by JD Kirk
He took a half-step to the right, caught the lad by the wrist, then twisted until the blade went clattering to the floor.
Lachlan’s momentum carried him on, and he slammed into Logan. Being much larger, heavier, and braced for the impact, Logan didn’t move a step. Instead, he put his arms around the boy, and held him in close, listening to his sobbing.
“You’re alright, son,” Logan told him. They stood there together, a disappointment of a father and an unwanted son. “You’re alright.”
Chapter Fifty
Logan felt pretty pleased with himself when Sinead stepped out of her auntie’s house and saw the car for the first time. The look on her face made all the bargaining worthwhile.
“Told you I’d get something nice, didn’t I?” he crowed. “Leave it with me, that’s what I said.”
“Is that a Bentley?” Sinead asked, clopping her way up the path in heels she didn’t look entirely comfortable walking in.
Logan regarded the car with a blank expression. “Eh… Aye. Maybe. Nice, though, eh? Whatever it is.” He gave her an appraising up and down look as she stepped through the gate and joined him on the path. “You look beautiful.”
Sinead looked one-part delighted, three-parts mortified. She smoothed down the front of her already pristinely smooth white dress, and gave an embarrassed shrug. “Cheers, sir.”
Logan laughed. “I think we can dispense with the formalities today of all days, Detective Constable. Don’t you?”
“Aye. If you say so, sir,” she said. “You scrub up alright yourself.”
Logan adjusted his bow tie and gave his kilt a wee swish. “Aye, well, high time this old thing had an airing.”
“Is that the kilt you’re referring to, or…”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Detective Constable. Of course, I mean the kilt,” he told her. “Mind you, it’s no’ half bloody draughty under here,” he added, then he opened the car door and gestured for her to get in. “M’lady.”
Sinead hoiked the dress up past her knees in a decidedly unladylike manner, put one foot in the car, then turned back to the house. “Harris!”
There was some thumping and clattering, and a shout of, “Coming!” from inside, then Harris appeared in a kilt, untucked shirt, and bright yellow sports socks.
“You need to hurry up! You’re meant to be there before me!”
“Just you go, Sinead!” her aunt called from inside. “We’ll be ready in two minutes. Circle around a couple of times, and we’ll wait for you outside.”
“We can’t be late, they’ve got another wedding booked in after mine!” Sinead called back.
“We’ll be there! Go! Go!”
Sinead rolled her eyes, and looked to Logan for reassurance.
“They’ll be there. It’ll be grand,” he told her. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
She got in, smoothed herself down again, then gave Logan the nod to close the door. He had just thunked it into place when his phone rang, flashing Ben Forde’s name up on the screen.
“Ben. Hello. We’re on our way,” Logan said, walking around to the other side of the car. The heels of his rented brogues scuffed on the road as he stopped at the back of the car. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down,” he urged. “What do you mean, ‘Tyler’s gone’?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean? He’s gone, Jack!” Ben replied. “He was here ten minutes ago, but now he’s gone.”
Logan shot a sideways look at the car beside him, then lowered his voice. “Have you phoned him?”
“Of course, we’ve bloody phoned him. He’s no’ answering.”
“Jesus Christ! What’s he thinking?” Logan grunted.
“Look, we’ve got it in hand,” Ben said. “Me, Hamza, Hoon, and a few others are looking for him. He can’t have got far.”
“Hoon?” Logan almost shrieked. “The fuck’s Hoon doing there?”
“Says he was invited,” Ben said.
“Hoon? Bob Hoon?”
Ben tutted. “Hardly the bloody priority right now, is it?” he said. “Just… keep Sinead away until we’ve got him back, alright? Circle around.”
“Aye,” Logan sighed. “Aye. Fine. Text me as soon as it’s safe.”
“Will do.”
“And give the bastard a thick ear from me,” Logan added, then he hung up the phone and shoved it into his sporran.
He spent a few seconds finding just the right nonchalant expression to affix to his face, then continued around the car and climbed into the back alongside Sinead.
“Everything alright?” she asked.
