Shatter the Bones

Chapter 40

A small warehouse in Dyce — not much bigger than a double garage, oil stains on the concrete floor, metal shelving around the bare breezeblock walls loaded down with dusty boxes.

A layer of thick, clear plastic sheeting was spread out on the floor, the corners held down with chunks of rusty machinery.

One of the roller doors was open, letting in the bang and clank of the industrial estate, the whumping roar of helicopters on their way to and from the rigs. A dented Transit van had been backed part way into the warehouse, its rear wheels sitting on the plastic sheet, its front end sticking out into the sunny afternoon. Engine idling.

The young man with the green hair sniffed, then picked up a metal attache case, popped open the catches, and held the thing out to Logan, as if he was starring in a spy film. Jonny Urquhart — From Mastrick With Malice. He smiled, showing off a set of perfect teeth, his cheeks a moonscape of old acne pock-marks. ‘Don’t worry, totally clean, like.’

Logan looked into the case. It was a big semi-automatic pistol, wrapped in a clear plastic zip-lock food bag. Another bag had the clip. One more, a handful of snub-nosed 9mm bullets.

‘Hollow point.’ Urquhart winked. ‘They’ll fuck you up good.’

Logan’s palms were suddenly damp. He wiped them on his jeans. ‘No. Thanks, but no.’

‘Ah, going hands-on, eh? Old school: like it.’ He slammed the case shut again, twiddled with the combination lock. ‘You got gloves? No? Don’t worry, I’ll sort you out.’

He hauled open the Transit’s back doors and clambered inside, then backed out again, hauling a fully-grown man by the armpits.

Shuggie Webster: hands fastened behind his back, legs kicking out in random directions. THUMP, he hit the concrete floor … or rather, the plastic sheeting. A muffled grunt from behind a duct tape gag. He was still wearing the same filthy hoodie as before, but his shoes were gone, exposing a pair of socks with a hole in one toe. Urquhart dragged him into the middle of the sheeting, then let go.

Shuggie lay there, eyes wide, breath hissing out of his nose. Logan swallowed. ‘There we go, one tosspot, delivered as promised. Like FedEx for fuck-heads.’ Urquhart dug another zip-lock bag from his pocket and tossed it across to Logan. ‘Compliments of the house.’

Three pairs of gloves: one leather, two latex — the skin-tone ones you never saw on crime scenes any more.

‘Now, you sure you don’t want that gun?’

On the ground, Shuggie tried to shout something, bucking and writhing.

‘No one fucking asked you.’ Urquhart took two steps and slammed his boot into Shuggie’s side.

That got him a muffled grunt. ‘See? This is what happens when you buy your drugs off fucking foreigners.’ Another kick. ‘Support local businesses!’ Urquhart clapped his hands together. ‘Right, I’ll leave you guys alone. Give us a knock when you want me to come help you get shot of what’s left, OK?’ He swaggered over to the back of the van, reached in and produced a portable stereo the size of a bulldog. Fiddled with it for a moment, then clicked a button.

Heavy metal boomed out of the speakers, loud enough to drown out any screams.

He popped it on the ground, creaked the van’s doors shut again. It pulled forward four feet.

Urquhart turned, tugged his green forelock, stepped outside and hauled the roller door shut. Now it was just Logan, Shuggie, and Metallica.

Shuggie stopped wriggling, just lay there on his back, staring up at him.

Of course the right thing to do would be to look on all this as an object lesson. To accept that Shuggie Webster was just a screwed up little man who got in with the wrong people when he was young. Whose life had been blighted by drug use and a second-rate education. That he was a human being, as flawed and redeemable as anyone.

Logan slid the little plastic zip open and pulled out the latex gloves.

Revenge wasn’t going to solve anything. It wasn’t going to make Samantha’s spleen and left kidney grow back. Make the swelling in her brain go down. Fix her busted ribs, broken shoulder, shattered left knee, or dislocated hip. Make her wake up.

