Стюарт Макбрайд - The Blood Road

She marches over to the car, grabs two of the green plastic petrol cans from the Passat’s boot, then makes another trip for two more.

Ding-Dong still hasn’t moved — standing there with his bottom lip trembling. Staring at Lawson.

Rose gives him a shove. ‘Get the shotgun.’ And finally , he stumbles out.

Poor old Hairy Roddy Lawson. The Sandilands Sasquatch. Wobbling away on a manky table, in a manky caravan, parked in a manky clearing. The huge egg growing on his left temple is all red around the edges — not yet darkened into a proper bruise.

‘I got...’ Ding-Dong climbs into the caravan, clutching the shotgun against his chest in his ungloved hands. He clears his throat and tries again: ‘It’s...’ He fidgets with the gun, staring at it, avoiding the drug dealer in the room. ‘It was my dad’s.’

Why do men have to be such babies?

Rose arranges the petrol cans around the caravan. No point opening them yet — want the thing to burn, not explode.

Ding-Dong is still standing there.

‘Sooner the better, Guv.’

A thick greasy tear fights its way over the bags under his eyes, rolls down his cheek and into his beard. ‘I can’t .’

Babies, the lot of them.

‘Fine. We’ll go arrest Sally MacAuley for murder instead. That what you want?’

‘I never...’ full-on sobbing now, ‘I never wanted... any... of this!’

She sighs. Puts her hand out. ‘God’s sake, give it here.’

The shotgun is cold and heavy in her hands as she swings it around and pulls the trigger. No hesitation. No sodding about.

BOOOOOOOOM! It makes the whole caravan vibrate as most of Rod Lawson’s head disappears. Like popping a water balloon full of tomato soup. The air reeks of butchers’ shops and fireworks, a high-pitched whistling screech in her ears.

Ding-Dong’s mouth falls open. Eyes wide. Tears pouring down his cheeks.

She shoves him towards the door. ‘Come on, out. Get out of here, now !’

Have to admit, without the head, Lawson looks a lot more like Ding-Dong. The clothes help, of course. Now: time for the finishing touches. She uncuffs his hands, opens the ziplock bag of jewellery and dresses him up in Ding-Dong’s rings, watch, and bracelet. Double checks everything is where it should be as bits of skull and teeth and scalp and brains drip down the rear window.

Done.

She has one last look at him. Shrugs. ‘Nothing personal.’

Then Rose unscrews the caps from all the petrol cans, tips three of them over, and hurries outside with the fourth — leaving a trail of unleaded behind her. As soon as she’s at a safe distance, she stops. Takes out a book of matches, cups her hand to shield one as she lights it, then holds it to the puddle at her feet.

Blue and yellow flames race towards the caravan, leap the steps and WHOOMP! The skylight and windows blow out, spinning away into the darkness. Then the fire takes hold and Rod Lawson’s funeral pyre pops and crackles as flesh and plastic and fibreboard go up.

She tosses the empty petrol can in through the door. Turns.

Ding-Dong is on his knees, arms wrapped around his head, sobbing.

Poor old sod. And all because he couldn’t say no to Sally MacAuley...

Rose walks over and pats his shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s get you on that boat.’

The recording light blinked as Sergeant Savage frowned. ‘I only found out what Ding-Dong had done when he Skyped me on Thursday. Completely out of the blue. He didn’t mention anything about an accomplice, but... I don’t know. Maybe ? Be impossible to prove, though. After all this time.’

Logan stared at her. ‘Really.’

‘I genuinely thought he was dead. When I identified his remains, I thought that was him on the mortuary slab.’ She sighed. Shook her head. Pity poor me. ‘I was going to come forward, after he called, but it’s all been such a shock...’

Of course it had. And it was about to get much worse.

Logan pulled a sheet of paper from his folder and placed it on the table. ‘If you hadn’t heard from him, then why is there a big list of calls between your Skype account and his over the last two years?’

She pursed her lips and sat back in her chair. Crossed her arms again. ‘I think I’m going to want to speak to my lawyer before I answer any more questions.’

‘What a surprise.’

Tufty followed Logan out into the corridor and clunked the interview room door shut behind him. ‘What do you think? Do you think she was in on it? I think she was in on it.’

Logan grunted, turned, and limped off down the corridor, his crutch making its irritating clunk-scuff, clunk-scuff noise all the way to the stairwell.

Tufty strolled along beside him. ‘Bet she’s guilty as a hedgehog in a condom factory.’

‘I don’t care. I’m tired, I’m sore, and I’m going home .’

Steel’s MX-5 scrunched up onto Logan’s driveway with a completely unnecessary roar. Roof down, stereo thumping out Frightened Rabbit’s ‘The Modern Leper’. Very cheerful.

He unfastened his seatbelt. ‘I could’ve made my own way home, you know.’

‘Aye, right.’ She got out and produced her e-cigarette. Puffed herself a watermelon-scented fog bank. ‘Anyway, got sod-all to do till your mate Beaconsfield’s brief turns up. Fiver says I can get him to roll on Russell Morton and Jerry Whyte.’ She jerked her chin at Logan. ‘You needing a hand?’

‘No.’ Bloody MX-Bloody-5. Why couldn’t they have made the thing easier to get in and out of for people suffering from a massive stab wound? Of course, if she’d left the roof on, he could’ve used it to lever himself up, but nooo...

He struggled out, using his crutch and the car door for leverage. Stood there, grimacing as fire burned its way across his stomach and up into his lungs.

She walked around the car and put a hand on his arm. ‘You sure you don’t want me to come in? Make you a cup of hot sweet tea, or something?’

‘Go away. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

She puffed a lungful of watermelon at him. ‘You know, me being nice to you is a limited-time offer?’

‘Go! Give Susan an inappropriate hug from me.’ He turned and limped towards the house.

‘OK. But I’m going nowhere till you’ve made it inside without collapsing or dying.’

He hobbled up the step, unlocked the front door, and scruffed inside. Turned and made shooing gestures until she rolled her eyes, climbed into her car, and vroomed off in a buckshot-spray of flying gravel and a blast of music.

‘Oh thank God for that.’

He thumped the door shut and leaned against it as the fires raged.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Aaaargh... Maybe checking out of the hospital three days early wasn’t such a good idea after all? Grey cauliflower cheese or not.

He straightened up. ‘Cthulhu? Where’s Daddy’s girl? Where’s you, Cthulhu?’

No reply.

Logan limped through into the living room. Still no cat.

She wasn’t in the kitchen either. But there was a massive pile of dirty pots and dishes in the sink. None of which were his. ‘Great...’

Well, they could wait.

Right now it was time for a couple of antipsychotics and a whole heap of industrial-strength painkillers.

He hobbled out into the hall, and ditched his coat on the end of the stairs. Kicked off his shoes. ‘Where are you, you daft cat?’

The stairs were a bit of a challenge, so he got both feet onto one before starting on the next. Paused two thirds of the way up for a breather. Then one last push from base camp to the landing.

‘Cthulhu?’

So much for the big welcome home. Oh, I missed you, Daddy.