Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘Don’t.’

‘What? I’m keeping your spirits up. Don’t be ungrateful.’ Samantha swung her legs back and forth. ‘And look on the bright side: think of all the cash you’re going to save, me not being here. This place costs a fortune. You should sell the caravan too.’

‘I never grudged it.’

‘Take the money and go on holiday for a change. How about Spain? You could go see Helen. I always thought—’

‘No.’ He looked away. ‘We’re not talking about this again.’

‘I’m lying there on my deathbed, I’ll talk about anything I like.’

‘It didn’t work, it’s not going to work. So can we please—’ Logan’s phone blared out its ringtone. Cocking hell. He denied the call, then switched the thing off. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have fallen. They set fire to the place because of me. You’re here because of me.’

She placed her hand over his where it held the dying Samantha’s. ‘You’re right. You’re a horrible human being and you never deserve another day’s happiness in your life.’

A little smile tugged at his mouth. ‘I liked it better before you started answering back.’

‘You ready?’

‘Yeah.’ Something large sat on his chest, squeezing out the air. Logan pressed the button and the morphine pump whirred.

Samantha blinked. Wobbled a bit. ‘Whoa, that’s a head rush.’

The her in the bed didn’t even twitch.

‘Logan? What’s going to happen to me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If I’m dead, will you forget about me?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Maybe you should.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’s time.’

He reached out and clicked the switch on the respirator. The hissing died away. Samantha’s chest sank beneath the blankets and didn’t rise again.

‘Logan, I’m scared.’

A knife slipped into his throat, blocking it, then twisted.

The words would barely come. ‘It’ll be OK.’

He swallowed, but the blade stayed where it was.

He squeezed her hand.

Hauled in a harsh jagged breath.

‘I’m sorry.’

The room blurred.

Everything tasted of broken glass.

Oh God.

‘I’m so sorry.’

Steel lowered the mug of tea onto the coffee table. ‘Milk and two sugars. And before you say anything, I know you don’t take sugar. Hot sweet tea’s traditional.’

‘Thanks.’

She sat on the arm of the settee, placed a hand on his back. ‘Feeling any better?’

‘I keep telling you: I’m fine .’

‘Cos you don’t look fine, you look sodding awful.’

‘Yeah, well.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘I’m having a bit of a day.’

Sunlight streamed into the living room, catching motes of dust and making them glow. Cthulhu lay on her back, on the rug, arms stretched out, feet curled into fuzzy quote marks, white belly absorbing as much solar radiation as possible.

Logan stood and picked her up. Buried his face in her fur, breathing in the scent of biscuits and sunshine. Shuddered it out again. ‘Just you and me now, kiddo.’

‘Maybe you should put in for compassionate leave? Could come down to Aberdeen and stay with me and Susan for a bit. Hang out with the kids.’

He flipped Cthulhu over, rubbing her tummy as she stretched and purred. ‘And who’d look after Little Miss Monster with her stretchy arms and curly feets?’

More purring.

Steel frowned at him. ‘You been drinking already?’

‘Basic cat anatomy: arms at the front, legs at the back. Paws at the front, feets at the back.’

‘Yeah...’ She pulled her chin in, multiplying the wrinkles. ‘You’ve been living on your own for far too long, Laz. We need to— In the name of the scrabbling bumhole.’ She yanked out her ringing phone. ‘ What ?’ Then stood. ‘Uh-huh... Yeah... OK, OK. Well it’s no’ like I can trust you to do it, is it?’ Steel mouthed the word ‘Rennie’ at him, then wandered across to the window, blocking Cthulhu’s light. ‘Yeah... I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t let him out of your sight till then.’ She hung up. ‘Sorry.’

‘I know. Everyone’s sorry.’

‘We’re taking your suggestion and getting Milne to make a statement. With any luck the baying hordes will sod off and leave him alone long enough for Malk the Knife’s goons to get in touch.’

‘Good for you.’

She hauled up her trousers. ‘You want me to get Susan up here? She could keep you company. Shoulder to cry on. Make loads of hot sweet tea and the occasional sandwich?’

‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’

Steel folded her arms. ‘You’re going to get blootered, aren’t you?’

He toasted her with the mug.

‘Aye, well, probably for the best. Soon as I get off shift I’ll join you. Till then, I’d better shoot.’

She cleared her throat. Fiddled with the sleeves of her jacket. Then bent down and kissed him on the cheek. Before harrumphing a couple of times, and letting herself out.

The front door slammed shut, leaving him alone in the quiet.

Reunited with her sunbeam, Cthulhu purred.

Logan topped up the whisky in his tumbler. Took a sip of Glenfiddich. Let his head fall back and stared up at the living room ceiling as the whisky spread its warm tentacles through his body. ‘You there?’

No reply.

Of course she wasn’t there. She was dead. And all he had left was a big aching hollow, right in the middle of his chest, wrapped around with whisky.

Of course, it was obvious what she’d say if she was here. He cleared his throat. ‘Get off your backside, Logan. Stop wallowing in it. Find yourself a gun and figure out how to get Reuben somewhere killable.’

As if that was ever going to happen.

But then, she was always the practical one.

So, if it was quite all right with everyone else, he was going to sit here and wallow.

The doorbell gave its long mournful drrrrrrrrr‌rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring .

‘Go away.’

Cthulhu stopped washing her pantaloons and stared at the living room door.

Drrrrrrrrr‌rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring .

‘God’s sake.’ He levered himself out of the couch and slouched out of the room, taking his whisky with him. Why couldn’t everyone sod off and let him wallow in peace. Was it really too much to ask for?

Drrrrrrrrr‌rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring .

‘All right, all right.’ Logan unlocked the door and yanked it open. ‘ What ?’

A wall of muscle filled the threshold. It was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. Which didn’t really go with the words ‘KILL’ and ‘MUM’ tattooed on the knuckles of two big fists. The face wasn’t much better, topped off with a haircut even shorter than Logan’s.

The creature that evolution forgot smiled. It didn’t help. ‘Can Sergeant McRae come out to play?’

A Transit van was loomed at the kerb behind him. It might have been white once, but the paintwork had aged to a dirty yellow, covered in a timpani of dents. Two other thugs stood on either side — one of whom seemed to be carrying a body bag.

Screw that.

Logan slammed the door, but it was too late: Smiler had his foot in the way.

He put one tattooed hand against the wood and pushed his way into the house. The other hand reached into his jacket and came out with a short-barrelled revolver. ‘Easy way, or hard way?’

The two outside didn’t move.

A taxi droned past.

Somewhere in the distance, a seagull screamed.

So this was it. Reuben hadn’t even waited till after the funeral. Pig time.

Should be fighting back. Should be kicking off and struggling and biting and... But what was the point? After this morning, what did it matter?