Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

‘I can’t take-’

‘Nah, seriously, no charge. Call it a karmic down-payment. Doesn’t hurt to help a fellow human being now and then, know what I’m saying?’

‘Laz?’

The world rocked forward and backwards a couple of times. ‘Laz? You in there?’

Frown. Logan screwed up his face, then mashed his fists into his eye sockets. ‘How is she?’

‘You look like a bowl of shite soup. With crap croutons.’ Steel creaked her way into the seat next to him, making it groan. Her hair stuck out in random directions on one side, flat as a pancake on the other. Wearing a turtleneck jumper and a pair of jeans. She reached over and squeezed his shoulder. ‘You OK?’

‘Samantha…’

A sigh. ‘Aye, I know. Look, you’re no’ doing her any good hanging about here like a bad smell…’ Steel sniffed. ‘And that’s no’ a euphemism, you really sodding honk.’

‘Staying here.’

‘No, you’re no’.’ She stood. ‘Come on, Susan’s making up the spare bed.’

‘I’m not-’

‘Don’t make me drag your blackened arse out of here. Be undignified. Home. Shower. A decent sleep. I’ll give you a bell soon as we hear anything. OK?’

Logan looked up the corridor, towards the intensive care unit. ‘I didn’t…’ What didn’t he? Mean for it to happen? Keep Samantha safe? Want to panic? Behave like a man?

‘Aye, I know. I know.’ Steel gave his shoulder another squeeze. ‘Come on. We’ll crack open that bottle of Isle of Jura I got for my birthday. Give it a wee seeing-to. Finnie can manage the morning briefing without me.’

He hauled himself out of the plastic chair, it seemed to take forever. ‘Can you give me a lift?’

‘’Course. I’m driving home anyway, so-’

‘No. Somewhere else.’

Steel licked her lips, glanced up and down the corridor, swallowed. ‘You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?’

‘You’re off your sodding head. This is stupid!’

Twenty past six and the sun was well on its way up a pale-blue sky. The trees were filled with birds, singing and chirping and crawing, as if everything was hunky-fucking-dory. As if this was just a day the same as any other.

‘Come on, still no’ too late to change your mind. Back to mine, couple of drams and…’

‘I’m fine.’ Didn’t feel fine. Felt like someone had hollowed out his body, leaving a brittle shell behind. Logan clambered out of Steel’s little sports car. ‘Give me a call if you hear anything.’ He closed the door, then stood there watching as she shook her head, put the MX-5 in gear, and drove off into the early morning.

As soon as she was gone, he let his face sag. Samantha’s static caravan was part of a little park on the bank of the River Don, opposite the sewage treatment works. That wasn’t the smell that pervaded everything though, it was the fatty, slightly sickening odour that came from the Grampian Country Chickens factory.

He lurched over to the door. Two gnomes, one on either side — one with horns and a forky tail, the other with halo and wings. Logan picked the devil up, flipped it over, and shook. A metallic rattling sound. He tipped the key into his palm.

Sometimes people were more predictable than they thought.

He unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Locked himself in. The skylight in the hall was a mass of green algae and clumps of moss, filtering out most of the oblivious sunshine, leaving the place shrouded in gloom. The door to the living room was open, light seeping in through the closed curtains. He could smell her. Her scent was imprinted on the place, in the carpet and furniture. He could smell it even through the acrid stench of smoke that stuck to his clothes, hair and skin.

When was the last time they’d spent a night here? Or even a couple of hours? At least five months. Probably more.

He reached out and flicked on the hall light. It blinked and buzzed, then bloomed into cold fluorescent life. So at least the power was still on.

Logan shuffled through into the small kitchen and peeled off his stinking clothes, emptied the pockets of his jeans, then stuffed everything into the washer-dryer. Found some washing powder under the sink. Set the thing going to wash and tumble dry, then sank back against the fridge and cried.

Where the hell was… Logan frowned into the gloom. The bedroom had shrunk, and the duvet smelled of mildew. He blinked. Not home. Samantha’s caravan. His mobile phone was ringing.

It took two goes to grab it off the stack of books acting as a bedside cabinet. ‘McRae.’

‘Hello, is this…’ Some rustling. ‘Er, Detective Sergeant Logan McRae? This is Dr Lewis, I’m calling about-’

Logan sat bolt upright. ‘Is she OK?’

Please let her be OK, please let her be OK. ‘Well, she’s had a very nasty fall. Samantha’s condition is what

we like to call serious, but stable. It was touch and go for a while, but she seems to be responding to treatment.’

He threw off the duvet and lurched to his feet. ‘I’ll be right up.’

There was a pause. ‘Actually, that might not be such a good idea. We’ve had to put her in a medically-induced coma-’

‘Coma…’

‘Just until the swelling in her brain comes down.’

Logan let his head rest against the cool wall of the caravan. ‘I see.’

There was more — the list of broken bones, the internal injuries, the surgery.

‘Basically, the next twenty-four hours are going to be critical, but she’s getting the best care possible.’

Logan closed his eyes. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ He hung up, then sank back onto the bed. Lay there staring at the ceiling.

Shuggie Williams and his fucking “consequences”. Samantha slamming though the flat roof three floors below. Flames screaming through the smoke above his head. That moment when she looked up and said, ‘Logan…?’ The smell of everything they had, burning. Samantha, lying in the ambulance, pale and broken. Shuggie Fucking Williams…

Logan thumped back into the musty pillow, eyes screwed shut. Then pounded his fists into his forehead. Stupid. Fucking. Useless . Moron.

Then lay there, breathing heavily.

He checked his phone again. Eleven o’clock. No way he could get back to sleep now. His head was stuffed with burning cotton wool. Everything stank of mould and smoke.

A huge spider scuttled at the sides of the bath, slipping down to the bottom, then trying to escape again. Logan turned on the shower. Watched it scrabble away from the water. Why shouldn’t the little bugger drown? Everything died. Maybe it was Mr Spider’s turn.

Sigh.

He pulled a couple of sheets of toilet paper from the roll, scooped the thing out of the bath and chucked it out into the hall.

By the time he got back to the bedroom there were three messages waiting for him on his phone. One from his mother, one from his brother, and one from Rennie. He listened to them all, then deleted the lot.

Logan dragged his clothes out of the washing machine and hauled them on. Still slightly damp. Everything he now owned was sitting on the dusty worktop: a handful of change, a packet of chewing gum that stank of smoke, his wallet, and his phone.

Shuggie Webster wanted consequences , did he? Well he was going to bloody well get them.

He stared at his mobile for a moment. Then picked it up and made a call.

‘You sure you’re OK?’ Rennie’s voice sounded as if he was trying to comfort the dying. ‘I mean, you know, is there anything I can do?’

Logan squinted out into the bright morning. ‘Yeah, you can get another GSM trace authorized.’ He read out the number Shuggie Webster had called from yesterday. ‘Let me know soon as you get anything.’ Keeping his voice flat, calm, and dead.