He stretches, all the knots and aches and worries of the last two weeks melted away. ‘God, I wish I still smoked.’
‘It’s not good for you, baby.’ She slips on her pants – red with wee black hearts on them – then wrestles herself into a black bra. How come bras were so difficult to put on? See if it was men had to wear them? We’d sort that shit out so it’s comfy. No twisting your arms behind your back like you’re being handcuffed by the cops. She smiles at him, and honest to God he can feel the warmth spreading through his cock again. Cos she can do that.
He adjusts himself under the duvet. ‘We got any beer?’
‘You lie there and I’ll go see.’ Mhari gets dressed: tight pink T-shirt, camouflage cargo pants, sitting on the end of the bed to pull on her socks.
‘Oh, and if there’s any of last night’s pizza in the fridge …?’
‘Course, baby.’ Soon as she’s got her boots on, she’s standing in front of the window, looking up the hill again with a strange wee smile on her face. Then Mhari nods and walks out of the room, on a mission for her man.
Her man.
God, imagine that … All the guys in the world, Mhari could have her pick, you know? And she chooses him.
He grins at the ceiling again. ‘You’re a lucky sod, Haiden.’ Has another stretch.
Lot to do today: make a video of that tit Scotty Meyrick and get it online. Think about who’s gonna be next. Who’s gonna get themselves an all-expenses-paid trip to Chest-Freezer City. Maybe that git on the Scottish Daily Post? Bet they could do something special with him. Turncoat wee bastard. How do you go from, ‘a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to seize our country from the Westminster elite, to reclaim our soul and our destiny’ to ‘independence will destroy Scotland’? Just cos some English wanker buys the paper you work for? That’s your thirty pieces of bloody silver, right there.
Oh aye, Edward Barwell could be their Judas.
Yeah, Mhari would like that.
And there she is, standing in the doorway, holding last night’s greasy pizza box in one hand and a cold tinny in the other. She’s put on her hoodie and a waterproof jacket – like it’s going to rain. No way. Forecast is balls to the wall sunshine for at least the next week. Women, eh?
She passes him the box and he opens it. Not a lot left, but enough for a post-humping snack.
‘Cheers, Mhari.’ Big mouthful of ham and mushroom with extra mozzarella, all salty and earthy. Chewing with his eyes closed, it’s that delicious. Yeah, the base is a bit soggy, but in a good way, you know? He swallows and winks at her. ‘Early morning shag, a beer, and leftover pizza. A guy couldn’t get a better girlfriend. No way. Not possible.’ Another huge bite, talking through it, ‘Mmm, think I actually love this stuff even more the next day.’
She settled on the end of the bed and looked at him, head on one side. ‘Do you think we’ve made Dad proud?’
‘Whose dad, my dad?’ He sticks his hand out for the lager and she clicks open the ring-pull, takes a wee swig, then hands it over. Gotta love Tennent’s: it tastes of school holidays and Saturdays with Mum, and fizzy happiness. ‘Oh aye. Dad hates them English bastards more than he hates his lung cancer.’ Poor old sod, lying there in his hospital bed, dying. Haiden puts the tin down. Sighs. ‘Wish I could go see him …’
‘You know you can’t do that. I told you: it’s what the police expect. The care home would tip them off soon as you walked in the door, and that would be it.’
‘Yeah …’ She was right. She was always right. Didn’t make it hurt any less, though.
She pats his leg through the duvet. ‘Besides, I passed on his messages, didn’t I? Like a good big sister?’
He polishes off the last crust of pizza and washes it down with a scoof of lager. Stuffs down the belch that comes free with it. ‘But I wish …’ Hang on a minute. ‘Big sister?’
She points at the window. ‘Come look at this.’ Then stands, makes her way over there and leans on the sill.
‘No, wait, what? I don’t have a big sister. Had a wee brother, but he drowned. They found him three days later, down the coast from here.’ All pale and wrinkled. Wee black holes where the fish and crabs had been at him.
‘Come on, Haiden. Indulge me.’
Yeah, cos how can he ever refuse her. It isn’t possible.
