Close to the Bone (60 page)

All the moisture disappeared from Logan’s mouth. ‘Yesterday evening? ’

Please. . .

‘
A Morgan Mitchell.
’

He grinned. Maybe there was a God after all.

She kicked and screamed, teeth bared, snapping at the arm of the uniform dragging her off the set. Scarlet hair flashing in the movie spotlights.

Zander Clark slumped in his director’s chair, hands over his head.

The rest of the cast and crew just stared.

Insch marched over, throwing his arms in the air, shouting.

And Logan stood there, in the middle of Soundstage Three. ‘Morgan Mitchell, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure – Scotland – Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment, namely the murder by burning of one Roy Forman. . .’

Chalmers sat propped up on a barricade of scratchy NHS pillows. The bruising down the left side of her face was aubergine dark, yellows and greens just visible at the edges. An IV line disappeared into a shunt in the back of one hand, little square patches of gauze and cotton wool poking out above the neckline of her hospital gown. A faint dusting of grey coloured the skin of her shaved head, between the tie-dye bruises and scabs.

The other three beds in the ward were occupied: one woman lying flat on her back, snoring; another reading a crime novel the size of a breezeblock; one more lying on her side, shoulders quivering as she cried.

‘No, I’m fine. Never better.’ Chalmers fiddled with the nurse call button, turning it round and back again in her hand. Never quite pressing it.

‘Really? ’

She blinked. Pulled on a smile that didn’t go anywhere near her pink, watery eyes. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks. . .’

‘You got stabbed twenty times with a pricking blade, and then she tried to drown you.’

Chalmers stared at the call button. ‘I’m fine.’

The hospital’s background hum droned on, broken by the snores and choked-back tears from the other beds.

Logan laced his fingers together. ‘They’re going to invalid you out.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m. . .’ Then wiped a hand across her eyes. ‘You got over it, didn’t you. You told me. I just need to do what you did: see a psychologist. Try that “talking therapy” thing. I can get over this.’

The ward door banged open and she flinched.

An old lady in a black T-shirt and red tabard reversed into the room, pulling a trolley with tea things on it.

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘You’re not getting the choice. You take the early retirement or they instigate disciplinary proceedings. A little ambition’s a good thing, but loose cannons only work on TV and in books. People nearly died, just so you could further your career.’

Chalmers sat upright. ‘But I can—’

‘You’re done.’

‘Pffff. . .’ Logan eased back into the visitor’s chair. ‘My back is
killing
me.’ He wriggled from side to side, pushing the bruises until they snarled.

Someone had tidied Samantha’s bedside cabinets, lining up the Lucozade bottles like soldiers on parade, the stack of unread magazines perfectly centred on the veneer surface, the copy of
Witchfire
perched on top of them like a brick.

‘So, she pleaded for a bit, then she cried, and then she called for the nurse.’ He levered his shoes off and let them thump to the floor. Wiggled his toes. One of them poked through the hole in his right sock. He stuck both feet up on the bed and stifled a yawn. ‘So how was your day? ’

No reply, just the hiss of the ventilator.

‘Yeah, me too. Did I tell you Morgan Mitchell’s still denying everything? Doesn’t matter – we’ve impounded the car she was driving Friday night. It’s going to have traces of Roy Forman in it. And accelerant.’

A knock on the door, and Nurse Claire popped her head in, eyebrows up as if she’d just sat on something sharp. She slipped into the room, with one hand behind her back, the other holding a finger up to her lips.

Logan smiled. ‘Before you say anything: I need to buy more socks. I know.’

She bumped the door closed with her bum. ‘If anyone finds out, I’ll be for it, so this is just between us, OK? ’

Oh. . . If this was going to be an offer of sex, she was in for a bit of disappointment. ‘Actually, I’m—’

‘Tada!’ Claire pulled her other hand from behind her back. There was a shoebox in it with little holes poked in the side. ‘Very much
not
allowed in the hospital.’

She placed it on the bed and removed the lid. ‘She’s ten weeks old.’

A pair of beautiful blue eyes peered up at him from a little stripy bundle of fluff with impossibly large hairy ears. It opened its mouth in a silent meow.

