In Kirsti Wishart’s surreal and playful new novel, in a future Scotland a large swathe of the general public now have super powers. In the government Benefits Agency, it’s Cathy Burn’s job to assess how these super powers affect the newly ‘Abled’ and their ability to work. When one of her clients dies in mysterious circumstances, she becomes embroiled in an investigation that takes her to the dark heart of a religious sect that want to destroy this new reality. In this extract, Cathy encounters a grisly discovery.

The Pocketbook Guide to Scottish Superheroes
By Kirsti Wishart
Published by Shoreline of Infinity

As soon as I got in, I wanted Kevin to haul me back out. The smell clagged the back of my throat and I pulled up the collar of my jacket, tried to breathe through that. It was hot in there as well, and not the sort of heat you get from central heating. It felt like someone had opened the door to a furnace and shut it quick before scorching their eyebrows off. Like some kind of nuclear aftermath.

‘Davey? Davey, it’s Cathy, Cathy Burns from the Agency, I got your emails and…are you…are you in here? You alright?’ The flat stayed silent but I made out some creaks and hissings. The sound of settling.

I figured if the sound of a fifty-foot giant smashing one of his windows hadn’t caused Davey to come running, not much else would. I also had the odd feeling of being alone but not. Like when I got home from work and although the place would be quiet I would know, just know, there was someone in there with me. Mum in her bed, Colin my lazy-arsed wee brother snoozing on the sofa.

I had to walk carefully not to impale myself on any of the strange clumps of junk scattered about. They reminded me weirdly of owl pellets, the aftermath of Davey’s frustration. In the hall, knives, forks, spoons were moulded together and I could imagine him grabbing them out of a drawer, not thinking, squeezing them together like Play-Doh before chucking them to the floor in disgust.

I had seen a lot of weird shit in my job. Ballpoints turning into tulips, words blurring then trickling off sheets of paper when you tipped them up, envelopes turning to fur. Usually there was something magical about it, but this stuff… this was warped. Unpleasant. Like a magician taking off his top hat and pulling out roadkill instead of a fluffy bunny.

‘Davey?’ Checking down the hall I saw the phone squished against the wall, like a big black swatted bug. Underneath it, next to the undamaged charger on a wee table, were some leaflets and on top of them, pens and pencils fused into a cross. The sort you make when pretending to ward off a vampire. It didn’t feel like it had been made as a joke when I picked it up though. It felt wrong touching it, a thing so clearly made out of fear. I stuck it in my jacket pocket thinking of it as evidence, although I wasn’t sure for what yet. Then I had a closer look at those leaflets.

They were from the Knoxians. The Men In Black, spouting out the same shite I heard every morning or in front of the Caird Hall at the weekend, nonsense about ‘ABILITIES = ANNIHILATION!’ and ‘THE ELECT WILL SAVE YOU, THE REST CAN BURN.’ I stuffed them in a pocket while shouting ‘Davey! What the fuck you playing at!’ suddenly aware that I really didn’t get paid enough for this sort of shit.

I stomped up to the door at the far end of the hall that was open slightly. I shoved at it then stopped because the first thing I saw was the dressing table. It was exactly like my Mum’s, the big difference being this one was covered in figurines, the type my Granny Macintosh used to collect. Royal Doulton, I think they’re called, ladies in swishy skirts and ballgowns. But these ones were wrong. Pulled out of shape, necks elongated spaghetti-like or blended together like a set of freaky lesbo-Siamese twins.

I pulled back further because of a blast of heat and as I did so I caught sight of what was reflected in the mirror on top of the dressing table and came close to screaming. Maintained my butch credentials by making a choking noise instead, tried to take a couple of deep breaths but was prevented by the stench. Eventually, remembering Davey’s emails, I forced myself in.

When I saw it, what had happened, I wanted to laugh. Hysteria no doubt, but I stopped myself because laughing would have involved breathing and that was difficult because of the heat but also because I was sure a large part of the air contained Davey. What was left of him. Because Davey wasn’t in the room, he was the room. Melted into it, over it, part of the furniture and I hated myself for swallowing down a giggle.

His clothes and flesh were stretched across the bed, still bubbling, his outline blurred into the duvet, flattened face down thank God. One arm reached across a bedside table, the wrist too long, hand flopping down the back of it. His legs looked as though they belonged to some ridiculous rag-doll, one trailing over the carpet close to me and I was reminded of those snake draught excluders but the jeans were too thin and flat, his ankle the wrong way round, twisted like spaghetti, something seeping from the sock and I heard the front door open, a woman’s voice calling, ‘Davey!’ followed by a gasp and ‘What the hell is going on here! The window…Davey!’

I had to get out of there quick, back into the hallway to stop his wife seeing this. Stumbling out I thought the shock of seeing me might be enough to distract her – ‘And who the hell are you? Are you here to sort that smell?’ – give me enough time to get her away from there, as I tried to pull the door to behind me. ‘Mrs Robertson, I know this looks really bad but honestly, if you’ll just come with me into the living room or -’

But she was having none of it, pushed past me, opened the bedroom door wide, letting the heat and the stink out and the scream that followed matched exactly the sight of what was in there. Before I got her out and held her, shushed her like a child while trying to get my mobile out to phone the police, the ambulance, anyone although it was far too late for help, I knew that scream would be the backing track to all my nightmares to come.

The Pocketbook Guide to Scottish Superheroes by Kirsti Wishart is published by Shoreline of Infinity, priced £14.99.