Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

She stood there, staring furiously at the carpet for a moment, then turned on her heel and pushed past Logan and out into the hall. Logan froze, looking from the inspector’s thunderous expression to PC Nosebleed, thought better of asking, and hurried out after Jackie, closing the door behind him as another tirade of abuse began.

She was almost at the stairs by the time he caught up with her. ‘You want to fill me in?’

‘What the hell is wrong with everyone?’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Then she started marching off again. ‘A woman’s been raped and he’s making jokes!’

‘So you clobbered him? Jackie, if he makes a complaint you’re going to get carpeted.’

‘One fucking night we’re not watching Macintyre …’

Logan grabbed her. ‘Where, what happened?’

She yanked her arm free of his grip. ‘Wendy Smith. Student nurse. She was eighteen. Finished her shift and Macintyre jumped her. Only this time the bastard beats and cuts her so badly she’s lost the sight in one eye. Her face looks like fucking strips of liver! Three hundred stitches! Threehundred! The people she worked with in A amp;E couldn’t even recognize her, and he gets a seven-figure book deal!’

‘Where? Where did it happen?’

‘Dun-fucking-dee. Same as usual. The little shite-’

‘Then it’s not him.’

‘Of course it’s him!’

‘IT CAN’T BE HIM!’ Losing it. Clenching his teeth to try and calm down. ‘We were there last time — remember? All night! He was at home when the last girl was raped: it’s on the video!’

‘It was him.’ She turned and made for the stairs.

‘How? How can it be him?’

‘It’s him!’

This was pointless — like arguing with his mother — she was never going to admit she was wrong. Logan let her go.

There was no way he was going straight home — not if she was in that kind of mood — so when the shift was over Logan asked if anyone wanted to go to the pub. No takers, not even Rennie.

‘Rehearsals. Come along, it’ll be fun. John’s coming, aren’t you?’

Rickards nodded happily. ‘I’m prompting.’

‘Oh, well … Don’t worry about it. I’ll go see a film or something.’

‘No, come!’ Rennie made various theatrical gestures. ‘And then we can go get that curry we were talking about — lads’ night out!’

Logan shrugged: why not?

They marched up Union Street, with Rennie babbling on about how some plot in East Enders was a parable for Othello .

‘So,’ said Rickards when Rennie managed to shut up for thirty seconds, ‘you got cornered by Tina last night.’

‘Tina?’ It took Logan a moment to figure out who he meant — Mrs Bottoms Wield The Power. ‘Yeah … she’s a little … intense .’

‘Yup, that’s our Tina. They’re not all that bad you know. She’s just a bit evangelical about the whole thing. Husband left her for a dental hygienist and she’s been on this self-empowerment trip ever since. Last year we got dragged along to see her in some bloody awful pantomime.’

‘Yeah, she said.’ They stopped at the lights on Union Terrace and watched the traffic grumble past. The day’s warmth was long gone and a cold wind whistled up Bridge Street, sending an old newspaper flapping drunkenly into the air like a dying seagull.

‘Be surprised how many people do both, you know: the scene and performing. Always thought about giving it a try myself. That’s how come I’m prompting. Next year-’

‘Hang on a second…’ Logan’s phone was ringing. According to the caller ID it was R TULLOCH — DPF. He stood, staring at the illuminated display as it rang, debating whether to take the call or pretend to be busy. Not really wanting to do either.

Rennie: ‘You going to answer that then?’

He’d speak to her. It wasn’t fair not to. He … the ringing stopped — it’d gone through to voicemail.

Now he’d have to ring her back. ‘Shite.’ He dialled in and checked his messages. There was some hissing and clicking, then one from his mother he’d been avoiding for nearly a week — he skipped it; one from DI Steel about some stolen office equipment; and last but not least:

‘ Hi, Logan? It’s me … er … Rachael. Look, I had a good time the other night and I wanted to know if … ’ the volume dropped, as if she was muttering to herself. ‘ Bloody hell, this was easier when I thought about it in the car … Look: dinner, tomorrow night. I’m making something scary out of an old Delia Smith book. Make it half-six, and you can keep me going with wine while I cook .’ A pause, then she remembered to leave him the address and hung up.

Logan’s thumb hovered over the ‘delete’ button; now he had to call her back. ‘Fuck, fuck … fuck.’

Rennie smiled at him. ‘Good news?’

‘Shut up.’ Logan stuck the phone back in his pocket, message intact, and trudged away to Insch’s rehearsal. Maybe a bit of very amateur dramatics would make returning Rachael’s call a bit easier. Or maybe he was just being a spineless bastard.

He knew which one his money was on.

… and his eyes flickered open in the darkness, the dream coming to a sudden halt. Logan screwed up his face and peered out blearily from beneath the duvet — according to the clock radio it was nineteen minutes past four. No wonder it was cold: the heating had been off since half eleven.

He stuck a hand out, feeling along the mattress for Jackie, finding nothing but a deep-frozen expanse of bed. Still not home yet. No change there then, she was never … A noise from the hall — probably the same one that had woken him — someone fiddling with the flat’s front door. Cursing quietly, he shivered out of bed, grabbed his trousers off the chair in the corner and pulled them on, followed by what felt like a sweatshirt, and padded barefoot out into the hall just in time to see the door swing open and a familiar figure bundle in from the stairwell. Jackie, wearing her cat burglar outfit.

She clunked the door closed behind her, trembling as she peeled off her coat and gloves and headed for the kitchen.

‘Jackie?’

She froze for a moment, not looking round, then carried on, stripping in front of the washing machine, throwing everything in — hat, scarf, jacket, gloves, shirt, trainers, trousers, underwear — then added a couple of detergent pouches and switched the thing on. The hiss of rushing water sounded in the kitchen. Arms wrapped round her pale, shivering body, she marched through to the bathroom without a word. Her knuckles were swollen and red.

‘Jackie? What’s going on?’

Click: the shower power cord was pulled, then another click and the blow heater filled the bathroom with a deep whubwhubwhoooo and the faint smell of burning dust. The light came on, and Jackie’s pale skin fluoresced white as she clambered into the bath, goosepimples disappearing behind the blue plastic shower curtain. Wafts of steam billowed out into the cold room.

Logan closed the door. ‘Jackie, what the hell happened? What’s going on?’

‘Nothing.’ Her was voice muffled by the water, curtain and noisy heater, but he could still hear the tremor in it. ‘Nothing’s happened. If anyone asks, I was here all night.’

Oh fuck …’ Jackie?’

‘All night, OK? We spent the night here. You and me.’

‘Jackie what happened?’

‘Nothing happened. I was here all night: remember?’

‘Jackie?’

No answer. He hung around but she wouldn’t say anything else. As far as PC Jackie Watson was concerned, the matter was closed.

Logan was up and out as soon as the alarm went off. They’d spent the night back to back, Jackie smelling of the large whisky she’d poured herself after her shower, Logan staring at the alarm clock’s glowing numerals. Waiting for the night to be over.