Close to the Bone

43

Logan peered through the window to the intensive therapy unit. Dildo lay on a hospital bed, flat on his back, face hidden behind an oxygen mask plumbed into the wall.

A uniformed PC sat in a plastic chair outside the ward, head buried in a thick textbook, lips moving as he frowned his way down the page. Overhead lighting sparkled back from a fist-sized bald patch.

Logan stopped in front of him. ‘Anything? ’

‘I can’t understand a bloody word of this.’ He held the book up: Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. Nurse Claire strikes again. ‘Apparently I can’t prove the chair I’m sitting on exists, because I only think it exists because my bum tells me it does and I can’t empirically trust my bum to tell the truth. .’

‘That what it says? ’

‘Far as I can tell, one of the great philosophical minds of the eighteenth century thinks my arse is a liar.’

‘I wouldn’t stand for that, if I were you.’

A short doctor with dark-purple bags under her eyes and a distinct list to the left, limped out of the ITU, let the door swing shut behind her, then leaned back and rested her head against it. Sighed at the ceiling tiles.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Is he. .? ’

She blinked, her eyes pinching around the edges, as if she’d just stood on something sharp. Then came a brittle smile. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a long day. Can I help you? ’

‘Timothy Mair — the stabbing victim, is he. .? ’

‘Ah, yes. No, he’ll be fine. They stemmed the bleeding, and patched up the hole in his lung. We’re keeping an eye out for secondary infections and oedema, but he’ll be fine.’ She stifled a yawn, then scrubbed a hand across her eyes. ‘Sorry. Roll on July. .’

‘Thanks.’ He made his way into the depths of the hospital. A pack of gurneys had gathered around the vending machines in the corridor outside. Ready to pounce. Two old men in matching brown plaid dressing gowns shuffled past, wheeling intravenous drips on stands and arguing about whether or not Aberdeen was going to get its backside skelped by Celtic in the cup final.

Logan kept going.

A pregnant woman with her left arm in a cast mashed her thumb against the button for the lifts. He joined her. Waiting till the thing creaked and groaned its way down from the fifth floor. Ding and the doors slid open. Inside, the floor was held together with strips of duct tape — the tape’s silver surface scuffed and holey. They stepped inside.

Halfway up, the woman burst into silent tears.

‘Are you OK? ’

She didn’t answer, just kept her face to the wall, until the lift juddered to a halt, then scuffed out and away.

The doors slid closed.

Logan shut his eyes as the lift rose again. It didn’t matter how many photo exhibits they put on, or how many pretty paintings they hung on the corridor walls, Aberdeen Royal Infirmary was always going to be a sprawling concrete maze haunted by the sick and the dying.

Cheery stuff.

He took a deep breath as the doors opened again, and marched out and down the corridor. Head up. Pulling on a smile that hopefully didn’t look that forced.

After all, he’d escaped the place, Samantha would too.

Eventually. .

Logan pushed through into the ward.

Samantha sat up in bed as soon as he walked in. Her hair was pillar-box red, the tattoos on her arms standing out against her pale skin. ‘Gah, I’m going mad in here.’

He pulled the visitor’s chair around and sank into it. Didn’t matter if his bum was lying to him or not, he was prepared to take its word for it. ‘You would not believe the day I’ve had.’

‘Cauliflower cheese again for lunch. How do you make cauliflower cheese beige? It’s not physically possible.’

‘Dildo got stabbed.’

‘I know. But he’s going to be OK, so. .’ A shrug. ‘You going to read more Witchfire to me? ’

‘Can’t.’ Logan stuck his feet up on the bed. ‘Got a meeting with Professional Standards.’ He checked his watch. ‘Started. . ooh, just over an hour ago.’

Silence. Then Samantha folded her arms across her chest. Never a good sign. ‘We need to talk.’

Here we go. ‘Can’t we just-’

‘It’s about time you got your finger out and got the flat refurbished. They finished the roof two years ago. You’re lucky the architect’s still speaking to you.’

‘I just haven’t had time, and-’

‘I’m not going to be in here forever. Might be nice to have a home to go to. Don’t get me wrong — I love my caravan — but. . It’s too close to the road, and it’s a really busy roundabout. We’ll need somewhere safer for Cthulhu to live.’

Brilliant: first Jackie, now Samantha. He was not stuck like a bug in amber. ‘It’s not-’

‘Logan, it’s been two years: finger-out time.’

He slumped further down into the chair. ‘OK, OK, I’ll see what I can- Sodding hell.’

Steel’s theme tune sounded deep inside his jacket pocket. No prizes for guessing what she wanted. He dragged the thing out, fumbled it, and the mobile went clattering to the floor, spinning under the bed. Darth Vader’s theme tune got louder.

