Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

A clack.

Then there was creepy stalker Beatrice ‘Mummy Issues’ Eastbrook…

Probably should get someone to look into Edward Buchan’s property arrangements too, just in case the pathetic excuse for a human being had a lock-up or an old relative’s house he was looking after. Somewhere to stash Trisha Brown where no one would hear her screaming for help.

If the Yardies didn’t have her.

Thump.

And assuming Superintendent Green didn’t get him fired first…

Logan frowned. Did he need to pee? Possibly. But that meant getting out of bed.

A huge, jaw-cracking yawn.

Unless Shuggie and Trisha really were trying to pull off a scam?

Logan rolled out of bed and stood, naked and pale, in the green glow of the clock radio. Like a scrawny version of the Incredible Hulk. He flexed his right arm a couple of times, trying to work the stiffness out of it, aggravating the bruises, then creaked open the bedroom door.

Pale light seeped through the glass pane above the front door, picking out just enough detail in the dark hallway to make the path from the bedroom to the bathroom reasonably safe. Nothing worse than standing on something sharp in the dead of…

His letterbox was open. He could see a vague glow around the edges. And then it went dark. Logan glanced up. The light still shone through the glass above the door.

He started forward.

There was something sticking through the opening — a pale shape that swelled and drooped as he watched.

‘What the hell?’

It was a condom. A big, ribbed condom. It was getting bigger. Why was there a-

He froze as the familiar sour-sweet pear-and-vinegar smell of petrol hit him. ‘Don’t you bloody dare!’

The condom gave one last droop, then fell. It hit the hall floor and bounced, petrol squiring from the open end, up the walls, across the carpet, into the coats. Logan snatched his hands over his eyes as a jet slashed across his naked chest.

‘Fuck!’

The letterbox creaked open again and a book of matches poked through.

Logan backed up. Backed up some more. Nearly fell over the unit they kept their keys on. ‘SAMANTHA!

A scratching noise.

The bastard was trying to light a match.

Scratch. ‘SAMANTHA! WAKE UP!’

Scratch.

The smell of petrol was getting stronger, the liquid starting to evaporate in the warmth.

Run into the kitchen, grab a bucket of water… He was covered in bloody petrol. When the hall went up, he’d go up with it.

‘SAMANTHA!’

Scratch.

Logan hauled open the bedroom door and nearly fell inside. Slammed the door shut again.

‘God’s sake … do you know what time it is?’ She was sitting up in bed, one eye scrunched shut, the other squinting at him. ‘What’s so-’

‘Someone’s trying to burn-’

A loud crumping WHOOOMP. The bedroom door shoved hard against Logan’s back. Blinding yellow light. Heat. Darkness.

Cough. There was something rough, scratching at his cheek. Logan blinked. Tried to shake the ringing sound out of his head. It thumped into a solid wall of wood. Ow…

Someone tugged at his arm, the motion scrubbing his face against the carpet. Pressure on his back.

‘LOGAN, GET UP!’

Orange light flickered across the skirting board. Why was he lying on the floor?

‘LOGAN!’

The pressure on his back eased.

Samantha knelt next to him, tattoos dancing across her pale skin in the shifting light. He looked up and she was naked, struggling to lift the bedroom door off him. He forced his arms under himself and shoved, fighting his way to his knees.

‘Don’t just sit there!’ She shoved at the slab of wood. ‘Help me!’

He shook his head again, but the ringing wouldn’t go away. Poland — it was just like Poland, huddled in a junkyard flat, the flames the rubble the death and destruct-

A sharp, stinging pain flashed out across his cheek. ‘Logan!’ She slapped him again. ‘Ow! Cut it out: I hear you.’

‘Then help !’

The room was filling with smoke, thick greasy clouds of grey-black, lit with that horrible crackling glow. It was roasting in here, literally, sweat beading on his arms and petrol-soaked chest…

He glanced around the side of the detached door. It was like sticking his head in an oven, a wall of hot air that made his skin tighten. The paint on the back of the door was blistered and steaming. Flames filled the hallway outside, the carpet crisping and popping, sending out gouts of choking smoke. The coat-rack crashed to the floor, burning jackets and scarves flashing like fireworks.

‘Jesus…’

Samantha shook his shoulder. ‘Do you want another slap?’

‘What? I was just-’

‘Then help me get the door back in place!’

Easier said than done. The blistered paint on the other side was too hot to touch, so all they had was the handle and the little rack Logan had bought from B amp;Q to take dressing gowns. He took hold of it, dragged in a deep breath, and stood. Smoke closed around his head, the heat making his skin itch. Like instant sunburn. He kept his shoulder to the warm wood, inching his way forward with his eyes closed.

Clunk. It hit the wall.

Shuffle sideways, breath screaming in his chest, ears nipping and painful as he forced the thing back into the empty doorway.

Logan ducked down again, still leaning against the door. Gasped in a breath. A cough rattled through him, deep heaving barks that made spots swim past his eyes.

‘Move!’

He staggered back and Samantha shoved the chest of drawers against the door, pinning it in place. She backed off a step, staring. ‘What the fuck happened? Bomb?’

Logan sank onto the carpet and coughed till he gagged. ‘…petrol … through the … the letter-’ More coughing.

A pair of jeans smacked into his chest. ‘What are … are you…’ The rest of his clothes rained down on him.

‘We’re naked and the bloody building’s on fire: get dressed.’ Logan hauled on a stripy jumper. No point bothering with socks and pants. He wriggled into the jeans. ‘Where’s my shoes?’

Samantha hauled on a Sisters of Mercy T-shirt. ‘What did you do?’

‘It’s not my fault, OK?’ He crawled across the floor to the bedside cabinet and wrenched out the top drawer, sending all the garbage he’d stuffed in there over the last God-knew-how-many years spilling out across the smouldering carpet and grabbed his phone from the mess.

Something crashed against the wall behind him.

Logan spun around. The wardrobe was tipped forward, its top edge had taken a gouge out of the wallpaper, and Samantha was hauling one of the doors off.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘This shite was expensive…’ She dragged out a black leather jacket, then the corset she’d bought online, then three pairs of thigh-length leather boots, then a black ball gown.

‘Everyone’s gone bloody mental.’ The phone bleeped at him. No signal. ‘Fucking thing!’ He switched it off, then on again… this time he got a single bar. Dialled.

‘Hello?’

He could barely hear the woman on the other end. ‘Emergency Services, which-’

‘Fire brigade!’ He rattled off the address, then made her repeat it back to him.

‘Right, you need to stay calm. I want you to get some wet towels and use them to block any gaps between your door and the floor.’

‘We’re trapped in the bloody bedroom — where are we supposed to get wet towels from?’

‘Well… You could get some jumpers or bedding or something and use that instead?’

‘Brilliant. What do you want me to do for water? Pee on them?’

‘I’m only trying to help.’

Samantha poked his shoulder. ‘Time to go.’