Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Then he bent down, winced, swore, and finally picked Cthulhu up. Held her warm purring body against his chest. Tried to breathe.

‘Daddy killed someone today.’

Why was it never like this in the books or movies? The hero gets attacked, the hero kills the attacker, throws out a smart one-liner, and moves on. They never looked like someone had carved a hole in their chest and filled it with frozen gravel.

He kissed the top of Cthulhu’s head. ‘Let’s get you something to eat.’

The Nurofen clicked out of their blister pack. Logan washed both of them down with some more whisky. Then dipped back into the cardboard box on the floor.

He placed Samantha’s dark-red skirt — with the black embroidered roses — on the bed, tucking it under the leather corset. Added the black-and-red striped holdups, and the knee-length kinky boots with the gold braiding that made them look like some sort of Napoleonic uniform. The black leather gloves. The only thing left was the Ziploc plastic bag containing all her rings and piercings. He placed it where Samantha’s head would have been.

‘There you go: the outfit you had on at Rennie’s wedding. You’ll look lovely in your coffin.’

He sat next to her. Took the glove as if it were her hand.

Stared at the wall. The outlines began to blur.

He laughed — short and strangled.

Ground the heel of his hand into an eye.

Laughed again.

‘I’m having a really, really, really crap week.’

Deep breath.

It trembled on the way out. Then he swore as the doorbell rang out long and heartless.

‘Yeah.’

No prizes for guessing who that would be.

The glove went back on the bed.

He knelt on the floor and pulled out the polished wooden box, took out the semiautomatic and racked a round into the chamber. Clicked the safety off.

Who cared if he got his fingerprints all over it.

The doorbell went again as he thumped down the stairs, gun up and ready.

If Reuben thought this was going to be easy, he was in for a nasty shock.

Wrench the door open, shoot him in the face.

Easy.

He could do this.

Logan’s left hand closed around the handle. He leaned forward and peered through the spyhole.

Oh.

It wasn’t Reuben, or even one of his thugs, it was Detective Superintendent Holier-Than-Thou Harper.

Perfect end to a perfect day.

The doorbell mourned.

Maybe he could pretend he wasn’t in? But then all the lights were on, and presumably you didn’t get promoted to detective superintendent by being a moron.

He tucked the gun into the pocket of his new hoodie and opened the door.

She stood on the pavement, her cheeks flushed, the tip of her nose a shiny pink — ears too. A thick padded jacket made her look about twice normal size, the collar turned up against the falling snow. Her breath streamed out in pale grey wisps. ‘Hello.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Are you going to ask me in, Sergeant?’

He stuck his hand in the pocket, obscuring the semiautomatic’s outline. ‘Do I have a choice?’

Harper flashed him a lopsided smile. ‘Detective superintendents are like vampires. We can’t come in unless you invite us.’

Oh God, she was coming on to him. Steel was right.

Not that she wasn’t attractive, in a perpetually angry, shouty, judgemental, girl-next-door, blonde, big-brown-eyed kind of way. Never really noticed how big her ears were before, but now that they were all pink and glowing they kind of—

‘Seriously, Sergeant, I’m freezing out here.’

‘Oh, right.’ He backed away and ushered her into the house. Shut the door behind her.

Harper had a good look around. ‘You live here on your own.’

Not that there was anything wrong with larger ears.

‘You want a cup of tea, or something?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fine.’ He pointed at the kitchen. ‘Kettle’s in there, help yourself. I’ll be down in a minute.’

She pursed her lips, then raised an eyebrow, before turning and wandering through into the kitchen.

As soon as she was gone, Logan charged upstairs and jammed the gun back in its box. Stood there for a moment, in the middle of the bedroom, staring down at Samantha’s clothes — laid out for their last hurrah. The last thing she would ever wear, forever and ever, amen.

At least he wouldn’t have to worry about Harper jumping him. Nothing killed the mood like a display of your dead girlfriend’s clothes in the middle of the bed.

The sound of cupboard doors opening and closing came up from downstairs. Either she couldn’t find the mugs, or she was having a nosy. Let her. She wasn’t going to find anything: the empty Glenfiddich bottle was safely hidden in the recycling bins behind the public toilets in Oldmeldrum, all she’d turn up were cheap dishes and cheaper tins of soup.

He headed down to the kitchen.

Harper had placed two mugs beside the grumbling kettle. She turned and frowned at him as he entered. ‘Rennie and McKenzie told me you’d been attacked last night, but they didn’t say someone had beaten the crap out of you. I thought you got away with a tiny cut?’

His hand drifted up to his face. The new collection of bruises and split lip. ‘Yeah. Had to break up a fight outside a pub this afternoon. You know what it’s like: never off duty.’

‘Hmm...’ She stepped closer, reached up and pulled his hand away. Staring straight into his eyes. Pursed her lips.

She was going to go in for a kiss.

Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad an idea to feel alive for a change.

He leaned forward.

Then she slapped him. It came from nowhere, fast and hard, leaving a stinging brand burned into his right cheek. ‘OW! What the hell was that for?’

‘You couldn’t even be bothered going to his funeral!’ She hit him again. ‘How could you be so bloody selfish?’

‘What?’ Logan backed away, out of slapping range. ‘You... Yesterday you were all pissed off because I’d gone to his funeral. You saw me there!’

‘Not Hamish Mowat, you insensitive dick, your own father!’

Logan curled his lip. ‘You’re off your head. Get out of my house.’

‘Did you just not care ?’

‘Really: I want you to leave now. Before I throw you out.’

‘HE WAS YOUR FATHER!’ Harper closed the gap, hand flashing up. ‘He doted on you and you couldn’t even be bothered...’ She swung for Logan’s face. But this time he was ready for it. Grabbed the arm before anything could connect and shoved her backwards.

She stumbled and fell, thumping down against the kitchen units. Sitting flat on her bum glowering up at him. ‘Think you’re so special, don’t you?’

‘My father died when I was five, OK? Five years old. That’s why I didn’t go to his funeral. You happy now?’

She blinked up at him. ‘When you were five?’

‘Not that it’s any of your damn business, Detective Superintendent.’

‘But...’ Little creases formed at the sides of her mouth. ‘But he only died two months ago.’

And Logan was meant to be the one recovering from a concussion.

‘I think I’d remember my dad being alive for the last thirty-four years. Now get out.’

She shook her head. ‘He died two months ago, a fortnight before Christmas. I know, because he was my father too.’

Cthulhu sat on the coffee table, head tilted to one side, staring at the pair of them. They’d each taken opposite ends of the couch, a gap between them big enough to drive a motorbike through.

Harper cleared her throat. Fidgeted with the hem of her jacket. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘Look, I understand that you’re upset, but my father died when I was five. I’ve no idea who your dad was, but unless he came back from the dead they’re not the same man.’