‘God’s sake!’ Logan wriggled out of the seat and peered under the bed. Bloody thing. . He got down on his knees, and reached for it. The floor was cool to the touch, the smell of bleach and pine-scented disinfectant strong enough to make him blink. ‘Come on you little sod. .’

His fingers wrapped around the thing, just as the music died.

Samantha’s head popped over the opposite edge of the bed, upside down, long scarlet hair sticking up like she’d been electrocuted. ‘What does Her Wrinkliness want? ’

He glanced back. ‘She hung up. Probably wants a rant about me skipping out on Napier and his Professional Standards whinge. .’ Logan stared.

‘What? ’ A hand appeared, brushed across her cheek. ‘Have I got something on my face? ’

There, hanging from the network of hydraulic rods and metal struts under the bed, was a knot of three small bones, held together with bright-red ribbon. The same shade as Samantha’s hair.

Agnes Garfield’s calling card.

She’d been there, in Samantha’s room.

‘Bastards. .’ He stood.

Samantha frowned at him. ‘What? ’

‘Useless bloody halfwit bastards. .’ He wrenched open the door, and stuck his head out into the corridor. ‘GET YOUR ARSE IN HERE NOW!’

Back to the room.

She was lying face down on the bed, dangling over the edge, peering underneath. ‘What? What’s going on? ’

‘Supposed to be keeping you safe!’

Footsteps clattered out in the corridor, then a huge nurse came battering through the door. Arms like tree trunks, evil-twin goatee beard, little round glasses. ‘What happened? Is everything OK? ’

Logan jabbed a finger into the nurse’s chest. ‘You’re supposed to be keeping an eye on her! What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at? ’

‘Sorry? ’ The nurse’s forehead creased, fingers curling in and out in front of his chest as if he was playing on a tiny video game handset. ‘OK, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down, or I’m going to have to call security.’

‘THEN CALL THEM! If they’d been doing their bloody jobs this wouldn’t happen. This is supposed to be a secure ward!’

‘This is a secure ward.’

‘Oh, it is, is it? ’ Logan grabbed him by the collar and hauled him over to the bed. ‘Look underneath. Go on, LOOK!’

‘OK, OK. . Sheesh. .’ He dropped down on one knee. ‘What am I looking for? ’

‘The bones, you halfwit!’

The nurse reached beneath the bed, fiddled with something, then stood. Agnes Garfield’s talisman lay in the palm of his hand. ‘Is this supposed to be some sort of joke? ’

‘A joke? ’ Logan snatched the bones and held them up, dangling them on the end of their ribbon. ‘Where did they come from? ’

‘The only people who’ve been through here since I got on shift are the nurses, the consultant, and the bloke who fixed the printer. And they’ve all got security badges.’ He folded his massive arms and brought his chin up. ‘So I think you owe me an apology.’

Logan poked him in the chest again. ‘What about the catering staff? The people who came round with lunch? Or did they just magically teleport cauliflower cheese in from the canteen? ’

The nurse took a step back. A frown pulling his features inwards, one hand reaching for the call button. ‘Cauliflower cheese. .? ’ He looked left, then right. ‘Why would they bring food in here? I mean. . it’s the coma care ward. Everyone’s on drips and tubes.’

Logan blinked. Turned to stare at the bed again.

Samantha lay flat on her back, arms over the covers. The breathing tube fixed to the hole in her throat hissed slowly in, and out. A feeding tube in her nose. Both eyes taped shut. Her hair was a faded lacklustre red with eighteen inches of brown roots. Skin the colour of yoghurt, tattoos standing out like graffiti on a church wall.

He cleared his throat. ‘Yes. . It’s. .’

‘Are you feeling OK? ’

‘No. Of course.’ Logan ran a hand over his eyes. Samantha was perfectly still, lying in the same position she’d lain in for the last two years. ‘Look: when did they last clean the room? Agnes Garfield must’ve been in since then. We can pull the security-camera footage.’

The nurse shook his head.

‘What? ’

‘The cleaners mop the floors, empty the bins, wipe down the surfaces, stuff like that. They don’t sod about with all the hydraulic bits and bobs under the bed unless they’re doing a deep clean, or, you know, something’s happened.’ A shrug. ‘Could’ve been there for weeks.’

Three witch’s finger bones, dangling away beneath Samantha’s bed. Working their dark magic. Keeping him from finding Agnes Garfield.

Right.

Logan took a deep breath. Stared at the floor. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-’

‘Yes, well. .’ The nurse nodded. ‘I suppose, if I’m honest. If it was my girlfriend — if she was stuck in here, in a coma for a couple of years — I’d probably be squirrelly about it too.’