Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

An elbow cracked back into Logan’s ribs.

They rolled on the floor, punching, gouging, snarling. Bang into the wall beneath the window. A rain of ornaments crashed down around them.

A fist cracked into Logan’s jaw. He rammed his forehead into Eddy’s nose.

Grunting, swearing.

His leg caught the edge of the couch, sending it scraping back across the floor, exposing the knife.

Eddy Knowles lunged for it, blood spattering down from his broken face.

And Logan grabbed the first thing he could find — a solid lump of plastic and rock — and swung it at Eddy’s head.

Thunk .

He stuttered forward. Then snatched the knife up. Twisted around.

Thunk .

His head battered sideways.

Thunk .

The blade flashed out, leaving a searing line across Logan’s stomach.

‘AAAAAAGH...’ Logan swung the snowglobe again, teeth bared.

Thunk .

Thunk .

Thunk .

And Eddy wasn’t moving any more.

Logan slumped back against the wall, fingers fluttering at the front of his T-shirt. Red seeped through the slashed fabric of his hoodie.

Not again. Please , not again.

He unzipped it to the point where the knife had cut clean through and peeled the sides apart. A dark-scarlet line stretched across his stomach, joining up several of the puckered ghosts of another knife.

Please...

Logan prodded the wound, wincing. It had broken the skin, but that was about it. A lot of blood, but not too much damage.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

Thank God.

Deep breaths. Not dead. Not dead yet.

He opened his eyes again.

Eddy Knowles lay twisted on his side, mouth hanging open, eyes staring off into the corner. The knife rested in his open hand, its tip buried in the carpet. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Oh no.

Logan looked down at the blunt weapon, lying beside him, and picked it up again. It was the snowglobe of The Frighteners . The chunk of genuine New Zealand rock was smeared with dark red. Stained clumps of hair stuck to the rough surface.

No.

He dropped it and it rolled away, snow falling, the crypts giving up their ghosts.

No, no, no, no, NO!

‘Don’t be dead, don’t be dead...’ Logan scrambled across the dusty carpet and pressed two fingers against Eddy’s throat, just below the ear. The skin was slick with scarlet. No pulse.

‘BASTARD!’ He shoved him over onto his back, clenched both hands together in a single fist and pressed down on the breastbone. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand.

Nothing.

Logan tilted the guy’s head back and pinched the twisted mass of bloody gristle masquerading as a nose, sealing the nostrils. Took a deep breath, covered Eddy’s mouth with his own and blew. Went back to the chest compressions. Another breath. Compressions. Breath. Compressions...

Then sat back on his haunches.

The body lay there, motionless, spread out on the floor.

Logan grabbed the lip of the toilet bowl, hunching his back as his stomach tried to turn itself inside out. Retching and heaving until there was nothing coming out but bitter reeking strings of yellow bile.

His hands left sticky scarlet smears on the porcelain.

He was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed. Never mind standing there, doing nothing to stop Tony Evans getting murdered, he’d killed someone.

Killed them.

Jesus.

The caravan floor creaked beneath Logan’s feet as he paced back and forth, between the bedroom and the living room. The not living room. The death room.

Oh dear Jesus.

The water was cold, sputtering from the tap in the bathroom, sending pink spiralling down the sink. So cold it burned.

Logan scrubbed with the soap, working it into a bloody froth.

Something heavy was sitting on his chest — didn’t matter how hard he breathed, he couldn’t get any oxygen into his lungs.

Why wouldn’t it wash away?

He dragged a hand towel from the box in the hall and folded it lengthways a couple of times then pressed it against the slash across his stomach. Hunched over the kitchen worktop, pushing it into his skin.

A thick strip of fabric, ripped off an old sheet, made a bandage to hold it in place.

Logan folded forward until his cheek rested on the cool worktop.

He could do this.

He could.

He had to.

Eddy Knowles lay spread out in front of the couch, one arm up reaching above his head as if forever frozen in the middle of hailing a taxi.

Sodding bastarding hell.

Well, it wasn’t as if he’d have got up and walked off, was it?

Logan grimaced. Smelled like a butcher’s shop in here.

The body’s forehead was lumpen and dented on one side, nearly caved in. Around his head, the carpet was dark and wet — glinting in the cold afternoon light that filtered in through the grubby windows.

Logan’s eyes widened. What if someone looked in? What if someone saw him?

He picked his way across the living room, inching his way around the stain.

God, there was a lot of blood.

The curtains rattled as he dragged them shut.

Cold water spilled down his chin as he drained the glass. Then filled it again, standing in the galley kitchen. The glass clicked and skittered against the stainless-steel draining board, threatening to jerk free of his hand.

Call the police.

They’d understand, wouldn’t they? It was self-defence, he didn’t have any choice. The guy had a dirty big knife and orders to make an example of him.

Yeah, because no one would ask why, would they? They wouldn’t want to know what a gangster was doing with orders to carve Logan into little chunks. Wouldn’t impound the car. Wouldn’t do a thorough search.

What’s this under your passenger seat, Sergeant McRae? Why it’s an illegal handgun, and it appears to have been fired recently. Who have you been shooting, Sergeant McRae?

That would end well.

Logan raised the trembling glass to his lips and drank.

Didn’t matter how it ended, it was what had to happen. He’d killed someone.

He let out a long jittery breath.

Or maybe there was another way? Go out to the car, get the gun, come back and put a bullet through his own head. Bang. Every problem solved with one squeeze of the trigger. No more worry. No more guilt. No more grief. No more—

The doorbell rang out loud and sharp in the cold air.

Too late.

Logan lowered the glass.

Should have phoned the police when he had the chance.

He wiped a hand across his chin, getting rid of the water. Deep breath. Hauled his shoulders back. Then answered the door.

But it wasn’t a concerned neighbour who’d witnessed everything, or a uniformed officer with a warrant for his arrest. It was John Urquhart.

His face was flushed and shiny, beads of sweat trickling down his cheeks. ‘Oh thank... thank God...’ Urquhart folded over, grabbed his knees and panted. ‘Thought I’d... Argh... Had to abandon the... the car at... Tesco and leg it...’ A coughing spasm rippled through him and he abandoned his knees to clutch at the doorframe. ‘Traffic...’

Logan looked over his shoulder at the car park. A familiar, dented Transit van sat next to his manky wee Punto.

‘Mr McRae, you need... you need to get... to get out, OK?’ Urquhart peered up at him. ‘Reuben’s sent someone... someone to kill... Oh.’ A frown. He pointed at Logan’s face. ‘Is that blood?’

He pushed past, into the caravan. A pause, then the sound of swearing belted out from inside.

Logan found him in the living room, hands on his hips, staring at the body on the floor.

Urquhart got to the end of his rant and sagged. Shook his head. Glanced back at Logan. ‘I know this probably isn’t what you want to hear, but I’m impressed, dude. Eddy?’ He nudged the body’s leg with a shoe. ‘He’s killed six guys I know of. Cut the nose right off one of them, and posted it to his wife. Mind you, she was running a drug ring in Cults, so, you know.’ As if that made it all right.