“What? Oh. Aye. Aye! Just, you know, usual wedding logistics,” he said, pulling on his seatbelt. “By the way, do you know Hoon’s coming to your wedding?”
“Yeah. We invited him,” Sinead said.
“What, on purpose?”
Sinead smiled. “I don’t know, I just… I sort of feel sorry for him.”
“Jesus, don’t tell him that,” Logan warned. “He’ll burn the venue to the ground with every bugger in it.”
“Noted,” Sinead said. She looked through the window at the house she’d just left. “And, I suppose… We never know what’s around the corner, do we? Life’s too short, isn’t it? To hold grudges, I mean.”
Logan ran his tongue across the back of his teeth. He thought of another young woman in another white dress
“So, eh, that us off, then?”
“It is! That’s us on the way for the big day!” Logan said. “In your own time, driver.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, just a little. “But, eh, maybe take us the scenic route, eh?”
Ben and a small group of guests had assembled out the front of the Highland Archive Centre—a relatively new building that had been aiming for ‘modern architectural triumph,’ but had instead landed somewhere between ‘school gym hall’ and ‘young offender’s institution.’
The sun had put in an uncharacteristically timely appearance that morning, and there had been a real sense that the day was going to be perfect, up until the point the groom had vanished into thin air.
Now, the DI stood on the grass, directing the search like it was a full-scale missing persons operation.
“We need to do this quickly, but quietly,” he instructed, addressing the group of mostly polis guests gathered in a knot around him. “We don’t want anyone else knowing he’s buggered off if we can help it. We find him, we slap sense into him if he’s having cold feet, and we bring him back before anyone misses him.”
“He can’t of got far,” Hamza said. “He said he was just going to the toilet.”
“You did check there, aye?” asked Dave Donaldson. “He’s not just having a really big shite?”
“I checked. And he’s not,” Hamza said.
“Right. We spread out, we keep in contact, and we find him. Quickly,” Ben instructed. He looked around the group. “Anyone got any questions?”
Hoon’s hand went up. Unlike the other men, he wasn’t wearing a kilt, and had instead rocked up in a shiny grey suit and black shirt, neither of which had seen an ironing board in quite some time. He seemed substantially more hungover than the others, too, despite being the only one among them not to have been at the stag do the night before.
He didn’t wait to be invited before speaking. “Aye. Just a quick one,” he said, looking around at the group. “Who the fuck is it we’re actually looking for?”
Logan sat in the back of the car, tapping a rhythm on a bare knee with one hand, and checking his phone with the other in the hope of seeing a text from Ben telling him everything was sorted.
No such luck.
“You sure everything’s alright?” Sinead asked.
Logan clicked the button on the side of the phone, turning the screen dark. “Aye. Fine. Just… I told Shona we’d meet at the centre. Just making sure she made it OK.”
“High time you made your move there,” Sinead said.
“It’s no’ my love life that’s the centre of discussion today
, thanks very much,” Logan replied.
“I’m just saying. You’d be good together,” Sinead said. She shrugged. “You need someone who understands, don’t you? What it’s like. Someone who gets it. And she does.”
Logan grunted. “Aye,” he admitted. “She does.”
“Well, then.”
“Again, let’s focus on your relationship status for the day, eh?”
“Fine, fine. Today. I can’t promise not to come back to the subject, though.”
“Aye, well, I can’t promise no’ to have you transferred elsewhere,” Logan told her, and they both smiled.
“Come on, what would you do without me?”
“I’d have my feet up in front of the bloody telly right now, for one thing,” Logan said. He gave his sporran a pat. “And I wouldn’t have had so many sleepless nights trying to write this bloody speech.”
She put a hand on his arm. “Thank you,” she said. “For this. For everything.”
Logan rested his own hand on hers for a moment, then tutted and shook his head, trying very hard not to show too much emotion. “Och, away you go. It’s nothing,” he said. “It’s my pleasure. Honestly. It’s my honour, in fact.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I never knew them, but I know your parents would be proud.”
