Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘It was an accident.’

‘You accidentally battered his head into the carpet? Nah, credit where it’s due, Mr McRae. I thought you’d be...’ A shrug. ‘Nice to see you’re still alive.’

Logan leaned back against the wall. His knees wouldn’t work properly. The guilt was too heavy for them.

‘Mind you, that’s some lump you’ve got there.’ Urquhart pointed.

‘Where?’ He reached up and brushed his fingers across the hair above his ear. A bump the size of a Creme Egg throbbed as he touched it. His fingertips came away red and sticky. ‘Oh.’

The ringing noise got louder. Was someone else at the door?

Why didn’t Urquhart answer it?

‘Mr McRae? Are you OK?’

Only it wasn’t the doorbell, was it? It was inside Logan’s head.

‘Mr McRae?’ Urquhart didn’t seem to cross the intervening space. One second he was standing over Eddy and the next he was standing over Logan. Looking down.

How did he end up on the floor?

Logan blinked. Shook his head. It only made the ringing worse.

Urquhart squatted down. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

Three... no four fingers swam in front of his face. ‘Four?’

‘Yeah, that’s probably a concussion.’

Oh good.

‘Come on, let’s get you onto the sofa.’ Urquhart hauled him up by the armpits and walked him over to the mildewed couch. Lowered him down. Then produced a hipflask from an inside pocket and held it out. ‘Here.’

Logan fumbled with the cap and took a swig. Sweet fire spread down his throat and across his stomach.

Urquhart took it back, wiped his palm across the neck and took a jolt of his own. ‘It’s all going to hell, Mr McRae. All going to hell. Reuben’s...’ He settled on the arm of the couch. ‘Remember those meetings I had to set up? Didn’t go well.’

‘What a surprise.’

‘Reuben got into a fight with Ma Campbell’s representative. Hacked off both his hands and sent him home with them in a Jiffy bag. The whole thing’s racing to rat-shit in a handbasket. Going to be war.’ He sniffed, curled his top lip. ‘Man, it stinks in here.’

‘...you OK?’ Urquhart was right in front of him again, peering into his eyes.

‘Get off me.’ Logan pushed him away, but there wasn’t any force to it.

‘What you doing here anyway? Having a clear out?’

‘It’s all going to the charity shop. Or the tip.’ Logan’s stomach took a lurch to the left. ‘The person who owned it died.’

‘That’s too bad.’ He looked around. ‘Nothing here you want to keep? You know, sentimental value and that?’

Saliva flooded his mouth. He swallowed. Shuddered. ‘Think I’m going to be sick again.’

‘Yeah, come on, let’s get you on your feet.’

Dry heaves crashed through him like a punch in the stomach, leaving him coughing and gagging over the open toilet bowl. He spat out another glob of foul yellow bile.

Urquhart sat on the edge of the bath, one leg swinging back and forward. ‘Course, we can’t really leave Eddy lying there. And we can’t call it in. You imagine how much trouble that’d bring?’

Another heave. Logan’s fingers dug into the blood-smeared porcelain.

‘Nah, we’ll have to get rid of him. Still, not to worry, wouldn’t be the first, won’t be the last.’ He gave a short, snorted laugh. ‘That’s the great thing about pigs: always hungry. It’ll be fine.’

Logan rested his forehead against the cool toilet rim. ‘No. No pigs. We can’t... Oh, God.’ More bile. The retch echoed back at him, amplified by the bowl.

‘It’s OK. Don’t sweat it. You don’t want Eddy going pigward, that’s cool with me. You’re the boss.’

He spat. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then flushed the toilet.

The rushing water pulled in cool air, chilling the sweat on the back of his neck.

‘You all right to stand, Mr McRae? Need help?’

‘I’m fine...’ No he wasn’t. Logan pulled himself up the side of the bath, holding on to it until the world settled down a bit. Then wobbled over to the sink and splashed water on his face. Rinsed out his foul-tasting mouth.

Urquhart took hold of his arm. ‘No wonder you’re feeling a bit ropey. See most people? If they went up against Eddy they’d be the ones lying flat on their backs in a pool of blood.’ He led Logan out into the hall, then through into the bedroom.

The wardrobes hung open and empty, but there were still sheets and a duvet on the bed. The duvet cover had been black with red skulls once, but mildew had spread green tendrils out across the fabric. No point packing them for the charity shop, the whole lot was going to landfill.

‘Here you go.’ Urquhart grabbed a corner and threw the duvet back, setting loose an explosion of gritty peppery stench. Then helped Logan sit on the bed. ‘Lie down. I’ll get a cold cloth for that bump.’

‘Don’t need to lie down.’ But he couldn’t stay upright.

Maybe just for a minute. Until the room stopped spinning.

Should probably go to Accident and Emergency.

Instead Logan lowered his head to the mould-bleached pillow.

Not for long. Get up in a minute. Sixty seconds to catch his breath. Wasn’t too much to ask for...

Urquhart appeared, holding a tea towel. Knelt beside the bed and pressed it against the hair above Logan’s ear. Cold and damp. Soothing the fire. ‘Shhh. It’ll all be OK. You trust me, don’t you?’

No.

And the world went away.

‘Gnnnph...’ Logan sat bolt upright, blinking in the gloom.

Caravan. He was in the caravan. In the bed, the duvet rucked around his waist. It was dark.

He fumbled his phone from his pocket. Quarter to four.

Urquhart must have drawn the curtains.

Logan swung his legs over the side and wobbled to his feet. Stood there with one hand on the wall, holding him up.

That gritty mildew smell had gone, replaced by the acerbic chemical stink of bleach.

He picked his way through the caravan to the living room, where the smell was strongest.

Great.

Eddy Knowles’s body was gone. Splotches of orangey grey marked the floor where he’d died, surrounded by the carpet’s original dark-red colour. More bleached patches over by the windowsill. A big stain of it on the couch.

Logan reached up and touched the lump above his ear. Flinched. Then poked at it again. Swelling was going down a bit. It had stopped bleeding too.

Not that it mattered.

Might as well have died in his sleep as wake up to this.

So what if Reuben dobbed him in for taking money from Wee Hamish Mowat’s estate? John Urquhart had him on a murder. He had the body and, seeing as how the Frighteners snowglobe was nowhere to be seen, the murder weapon too.

Logan dragged out his phone, squinting at the screen as it refused to stay in focus. He picked Urquhart’s number from his call history and listened to it ring. And ring. And then it clicked over to voicemail.

‘ Hi, this is John’s phone. He’s not here right now, but leave a message, OK? ’

He opened his mouth... then shut it again. What was he going to do: leave recorded evidence asking what happened to the body of the man he’d killed? No chance. He hung up.

Should’ve called the police when he had the chance. Cut a deal.

At least that way he’d have been out in three or four years. But now?

Maybe the plan to go home and blow his own brains out wasn’t so bad? Wasn’t as if he had anything else going for him right now. Head home, crack open that bottle of Balvenie, and phut .

He leaned back against the wall. But then who would look after Cthulhu?

Steel and Susan? Nah, their Mr Rumpole was far too old and too grumpy to accept another cat into the household.