The other monsters are in the corner of the room, DAVID, TOM, and another one – a woman. Jenny can’t read the name badge from here, but the new monster has a huge camera slung around her neck all wrapped up in clear plastic.
SYLVESTER reaches down and strokes Jenny’s hair, but she doesn’t even flinch. Brave. ‘It’s going to be OK. It’ll all be over in a couple of days, and you can go home with your mum. That’ll be good, won’t it?’
The other monsters are arguing.
DAVID: ‘… fucking police.’
TOM: ‘I know. But what are we supposed to do about it?’
The new monster gives herself a hug. ‘Poor Colin. I can’t believe he’d do something like that …’ She sounds the same as the others.
DAVID shakes his head, that horrible shiny plastic face all dead and glinty. ‘Get a grip, Patrick, fuck’s sake. He was a moron, OK? It’s his fault the police are sniffing round.’
TOM shrugs one shoulder. ‘Come on, the guy’s dead, it’s no’ like—’
‘Everything we’ve done, everything we’ve achieved,’ DAVID pokes him in the chest with a purple finger, ‘only matters if no bastard ever finds out.’ Another poke. ‘You got any idea what they’ll do to us if they catch us? Any idea what we’ll get in prison? The bastards that cut off Jenny McGregor’s toes?’
TOM backs off a step. ‘I’m just saying, OK? He killed himself.’
SYLVESTER strokes Jenny’s hair again. ‘Don’t worry about them, they’re just upset. It’s going to be OK. No one’s going to hurt you …’
PATRICK shifts her feet. ‘What if he left a note? What if he told them what we’ve done?’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid. If he did that we’d all be in a cell by now. He didn’t say anything about us.’
Silence. Then PATRICK tilts her head to one side. ‘How do you know?’
There’s a clunk, then Mummy comes out of the poopy room, and closes the door behind her. It’s not a toilet, not like in a proper house, it’s a cupboard with a bucket in it and it smells like nappies left in the bin for too long.
The chain around Mummy’s leg clanks and rattles as she shuffles across the bare floorboards. Then it pulls tight and she has to wait until SYLVESTER undoes the padlock holding it to the radiator, and fastens it to the bed again. She sinks onto the mattress next to Jenny, curls up on her side with her back to the room.
SYLVESTER stands over Jenny for a moment. Looking down at her. Then he goes to be with the other monsters.
Jenny watches him shuffling on the outside of the group, like a fat boy in the playground. Then someone’s pocket makes the Doctor Who music.
DAVID pulls out a shiny phone. ‘What? … Yes, I know, they spoke to us too. … No, I don’t know. … Because I’m not fucking psychic, that’s why!’
Jenny closes her eyes, grits her teeth, and struggles onto her side. The holes where her little toes used to be throb and sting. But she doesn’t make a sound. Brave Little Girl.
36
Someone was in the house. Someone was in the house, with a knife, standing over the bed and he couldn’t move, and—
Logan jerked awake. Lay on his back staring at the ceiling, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He held his breath, listening.
Nothing, just the faint-raspy sound of Samantha sleeping beside him.
A dim orange glow oozed in around the edges of the curtains, not enough to light the room, just enough to make the wardrobe and chest of drawers look like monsters looming in the shadows. Big rectangular wooden monsters. Full of socks.
The alarm clock radio glowed 03:00.
He let the breath out in one long hiss. Sodding hell … Why couldn’t he dream about a bouncy castle full of naked Page 3 girls for a change?
Logan settled back into the pillow and frowned at the ceiling. Gordon Maguire – what a dodgy baldy little sod, sleeping with one of the contestants on his show. Jammy too. What the hell did Alison McGregor see in him? Other than a TV company, of course.
And all that stuff about bankruptcy and evil investors: they only had his word for it. Might be an idea to call up someone in the Met’s fraud division first thing tomorrow morning, see if they couldn’t give Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Production’s accounts a going-over. Find out if Maguire was telling the truth.
A clack.
Then there was creepy stalker Beatrice ‘Mummy Issues’ Eastbrook …
Probably should get someone to look into Edward Buchan’s property arrangements too, just in case the pathetic excuse for a human being had a lock-up or an old relative’s house he was looking after. Somewhere to stash Trisha Brown where no one would hear her screaming for help.