“Don’t,” Sinead croaked, taking her hand away and waving it in front of her face. “I’ve got mascara on. I can’t go in looking like Alice Cooper. Quick, talk about something else.”
Logan racked his brains. “Eh… You see the football?”
“No.”
“No, nor me. Tedious fucking game,” he said. “Eh… oh! Lana Lennon’s awake. Did you hear?”
“No! Is she? When?”
“Last night. Mantits sent a text. She’s in a bad way—it’ll be a long road to any sort of recovery—but he reckons she’ll be fit enough for us to interview in a couple of weeks. Thought maybe you’d want to do it?”
“I’d be up for it, aye,” Sinead said. She looked out of the side window as Eden Court Theatre rolled past for about the fourth time. “Poor Mrs Lennon.”
“She’s already identified Lachlan—or Ewan, or whatever—as her attacker, though. And, her and Bennet are both pressing charges against Clyde, I’m told. Should have a solid case against the bastard.”
“Good,” Sinead said. “Hope he gets locked up.”
“He will,” Logan confirmed. “And no’ a moment too bloody soon.”
Bob Hoon ducked beneath the branches of the trees that lined the River Ness, unzipped his fly, and groaned with relief as his bladder drained out onto the grass. He shook, bent his knees, tucked everything away again, then swore under his breath when he spotted the splashes on his shoes.
He had just finished wiping them up and down on his calves when he spotted a man he knew best as ‘that prick with the hair,’ leaning on a railing overlooking the river’s edge.
“Aw, fuck’s sake,” Hoon grunted. He glanced back through the trees, hoping he’d see someone else there who could deal with it, but found no one. “Great. Where’d the fucking Super Friends all go when you need them?” he grumbled, then he set off along the bank and stopped a few feet from where Tyler sat. “Haw. Fannybaws. You know they’re all looking for you up there?”
Tyler, who had been slouched over on the railing, stood upright at the sound of Hoon’s voice. He turned, squinting in the sun, looked the former Detective Superintendent up and down, then glanced furtively back up through the trees. “Aye. I suppose they must be by now.”
“Right. Well, come on, then,” Hoon said. “Pull your finger out your arse, and let’s go.”
“I can’t,” Tyler said, his shoulders stooping again.
“What? How no’? Leg caught in a fucking beartrap or something?” Hoon asked. “No? Well, fucking get a shifty on, then.”
Tyler rubbed his forehead, his fingers sliding back and forth like they were trying to rub away a stain. “I just… It’s complicated.”
“Complicated my arse,” Hoon said. “You stand there, you say, ‘I fucking do,’ ideally without the swearing, but that’s up to you, and then you get pissed, eat cake, and fuck off to a nice hotel for some rumpy pumpy. Where’s the complicated bit?”
“It’s not that,” Tyler said. “It’s… There’s more to consider.”
Hoon started counting on his fingers. “Pissed. Cake. Rumpy pumpy,” he said. “No, pretty sure that covers the lot. Now, come on, or do I have to fucking drag you in there by the hair? Because I will, but it’s no’ a good fucking look for your first day of married life.”
“I’ve got cancer.”
Hoon hesitated. This, in itself, spoke volumes.
“Cancer?” he asked, once he’d recovered.
Tyler nodded. “I haven’t… We haven’t said anything. To anyone. Fuck. I don’t know why I’m telling you, of all people.”
“Probably my warm and open personality.”
“Ha. Aye. Probably,” Tyler replied.
Hoon sniffed, shrugged, then took a step closer. “Where is it?”
Tyler indicated downwards with a point. “Down there.”
“What? Your feet?”
“No! Not my feet!” Tyler said. He shot another furtive glance up into the trees, and lowered his voice. “My bollocks.”
“Oh. Right. Aye. I did wonder, right enough. I mean, who gets fucking feet cancer?” Hoon said. “Was it a lump, or…?”
“No. Scan. I hadn’t been, you know, checking.”