‘Her name’s Misty, but you can call her Cthulhu, if you like.’

A kitten and a sex toy, all in one day. ‘But—’

Claire patted him on the arm. ‘You’re very welcome. And I’ve got a starter pack from the vets for you at the nurses’ station. Just make sure you take her home before anyone sees her.’ Claire checked her watch. ‘Better get back to work.’

And she was gone.

OK. So now he had a cat to look after.

Couldn’t deny that she was cute. . .

He reached in and took Misty / Cthulhu from the shoebox and settled into the chair again. She was like a little rigid ball of fur, tiny needle-sharp claws scrambling for purchase on his shirt. Not the cuddling type then.

He plonked the kitten down on the bed instead and helped himself to one of the bottles of Lucozade, twisted the top off and took a swig. It was warm, but drinkable.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Cthulhu: how did Morgan know where to burn Roy Forman’s body? Turns out that when they were bonding with the coven in Wyoming, Nichole told her all about her misspent youth in Aberdeen, including where she and her dog-murdering boyfriend used to burn the cars they’d nicked.’

Cthulhu padded her way up and down the covers, sniffing things.

Logan frowned at her. ‘No offence, but I feel like a bit of a pillock talking to a cat. I don’t care what Goulding says.’

Samantha sighed. ‘Well, it’s not her fault she can’t answer back, is it? ’

‘I suppose.’ Another scoof of Lucozade. ‘I phoned the architects, by the way. He’s getting the builders organized again. Should start sometime in the next couple of weeks.’

‘Halle-bleeding-luiah.’ She sat up in bed and picked Cthulhu up, one hand cupped beneath the pale fuzzy tummy. ‘Don’t you listen to stinky old Daddy, you’re perfectly lovely to talk to.’

A burp rattled Logan’s diaphragm. ‘Oops, pardon
me
.’

He sagged back into the chair.

‘Been a weird kind of a day. . . After all the sodding about, and the drug raids, and catching Roy Forman’s killer, the ACC says that DI’s job in Peterhead’s mine if I want it.’

Samantha stared at him, her voice jagged and brittle. ‘Congratulations.’

‘What, and spend half my life either stuck on the A90, or never seeing you? Told him I’d wait till something permanent came up in Aberdeen.’

Cthulhu did her silent mew again.

Samantha looked as if she was trying to hide a smile by nuzzling her nose into the space between the kitten’s ears. ‘What about Wee Hamish’s cheque? ’

‘Think I’m going to give it to the guys who run the soup kitchen down the Green. Roy Forman would’ve liked that, wouldn’t he? ’

‘No idea. Never met him.’ Cthulhu wriggled and meeped, until she was allowed back down onto the covers. Then Samantha reached for the copy of
Witchfire
on the bedside cabinet. ‘Come on,
Jackanory
Boy: make with the story.’

Logan loosened his tie and settled back in his seat. Opened the book. Smiled. Girlfriend, kitten, and a pat on the back. Maybe things were going to be OK after all. ‘Right, here we go:

“Above the tower block, the slate-coloured clouds crackled with lightning, followed a heartbeat later by a chest-tightening bellow of thunder. . .”’

And then, just to round off a perfect day, Cthulhu peed on the end of the bed.

Read on for an exclusive short story by

The Ballad of Manky Milne

… and that was why, on a cold night in February, Duncan Milne was up to his neck in shite. Literally. There was a small stunned pause, and then the swearing started. ‘FUCK, Jesus, fuck! Aaaaaaargh!’ Then some spitting, then more swearing.

A silhouette blocked out the handful of stars visible through the septic tank’s inspection hatch. ‘You OK?’

‘No I’m not fucking OK!’ More spitting. ‘Argh! Jesus – that tastes horrible!’

‘Aye, well … it is shite.’

Duncan ‘Manky’ Milne wiped his eyes and flicked the scummy liquid away. The smell was appalling, like a thousand jobbies marinating in a sea of wet farts. ‘Don’t tell me it’s shite, OK? I know it’s fucking shite! I’m bloody swimming in it!’ He screwed his face up and spat some more. Breaking into Neil McRitchie’s septic tank had seemed like such a good idea at the time – smacked out of their tits and jacked up on shoplifted vodka – but treading ‘water’ in a subterranean vat of raw sewage, Milne had to admit it was losing its appeal.

