Logan reached out and snatched the magazine.
Hey!
If you hate this stuff so much, you shouldnt be reading it. Its bad for your blood pressure. He dumped Now on the floor beside his seat. Call it an intervention.
Samantha thumped back into the pillows with her arms folded across her chest. Spoilsport.
Thats me. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a chunky boxed set of CDs. Then waggled it at her. I got you the new Stephen King on audio book, but if youre not interested. .?
The scowl on her face faded to a smile. Youre a rotten sod, Logan McRae.
Thought so. He nipped out to the nearest vending machine for a Crunchie, an Irn-Bru, and a packet of prawn cocktail, and when he got back they just sat there, talking about everything and nothing: tattoos, Steel, kittens, necklaced bodies, holiday plans, being punched in the face. . Until finally Logan checked his watch and groaned. Right, got to go. Early start in the morning.
Samantha looked up at him, a little dent between her eyebrows. See you tomorrow?
He put his empty tin on the bedside cabinet, next to three unopened bottles of Lucozade and the stack of unread magazines. Then stood. Took hold of her cold hand and kissed her on the cheek. Wouldnt miss it for the world.
Monday
12
. .unnngh. . Logan rolled over and lay on his back, one arm covering his eyes. Go away. .
The doorbells ding-dong chime ripped through the caravan.
He sat upright, stared at the clock. Six oclock fifteen minutes before the alarm was due to go off. Sodding hell, why did everyone. .
Wait a minute: last time someone rang his doorbell in the morning he got punched in the face. Maybe this was one of Reubens associates come round to make sure Logan was in no fit state to press charges? Because he was propping up a concrete patio somewhere in Elgin.
He rolled out from beneath the duvet and onto the gritty carpet, hand searching the space under the bed. Discarded socks. Shoebox. Plastic bucket. His fingers curled around the wooden pickaxe handle.
Thatd put a dent in someones morning.
Unless they had a shotgun. .
He hauled on a pair of trousers, not bothering with pants or a shirt, and padded his way to the caravans front door. Stopped to one side, flattening himself against the stripy wallpaper, ear pressed to the wall. Listening.
Nothing.
Tightened his grip on the pickaxe handle.
OK.
Wasnt hard to imagine someone standing out there, watching the spyhole, waiting for it to dim as Logan stepped in front of it, then BOOM a shotgun blast, tearing through the wood and then his chest. One more to the head, and that was it. Drive off into the early morning traffic.
Light spilled in around the letterbox. So it was darker in here than it was outside. That meant no shadow on the spyhole.
Logan crept over and peered out.
No one on the top step. And no one standing outside the caravan either. Just the turning circle streaked with shadows as the sun climbed its way up a duck-egg blue sky. Early morning midges out for a pre-bloodsucking ceilidh, glittering like flecks of gold. A lone magpie pop-hopping across the roof of his geriatric Fiat Punto.
Deep breath.
He turned the key in the lock and wrenched the door open, jumping out, waving the pickaxe handle, teeth bared. .
No one.
The magpie stopped on the Puntos bonnet, head cocked to one side, staring at him. Then it took off for the nearest tree, cackling. Ha bloody ha.
A small cardboard box sat on the doorstep, mummified in brown packing tape.
He nudged it with the pickaxe handle, but it didnt explode or start ticking, so he picked it up and went back inside. The magpie stayed where it was, laughing at him.
Logan slammed the door on it, dumped the box on the kitchen working surface and stuck the kettle on. Six in the morning. What kind of scumbag rang peoples doorbells and ran away at six in the morning?
No address on the package, no senders details. He grabbed a knife from the draining board and slit the brown tape. Inside, the little box was full of shredded newspapers the Press amp; Journal from the look of it and nestled, right in the middle, another knot of chicken bones. This one was tied to what looked like a bouquet garni, the herbs wilted, greying, and dead.
He tipped the whole lot out and picked through it, but there was no sign of a note. Just a junior starter kit for making soup. He weighed the bones in his hand. Bloody kids. In what way was this funny?
Through in the bedroom the alarm clock went off, blaring some cheesy eighties pop song.
Cup of tea, shower, then off for another jolly day at work. God, how lucky was he? The only thing that could make it any better was-
His mobile added its voice to Bananaramas. If I Only Had a Brain: Rennie.
Logan grabbed his phone from the bedside cabinet and hit the button. What?
Morning, Guv. We picked up your good Samaritans missing mate last night, the one who did a runner from the hospital? Denies everything about the jewellery heist, but his storys bang on with everyone else about the necklacing victim.
The bathroom was in a bit of a state: towels on the floor, the hollow bones of dead toilet rolls building up behind the toilet, a sour smell coming from the shower curtain, soap and toothpaste acne speckling the tiles and mirror above the sink. The patch of mould that looked a bit like a face. Should really give the place a bit of a clean. .
