Dark Blood

19

Logan sat bolt upright on the couch, blinking, head reeling. The lights were all on, the TV grumbling away to itself in the corner. ‘Urgh…’

Steve Polmont’s journals were scattered across the lounge carpet, one open on the coffee table, the tatty pages marked with the occasional bright yellow Post-it note, where Logan had found something at least partially legible.

Blink. He checked the time on the DVD player. Quarter to midnight.

Yawn.

‘Sam? You home?’ Logan scrubbed his face with his hands. The message on the answering machine said she was pulling yet another green shift — saving up for a new tattoo.

And then the doorbell went again.

‘Bloody hell, Sam…’ He peeled himself upright, then lurched to the front door, shivering and feeling like crap. Hadn’t even been drinking, just came home, microwaved some vegetarian lasagne, and sat down with Polmont’s journals and a rerun of Taggart. ‘There’s bin a murrrrrrdurrrrrrrrrrr…’

Cold leached through Logan’s socks as he padded down the stairs to the communal front door. The bell went again, an irritating dringing buzz. ‘All right, all right.’ He undid the latch. ‘Why can you never remember your damn-’

Reuben.

Fuck.

The big man’s face was a mass of bruises, radiating out from a nose covered in gauze and white bandage. His eyes were swollen, shrouded in blue and purple. The left one didn’t have any white left, it was a sea of scarlet, with the iris floating in the middle. An angry olive in a bloody Mary. Butterfly stitches on his forehead.

Logan tried to slam the door shut, but Reuben had his foot jammed in the opening. It didn’t budge.

Run. Turn around right now and run like hell up the stairs. Maybe he’d get into the flat before Reuben caught him and beat him to death.

Logan took a step backwards.

The big man held up a package. It was about the size of a laptop, only thicker, wrapped in cheery yellow paper tied up with a blue ribbon, the ends all curly and worked into a bow.

‘Compliments of Mr Mowat.’ Voice all bunged up.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Look, Reuben, I-’

‘I have to apologize for my lack of respect yesterday. I was out of order.’ Reuben stood stock still, delivering his message in a nasal monotone.

‘It was a…Look, I’m sorry, OK? I just snapped. I didn’t mean to-’

‘Can I tell Mr Mowat you accept my apology?’

‘Yes, of course. I shouldn’t have-’

Something slammed into Logan’s stomach. Pain tore through him, radiating out like a wave of fire. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a rasping wheeze as his knees gave way and he fell to the hallway floor.

Jesus, God that hurt…

Reuben flexed a huge hand, open, then closed again. ‘You’re fucking lucky Mr Mowat likes you, McRae, or you and me’d be taking a wee trip out somewhere quiet, with a welding torch.’

He bent down, looming over Logan. ‘Understand this, you’re nothing more than a wee piece of shite to me. Mr Mowat’s no’ a well man. See if he dies? You and me are going to have another talk.’

Reuben tossed the rectangular package at Logan. A sharp edge clunked against his head, making hot stars flash across the dark sky.

‘Enjoy your fucking present.’

‘Logan? Why are you sitting here in the dark?’ Click, and the kitchen light blossomed slowly to life, the energy efficient bulb flickering to a dull-white glow. Sam stood with one hand on the switch, eyebrows knitted together. ‘Are you OK?’

Logan looked up from the table, clutching a bag of defrosting peas to the top of his head. One hand wrapped around his stomach. ‘Not really.’

She peeled the bag of peas away from his head and peered at the skin. ‘God, that’s some bump!’

‘Walked into a door.’

Samantha frowned. ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘Tea.’ He pointed at the mug on the table, sitting next to Wee Hamish Mowat’s present.

She pressed the bag back against his head. ‘You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. Like Muppet Central out there…’ The fridge broke into a droning burr as she stood, peering in at the contents. ‘We got any white wine left, or did you finish it?’

‘I’ve been on orange juice and bloody lemonade all night, give me a break, OK?’

She turned. ‘I just asked if there was any wine left.’

Pause.

‘Sorry. I’ve…Not been the best of days.’

‘Been a lot of those recently.’ She clunked the fridge shut. ‘You want some more tea?’

‘Any chance of a hot water bottle?’

She filled the kettle, set it to boil, then disappeared from the room, coming back a couple of minutes later wearing her pink fluffy bathrobe and matching socks. Samantha thunked a roadkill-shaped Winnie The Pooh on the kitchen worktop, and unVelcroed his head. Unscrewed the plug and poured Pooh down the sink. Then filled him up from the steaming kettle.

‘Here.’

Logan held it against his stomach with his free hand. Groaned.

She stared at him. ‘Have you got your period, or something?’

No answer.

There was a rattle of spoons and mugs. Then she sat down on the other side of the table and handed over a fresh tea. ‘Here.’

‘Thanks.’

Pause. ‘Didn’t know you played chess.’

The set was made of wood — beech and mahogany — all laid out on a matching board. One of the pieces had a little cardboard tag tied around its neck, spidery copperplate marking out the words, ‘DETECTIVE SERGEANT LOGAN MCRAE’.

She picked the piece off the board — a horse’s head, carved in pale wood. ‘So you’re Batman now?’

‘That would be the Dark Knight.’

‘OK, I’ll bite. What the hell is going on with you?’

‘I’m turning into a cliche.’ He tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding forced and painful.

Silence.

‘Logan? Look at me, Logan.’

He pulled his eyes up from the tabletop. She placed the white knight back on the board. ‘You know…It’s OK to feel a bit down every now and then, but…well, maybe you should think about getting some help?’

Logan went back to staring at the coffee rings. ‘I’ve been seeing someone for about three months.’

There was an awkward pause. ‘I…’ A sniff. Then her voice went hard, brittle, ‘I see. Is she pretty?’

‘What? No, it’s Goulding. You know: the criminal psychologist? Once a week, getting my head shrunk.’

‘Oh…right. Yeah, of course.’ She was blushing. ‘What does he say?’

‘I need to lay off the booze. Cut down on the cigarettes. Not be such a miserable bastard. Stop antagonizing my colleagues and superiors. Give up sitting in the dark, brooding.’

‘Not going that well then.’ Samantha picked up her tea and walked around behind him. Wrapped her free arm around his chest, her breasts pressing into the back of his head.

Logan took a deep breath. ‘You know it’s not like the world’s a better place when I’m drunk. It’s still shite. It’s just…a little easier to cope with.’

‘Am I part of the problem?’ Voice barely above a whisper.

This time the laugh was slightly more genuine. Logan dumped the bag of peas on the table and gripped her arm. ‘You’re the only decent thing I’ve got going for me.’

‘Your hand’s bloody freezing.’ She bent and kissed him on the top of his head, where the chess set had bounced off his skull. ‘You silly bugger.’