He wriggles out of bed, and joins her at the window, takes a sip of his tinny. Course some blokes would be self-conscious, standing there like that, stark-bollock naked with everything on show, but not him. Nah, you spend as much time in the prison gym as he had, you wanna show that bad boy off. Brad Pitt’s a podgy slob in comparison. Aye, and that’s Fight Club Brad Pitt, too.
She points up the hill, where a white Audi’s parked, blocking the track down to the cottage. ‘You see that?’
‘How come you said “big sister”?’
‘That’s the police. They’ve come to get us.’
‘The what?’ Oh sodding hell. The police. She’s right; who else would block them in like that? Any minute now they’ll be booting in the door, and it’ll be all helicopters, and dogs, and big bastards with batons and guns. Escape! Make a run for it. Go. Go. GO. ‘We’ve got to—’
Something thumps into his back. Not as hard as a punch, more like a …
Then a crackling, ripping noise and shards of white-hot glass tear through his stomach and spine. Oh God …
Mhari leans in and kisses his neck, breath warm against his skin. ‘There we go.’
Everything tastes of hot batteries and raw meat as his throat fills, little red dots on the window as the bubbles pop between his lips.
Oh God …
He grabs for the windowsill and his tin of Tennent’s bounces off the floor, spilling out its contents in a froth of white-edged gold.
‘See, Haiden, they had me too young, Mum and Dad. She couldn’t cope, so I had to go live with her sister in Canada. Then they had you and suddenly they could cope. Strange that, isn’t it? How a wee boy is more “worth the effort” than a little girl?’
Oh God …
His knees don’t work any more. They give up and he hits the carpet next to the emptying tin. Only now the carpet’s slick with red. That’s not coming from inside him, is it? It can’t be: there’s way too much of it. Can’t be him. Please. Please don’t let it be him. ‘I didn’t … It …’
‘Shhh …’ She squats down beside him and strokes his head, like he’s a puppy. ‘It’ll all be over soon. OK?’
‘Why …?’
‘I’d love to stay and keep you company, but …’ She sucks air through her teeth. ‘Police.’ A smile. ‘It’s been fun catching up, though.’ Then Mhari stands, wipes the hunting knife on the duvet cover, slips it into its sheath as she walks from the room.
‘Don’t … don’t leave … me.’
Oh God …
Haiden forces himself over onto his front and grabs at the bed’s legs – dragging himself across the sodden carpet to the door. Following her.
The back door’s open, letting sunlight spill into the kitchen.
Come on, Haiden, you can do it.
He hauls himself along the wall.
Closer.
Come on, you’re not a quitter, are you? No. You’re Haiden Bloody Lochhead!
Oh God …
Can’t feel his fingers.
Every breath stinks of raw meat.
Come on, Haiden.
Into the kitchen, inching his way across the grubby cracked lino to the open door. Getting slower with every heave. Heavier. Till he can’t move any more.
Mhari’s there – marching across the patch of grass that separates the cottage from the cliffs. Not huge cliffs, safe enough to play on with your wee brother: soldiers, storming the gun batteries. She looks over her shoulder and waves at him, then disappears, swallowed by the boiling clouds of broom and gorse.
Please don’t leave me …
But she’s gone.
And he’s all alone.
And soon he’ll be dead.
— broken promises, windows, and bones —
39
Logan stared at the dashboard display. ‘She’s his what?’
‘Sister.’ It sounded as if Jeffers was doing his best to sound all authoritative and reliable, but couldn’t pull it off. ‘The woman you know as “Mhari Powell” is Haiden Lochhead’s sister and “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead’s daughter.’
King looked from the display to Logan, mouth hanging open. ‘But … we saw her get into the car with Haiden and snog the arse off him. It was all caught on CCTV. And the visiting room at HMP Grampian. They were all over each other!’
‘We couldn’t get an exact match, because she’s not on the system, but soon as I opened the search up I found the familial ones. You see, I don’t really do DNA, I’m more of a—’
‘Fingerprint man. Yes.’ Logan reached for the button to end the call. ‘Thanks, Jeffers: you did good today.’ He hung up. ‘She’s Haiden’s sister.’
King whistled. ‘Wow. Talk about the family that plays together, lays together, and slays together.’
‘It doesn’t change anything, though.’