“Fuck me, seriously? I have a crafty feel about sixteen times a day. I thought that was just the standard for all men?” He looked away for a moment, then sighed. “Look, son, I’m no’ exactly the world’s best at this sort of thing, but what’s the worst that can happen?”
Tyler blinked. “Well… I could die. That’s not great.”
“Fuck, aye. I suppose so,” Hoon conceded. “Jesus. Fair enough. You’re right. Might as well just throw yourself in the water and be fucking done with it.”
“What?”
“Your missus. Or your almost missus, or whatever… You mind if I have a crack at her? In a few months, I mean. Once she’s over the shock. I’d leave it a bit, I’m no’ a fucking monster.”
Tyler turned to face him. “What? No! Jesus!”
“Well, you’re no’ going to be here, are you?”
“There’s a very high survival rate, actually!” Tyler spat. “Over ninety-five percent, if they catch it early enough.”
“Aye, but they probably got to you too late,” Hoon said. “Tragic, really.”
“No, actually. It’s still quite early days!”
“Then what are you whinging about then, you hypochondriac fuckballoon?” Hoon barked. “Quit moping about here watching men having a piss—“
“I wasn’t watching, you just turned up!”
“—and get in there, say your bit, then drink, dance, and get your leg over. You might want to save the last bit for the hotel, but you’ll have my utmost fucking respect if you don’t.”
Tyler looked up through the trees again, and this time let his gaze linger there for a while.
“We might not be able to have kids, they said. The treatment… It can affect that.”
“Kids are all arseholes, anyway,” Hoon pointed out. “You’re better off without the sticky-handed, snottery-nosed wee fucks cramping your style.”
“We wanted them, though. Kids. Not right now, I mean… But, we spoke about it. Someday, we did.”
“And does she know?” Hoon asked. He flicked his gaze down to Tyler’s sporran. “About the lads?”
“Aye. She knows everything.”
“And is she all dolled up to get married?”
Tyler shrugged. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”
“Then, there’s your fucking answer, son,” Hoon said. “She knows. Everything. And she still wants to marry you. I mean, personally, I think she needs her fucking head examined. Cancer’s the least of your fucking concerns, if you ask me.”
Tyler ch
uckled. “Aye.”
“No, I fucking mean it,” Hoon said. “In a more just fucking world, she should be way out of your reach. If you were punching any higher above your weight you’d need a pair of stilts and a fucking oxygen mask.”
“Aye, well—” Tyler began, but Hoon wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
“No, but seriously. I mean, I didn’t want to say anything, but fit lassie like that? Wi’ a flaccid wee shitenugget like you? It’s a fucking outrage, quite frankly. Seriously. It’s a bloody sin. And she’s going to realise that, sooner or later. Maybe even today. So, I suggest you get up there and put a fucking ring on her finger before whatever basement-dweller witchcraft you’ve managed to do on her wears off, and she sees you for the living clusterfuck of a man that you really are.”
Tyler straightened up, pushed his shoulders back, took a deep breath. Then, he gave a nod and held out a hand. “Thanks, Bob. I needed that.”
Hoon took the offered hand and tightened his grip just enough to make Tyler’s eyes widen. “No bother, son. Any time,” he said. “But please, for both our fucking sakes, call me, ‘sir.’”
“Oh, thank Christ,” Logan muttered, scanning the message on his phone. “Driver, full steam ahead. We’ve got a wedding to go to.”
“Find him then, did they?” Sinead asked.
Logan blinked. “Eh?”
She jabbed a thumb back over her shoulder. “It’s a car, not a soundproof booth,” she said. “He OK?”
“He’s fine,” Logan said. “I mean, he’ll no’ be once I get my hands on him, but… Aye. He’s fine. They’re all waiting.”
Sinead took a deep breath in, held it, then blew it back out again. “Right. Well, I suppose this is it, then.”
“I suppose it is,” Logan confirmed. “You OK?”
Sinead smiled. “I’m… great. I really am.”
“Good. Good,” Logan said, patting her hand as she hooked it under his arm. “And, eh, you’re right, by the way.”
“I generally am,” Sinead told him. “About anything in particular, or…?”