Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

‘Sorry.’ He watched them disappear. ‘I called Finnie a prick for you! I nearly got sodding fi red: and soon as my back’s turned-’

‘I’m up at the hospital.’ He started down the corridor again.

‘Someone has to tell Trisha Brown’s mother her wee girl’s been abducted.’

‘You could at least’ve taken Rennie!’

‘I wanted… They say I can sit with Samantha for fifteen minutes.’

A pause. ‘Fuck’s sake, Laz, I would’ve come with you. You know that. Could’ve sat in the canteen ogling nurses while you were in with her.’

‘Look, I’ve got to go.’ He hung up before she could say anything else.

The plump nurse eyed Logan up and down for the third time in as many minutes as she led him towards a curtained-off area at the far end of an eight-bed ward. It was oppressively hot in here, even though the windows were open, letting in the droning rumble of traffic and the occasional screeching wail of ambulances.

‘Now, I need you to understand that Mrs Brown isn’t to be excited.’ The nurse ran a hand across her chest, just above the massive shelf of bosom. Then checked the watch pinned to her blue top like a medal. ‘She’s not due another dose of methadone for two hours and she’s a bloody nightmare when she gets going.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

The nurse grabbed a handful of curtain and wheeched it back. Helen Brown lay on top of the covers, head back, mouth hanging open, snoring gently. No teeth. A wad of gauze was taped over one eye, the rest of her face a patchwork of bruises and stitches. Her right arm was encased in a fibreglass cast from palm to elbow, her left leg from the ankle all the way to the thigh. But her right leg came to an abrupt end at the knee, the exposed thigh stained yellow and green.

Logan winced. The attack must have been horrific. ‘They cut her leg off?’

‘About three years ago. Gangrene.’ The nurse checked the chart hanging on the end of the bed. ‘That’s the trouble with intravenous drug users. Don’t know when to stop.’ She looked up at Trisha’s mum. ‘Mrs Brown? Helen? There’s a policeman here to see you.’

A mumble. ‘Helen?’

Trisha’s mum squinted with her good eye. ‘Fuck off…’

‘Come on, Helen. What have we talked about your language?’

She struggled over onto her side. ‘Fuckin’ fat bitch. Where’th my painkillerth?’

A sigh. ‘You know you can’t get anything more till five. Now there’s a policeman here to see you; do you want a glass of water?’

‘I need my fuckin’ painkillerth! In fuckin’ agony here…’ Logan settled into the seat beside the bed. ‘Mrs Brown, my name’s Detective Sergeant McRae. I need to speak to you about Trisha.’

The nurse nodded. ‘Well, I leave you to it then.’ She stepped away from the bed and pulled the curtains closed again, shutting Logan in.

Trisha’s mum scowled at him. ‘Fuckin’ bitch never gives me anything for the pain.’

‘She was seen getting into a car on Saturday evening-’

‘Oh, here we go.’ Helen curled back her lips, exposing a pair of bruised and battered gums. ‘Just ’cos she sucks someone off in-’

‘The person in the car attacked her. She was seen being beaten.’

‘Oh…’ Helen rolled over onto her back. ‘Is she OK?’

‘We don’t know. He drove off with her still in the car.’ Silence. Helen rubbed the fingers of her good hand up and down the blanket. Then a tear rolled its way down her bruised cheek.

Logan looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry? You’re fuckin’ sorry ?’ An empty plastic tumbler bounced off Logan’s shoulder. ‘Why aren’t you out there? Why aren’t you looking for my little girl?’

‘We’re doing everything we-’

‘SHE COULD BE FUCKIN’ DEAD FOR ALL YOU KNOW! Dead. Raped in a fucking ditch! My wee Trisha…’

‘If you can think of anyone who threatened, or-’

‘And they send round a fuckin’ sergeant ? Alison McGregor gets the Chief Constable and half the pigs in Scotland, and all Trisha gets is a fuckin’ sergeant! WHAT FUCKIN’ GOOD ARE YOU?’

‘Mrs Brown, I want to assure you that Grampian Police are taking this very seriously.’

The curtains burst open and the big nurse was back. ‘What did I tell you about upsetting her?’

‘I didn’t-’

‘TRISHA!’

‘Come on Helen, quieten down: you don’t want to disturb the other patients, now do you?’

She grabbed a grey cardboard bedpan and threw it at the nurse. ‘MY WEE GIRL’S MISSING! I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR FUCKIN’ PATIENTS!’

‘We’re doing everything we can to find-’

‘You bunch of bastards. You think she’s just a junkie hoor, she’s not worth anything. SHE’S MY LITTLE GIRL!’ Helen Brown swung her fibre-glass cast at Logan’s head. ‘I’LL FUCKIN’ KILL YOU!’

He jerked back out of the way, the plastic visitor’s chair tipping over, clattering to the floor, as he stood.

‘Right, that’s enough.’ The nurse lunged, pinning Helen to the bed.

‘GET OFF ME YOU FAT BITCH! AAAAAAGH!’

‘I said that’s enough! ’ The nurse scowled up at Logan, teeth gritted. ‘I think you’d better go, don’t you?’

‘You’re looking well. No really…’ Logan squeezed Samantha’s hand. ‘Very goth.’

She didn’t look ill, there was barely a scratch on her. At least, not on the bits he could see. They’d taped her eyelids shut. A breathing tube snaked in through the side of her mouth, a pulse monitor clipped to her right index finger, an IV line plugged into a shunt on her right wrist.

‘I moved back into the caravan. Place smells worse than your dad. All mouldy…’

Wee Hamish’s flowers were sitting in a large vase on the windowsill. A vast arrangement of roses and carnations and fuzzy-white-spray-stuff and leaves and twirls of bamboo. Extravagant, but tasteful.

‘Elaine picked up all your clothes, by the way. The pants and boots and things.’ He sank forward until his head was resting against her chest, rising and falling on the swell of her mechanically-assisted breathing. ‘Fuck… I don’t know if you can hear me or not. But it’s going to be OK. I promise.’

Lying bastard.

‘Starting to think you’re stalking me.’

Logan scrubbed a hand across his eyes, kept his head facing the corner. ‘Sorry…’ It took him a couple of beats to realize where he was — a subterranean corridor, deep within the bowels of the hospital. The thrum of the ventilation system, the smell of over-boiled cauliflower and industrial floor polish.

He sniffed. Wiped his eyes again. ‘I used to wander the corridors … you know, after the stabbing. Must’ve worn out three pairs of trainers by the time they let me go home. Always ended up down here.’ Staring at four watercolours framed on the scuffed cream walls. A single landscape split over the seasons, the colours so vibrant they were surreal.

The APT moved around, peering at him, her fiery-orange hair swinging like a pendulum. ‘You OK?’

He almost laughed. ‘Been a rough couple of days.’

Silence.

‘You want a cup of tea, or something?’

‘Milk, two sugars.’ She placed a steaming mug on the desk in front of him.

Coffee. He could smell it over the bleach and formaldehyde. Over the smell of institutionalized death. ‘Thanks.’

The Anatomical Pathology Technician glanced over her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about Mrs Sawyer, it was very peaceful.’ An old lady — laid out on the cutting table, just her head and bare feet sticking out from beneath the white plastic sheet. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘No.’

A nod. ‘Well, tell you what, I’ve got something that might cheer you up…’ She was back a minute later, carrying the laptop from the other room. It went on the desk, next to Logan’s coffee, then she fiddled with the touch-pad. ‘Remember you were looking for dead girls who’d been given morphine and thiopental sodium?’