Bugger.
Sorry, Guv, but I thought we kinda knew all this anyway?
Wasnt talking to you. . Logan leaned over the sink and peered at the battered lump in the mirror. Both eyes were sunk into dark-purple bags. Wonderful.
Anyway, thought youd want to know: Ding-Dongs down to interview Reuben this morning, soon as his solicitors been round. And youll never guess whos representing him.
Logan poked a finger into the swollen bruised skin. Didnt hurt, just looked bloody awful. Not in the mood.
Hissing Sid.
Great. He let his forehead clunk against the dirty mirror. When?
Dunno. PCSO says Reuben woke up about five and spewed his ring all over the floor; got a hangover like a car crash right now, so I doubt Mr Moir-Farquharson will be strutting his slimy stuff before ten-ish.
Welcome to Monday morning.
High above, the sun burns like a furnace, baking all the people below as they trudge their way through their desperate little lives. Unaware that things walk amongst them.
A couple laugh on the pedestrian area beneath her viewpoint, wrapped up in each other like ivy around a tree. They ignore everyone marching past the shining lights, the grey, and the darkness.
There: a woman with a small child in a pushchair. No one knows that shes an angel, because they cant see her. They think shes just another fattie in a tracksuit, smoking a fag, wheeling her screaming kid about on the way to the dole office.
And there: the man with the dark-blue suit and the sunglasses, stuffing a green Markies bag into his leather satchel. Pale-blue aura swirling around him as he tries to decide who hes going to eat today.
No one sees it but her.
She walks in the door to the ladies lingerie department. Plastic people in bras and pants, frozen poses for the masses. Some will come alive at night and hunt for mice and rats, cooking them on the hot radiator pipes before swallowing them whole.
She walks in the door to the ladies lingerie department. Plastic people in bras and pants, frozen poses for the masses. Some will come alive at night and hunt for mice and rats, cooking them on the hot radiator pipes before swallowing them whole.
An old woman pushes past, trailing thin lines of black mist that hiss and crackle.
Rowan looks away before she can turn around. Not safe. Not safe at all.
Down the escalator, into the bowels of the shop, where beasts graze the food department, hunched over their trolleys. Like torturers over their victims.
Dont make eye contact. They can smell the fear, but unless they see your eyes they dont know whose it is.
She reaches for a sandwich. . then pauses. Counts three to the left. Then one down, because its Monday. Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomato. BLT. Blood, Ligature, and Tallow. Good enough.
One of the beasts stops behind her, breath heavy on the back of her neck as it reaches past with a thick hairy paw to stroke the sandwiches shes already touched. Feeling for her. Hungry.
She clutches the BLT to her breast and ducks, slipping to the side and away. Glances back at the end of the chiller cabinet to watch it sniffing the sacrificial offerings.
Right, past the little forests in the little pots. Then more plastic statues, these ones wearing dresses and cardigans.
Exit. Exit. EXIT.
A hand on her shoulder makes her squeal.
She spins around, and a puzzled face stares back at her: skin like midnight, hair like dark curly wool.
Sorry, miss, but I think you forgot to pay for that.
Rowan looks down at the sandwich. The paper container is crushed against her chest, the shards of dead pig sticking out between the bread, like blades. Then back up at that kind face with the beautiful eyes and the halo of gold. Someones following me.
The angel in the security guards uniform looks over his shoulder. What does he look like?
A man, with jeans and a leather jacket and his hair all over the place. . She points back towards the food section. Its a lie, but the truth would only hurt him, the beasts are too powerful. Rowan digs in her pocket and comes out with a crisp five-pound note, presses it into the angels hand. Please, dont let him know I was here.
The angel nods, then turns towards the tills. Ill get your change.
And as soon as hes two steps away shes out the door, running.
Logan pushed through the double doors into the cutting room. The little speakers mounted to the tiny stereo unit were droning out Jim Morrisons tone-deaf call for an infant to set fire to him. Not exactly appropriate.
Dr Graham was perched on a stool, hunkered over the cutting table at the far end of the room, fiddling with what looked like a box filled with blue rubbery lumps. A skull sat on a white plastic tray beside her, next to a pile of books opened to display thick blocks of graphs, figures, and tables.
Logan turned the music down. All on your own?
Dr Graham looked up at him. Miss Dalrymple let me in. Hope thats OK? Wanted to get cracking.
She took a Stanley knife down one corner of the box and peeled off the cardboard like the skin of an orange, exposing the blue rubbery flesh below. Moment of truth. . Dr Graham dug her fingers into the blue stuff and pulled ripping it away to reveal a yellowy-white skull. Then held it up and scrubbed at it with the palm of her hand. Perfect.