Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Was Barwell out there? Watching him? Some paparazzi scum sitting next to him taking shots with a telephoto lens? ‘DISGRACED ALT-NAT COP’S SECRET ALKIE SHAME!’

He looked down at the bottle in his hand. Too late to worry about it now, then.

Frank gave them something to photograph: gulping down half the bottle. Let loose a little hiss as the numbness turned to tingling.

‘Don’t know what you think you’ve got, but it’s a lie.’

‘Sure you don’t want to say a few words to the great unwashed? How about to Robert Drysdale’s family? Want to say something to them?’

What?

‘Who the hell is... Drysdale?’

He swallowed.

‘Well, well, well: is that the sound of a penny dropping, I hear?’

‘No idea who you’re talking about.’

A laugh. ‘You keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, I’ll be telling everyone the truth.’

Frank bared his teeth. Sat forward in the driver’s seat, half-bottle clenched in his fist. ‘Then I hope you’ve got a bloody good lawyer, cos I’m going to sue your rag for every penny it’s got!’ He jammed his thumb on the ‘End Call’ button. Slammed the phone down on the passenger seat. Bellowed out a howl of rage — flecks of spit spattering the windscreen.

He knocked back a hefty swig of vodka. And another one. Then another, draining it.

Screwed the top on like he was throttling that rancid wee shite, Barwell. Twisting the black metal till Barwell’s eyes popped out of his greasy little head. Banged the empty bottle down beside his phone.

Hauled himself out of the car and slammed the door hard as he could.

Stood there staring at it for a moment.

You know what? No way he was suffering an evening with Gwen nipping at his head the whole time. Not without a lot more vodka inside him.

And that’s exactly what he was going to get.

Logan hung up his fleece, took off his boots, and put a hand on the banister, looking up towards the top floor. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

No reply.

‘Cthulhu?’ Sing-songing it out. ‘Where’s Daddy’s favourite kittenfish?’

Still nothing.

Hmph.

He wandered through into the living room. No sign of anyone there either. ‘Hello?’

A muffled shriek from outside.

Ah, that explained it then.

Logan stepped out through the open patio doors, onto the patio — the paving slabs warm beneath his socks.

Tara stood in the middle of it with her hands over her eyes. God knew why, but she was wearing a ridiculous homemade tiara that looked as if she’d cobbled it together from half a ton of pipe cleaners, three gallons of glitter, and enough tinsel to strangle fifty department store Santas. ‘Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven.’

Logan waved at her, even though she couldn’t see him. ‘Hello.’

‘Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety.’

‘Is no one happy to see me at all?’

‘Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three.’

Typical.

Welcome home, lovely Logan. How great it is to see you.

Pfff...

Cthulhu padded out from under a bush, tail in the air.

‘Ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six.’

He squatted down and Daddy’s Favourite Kittenfish bumped her head against his knee, purring and prooping. Doing the LOVE ME dance with her big fluffy white paws. ‘At least you’re happy to see me.’

‘Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine.’

‘Unlike the rest of these bumheads.’

‘One hundred!’ Tara snapped her hands down and span around, staring out at the trees and shrubs. ‘Here I come, ready or not!’

Logan scooped Cthulhu up, turning her tummy-side-up as she stretched out her furry arms and legs. He raised an eyebrow at Tara. ‘Do I even get a hello?’

‘Don’t distract the Seeker! I’m hunting... monsters !’ And with that, she charged off into the garden, growling.

They were all off their tiny rockers.

More shrieks from the undergrowth, then Naomi charged out, wearing a pirate costume and a ridiculous homemade tiara of her own, both arms in the air, waving a water pistol around in one hand and Captain Bogies in the other.

Tara lumbered after Naomi, not going anywhere near fast enough to actually catch her. ‘Bwahahahahahahaha!’

And neither of them bothered to even look in his direction.

‘Fine. I’m going to get a beer and you can all go poop yourselves.’

He carried Cthulhu inside, through to the kitchen, and plonked her down on the table. Opened the fridge — setting the huge collection of kids’ drawings pinned to it flapping — and dug out a tin of Stella.

Had to admit, the room had turned out better than expected: granite worktops, a good gas cooker, decent units, nice tiles. Head and shoulders above the bargain-basement kitchen he’d DIYed into place at the Sergeant’s House in Banff. Even if the worktop by the microwave was almost buried under an assortment of metal coat hangers, packs of multicoloured pipe cleaners, balls of tinsel, and jars of glitter.

He cracked the tab on his tin and froze.

Was that giggling?

He turned. Hunkered down. And peered in under the table.

Jasmine stared at him, eyes glittering, both hands over her mouth. Shoulders jiggling from the effort of keeping the giggles in. And her tiara was the most OTT of them all.

‘Evening.’ He pointed at the monstrosity on her head. ‘Why are you wearing a—’

‘Shhhh! You can’t tell Aunty Tara where I’m hiding!’

Not her as well...

Logan held up a hand and backed away. ‘I know, I know: “naebody likes a clype”.’

Tara stepped up behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest. Warm against his back in the sunshine as he finished off his tin of Stella. Naomi and Jasmine thundered about in the garden, Cthulhu sitting on a garden chair by the patio doors — staying well out of it.

Logan put his tin on the windowsill. ‘I take it you rotten sods have eaten?’

‘Don’t sulk.’ She kissed his neck. ‘I saved some tuna casserole for you.’

‘Should think so too.’

Naomi and Jasmine battered past, holding their oversized wobbly tiaras on top of their heads.

He turned and frowned at the lurid concoction sitting on top of Tara’s. ‘OK, I’ll bite: what’s with the fancy headgear?’

‘Rennie’s daughter’s birthday party this weekend: it’s BYOT.’

‘Ah, so that’s what it stands for.’

She smiled. ‘Don’t worry, we made one for you too.’

Why did that sound like a threat?

The bedside clock glowed ‘21:00’, but even with the curtains drawn, daylight crept in around the edges. Jasmine and Naomi, in their respective jammies and beds, clutching their respective stuffed animals — Captain Bogies the filthy octopus for Naomi, Mr Stinky the threadbare bear for Jasmine.

Tara leaned against the door frame, wearing a huge smile. Probably very pleased with herself for talking him into wearing the monstrosity she and the kids had made. Which looked a bit like a cross between an explosion in a pipe-cleaner factory and a prolapsed Christmas tree. The others had been over the top, but his was definitely the over-the-topiest of them all.

Everyone stared at him as he turned the page and hoisted the pirate accent up a couple of yardarms.