Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Because it was heavy and uncomfortable, and he was only meant to be lurking around the station, making cups of booby-trapped coffee.

Gah.

Mr Drunk-And-Huge landed another kick on Lanky’s thigh. ‘C’mn... hvago... Fnnnmgh... ME!’

‘You: on the ground now!’ Logan charged across six feet of rain-slicked tarmac and leapt. Curled his shoulder and slammed into the blood-spattered chest, sending the pair of them clattering backwards.

Crunch , the guy slammed into the patrol car. ‘Aaagh... Fgnnn kll ye!’

A knee cracked up into Logan’s ribs, hard enough to shove him sideways, crushing the breath from his lungs.

The big sod whipped his head back, then forward again. Fast .

Logan flinched out of the way... almost. THUNK . The world whipped right, riding on a wave of hot yellow noise and the taste of AA batteries. He staggered. Lurched. His legs weren’t working properly, they wouldn’t hold him up. The left one folded, thumping him down on his knee.

Towering over him, the big lump spat. It splattered against the shoulder of Logan’s fleece.

‘Killlnnn fgnnn plsssssss bsssstrds...’ He lurched sideways a couple of paces and back again. Grinned a gap-toothed grin, the bitter-sharp stench of vomit leaking out. ‘Ha!’ Drew back his foot for a kick.

Logan blinked. Made a fist of his own. Then rammed it up into the guy’s groin, twisting, putting his weight behind it.

Bloodshot eyes bugged. The mouth fell open. ‘Nnnnnngh...’

Then he lurched forward and Logan scrambled sideways, out of the spatter zone as the big sod puked all down himself. Then folded over. Thumped onto the vomit-flecked tarmac, and curled around his battered testicles. Moaning.

‘Gnnn...’ Lanky’s partner wobbled out of the patrol car, one hand clutched over her nose, blood dripping from between her fingers. She tilted her head back. ‘Thags, Sarge.’

Logan pulled himself up the side of the car. Bracing himself against the bodywork as the car park jostled and whistled at him. He pointed at PC Lanky as he struggled upright. ‘You: get this vomity lump on his feet and processed.’

Lanky scooped up his fallen hat, and fondled the back of his own head. ‘Ow...’

‘Now would be good, Constable.’

A nod. A wince. Then he hauled the big guy to an almost-standing position, hissed through gritted teeth, and dropped him. ‘Nope.’

For goodness’ sake.

Logan grabbed the other arm and together they frogmarched the reeking lump through the customer entrance and into the cellblock. The grey terrazzo floor squeaked under the big guy’s trainers as they half-carried half-dragged him to the processing area.

The short desk, covered in posters, with a glass partition above it, made the place look more like the reception of a student hostel. And going by all the warning leaflets about rights, blood-borne diseases, drugs, and rape, a really manky one.

Voices came from somewhere within the cellblock, muffled by thick metal doors and concrete walls. Barely gone nine and it sounded as if they already had a lot of overnight guests.

Logan knocked on the processing desk. ‘Anyone in?’

A thickset woman with thinning hair and a squinty eye appeared from a side room and peered out at them. She sniffed. ‘What is that ?’

Lanky heaved Captain Vomity forward. ‘Nicholas Fife. Breach of the peace. Assault. Urinating in a public place. Assaulting a police officer—’

‘Three police officers.’ Logan shoved Mr Fife against the desk. The man’s shirt left a little smear of what might have been pre-chewed doner kebab on a ‘C OMBATTING R ELIGIOUS E XTREMISM ’ poster.

‘Sorry, three police officers. Oh, and I think he may have crapped himself too.’

The Police Custody and Security Officer had another sniff. ‘Well you’re not leaving it here.’

Lanky jerked his chin up. ‘We’re not taking him home to live with us, he’s not a puppy!’

She slapped a clipboard down on the countertop. ‘Care and Welfare of Persons in Police Custody, Standard Operating Procedure. Part five, subsection three is perfectly clear: any suspect in need of immediate or urgent medical care must be taken directly to hospital until such time as they are no longer deemed at risk. And that includes head injuries, overdoses, and anyone who’s completely and utterly pished out of their...’ The PCSO scowled as a line of pale-yellow spittle fell from Mr Fife’s lips and sploshed against the regulations. ‘Urgh.’ She snatched her clipboard back, then grabbed a leaflet about fly-tipping and scrubbed at the dribble. ‘He is not choking on his own vomit in my cells. Get him up the hospital.’

‘Come on, Denise, don’t be a—’

‘I’ve never had a death in custody and I’m not starting now.’ Her arm jabbed out, pointing at the door. ‘Hospital.’

Lanky’s shoulders dipped. ‘Fine. We know when we’re not wanted.’ He turned. ‘Claire!’

His partner appeared. Thick tufts of green hand-towel poked out of each nostril, the paper darkened and browned with blood. ‘Whad?’

‘Grab an arm, we’re leaving.’

‘Soddig hell. Towd you we should’ve god straid to the hosbidal.’

They took hold of Mr Fife and steered him towards the exit. His testicles seemed to have recovered a bit, because he was able to limp along without having to be dragged.

Logan stayed where he was as the door clunked shut behind them.

‘The same argument, every Thursday night.’ The PCSO shook her head. Then frowned at him. ‘You all right, Sergeant? Only if you aren’t: would you mind buggering off and not bleeding on my nice clean floor?’

‘What?’

She pointed. ‘There’s a sink in the back if you want to wash up.’

Logan hunched over the sink in the tiny galley kitchen off the side of the custody processing area — barely enough room for a grown man to stand sideways without brushing the units on one side and the wall on the other. He splashed water on his face. Tiny pink droplets fell onto the stainless steel.

He prodded his left cheek — the skin was already tightening as it swelled, red flushing across the growing lump. A gash ran sideways across it, not far below his eye. Going to be a decent bruise. Nicholas Fife had a really hard head.

The water eased the stinging throb for a couple of breaths, then it was back again, digging its claws through Logan’s face and into his skull.

Sod this. Samantha was right: Steel could find her own way back to Banff.

He patted his face dry with paper towels. Then applied a sticking plaster from the first-aid kit. Little red dots showed through the beige plastic.

A thump behind him, and the PCSO was back. Denise looked him up and down. ‘You still here?’

‘Nope.’

‘Cupboard at your knees — dig in there and find us a red, a brown, and a blue.’

Logan bent down and something large and burny throbbed through his brain. He opened the cupboard, revealing stacks of microwave meals in coloured boxes. Red, brown, blue: shepherd’s pie, chicken and vegetable madras with rice, and an all-day breakfast. He turned the blue box over. ‘“Beans in a rich tomato sauce, with potatoes and two succulent pork sausages.”’ He handed it to Denise. ‘This lot eat better than I do.’

‘He doesn’t usually.’ She pulled the black plastic trays from the cardboard boxes, stabbed the film lids with a fork, and slid the lot into a battered grey microwave. ‘Don’t think the poor sod’s seen solid food since last time he was in here.’ Denise beeped the buttons. ‘How’s the head?’

‘Sore.’

‘As long as it doesn’t make a mess, I don’t care.’ She curled a lip. ‘Been mopping up sick all evening. Why you lot have to arrest people with dodgy stomachs I’ll never know.’