In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  Call it one and a half loads to the charity shop, one to the tip… ‘Maybe three o’clock? Four? Depends on the traffic.’

  From where he stood there was a great view of the tailback grinding up to the Mugiemoss Roundabout. The snow might have stopped, but everyone was still driving like they’d forgotten their Zimmer frame.

  Steel’s voice got all muffled. ‘He’s saying about four-ish. … What?… OK.’ Then she was back at full volume again. ‘Susan says it’s roast chicken and dumplings.’

  ‘Look, I can’t promise anything, I’ve still got all this—’

  ‘No excuses. You’re seeing your kids whether you like it or no’.’

  He clunked the boot shut. ‘If I turn up and the pair of you sneak off to the cinema, I will not be happy.’

  ‘Oh come on, we only did that one time.’

  ‘One time? What about when you disappeared to Edinburgh for the night? Or when you went to see Rigoletto? Or Cats? You invited me round for a barbecue then tiptoed away to see Bill Bailey at the Music Hall, remember that?’ He stamped back into the caravan.

  ‘Well, maybe no’ one time, but—’

  ‘I am not your unpaid emergency babysitter.’ He grabbed another box of clothes.

  ‘Come on Laz, don’t be a big whinge. Going to be a lovely evening – good food, family. Do you the world of good. Might even have a knees-up round the old piano, so Jasmine—’

  ‘OK, I’m hanging up now.’

  ‘You’re such a—’

  He hung up, braced the box against the doorframe, and stuck the phone in his pocket.

  Honestly, the woman was a nightmare.

  The box of clothes snagged on the lip of the boot, but he put his shoulder to it and forced it past the black rubber strip. One more box to go.

  Mind you, it might be nice to see the kids again. Make sure they were OK. And Susan did cook a damn tasty roast chicken.

  Yeah, why not.

  Even having to put up with Jasmine practising for her grade three piano might not be so bad. At least it’d be more than wonky scales and tortured nursery rhymes this time.

  He closed the car boot and headed back inside.

  That CLAN charity shop in Dyce was probably the best bet – cut along the back way, past where the paper mill used to be, across the road, under the dual carriage way and through the housing estate. At least that way…

  Logan froze.

  A noise came from the open doorway to the living room. Like something had fallen over.

  But it was all in boxes. There was nothing left to fall over.

  He stepped through into the room.

  29

  A blur in the corner of his eye, then someone slammed into Logan’s side. They crashed into the caravan wall and bounced. Then banged against the wall again.

  A thick hand grabbed at Logan’s face, grinding it into the wallpaper as a fist battered into his ribs. Once. Twice. Three times.

  Then the room flipped – ceiling, carpet, then ceiling again.

  Logan smashed onto the floor.

  Lay there, flat on his back, struggling to haul in a breath. Fire ripped up and down his side where the punches landed.

  Argh…

  A weight landed on his chest, cutting short the jagged breathing, and when he opened his eyes there was a man sitting on him – knees pinning Logan’s arms to his sides. A wee man, with big blonde sideburns and a wide greasy smile. Captain ABBA, AKA: Eddy Knowles.

  ‘Not so big now, are you?’ Eddy’s fist jabbed forward, cracking into Logan’s cheek, bashing his head off the carpet. Another.

  Logan thrashed, legs kicking out. ‘GET OFF ME!’

  The next punch brought searing yellow blobs and a high-pitched whine riding on a wave of frozen barbed wire.

  ‘GET OFF, YOU WEE—’ Logan’s head snapped hard to the left, lips burning. Hot copper and salt seeped across his tongue.

  Eddy Knowles sat back, reached behind him, and pulled out an eight-inch hunting knife. ‘Remember this?’ He held it in front of Logan’s eyes, twisting it so the blade caught the light. ‘Jonesy and Al say, “Hi,” by the way.’

  A knife. Why did it have to be a knife?

  Knots twisted in Logan’s stomach as the scar-lines cried out in protest.

  ‘Gnnnt ffffmmm…’ Mouth wasn’t working. Everything tasted of blood.

  The knife traced its way down Logan’s cheek, cold and scratching – not deep enough to break the skin.