It wasn’t going to do a fucking thing.

He snapped one set of latex gloves on, then struggled the leather pair over the top. Give Shuggie a good scare, then haul him back to the station, hand him over to the authorities, and make sure he goes down for eight-to-twelve years. Which means six-to-eight before he gets out on parole. Four-to-six with good behaviour. Less time-served while waiting for the case to come to court.

Logan pulled the last pair of latex gloves on over the leather.

Barely worth arresting him at all. Might as well give the little fuck a slap on the wrists and send him on his way with a stern talking to.

Save everyone a lot of bother. ‘On your feet.’

Shuggie just stared at him. ‘I said, “ON YOUR FUCKING FEET!”’ Logan slammed a kick into his thigh.

Shuggie hissed behind the gag, then struggled to roll over onto his side. The bandage covering his right hand was almost black with dried blood and dirt. Logan grabbed his shoulders and hauled him up onto his knees.

‘You wanted “consequences”, Shuggie? Fine.’ Logan grabbed the cable tie holding the big man’s wrists together, and pulled. ‘You’re going to get your fucking “consequences”.’

A muffled scream, but Shuggie got to his feet, socks slipping on the plastic.

Just a bit of a scare…

Logan slammed a fist into the big man’s kidneys — he collapsed to his knees again.

‘She’s in a coma.’ Logan took a step back and kicked Shuggie in the kidney again.

‘MMMMMMMPHHHHH!’

Shuggie narrowed his eyes above the duct tape gag, a growling hiss coming from his throat.

‘A fucking coma!’ Logan rammed his forearm into Shuggie’s face, using the solid strip of bone just before the elbow to crack him right across the nose. Barely felt it. But Shuggie went sprawling back across the plastic, moaning and whinging like a baby.

A swift boot in the nuts and he was folded over again, blood pouring from his ruined nose, jerking back and forward.

Logan stamped on his left ankle. ‘Say you’re sorry!’ He kicked the big man over onto his back, then sat down hard on his chest. Rammed another elbow into his face. Shuggie’s head bounced off the plastic sheeting with a dull thunk. Logan hauled the duct tape gag off and Shuggie dragged in a huge breath.

Logan hit him again, not bothering with the elbow, using his fist. ‘Say-’ punch, ‘-you’re-’ punch, ‘-fucking-’ punch, ‘-SORRY!’ Then sat back, breathing hard.

Shuggie’s face was already beginning to swell up, one eye closing over, the other well on its way — the pupil adrift in a sea of bright red. Nose flattened, lips split. Probably a broken cheekbone.

‘Urgh…’ Bubbles of blood popped at the side of his battered mouth.

‘Everything we do, all the shit we put up with, to keep bastards like you from hurting people. Stealing from them. Dealing drugs to their kids and ruining their fucking lives…’ Logan hauled himself to his feet, flexed his right hand, feeling the layers of glove tight across his skin. He kicked him again, catching Shuggie on the side of the knee, where it would do the most damage.

The big man screamed. ‘Say you’re sorry.’

Shuggie just lay there, gurgling blood and crying. ‘SAY IT.’

‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry…’ His voice was wet, strangled with sobs. ‘Whatever … whatever I did — oh God — I’m sorry.’

Logan stared at him. ‘“Whatever you did”?’ Piece of shit. He stamped on Shuggie’s stomach, folding him up again.

‘Aaaaaa! Please, I’m sorry!’

‘YOU SET FIRE TO MY FLAT, YOU FUCKING WANKER!’

‘I’m so … I’m so sorry…’

‘You stuck a condom through my letterbox, filled it with petrol, and set fire to the fucking thing!’ Another kick in the stomach. ‘What, were you too stoned to remember? Samantha’s in a fucking coma because of you!’ One more for luck.

‘Aaaaaaaaagh!’ Shuggie lay there, trembling and panting. ‘I didn’t do it, please, I didn’t set fire to anything!’

Logan backed off a couple of steps. ‘How stupid do you think I am?’

