Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

A shrug. ‘I just. .’ Don’t tell her the truth! ‘I just wondered what I’d do if it was me.’

‘You can either take the money, or you can be a moaning big girl’s blouse. After what that rancid old bastard did, his debt to me’s never going to be paid off. At least this way we got something .’ She dumped the spoon in the dishwasher, then screwed the lid back on the final resting place of Desperate Doug MacDuff.

Logan peeled off his jacket and draped it over the end of the bed, hiding Samantha’s charts, then wriggled out of his tie. ‘It’s like a furnace in here.’

She pulled the duvet up under her arms and settled back into the pillows. ‘Don’t whinge. Did you bring it? ’

He leaned forward and dug in the jacket pocket, coming out with Chalmers’s carrier bag. The book went on the bedside cabinet, next to the bottles of Lucozade and tattoo magazines. ‘Chalmers gave me a copy of Witchfire in the pub. I thought she was coming on to me.’

‘Ha!’ Samantha’s voice fell to a featureless monotone: ‘That’s because you’re so damn sexy us women just can’t keep our hands off you. Ooh, you stud you. Etc.’

‘You can be a sarcastic sod at times, you know that, don’t you? ’ He went into the other carrier bag — the one stashed underneath his seat — and produced a tin of Stella. Still cold from the off-licence. The ring clicked off. ‘You want one? ’

‘Can’t. Medication.’

Fair enough. The beer fizzed and crackled its way down, cutting through the thin layer of grease left behind after the fish and chips. ‘Steel thinks I should take Wee Hamish’s money.’

Samantha tilted her head to one side and stared at him. ‘Have you put on weight? ’Cos you’re looking a bit chunkier than usual.’

‘You know, there are other women out there. Women who might appreciate a thoughtful boyfriend like me.’

‘Why are fat people always so touchy? ’ Samantha picked up the copy of Witchfire . ‘So? Are you going to take the cash? ’

‘I’m not fat. Steel says it doesn’t really matter where it comes from, what matters is what you do with it.’

‘Kinky.’ Samantha peeled the stickers off the book’s front cover and dotted them onto her face. Now her forehead was ‘SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE!’ and her left cheek was ‘2 FOR?10!’ She puffed out her cheeks and dumped the book in her lap. ‘I’m bored.’

‘How can I take money that’s come from running protection rackets, drugs, Post Office jobs, prostitution. .? ’

‘Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored.’

Typical. Might as well be talking to himself. Logan took another sip of beer. ‘What happened to that Stephen King I bought you? ’

Samantha’s shoulders slumped. ‘CD player’s knackered.’

‘Then get your arse better and come home.’

She smiled. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? ’ She flipped Witchfire over in her hands and frowned at the back for a bit. Then cleared her throat.

‘“Belief can get you killed.

Forbes St John is one of the most powerful and feared men in England: leader of the Holy Inquisition, fourth in line to the throne. So what’s he doing lying on his back in a condemned council estate in central Scotland, with his chest ripped open and his heart torn out?

It’s 1999, two and a half centuries since a captured Charles III was beheaded in Edinburgh, bringing an end to the Act of Union. As Scotland’s ruling body — the Kirk — prepares to celebrate the 250th anniversary of Headsman’s Day, the last thing it needs is a diplomatic war with its militant Catholic neighbour.

Rowan Knox, one of the Kirk’s elite Fingermen, will have to catch St John’s killer without anyone finding out he’s been murdered. But that might be the least of her problems. Talk of dark magic, demons, and witches is rife in the inner cities, children are disappearing, and the police are powerless to help.

The darkness is gathering, and Rowan is the only one standing in its way. And if she doesn’t move fast, it’ll tear her to shreds.”’

Samantha shrugged. ‘Sounds OK.’ She tossed it into his lap. ‘Read to me.’

‘Do I look like Jackanory ? ’

‘But I’m bored .’

‘Then you read it.’

She crossed her arms, thumped back into the pillows. ‘Thought the whole point of getting the book was you finding out what Agnes Garfield was up to? ’

Sodding hell. ‘Fine.’ He picked the thing up. ‘Acknowledgements. Writing any book is a labour of love, and-’

‘Don’t be a prat, no one reads that bit. Start at the beginning.’

He flipped forward a couple of pages.

‘And do the voices.’

So this was what it was like to have small children.

He took another sip of Stella. ‘Chapter one.

“The old woman’s hands left bloody smears across the cloth as she smiled from the kitchen door. The whole place stank of meat and lavender and cats, of rendered fat and fear and rubbing liniment.

She dropped the cloth on the coffee table, amongst the jars and bottles. ‘Now, are you sure he doesn’t want an anaesthetic, dear? It’s-’”’

‘You’re not doing the voices!’

It was going to be a long night.

Logan eased back into the room with a mug of tea from the nurses’ station in one hand and a couple of pilfered custard creams in the other. He settled into his seat. ‘Quarter past ten, and it’s like Night of the Living Dead out there. All oldies shuffling about in their slippers wanting to eat people’s brains.’ He dunked a custard cream then sooked off the rind of mushy biscuit. ‘Where were we? ’

‘Mrs Shepherd just necklaced Thomas Leis. Crazy psycho bitch that she is.’

He put his tea and biscuits down on the bedside cabinet and picked up the book again. ‘It’s all a bit. . violent , isn’t it? ’

‘Don’t be such a wimp. Read.’

‘One more hour, then that’s it. Some of us have work tomorrow.’

The nurse with the thick eyebrows and tufty black moustache checked Samantha’s chart. ‘I think it’s sweet that you’re reading to her. Wish I could get Benny to read to me. He’s like a slug when he gets home, just slithers up onto the couch and that’s him for the night. One day I’m going to snap and tip a whole carton of salt over him.’

Logan stretched the knots out of his back. ‘Well, she can have another couple of chapters, then I’m off. Crime doesn’t solve itself.’

The nurse smiled, kissed him on the cheek — the fine hairs on her top lip tickled — then left them alone.

Samantha rolled her eyes. ‘I know, I know: you’re a stud-muffin.’

‘Do you want more book or not? It’s twenty to twelve, I can just go home.’

No reply.

‘Thought so.’ He picked the book up again, skim-reading to where they’d stopped. ‘Right:

“His screams echoed around the tiny bathroom, each wave building on the last — deafening and harsh.

Rowan took a handful of his collar and forced his face down beneath the filthy water again. It sloshed over the edge of the bath onto the cracked floor tiles as he bucked and wriggled beneath the surface. Panicking. Hands tied behind his back, ankles tied to the rusty taps. The only way he’d be able to escape was drown. And she was far too professional for that.

She hauled him up again and he coughed, spluttered, then retched, making the water even dirtier than before.

He sagged there, his shoulders jerking as he sobbed. ‘It wasn’t me, I didn’t know. .’

‘You see, Mr Breull, some people think the trial by water’s the easiest of the three. I mean, what’s a little water compared to trial by blood, or fire? ’