  ‘Shame it had to turn out like this. But, well, you know what Reuben’s like when he gets an idea in his head.’

  ‘Gnnnnnfffffmmmm…’

  Captain ABBA swam in and out of focus.

  DON’T JUST LIE THERE, DO SOMETHING!

  What?

  What the hell was he supposed to do?

  ‘Was only a warning last night. A wee something to show you who’s boss. But Reuben’s changed his mind again.’ He leaned forward. ‘Nothing personal, but I got to make an example of you.’ Eddy placed the knife against the skin under Logan’s eye. ‘You understand.’

  ‘Fffffk yyyu.’

  ‘Yeah, not so much.’ The knife rose into the air, point down.

  Logan grabbed two handfuls of Captain ABBA’s buttocks and heaved, digging in with his heels, thrusting his hips upwards in a desperate parody of a sexual act. Trying to not get screwed.

  Eddy’s eyes went wide as he lurched forwards, caught off balance, sprawling on top of him.

  Logan shoved him off, grabbed the back of his neck and battered his head into the carpet.

  The knife went clattering away across the floor, under the couch.

  An elbow cracked back into Logan’s ribs.

  They rolled on the floor, punching, gouging, snarling. Bang into the wall beneath the window. A rain of ornaments crashed down around them.

  A fist cracked into Logan’s jaw. He rammed his forehead into Eddy’s nose.

  Grunting, swearing.

  His leg caught the edge of the couch, sending it scraping back across the floor, exposing the knife.

  Eddy Knowles lunged for it, blood spattering down from his broken face.

  And Logan grabbed the first thing he could find – a solid lump of plastic and rock – and swung it at Eddy’s head.

  Thunk.

  He stuttered forward. Then snatched the knife up. Twisted around.

  Thunk.

  His head battered sideways.

  Thunk.

  The blade flashed out, leaving a searing line across Logan’s stomach.

  ‘AAAAAAGH…’ Logan swung the snowglobe again, teeth bared.

  Thunk.

  Thunk.

  Thunk.

  And Eddy wasn’t moving any more.

  Logan slumped back against the wall, fingers fluttering at the front of his T-shirt. Red seeped through the slashed fabric of his hoodie.

  Not again. Please, not again.

  He unzipped it to the point where the knife had cut clean through and peeled the sides apart. A dark-scarlet line stretched across his stomach, joining up several of the puckered ghosts of another knife.

  Please…

  Logan prodded the wound, wincing. It had broken the skin, but that was about it. A lot of blood, but not too much damage.

  He closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

  Thank God.

  Deep breaths. Not dead. Not dead yet.

  He opened his eyes again.

  Eddy Knowles lay twisted on his side, mouth hanging open, eyes staring off into the corner. The knife rested in his open hand, its tip buried in the carpet. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

  Oh no.

  Logan looked down at the blunt weapon, lying beside him, and picked it up again. It was the snowglobe of The Frighteners. The chunk of genuine New Zealand rock was smeared with dark red. Stained clumps of hair stuck to the rough surface.

  No.

  He dropped it and it rolled away,
snow falling, the crypts giving up their ghosts.

  No, no, no, no, NO!

  ‘Don’t be dead, don’t be dead…’ Logan scrambled across the dusty carpet and pressed two fingers against Eddy’s throat, just below the ear. The skin was slick with scarlet. No pulse.

  ‘BASTARD!’ He shoved him over onto his back, clenched both hands together in a single fist and pressed down on the breastbone. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand.

  Nothing.

  Logan tilted the guy’s head back and pinched the twisted mass of bloody gristle masquerading as a nose, sealing the nostrils. Took a deep breath, covered Eddy’s mouth with his own and blew. Went back to the chest compressions. Another breath. Compressions. Breath. Compressions…

  Then sat back on his haunches.

  The body lay there, motionless, spread out on the floor.

  Logan grabbed the lip of the toilet bowl, hunching his back as his stomach tried to turn itself inside out. Retching and heaving until there was nothing coming out but bitter reeking strings of yellow bile.

  His hands left sticky scarlet smears on the porcelain.

  He was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed. Never mind standing there, doing nothing to stop Tony Evans getting murdered, he’d killed someone.

