or behind the curtain. Christ’s sake.
Fraser didn’t feel too good.
He was glad Simone wasn’t here. She’d probably order him to get down on his hands and knees and start hunting for it.
“Want to take a closer look?” Effie said.
She was as bad as Simone.
Fraser found himself stepping towards the tub. Swaying as he walked, as if he was drunk. Hadn’t had much, though. Just those pints and the neat vodkas Effie’d given him.
The plastic sheet scraped underfoot. He bent over the body, peered down at the neck. Ragged skin and gristle. He looked away. Straight at the inch or so of dark liquid clotting in the bottom of the tub. A bloodbath – yep, that’s exactlywhat it was.
And the smell: sharp and raw. His stomach muscles tightened, cheeks puffed, but somehow he held his dinner down. Amazing he could smell anything, the way his nose was streaming. He wiped it with the back of his hand, beyond caring what Effie would think.
He stepped back from the tub, shaky, a bit fuzzy headed, but okay. Shit, yeah.
The corpse’s legs were bent at the knee, flopped sideways. Fraser couldn’t remember seeing the soles of Uncle Phil’s feet before. They were white and tender looking. It felt wrong that they were exposed like this. He shouldn’t be staring at them.
Effie said, “Recognise that?”
Fraser followed her gaze towards the corpse’s hand, twisted behind his back. He wasn’t sure what she meant.
“The ring,” she said.
Of course. If Fraser got a close-up of that ugly monstrosity, he could be sure, right enough. But he couldn’t tell with the hand lying palm-up like that.
“Go on,” Effie said. “Take a good look.”
Fraser didn’t move.
Effie strode over to the tub, grabbed the hand, turned it over, held it out. She bent the ring finger towards Fraser.
No doubt about it. Uncle Phil’s silver Viking longboat ring.
Effie raised her eyebrows.
Fraser tried to speak. Nodded instead.
Effie dropped Uncle Phil’s hand and said, “I’ll call the police.”
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