Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Well done, Logan.

Sterling job.

The distorted, bruised, and battered Logan stared back at him from the mirror. ‘Maybe you missed because Reuben was right: you don’t have the balls to kill anyone.’

‘I don’t want them.’ He lathered up with antibacterial handwash, then slathered it onto his face, working it into all the stinging pellet holes. Making them scream. Then shouted them down with a second dose of Old Spice.

Arrrrrgh...

The freezer downstairs produced a packet of petits pois, the drinks cupboard a half-empty litre of Famous Grouse. Logan pressed the former against his burning face and the latter into service as an anaesthetic.

Four ibuprofen and the same again of aspirin hadn’t made a dent in it, but the second dram of whisky worked its magic. Or it might have been the frozen peas numbing his skin. Either way it didn’t ache quite as much.

Of course, Reuben would come after him with a vengeance now. The gun-without-a-firing-pin incident was bad enough, but this? Tonight? He’d be like a rabid dog.

Maybe they’d have a few days while Reuben recuperated from his two bullet holes? Enough time for Logan to call his new lawyer and put his affairs in order.

That or flee the country.

A groan came from the kitchen doorway, followed by something out of a George Romero film. It was Steel, wearing a fluffy grey dressing gown, with penguin pyjama bottoms sticking out beneath, arms sticking out in front, and her hair sticking out in every other direction. Only she didn’t try to eat Logan’s brains; she shuffled over to the sink and turned the cold tap on full. Then dunked her head under it.

He topped his glass up, and screwed the cap back on the bottle.

She was still trying to drown herself in the sink.

Logan took a sip, rolling the whisky around his mouth, numbing it from the inside.

And finally Steel emerged from beneath the cascade of cold water looking almost completely unlike a shampoo advert. Instead of flinging her hair back in a glorious golden arc, she slumped against the sink, water running down her face and dripping onto her grey fuzzy dressing gown and the floor. Like a cat who’d just been fished out of the toilet bowl. ‘Pfff...’

He toasted her with his glass.

She wiped her face on a sleeve and squinted. ‘What?’

‘Didn’t say a thing.’

‘Got a head like a... Like a...’ Her shoulders sagged even further. ‘No, can’t be arsed.’

Logan stood and pulled another glass from the cupboard. Filled it from the dispenser built into the fridge. Held it out. ‘Here.’

She took it with both hands and gulped it down. ‘More.’

He refilled it and she guzzled that one too. And the next.

Then Steel settled into a chair on the other side of the kitchen table. Her eyes seemed to have difficulty both focusing on the same spot, and something was wrong with her mouth — all the words were soft and mushy, as if she was pushing them through a sieve. ‘I think I might’ve died in my sleep.’

‘Whose fault is that?’

‘Why did you let me drink so much whisky? It’s like there’s a ceilidh in my skull and only fat people in hobnail boots got invited.’ Another mouthful of water. ‘They’re doing an Orcadian Strip the Willow.’ Her top lip curled as she sniffed. ‘And why does it smell like an auld mannie’s pants in here?’

Logan lowered the bag of petits pois. ‘Cut myself shaving.’

She shook her head, then grabbed onto the table. Blinking. ‘Gah. Stop the world...’ A deep breath, then she relinquished her grip. ‘I — am definitely — not — going — to be — sick.’

‘You’re still drunk, aren’t you?’

‘No. Maybe. Kind of.’ Steel burped, then grimaced and shuddered. Had another mouthful of water. ‘I’m sorry about Samantha. She was a total Hottie McSexyPants. And I’m no’ just saying that! See if I wasn’t married and she hadn’t been in a coma?’

‘Go back to bed.’

‘Can’t. When I lie down the walls chase each other round the room.’ She drained the last drops from her glass. ‘More.’

Logan filled it. ‘Think I might give it up. Move somewhere warm and far away.’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘I mean, what’s the point? We spend ninety percent of our time dealing with five percent of the people. Barely scratch the surface.’ He knocked back a mouthful of Grouse, sucked air in through his teeth. ‘I’m not a very good police officer.’

‘If you move, how you going to watch Jasmine and wee Naomi grow up?’

‘Not very good at all.’

‘Don’t whinge, Laz. I hate it when you whinge.’ She sniffed. ‘Makes you sound like Rennie.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And we do make a difference.’ She put down her water and picked up his whisky, raised it to her lips. The colour drained from her cheeks and she put it down again. ‘Nope.’

‘Don’t think Detective Superintendent Harper really wants a big brother.’

‘Look at all the scumbags we put away every year. You got those people-traffickers last year. And that guy who was beating up auld wifies for their pension money.’

‘Don’t think my brother Eamon wants one either.’

‘Wah, wah, wah.’ She finished her water, stuck it back on the table with another burp. ‘We got anything to eat?’

He pointed at the fridge. ‘Sausage rolls, mini Kievs, and some of those tiny quiches. They’re a bit pocket-fluffy, but Susan cleaned the worst of it off.’

‘Done.’ She slumped over to the bread bin and extracted a Glasgow roll. Then raided the fridge. ‘And you want to make a difference? Make one. Don’t sit there moaning about it.’ The roll got split open and buttered on both sides. ‘Don’t see me with my thumb in my gob moaning on about scumbags I can’t put away, do you?’ Four sausage rolls went on the bun, followed by a couple of the Kievs. ‘No, because Roberta Steel doesn’t take “no comment” for an answer.’ Everything got slathered in tomato sauce, then she took a big bite, talking as she chewed, ‘You get a problem, you find a solution, Laz. That’s what the big girls do.’

He stared down into his whisky. ‘I’m in trouble.’

‘See when Jack Wallace intimidated his way out of a rape charge, did I go whingeing away with my tail between my knees? Bet your sharny arse I didn’t. I did something about it.’ She thumped down into the seat opposite again and jabbed the table with a finger, leaving a smear of tomato sauce behind. ‘And yeah, maybe I should’ve slipped someone a hundred to break every bone in his body instead. Got them to chuck him in the harbour to sink. But that’d be wrong, right?’

‘I think Reuben’s going to...’ Logan frowned. ‘Wait, you should have done that?’

‘The important thing is, he’s no’ on the loose attacking women any more. Wee shite’s where he belongs.’

‘What did you do?’

She waved a hand at him, and took another bite. ‘Come off it, like you’ve never bent the rules to get the right result. Course you have.’

‘I...’ More than she’d ever know.

‘Exactly.’ She drained her water. ‘You should’ve seen Wallace when we told him there wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute. Strutting about like there was a rooster up his backside. “Look at me, I won. And I’m going to do it again, because you’re all too thick to stop me.” Aye, well who’s thick now?’ She popped the final chunk of funeral-leftovers butty in her mouth and stood. Stuck the kettle on. ‘You want tea?’

‘You fitted him up.’

‘Course, could’ve done him for pretty much anything, but kiddy porn’s a classic, isn’t it? You get done for being a paedo, that’s with you for the rest of your life; that stain doesn’t wash off. Nah, he’s got to live with it till the day he dies. Now he knows how the women he attacked feel.’ She rattled a couple of mugs onto the worktop. ‘And with any luck some nice obliging nonce will shank the wee bastard in prison and take him out of the food chain for good.’