  Killed them.

  Jesus.

  The caravan floor creaked beneath Logan’s feet as he paced back and forth, between the bedroom and the living room. The not living room. The death room.

  Oh dear Jesus.

  The water was cold, sputtering from the tap in the bathroom, sending pink spiralling down the sink. So cold it burned.

  Logan scrubbed with the soap, working it into a bloody froth.

  Something heavy was sitting on his chest – didn’t matter how hard he breathed, he couldn’t get any oxygen into his lungs.

  Why wouldn’t it wash away?

  He dragged a hand towel from the box in the hall and folded it lengthways a couple of times then pressed it against the slash across his stomach. Hunched over the kitchen worktop, pushing it into his skin.

  A thick strip of fabric, ripped off an old sheet, made a bandage to hold it in place.

  Logan folded forward until his cheek rested on the cool worktop.

  He could do this.

  He could.

  He had to.

  Eddy Knowles lay spread out in front of the couch, one arm up reaching above his head as if forever frozen in the middle of hailing a taxi.

  Sodding bastarding hell.

  Well, it wasn’t as if he’d have got up and walked off, was it?

  Logan grimaced. Smelled like a butcher’s shop in here.

  The body’s forehead was lumpen and dented on one side, nearly caved in. Around his head, the carpet was dark and wet – glinting in the cold afternoon light that filtered in through the grubby windows.

  Logan’s eyes widened. What if someone looked in? What if someone saw him?

  He picked his way across the living room, inching his way around the stain.

  God, there was a lot of blood.

  The curtains rattled as he dragged them shut.

  Cold water spilled down his chin as he drained the glass. Then filled it again, standing in the galley kitchen. The glass clicked and skittered against the stainless-steel draining board, threatening to jerk free of his hand.

  Call the police.

  They’d understand, wouldn’t they? It was self-defence, he didn’t have any choice. The guy had a dirty big knife and orders to make an example of him.

  Yeah, because no one would ask why, would they? They wouldn’t want to know what a gangster was doing with orders to carve Logan into little chunks. Wouldn’t impound the car. Wouldn’t do a thorough search.

  What’s this under your passenger seat, Sergeant McRae? Why it’s an illegal handgun, and it appears to have been fired recently. Who have you been shooting, Sergeant McRae?

  That would end well.

  Logan raised the trembling glass to his lips and drank.

  Didn’t matter how it ended, it was what had to happen. He’d killed someone.

  He let out a long jittery breath.

  Or maybe there was another way? Go out to the car, get the gun, come back and put a bullet through his own head. Bang. Every problem solved with one squeeze of the trigger. No more worry. No more guilt. No more grief. No more—

  The doorbell rang out loud and sharp in the cold air.

  Too late.

  Logan lowered the glass.

  Should have phoned the police when he had the chance.

  He wiped a hand across his chin, getting rid of the water. Deep breath. Hauled his shoulders back. Then answered the door.

  But it wasn’t a concerned neighbour who’d witnessed everything, or a uniformed officer with a warrant for his arrest. It was John Urquhart.

  His face was flushed and shiny, beads of sweat trickling down his cheeks. ‘Oh thank … thank God…’ Urquhart folded over, grabbed his knees and panted. ‘Thought I’d… Argh… Had to abandon the … the car at … Tesco and leg it…’ A coughing spasm rippled through him and he abandoned his knees to clutch at the doorframe. ‘Traffic…’

  Logan looked over his shoulder at the car park. A familiar, dented Transit van sat next to his manky wee Punto.

  ‘Mr McRae, you need … you need to get … to get out, OK?’ Urquhart peered up at him. ‘Reuben’s sent someone … someone to kill… Oh.’ A frown. He pointed at Logan’s face. ‘Is that blood?’

  He pushed past, into the caravan. A pause, then the sound of swearing belted out from inside.

  Logan found him in the living room, hands on his hips, staring at the body on the floor.

