Dark Blood

35

The photographer’s battered Volkswagen was parked under a streetlight, three doors down from the smouldering remains of Knox’s house. Probably moved to keep its delicate rusty bodywork safe from the riot Colin’s article had caused. The car’s owner was out in the middle of the road, the hood of his parka zipped all the way up, hiding his bald head, a huge camera pressed to the fur-trimmed porthole. Capturing the Fire Brigade’s retreat.

Colin made a loud-hailer with his mangled hands. ‘Hoy, Sandy, you nearly done?’

The man stayed where he was, taking another shot of a massive white fire engine grumbling and hissing its way out through the police cordon, the flash freezing the snow in midair.

Colin pulled a face. ‘God forbid we should interrupt his muse. HOY, BALDY!’

Sandy lowered his camera and turned, scowling away in the depths of his coat. ‘Can we fuck off home now?’

‘You downloaded everythin’ to the laptop yet?’

Shrug. ‘’Cept this lot. Why?’

‘Car keys.’ Colin held out a hand.

‘Bastard…’ Sandy rummaged in his pocket, then dropped them into Colin’s black-leather palm. ‘I’m never getting home, am I?’

Colin grinned. ‘I’ve seen your wife, you should be thankin’ me. Now away you go back to your wee photos.’

They climbed into the back of the car, while Sandy stomped off towards the burnt-out house, swearing.

‘No pleasing some people.’ Colin pointed. ‘Laptop should be under the seat in front of you.’

So were a bunch of empty crisp packets, and a couple of crumpled Coke cans…Logan’s fingers brushed against a flat rectangle of neoprene. He dragged it out and handed it over.

Colin powered the thing up. ‘Right, let’s see if the wee jobby’s actually put them in the right…Buggering…’ His crooked fingers fumbled with the mousepad. ‘Fine, sod you.’ He hauled his right glove off. The pinkie stopped at the second joint, the finger next to it at the first, the puckered ends shiny and hard looking. He tried again, and the cursor wheeched through the menu structure. ‘Here we go.’

The screen filled with the mob gathered outside Knox’s house, pinched faces, mouths caught open, screaming abuse, placards waving. It was a good photo, very atmospheric. Sandy might have been a miserable sod, but he knew what he was doing with a camera.

Logan scanned the crowd, looking for a black and white bobble hat. ‘Next.’

Colin hit the key and they were looking at the same shot a fraction of a second later. And again. Then another photo of the crowd. The house. A sequence of Knox throwing the curtains wide, then his eyes bulging, then Logan lumbering up in stop motion to drag them shut again. The window shattering. More shots of the crowd.

Logan sat back in his seat. ‘Crap. This is going to take forever.’

‘How’s he taking it?’

Standing in the hall, Mandy shrugged. ‘Think he misses his electric fire.’

Knox was in the lounge, kneeling in front of the window. Praying. He’d switched off the lights, but a faint yellow glow seeped in from outside, accompanied by the distant hum of traffic on the North Deeside road.

It was a nice little flat, the kind of place they liked to feature on those makeover shows, where the before always looked a hell of a lot better than the after.

Three bedrooms, a galley kitchen, flat-screen telly, and central heating. Bliss.

Harry shifted from foot to foot. ‘You want a cup of tea, or something? I’m making anyway, it’s no problem?’

‘Coffee: black, two sugars.’

Nod. ‘Nice to be warm again, isn’t it? After that bloody great fridge of a place.’

‘The stink of mildew and mould.’

Harry grinned. ‘Those mushrooms growing under the kitchen sink.’

‘All gone up in flames.’

Silence.

‘You know.’ Harry worried at a loose button on his shirt. ‘Would’ve thought he’d be a bit more…upset. Family home, and all that.’

Mandy stepped back and closed the lounge door. If Knox wanted to sneak off through the lounge window — good luck to him. The flat was on the fourth floor, so the fall would probably break his neck. Save everyone a lot of time and trouble.

She followed Harry through to the kitchen, and watched him fill and boil the kettle. ‘I’m still not happy about the security.’

‘Yeah, well.’ He shrugged. ‘They’ll get the CCTV installed outside tomorrow. We can manage for one night, right? You want a biscuit?’

‘What if there’s an auld mannie living next door?’

‘Rocky or Caramel Wafer?’

‘Got any HobNobs?’

Harry handed over the biscuit tin. ‘Even if he gets all horny, he can’t do anything about it. Not with you and me here, and that pair from the Perv Patrol sitting out…’ Harry cleared his throat, then pulled on a smile. ‘Richard, you want a cuppa?’

Knox was standing in the doorway, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. ‘Me mam was born in that house.’

‘Mandy’s got chocolate bikkies…?’

The weedy little man took a deep shuddering breath, then helped himself to an orange Penguin. ‘Kind of a relief, like. In a way…’ He peeled back the wrapper. ‘Was tying us to the past, wasn’t it? All them ghosts holding us back…Yeah. Maybe it’s for the best.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Harry spooned bitter-smelling brown granules into three mugs, then sloshed boiling water over the top. ‘Onwards and upwards, eh?’

‘You know,’ Knox opened the fridge and peered inside, ‘’stead of takeaway tomorrow I could whip us up a prawn curry if someone nips down the shops? Feels like I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in months.’

Mandy nudged the fridge door shut again. ‘Maybe later. Need to get stuff organized.’

Knox stared at the vinyl floor for a moment, his cheeks flushing a deep rose pink. Shrug. ‘If you like.’