The song on the stereo ended, replaced by another round of thumping drums and squealing guitars.

‘I can’t… My hand. How could … could I pour fuck-all through … through anything?’ Shuggie curled up into a ball, battered forehead resting on his one good knee. ‘Look at it. LOOK AT IT!’

Logan walked around to the other side and stared down at the filthy bandage completely covering Shuggie’s right hand. ‘Doesn’t mean you can’t still use it.’

‘They skinned my … my fingers.’ He coughed, spraying blood and chunks of tooth all over his jeans.

Logan knelt down behind him and yanked Shuggie’s arms back. A safety pin held the tatty bandage end in place. Logan fumbled with it, the three layers of gloves making it nearly impossible. And then he got it, pulled the rust-flecked pin out, and unwound the bandage.

Shuggie screamed — the grubby fabric tugging at the raw flesh, coming away like strawberry jam, stinking of rancid meat.

‘Jesus…’ Only the thumb and forefinger were visible, but they were a stomach-lurching mess of purple, red and black, the tendons just visible as grey strips. Logan backed away to the edge of the plastic sheeting. ‘Why didn’t you go to the hospital?’

‘Every … every day I … I couldn’t pay them back … they took … took another one…’ Breath hissing out through bloody lips.

God almighty. ‘I didn’t … I didn’t set fire … to anything.’ He made a sound that almost sounded like a laugh. ‘How could I?’

Logan’s stomach lurched. Head full of burning coals, mouth full of saliva. He staggered back against the shelving.

It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Shuggie.

He swallowed, forced down the bitter taste of bile. Even if Shuggie didn’t pour the petrol, it was still his fault. There had to be consequences.

‘Where are they? Jacob and Robert — your Yardie mates? Did you tell them I wouldn’t give you your fucking drugs back? Did you set those bastards on me?’

Logan’s eyes stung, his vision blurring.

Blink. Swallow. ‘Where the fuck are they?’

Lying, sobbing on the warehouse floor, Shuggie told him.

‘Oh…’ Jonny Urquhart stood looking down at Shuggie Webster’s battered body. ‘Cos it’s no problem if you want me to … you know.’ He made a gun with his thumb and forefinger.

‘No.’ Logan cleared his throat. ‘He’s under arrest.’

‘You sure? Cos you’ve really kinda fucked him up. What’s going to happen when he’s served his time, eh? You want some junkie scroat bag coming after you?’

Silence.

That’s what had caused this whole mess in the first place. ‘Tell you what.’ Urquhart hunkered down next to Shuggie. ‘Listen up, fuckwit, and listen really good, ’cos if I have to repeat myself, you’re screwed. You do anything to this nice police officer and we’re gonna find you. You’re gonna give yourself up, and you’re gonna cough to whatever he says, and you’re gonna to go to prison and do your time like a good little boy. You so much as whisper “police brutality” and I’ll get some huge bastard to rape your arse ragged, then cut your fucking throat. We clear?’

Shuggie coughed up a mouthful of dark red. ‘I said, are we fucking clear?’

‘Yeth…’ It was little more than a whisper, borne on a bubble of blood.

Urquhart ran a hand through his green hair. ‘Course he’s a junkie, and you know what their word’s worth. Sure you don’t want me to-’

‘No. Just…’ What? Drop him off at the station looking as if he’s been run over by a combine harvester? Take him to the hospital? Anything that ended up with Wee Hamish being connected to Shuggie Webster was eventually going to lead right back to him.

And maybe Logan deserved it.

He peeled off his three layers of gloves. His hands stank of elastic bands, the knuckles tainted deep pink, the skin puffy and tender. ‘I’ll deal with it.’

‘OK.’ Urquhart nudged Shuggie’s crying body with the toe of his boot. ‘You’re a lucky fuck, Shugs. See if you’d set my house on fire?’ A smile. ‘You just remember what I said: one step out of line and…’ he drew a finger across his throat.