‘I mean, everyone knows the PASL, SPLA, SFFRF, and the rest of them were kinda incestuous, but Gaelic Gary’s kids are humping each other? No wonder we never get independence …’ King checked his watch. ‘Backup should be here by now.’ Drummed his fingers on the dashboard. ‘What if we’ve got this wrong?’
‘Then we look like a pair of idiots and the press sink their fangs in our backsides.’ Which was probably going to happen anyway. ‘Besides, where else would Haiden and Mhari be?’
‘Hmmm … How about that painting on Gaelic Gary’s wall? The stone circle. Haiden’s ex said the whole family were obsessed with stone circles.’
Dear Lord, that was stupid.
‘So, what: they’re keeping their victims in abandoned fridge freezers in the middle of a stone circle?’
‘Yeah, now you say it out loud.’ He checked his watch again. ‘Where the hell are our Thugs?’
And, as if by magic, Steel’s MX-5 appeared in the rear-view mirror. Closely followed by a pair of patrol cars – blue-and-whites flickering off as they climbed the hill. No sirens.
‘Ha!’ King faced front again. ‘OK, the cavalry has arrived. Can we go do this now?’
‘With pleasure.’ Logan put the Audi in gear and hared down the track, slithering to a halt on the parched grass in front of the rusty Mini. Scrambled out of the car with King close behind.
He tried the front door: locked.
King stuck his hand out. ‘Keys.’
‘Why would I have keys for their house? Are you—’
‘Car keys! Wheel brace in the boot, remember?’
‘Right.’ He tossed them over and King sprinted back to the Audi, popping the boot as Logan braced himself and slammed his foot into the front door, right beside the lock. The whole thing bounced and shuddered, letting loose an echoing BOOM. But it didn’t fly open.
He had another go.
Answer the phone. Answer the phone. Answer the bloody phone …
Haiden sags against the dirty linoleum. Lying on his side in a slowly expanding puddle of red.
Please, answer the phone …
Please …
Every breath is a short, spiky thing, getting colder with each gurgling lungful.
And then her voice comes from the phone’s speaker. ‘Who is this?’ Cindy.
He tries to tell her, but the only sound that comes out is the crackle of popping blood bubbles.
‘Oh very, funny. A dirty phone call with heavy breathing. Well you can take your pitiful little cock and shove it right up your—’
‘Cindy.’ Forcing the word out. ‘Cindy it’s … it’s me.’
‘Haiden.’ She says his name with all the warmth of a frozen turd. ‘What have I told you about calling me?’
A muffled boom comes from somewhere round the front of the house, but it’s too late to worry about that now. Far too late. For everything.
‘Is … is Marty … there?’
‘You threw away your visiting rights when you started seeing that Mhari bitch. You threw them away when you got arrested again!’
Tears fill his eyes, making the kitchen blur. ‘Cindy … Cindy, please.’
‘Have you been drinking?’ A sniff. ‘You know what? I don’t care. You can cry and beg and whine all you want: you’re not going to infect my son with your lies and failure and garbage.’
Another boom.
The phone slithers out of his hand, clunks onto the blood-slicked linoleum beside his head. Can’t pick it up again – his hands don’t work any more. Nothing does.
‘Please … please, Cindy …’
Her voice is faint, but still there, sneering out of the phone’s speaker ‘You’re weak. You’ve always been weak. You’re pathetic. Enjoy France, you useless bastard.’
‘Tell Marty … tell Marty … I love …’
The screen flashes ‘CALL ENDED’ at him. She’s hung up.
Hot tears roll down Haiden’s cheek, the word barely a whisper: ‘Him.’
Another boom from the front of the house, this one ringed with splintering woody noises.
Maybe it’s time? Yeah. Maybe it’s …
The frame finally gave way and the door bounced off its hinges, tumbling down into the hallway.
Logan stepped aside and King rushed the entrance, wheel brace held up, over his shoulder, as if it was an extendable baton. Ready to crack someone.
He followed, pushing through a tiny porch into a hallway-cum-living-room with tired green wallpaper and an exhausted brown couch. A saltire flag pinned up above the fireplace, a rampant lion on the wall opposite. No TV. A bookcase full of Oor Wullie and The Broons annuals. And a thick line of dark red along the carpet by the wall, emerging from the open bedroom door and disappearing into the open kitchen one.