Harry put a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’re getting another visit from Babs and Paul tomorrow, I’ll ask them to swing by Asda on the way: get the prawns and stuff. I like a nice curry, don’t you, Mandy?’ He stared at her, making his eyes go wide. Like she was supposed to feel guilty about denying Knox his little MasterChef moment.

Sometimes Harry could be a bit of a tit.

He nodded, like they’d all agreed it was a great idea. ‘Right, you let me know what you need, and I’ll phone Babs.’

Knox smiled. It made his face even pointier, like a shaved rat. Then he scribbled down a long list of ingredients and handed it over. ‘Might as well do it properly like. Not the same if it all comes out of a jar.’

‘Sounds good — back in a tick.’

Knox waited till the kitchen door clunked shut. ‘You don’t like us, do you?’

Mandy shrugged. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘The way you look at us. Like I’m still inside: a rule forty-three. Dirty fucker, who likes to rape old men.’

‘I just want everyone to be safe.’

‘That’s not me any more. God reached out to us in prison. I was standing there, watching this bloke Rupert bleed to death on the landing, and I was thinking, maybe he’s got the right idea, you know? They gave him eight years, cos his home computer was full of photos: little boys getting shagged off the internet. Took a safety razor, snapped it open, and hacked through his veins from elbow to wrist. Couldn’t take the shame and the guilt any more…’

Knox’s eyes were focussed somewhere between the vinyl floor and his knees. Biting his bottom lip.

‘Maybe your mate had the right idea.’

‘And that’s when I heard His voice. “Richard,” He says, “Richard you’re one of Me creatures, and I love all Me creatures. Doesn’t matter what you’ve done in the past, like, you’ve got a bit of Us in you. Put you on this earth to do Me work, didn’t I? Can’t go throwing it all away like this idiot.”’

‘Thought God spoke all “thee” and “thou”, like in the bible.’

Knox looked up, staring straight at her with those rodenty little eyes. ‘It’s all God’s work, isn’t it? Everything we do serves His purpose.’

‘Even raping old men?’

‘War, Famine, Pestilence, Death. He made all them things. Ethnic cleansing, suicide bombers, drought, global warming, AIDS, swine flu, tidal waves, earthquakes…If you took everyone who died in the last hundred years, and stacked all the bodies up, it’d reach from here to the moon, four and a half times.’ A small smile. ‘Not given to us to understand His plans, is it?’

Mandy didn’t know who was creepier, Richard Knox or his god.

Julie sits on the end of the hotel bed, feet tucked up under her, watching the telly. It’s Sky’s twenty-four-hour news thing, some plastic-haired bloke being all serious about the situation in Afghanistan.

Tony takes another swig from his mug, the sharp edge of cheap brandy, turning into instant warmth and sweetness. Think Julie would notice if he helped himself to another wrapper of fizzy coke? Probably. Then there’ll be some serious fucking fireworks.

Have to make do with supermarket brandy.

Neil clumps in through the front door, cradling a couple of big brown paper bags from KFC round the corner. The smell of deep-fried chicken wafts out into the cramped room. ‘Bloody freezing…’ He dumps the bags on the bed and wriggles out of his coat.

Julie looks up. ‘Sweetheart, you’re getting snow all over the carpet.’

‘Like Santa’s bloody grotto out there.’

She stretches out a foot and wriggles a pink-and-green-polka-dot sock. ‘Not wearing any shoes, Darling.’

Neil freezes. Scoops up his coat and hurries into the bathroom. Comes back with a bunch of towels and dumps them on the wet carpet. ‘Sorry.’

Tony holds his breath, waiting for it to kick off, but Julie just shrugs and goes back to the telly.

Neil opens one of the bags and peers inside. ‘Who wanted corn on the cob?’

Julie holds up her hand and Neil passes her dinner over.

‘Thanks, Babe.’

Tony gets a Boneless Banquet For One, with a side of beans. Or the ‘Fat Bastard Special’ as Neil calls it. Cheeky bugger — he can talk, like.

Neil pulls out a little wax-paper bag full of thin rustling chips and crams a handful into his gob. ‘Mmmnngfff, mmmnnfffif, fffm mmmnnnt?’

‘Yeah, Knox phoned about half an hour ago. Her nibs took the call.’

Julie holds up a hand. ‘Shhhh!’

That report about Knox’s house burning down is on again. Kicks off with someone silhouetted against the flames, chucking a petrol bomb. Placards. Angry faces. Fire engines. Then some local plod bigwig giving a statement about how Grampian Police don’t like vigilantes.

Tony sucks the grease off his fingers and takes a swig of the Diet Coke that came with his meal, then tops it up with a good glug of that cheap brandy.

Neil holds out his Sprite. ‘Go on then, give us a splash, like.’

‘You’re designated driver.’

‘Aw, come on, that’s not-’

‘Sweethearts, I’m not going to ask you again.’

Silence.

They sit and eat, Tony flicking through Julie’s file on Danby with greasy fingers. Looking for an edge. Thinking about the little plastic baggie of wrappers in her handbag.

The piece on Knox goes back to the studio: a photo of him up in the background while some tree-hugging corduroy types get all worked up about why he was there, why he couldn’t be left alone, why it was costing so much…Blah. Blah. Blah.

And then the weather.

Neil blows his nose on a napkin, getting the Colonel’s face all covered in bogies. ‘What now?’

Julie clicks the TV doofer, and the screen fades to black. ‘Finish up, then we’re heading out.’ She stands, making for the bathroom, picking her way around the soggy towels on the carpet. ‘I’m driving.’

Tony tries not to shudder, then tops up his Coke again. What the hell — he pours a generous measure of cheap brandy into Neil’s Sprite as well. Solidarity.

If Julie’s driving they’ll both need it.