Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Silence from the other end of the phone.

‘You still there? I want names.’

‘ Yeah... Erm... The guys we’re talking about are only obeying orders, Mr McRae. They get told to rough someone up, they don’t ask why. They do what they’re told. ’

‘I got the gun.’

A sigh. ‘ Look, I know where you’re coming from, but they’re only, like, minions , OK? They’re replaceable. Reuben’s got lots more where they came from. ’

Don’t punish the dog that bites, punish the owner.

‘I don’t care.’

‘ ...your nonstop Saturday love songs for the next half hour. So, let’s kick off Valentine’s Day with a bit of Lucy’s Drowning, and their big hit from last year: “The Circle of You”... ’

Logan gritted his teeth and fumbled a hand out from beneath the duvet. Thumped his hand down on the snooze button. Then lay there, shivering. A puddle of sweat sat in the centre of his chest, running in lukewarm dribbles down his ribs.

God.

Someone had swapped his heart for an angry rat — it scrabbled at his insides, digging its claws into his lungs. There was another one inside his head, gnawing away on his brain with yellowed teeth.

Didn’t matter how expensive the whisky was, the hangover was just as bad as supermarket own-brand Sporran McGutRot.

He rubbed a hand across his clammy forehead and blinked at the ceiling. Allan Wright, Gavin Jones, Eddy Knowles. AKA: Smiler, Mr Teeth, and Captain ABBA.

Come on then, what was he going to do to them?

What could he do to them?

Oh it was all bravado and macho posturing last night on the phone, but now? In the cold morning light, with a raging hangover?

‘Urgh...’

A third rat clawed its way into his bladder.

Time to get up for a pee, some paracetamol, and about a pint of coffee.

Revenge would have to wait.

A puffball of white chrysanthemums scented the room, almost covering up the sickly hospital odour. They sat in a big plastic vase, at the side of Steel’s bed.

She was propped up, with a cup of tea and a scowl. At least it looked like a scowl. Difficult to tell, what with all the bruising and swelling. The strip of white gauze covering her nose was almost fluorescent against the dark-purple skin that surrounded both eyes. One of them about the size and shape of a broken orange. ‘What are you looking at?’ Her pyjama top was a pale sky-blue, with happy penguins frolicking all over it.

A couple of cards stood on the bedside unit — one was from a shop, all pink with ‘F OR M Y L OVING W IFE ’ on the front. The other was obviously handmade. It was covered in wobbly red hearts, bits of glued-on pasta, and enough glitter to choke a thousand fairies.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day.’ Logan unzipped his jacket and the hoodie underneath, then dumped the paper bag from the baker’s on the covers. ‘Got you some pies and stuff.’

As if that was going to make up for last night.

‘Head feels like someone’s scooped everything out and replaced it with a fat kid on a pogo stick.’

‘On the plus side, you sound a lot better.’ He helped himself to a rowie. ‘Where’s Susan?’

‘Give me that.’ She snatched the rowie from his hand and ripped a bite out of it. Winced. Chewed. ‘They catch those scumbags yet?’

‘Early days. Feeling any better?’

‘I’m lying in a hospital bed, wearing penguin PJs, suffering a hangover you could sand floorboards with. How do you think I’m feeling?’

The door opened and Susan shuffled in, carrying two plastic cups in a cardboard holder. She’d gone all countrified in tweed trousers and a checked shirt, like a slightly chunky Doris Day meets The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie . ‘Logan!’ She crossed and put the holder next to the chrysanthemums, then wrapped him in a hug. It was warm and smelled of home.

She frowned up at him. Then stroked the gauze taped across his throat. ‘Does it hurt?’ The wrinkles around her eyes deepened.

‘Stings a bit, but other than that.’ Shrug.

‘ Stings a bit?’ Steel made a strange bunged-up snorting noise, then snarled another bite out of her breakfast, talking with her mouth full. ‘I could’ve died. Don’t hear me moaning on about it, do you?’

‘Yes. All morning.’ Susan’s hand was warm against Logan’s cheek. ‘You look tired.’

‘He looks like a wannabe drug dealer. A hoodie, for God’s sake. How old are you?’

‘Don’t be rude.’ Susan bent down and kissed Steel on the forehead. ‘And I’ve talked to the doctors — you can go home after you’ve seen the consultant. Isn’t that nice?’

‘Sooner the better. I’m allergic to penguins.’

‘Well I think you look cute.’ She stroked Steel’s rampant-weasel hair. ‘Do you need anything else?’

‘My fake fag’s out of liquid. And I want a Bloody Mary. And some chips.’

‘Chips? What happened to the diet?’

‘Sod the diet.’

‘No chips. Or vodka.’ Susan stood. ‘You want anything, Logan?’

‘Thanks, but I can’t stay. Going down to Aberdeen. Thought I’d clear some stuff out of Samantha’s...’ He cleared his throat. ‘Out of the caravan.’

Susan’s hand was warm on his arm. ‘Stay and have a coffee. I know Roberta’s glad you’re here, even if she’s too rude and grumpy to say it.’

‘Hoy! I’m no’ rude and grumpy, I’m at death’s door.’

‘Keep telling yourself that.’ Another kiss, then Susan grabbed her coat and headed out the door. ‘Back soon.’

As soon as the door swung shut, the frown faded from Steel’s face leaving it lined and sagging. ‘Pfff...’

‘Sore?’

‘Ribs look like a paisley-patterned map of Russia.’

He dipped back into the paper bag and pulled out a pie. Handed it over. ‘I’m sorry.’

She waved a hand at him. ‘Wasn’t your fault.’

Yes it was.

The coffee tasted like boiled dirt, but he drank it anyway, washing down the last of his rowie as Steel got gravy all over her chin. Sitting there, the picture of innocence, with two black eyes.

There was no way she’d fitted up Jack Wallace.

Deep breath. ‘Look, this thing with Napier...’

‘He’s a dick.’

‘I know, but—’

‘He hates me, OK? Man’s got terrible taste in women.’ She shrugged and got more gravy on her face. ‘I wouldn’t toe the line in a disciplinary investigation, so he thinks I’m dodgy. Thinks I play fast and loose with the rules. I’m no’,’ she made quote bunnies with her fingers, ‘“invested in the process”. Whatever that means.’

Logan put the paper bag down. ‘What investigation?’

‘Nothing important.’

He stared at her.

She polished off the last mouthful of pie, then wiped her mouth with the corner of the bed sheet, leaving a thick brown smear. As if she’d had an embarrassing accident.

The sound of a floor polisher whubbed in the distance.

‘OK, OK.’ A sigh. ‘It was four years ago. A junkie claimed the arresting officer dangled him off the fifth storey of the Chapel Street car park.’

Oh.

Logan sat back. ‘It was Magnus Finch, wasn’t it?’

‘Doesn’t matter. What matters is Napier’s had a wasp up his backside about me ever since, because he doesn’t understand the word “loyalty”.’

‘Magnus Bloody Finch.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘He was selling heroin to schoolkids.’

‘Told you: doesn’t matter.’

‘Only they had to go to his squat to buy it. And they had to shoot up there too. He told them it was a safe environment.’