Stuart MacBride - 45% Hangover

‘Well?’

Logan’s fingers walked along the bedframe, tracing the corner where the headboard joined the main frame. Smooth metal, slick and cool. There — a hexagonal lump. ‘It’s a nut.’

‘So undo it!’

He grabbed the sides and twisted.

Nothing.

Tried again. Gritted his teeth. ‘Come on you wee sod...’ Fire raced through his fingers, up into his palm. Then wrist. Then, ‘It won’t budge. Too tight.’

‘Right. So we need to loosen it. OK.’ She sucked at her teeth. ‘Don’t have a spanner, just have to go back to shoogling. Clockwise shoogling.’ A breath. ‘Come on Roberta, you can do this.’ She poked Logan in the shoulder. ‘Eyes. And keep them closed.’

He scrunched them shut. ‘OK.’

She folded the duvet back on top of him, then there was some grunting.

The handcuff around his wrist twisted. ‘Ow, ow, ow, ow!’

‘You think that’s bad?’ Her weight settled on top of him, one knee on either side. ‘How do you think I feel?’

He slapped his hand over his eyes as well, just in case.

‘I swear Laz, if you get a stiffy during this—’

‘Just get on with it.’

‘Deep breath, Roberta. Think of Natalie Portman.’ Then the thrusting started. Back and forward. Harder. Making the frame creak. Then Steel added a side-to-side thrust of the hips, getting the bed to make little circles. Harder and faster.

Logan pulled his head further into the pillow, out of the way of anything that might be swinging about up there.

Creaks, groans, pinging noises, grunting.

This would be a really bad time to be rescued.

Ping, creak, groan, grunt, then thumping joined the mix. Probably the bed’s legs banging on the scarred, piddled-on floorboards. Her voice was laboured, squeezed out between breaths as she kept on grinding. ‘Try now!’

Oh God. Don’t look. Don’t look.

He slipped his hand back beneath the bed, feeling for the nut.

The whole thing rocked and wobbled, joints opening up and closing with each thrust. Be lucky if he didn’t lose a finger.

The nut was cold and hard in his hand. Logan grabbed it. Squeezed. Twisted... ‘Come on!’

And it gave. Not much, but a tiny twist. Again. As long as he timed his turn with the right point in the rotation the nut loosened. Again. And again. And again. ‘It’s coming! Yes! It’s coming!’

Then it wasn’t coming any more. The nut jolted out of his grasp and the whole side of the bed collapsed as he snatched his hand out of the way.

‘You wee beauty!’

‘Ow...’ If anything it was even more uncomfortable than being handcuffed to the unbroken bed. Now the whole frame was out of alignment and the cuff around his wrist and ankle were pulling him apart.

Steel scrambled off him. ‘Keep those sodding eyes shut.’ Then there was more grunting and groaning. But thankfully no thrusting. ‘Come on... Aggggghhhhhh... Break you wee—’

Clang .

And the other side of the bed collapsed too.

‘Woo-hoo!’

The scuff of bare feet on floorboards. Then she let go of his hand. ‘Right, I need you to sit up.’

Logan did as he was told, struggling in the darkness, dragging the headboard with him.

‘Keep going. Forwards. Grab your ankles.’

‘This better not be more kinky stuff.’

‘Just do it.’ Then another bout of grunting as the headboard shifted. ‘Going to wedge the bars over the corner post... There you go. Might want to grit your teeth for this bit.’

‘What? What are you— Aaaaagh!’ Pain ripped through his wrist as the handcuffs tried to bend it in a way it really hadn’t evolved for.

‘One more go.’ A grunt.

‘Are you trying to kill me?’

Then a ping rang out and the pressure on his wrist disappeared.

Logan risked a peek. She’d used the corner post as a lever to snap one end of the bar out of place. And now the handcuffs were free. He shut his eyes again before he saw anything else.

‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I’m a sodding genius !’ Steel slapped him on the back. ‘Told you I’d get us out of here. Now we do the same crowbar trick with the footboard, and we’re good to go. Brace yourself.’

Groan. Strain. Ping .

Logan slid backwards down the mattress.

They were free. Naked and still handcuffed together, but at least they weren’t attached to that bloody bed any more.

‘OK, you can look now.’ Steel stood and raised her free hand like the Statue of Liberty. The duvet cover was wrapped around her in a makeshift toga. ‘Tres stylish, nes pa?’

‘I feel like a complete dick.’ Two floral pillowcases, tied together, didn’t make a great loincloth, but it was better than nothing.

‘Look on the bright side — I can’t see yours, so we’re good to go.’ She paused to nudge Alec Hadden with her foot. ‘We’ll be back for you, Chuckles. Don’t get too comfy.’

As if that was possible, lying on a wooden floor, trussed up with chains.

Logan led the way over to the door, the other handcuff dangling from his ankle — scrapping along the boards.

‘Hoy!’ Steel hit him. ‘What did I tell you about shoogling and these sodding cuffs?’

He closed his eyes. Counted to three. ‘Fine.’ Then took her hand again. ‘OK?’

She looked down at their hands, then up at his naked torso, then down at his makeshift loincloth and the pale, pasty legs poking out underneath it. ‘Don’t think George Clooney’s got much to worry about.’

Why bother?

He opened the door. Peered out. A stairway reached down two storeys, new looking, with magnolia walls and framed prints of wildflowers. That would make this an attic conversion then. Another doorway opened off the small landing on a room crowded with boxes.

Steel sniffed. ‘What if there’s another one of him?’

‘Think they might just have heard us destroying the bed.’

Down the stairs, carpet soft and warm underfoot. A window looked out on the back garden. A whirly washing line sat in the middle of a square of green, heavy with clothes. Their clothes. Getting dark out there, the sky heading from clear blue to navy.

First floor. Three white-panelled doors led off the landing.

‘Shhh!’ Steel stopped, head cocked to one side as something growled. ‘Starving.’ She pointed downstairs. ‘Kitchen — food. Then out the back door and get our sodding clothes.’

‘Think you can keep your stomach in check for five minutes while we get dressed? Not that much to ask, is it?’

‘Hungry.’ She straightened her toga. ‘And in case you’re wondering: Detective Chief Inspector still outranks Detective Sergeant.’

‘Detective Inspector .’

‘Acting Detective Inspectors don’t count.’ She took a step down the stairs, hauling him with her. ‘You want to play with the big girls? Get a proper promotion.’

God’s sake...

He followed her down to the ground floor. Didn’t really have any option with his wrist still cuffed to hers. Holding hands as if they were on some sort of horrible, deviant date.

The kitchen lay at the end of the hallway — a pristine expanse of shiny tiles, stainless steel, and polished-wooden work surfaces.

Steel made straight for the fridge. ‘Sandwich would do... Oh.’ Her shoulders drooped. ‘All they’ve got is a carton of fake butter and an onion. And that doesn’t look too fresh.’

Logan stretched out an arm and opened the bread bin. Pulled out a loaf of sliced white and dumped it on the counter next to the toaster. Stuck a couple of slices in and pushed down the handle. ‘OK? You happy now?’

She sniffed. ‘Think if you’re going to abduct someone, the least you could do is get a bit of cheese in. Some smoked ham. Few eggs.’ Steel grabbed the butter and clunked the fridge shut again. Tried one of the cupboards. ‘Pot Noodle would do at a push.’