That was a lot of blood.
King did a quick three-sixty, checking the living room. ‘Clear!’
Logan checked the bedroom – old-fashioned and dear God that was a huge puddle of blood by the window. He ducked down and checked under the bed. No one there. ‘Clear!’
‘Logan!’ King’s voice. ‘Logan it’s Haiden Lochhead! He’s been stabbed. Jesus …’
Out into the living room again.
King’s feet were visible through the open kitchen door, the soles shiny with blood. ‘Haiden? Can you hear me?’
OK, King had the kitchen; that left two more rooms. Logan threw open the door to a small bathroom – chipped enamel tub, stained avocado toilet, a threadbare towel. ‘Clear!’
The last door opened in another bedroom, this one with wooden bunkbeds, the mattresses naked and stained tobacco-brown with sweat. ‘Clear!’
He joined King in the kitchen. Wood panelling lined the walls, painted a revolting shade of spearmint green, and playing host to about a dozen framed photos of chickens and pigs – the colours faded to muddy orange. A rickety table with the Audi’s wheel brace sitting on top of it. An old white fridge and ancient electric cooker. A door lying open, showing the fiery yellow broom and crystal blue sky. Haiden lay on his side in front of it, completely naked, one leg curled up, the other stretched out, face pale and shiny where it wasn’t stained dark red.
His back was clarted in gore, a black slit, about two inches wide, below his right shoulder blade. More blood around his mouth and down his chin. And then bubbles popped between Haiden’s lips … He was still alive.
‘Haiden?’ King stared up at Logan – his suit scarlet-soaked all down the sleeves – then down at the bleeding body. Grabbing his waxy shoulder and shaking it. ‘Haiden, stay with me, buddy, OK?’
Logan pulled out his phone and dialled Control. ‘I need an ambulance, and I need it now!’
‘Haiden? Can you hear me?’
‘Roger that, Inspector, where do you need it?’
‘Haiden? You’re going to be all right.’ King was getting louder. ‘We’re getting help,
OK, Haiden?’
Logan stuck a finger in his ear and retreated to the living room. ‘Ceanntràigh Cottage, Cruden Bay. We’ve got an I-C-One male, stab wound, heavy blood loss.’
‘One second … Right we—’
Whatever came next was drowned out by King, shouting now: ‘WHERE ARE THEY, HAIDEN? WHERE DID YOU HIDE PROFESSOR WILSON AND THE OTHERS?’
Logan made for the far side of the room, where three small windows looked out over the curl of parched grass and the North Sea beyond. ‘Say again?’
‘They’ve dispatched the air ambulance, it’ll be with you soon as they can.’
He glanced at the kitchen: King was bent over Haiden, ear pressed close to the burbling scarlet froth coming out of Haiden’s mouth, as if he was taking a final confession.
‘Tell them to hurry.’
The hole where the front door used to be rattled as Steel and Tufty burst into the room, stabproofs on, truncheons and pepper spray at the ready.
Steel slithered to a halt, teeth bared. ‘Where is the daft wee shite?’
Tufty swept the room. ‘Clear!’
As if Logan and King hadn’t already done that.
Four uniformed officers battered in after them, kitted out in full riot-police body armour, complete with gauntlets, shin and elbow guards, helmets with face shields, batons drawn. They pretty much filled every available inch of the living room. Stubby and her Thugs.
Stubby flipped up her face shield and peered into the bloody kitchen. Then furrowed her dark hairy eyebrows at Logan. ‘Is the property secure?’
‘Mhari Powell’s missing.’
Tufty stuck his head into the bathroom. ‘Clear!’
Logan pointed out through the little windows. ‘Search the clifftops, she can’t have gone far. And watch out: she’s armed!’
A nod from Stubby. ‘Greeny: you and Ted, out front. Glen: you’re with me.’ And with that they thundered off again.
Tufty tried the spare bedroom. ‘Clea— Ow!’
Steel hit him again. ‘Cut it out, you prawn-flavoured arsemagnet.’
‘Only doing my job.’ Rubbing his arm. ‘And that hurt, thank you very much.’
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