  Urquhart got to the end of his rant and sagged. Shook his head. Glanced back at Logan. ‘I know this probably isn’t what you want to hear, but I’m impressed, dude. Eddy?’ He nudged the body’s leg with a shoe. ‘He’s killed six guys I know of. Cut the nose right off one of them, and posted it to his wife. Mind you, she was running a drug ring in Cults, so, you know.’ As if that made it all right.

  ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘You accidentally battered his head into the carpet? Nah, credit where it’s due, Mr McRae. I thought you’d be…’ A shrug. ‘Nice to see you’re still alive.’

  Logan leaned back against the wall. His knees wouldn’t work properly. The guilt was too heavy for them.

  ‘Mind you, that’s some lump you’ve got there.’ Urquhart pointed.

  ‘Where?’ He reached up and brushed his fingers across the hair above his ear. A bump the size of a Creme Egg throbbed as he touched it. His fingertips came away red and sticky. ‘Oh.’

  The ringing noise got louder. Was someone else at the door?

  Why didn’t Urquhart answer it?

  ‘Mr McRae? Are you OK?’

  Only it wasn’t the doorbell, was it? It was inside Logan’s head.

  ‘Mr McRae?’ Urquhart didn’t seem to cross the intervening space. One second he was standing over Eddy and the next he was standing over Logan. Looking down.

  How did he end up on the floor?

  Logan blinked. Shook his head. It only made the ringing worse.

  Urquhart squatted down. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

  Three … no four fingers swam in front of his face. ‘Four?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s probably a concussion.’

  Oh good.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you onto the sofa.’ Urquhart hauled him up by the armpits and walked him over to the mildewed couch. Lowered him down. Then produced a hipflask from an inside pocket and held it out. ‘Here.’

  Logan fumbled with the cap and took a swig. Sweet fire spread down his throat and across his stomach.

  Urquhart took it back, wiped his palm across the neck and took a jolt of his own. ‘It’s all going to hell, Mr McRae. All going to hell. Reuben’s…’ He settled on the arm of the couch. ‘Remember those meetin
gs I had to set up? Didn’t go well.’

  ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘Reuben got into a fight with Ma Campbell’s representative. Hacked off both his hands and sent him home with them in a Jiffy bag. The whole thing’s racing to rat-shit in a handbasket. Going to be war.’ He sniffed, curled his top lip. ‘Man, it stinks in here.’

  …

  ‘…you OK?’ Urquhart was right in front of him again, peering into his eyes.

  ‘Get off me.’ Logan pushed him away, but there wasn’t any force to it.

  ‘What you doing here anyway? Having a clear out?’

  ‘It’s all going to the charity shop. Or the tip.’ Logan’s stomach took a lurch to the left. ‘The person who owned it died.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’ He looked around. ‘Nothing here you want to keep? You know, sentimental value and that?’

  Saliva flooded his mouth. He swallowed. Shuddered. ‘Think I’m going to be sick again.’

  ‘Yeah, come on, let’s get you on your feet.’

  Dry heaves crashed through him like a punch in the stomach, leaving him coughing and gagging over the open toilet bowl. He spat out another glob of foul yellow bile.

  Urquhart sat on the edge of the bath, one leg swinging back and forward. ‘Course, we can’t really leave Eddy lying there. And we can’t call it in. You imagine how much trouble that’d bring?’

  Another heave. Logan’s fingers dug into the blood-smeared porcelain.

  ‘Nah, we’ll have to get rid of him. Still, not to worry, wouldn’t be the first, won’t be the last.’ He gave a short, snorted laugh. ‘That’s the great thing about pigs: always hungry. It’ll be fine.’

  Logan rested his forehead against the cool toilet rim. ‘No. No pigs. We can’t… Oh, God.’ More bile. The retch echoed back at him, amplified by the bowl.

  ‘It’s OK. Don’t sweat it. You don’t want Eddy going pigward, that’s cool with me. You’re the boss.’

  He spat. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then flushed the toilet.

  The rushing water pulled in cool air, chilling the sweat on the back of his neck.

  ‘You all right to stand, Mr McRae? Need help?’

  ‘I’m fine…’ No he wasn’t. Logan pulled himself up the side of the bath, holding on to it until the world settled down a bit. Then wobbled over to the sink and splashed water on his face. Rinsed out his foul-tasting mouth.