‘Can you see it?’

He scowled up at the dark shape. ‘Help me out!’

A pause, then, ‘But—’

‘Josie, I swear: if you don’t help me out of here I’m gonnae stab you in the fucking eye!’

‘But you’re down there anyway …’ Wheedling, putting on her ‘little girl’ voice, because she thinks it makes men squirm.

‘It’s pitch black down here. I can’t—’

‘So feel about for it! It’ll be easy enough to find. I’ll bet it floats.’

Milne spat again, trying to get rid of the aftertaste. ‘Why the hell would it float?’

Pause. ‘Well, it’s powder, it should—’

‘Oh for God’s sake. If it was bloody powder it’d be dissolved in all this crap! It’ll be wrapped in polythene. And parcel tape. Like in the movies.’ A kilo of heroin for their very own.

‘OK, so it’ll sink. You just have to feel about for it.’

‘You fucking “feel about for it”! Jump down here and see how you like it!’

‘Come on Duncan, pwease?’ She was bringing out the big guns now – the fake lisp. Silly cow. It hurt to admit it, but she was probably right – he might as well look while he was down here. Wasn’t as if he was going to get any mankier than he already was.

Grumbling and swearing, he groped about in the lukewarm liquid. Trying not to think about what was bobbing about his throat. Thank God he was six foot tall – four inches shorter and his mouth and nose would be submerged. The scum layer was warm, steaming gently all around him. Further down it got colder – between the putrid froth and the knee-deep sludge at the bottom of the tank. The sludge was slightly warm too, oozing into his nylon tracksuit and socks, filling his trainers.

Milne cursed again. A kilo of heroin would sink. And that meant he’d have to duck under the surface to get it. Not that he hadn’t already been there, having fallen head-first through the inspection hatch. But still: fuck this shite.

Gritting his teeth he waded forward, feeling for the parcel in the sludge with his feet. Nothing. ‘It’s not—’

‘Shhhh!’ Josie dropped her voice to a harsh whisper: ‘Shut up! Someone’s coming.’

He froze.

Thin light swept past the access hatch, caught in the steam rising from the rotting sewage, and then a posh accent brayed out. Jagged and angry. Very,
very
angry. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘I … I was looking for someone.’ Josie trying her ‘little girl’ voice again. Only this time there were no takers.

‘You think I don’t know what you are? Eh? Think I’m stupid?’

‘I don’t think you’re—’

‘We’ve had ENOUGH! Whores and drug addicts coming round here all hours!’

‘But—’

‘ENOUGH!’

‘You know what:
fuck you
granddad, you can—’ A muffled
thunk
and the sound of something hitting the ground: something undernourished and three months shy of her nineteenth birthday.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk
.

‘Enough …’ And then it went quiet for a bit. And then there was some crying. And then some grunting. And then scraping, like someone was being dragged— the stars were blotted out again. Milne backed away quietly until he was against the far wall of the septic tank.

Click
and a beam of cold white light leapt through the access hatch, making the milky-brown liquid glow. More grunting and then an almighty splash as the something was unceremoniously dumped in, making a tidal wave of human waste. Milne closed his mouth and his eyes and prayed for the best.

When it was over he wiped his face, and stared at the thing floating face-up in front of him.

Some fumbling and a curse and then the torch was hurled in after her, bouncing off Josie’s cheek and spinning away into the scum. It stayed lit, sinking through the layers of liquid, glowing like a firefly. Flickering. Then dying. Leaving the tank in darkness once more.

The sound of heavy lifting came from above and slowly the patch of stars disappeared.
Clunk.
And they were gone. Milne and Josie were entombed.

Two days was a long time to spend trapped in a septic tank, especially when the shakes started to set in. Coming down from a heroin buzz to the depths of cold turkey – making him sweat and shiver, even though the liquid waste was just warm enough to steam. To start with he’d held Josie close, like a child would its teddy bear, but then she started to smell worse than the sewage and he’d been forced to push her to the far side of the tank. Wedging her under the inlet valve so she stayed beneath the surface.