If the Yardies didn’t have her.
Thump.
And assuming Superintendent Green didn’t get him fired first …
Logan frowned. Did he need to pee? Possibly. But that meant getting out of bed.
A huge, jaw-cracking yawn.
Unless Shuggie and Trisha really were trying to pull off a scam?
Logan rolled out of bed and stood, naked and pale, in the green glow of the clock radio. Like a scrawny version of the Incredible Hulk. He flexed his right arm a couple of times, trying to work the stiffness out of it, aggravating the bruises, then creaked open the bedroom door.
Pale light seeped through the glass pane above the front door, picking out just enough detail in the dark hallway to make the path from the bedroom to the bathroom reasonably safe. Nothing worse than standing on something sharp in the dead of …
His letterbox was open. He could see a vague glow around the edges. And then it went dark. Logan glanced up. The light still shone through the glass above the door.
He started forward.
There was something sticking through the opening – a pale shape that swelled and drooped as he watched.
‘What the hell?’
It was a condom. A big, ribbed condom. It was getting bigger. Why was there a—
He froze as the familiar sour-sweet pear-and-vinegar smell of petrol hit him. ‘Don’t you bloody dare!’
The condom gave one last droop, then fell. It hit the hall floor and bounced, petrol squiring from the open end, up the walls, across the carpet, into the coats. Logan snatched his hands over his eyes as a jet slashed across his naked chest.
‘Fuck!’
The letterbox creaked open again and a book of matches poked through.
Logan backed up. Backed up some more. Nearly fell over the unit they kept their keys on. ‘SAMANTHA!
A scratching noise.
The bastard was trying to light a match.
Scratch.
‘SAMANTHA! WAKE UP!’
Scratch.
The smell of petrol was getting stronger, the liquid starting to evaporate in the warmth.
Run into the kitchen, grab a bucket of water … He was covered in bloody petrol. When the hall went up, he’d go up with it.
‘SAMANTHA!’
Scratch.
Logan hauled open the bedroom door and nearly fell inside. Slammed the door shut again.
‘God’s sake … do you know what time it is?’ She was sitting up in bed, one eye scrunched shut, the other squinting at him. ‘What’s so—’
‘Someone’s trying to burn—’
A loud crumping WHOOOMP. The bedroom door shoved hard against Logan’s back. Blinding yellow light. Heat. Darkness.
Cough. There was something rough, scratching at his cheek. Logan blinked. Tried to shake the ringing sound out of his head. It thumped into a solid wall of wood. Ow …
Someone tugged at his arm, the motion scrubbing his face against the carpet. Pressure on his back.
‘LOGAN, GET UP!’
Orange light flickered across the skirting board. Why was he lying on the floor?
‘LOGAN!’
The pressure on his back eased.
Samantha knelt next to him, tattoos dancing across her pale skin in the shifting light. He looked up and sh
e was naked, struggling to lift the bedroom door off him. He forced his arms under himself and shoved, fighting his way to his knees.
‘Don’t just sit there!’ She shoved at the slab of wood. ‘Help me!’
He shook his head again, but the ringing wouldn’t go away. Poland – it was just like Poland, huddled in a junkyard flat, the flames the rubble the death and destruct—
A sharp, stinging pain flashed out across his cheek.
‘Logan!’ She slapped him again.
‘Ow! Cut it out: I hear you.’
‘Then help!’
The room was filling with smoke, thick greasy clouds of grey-black, lit with that horrible crackling glow. It was roasting in here, literally, sweat beading on his arms and petrol-soaked chest …
He glanced around the side of the detached door. It was like sticking his head in an oven, a wall of hot air that made his skin tighten. The paint on the back of the door was blistered and steaming. Flames filled the hallway outside, the carpet crisping and popping, sending out gouts of choking smoke. The coat-rack crashed to the floor, burning jackets and scarves flashing like fireworks.
‘Jesus …’
Samantha shook his shoulder. ‘Do you want another slap?’
‘What? I was just—’
‘Then help me get the door back in place!’
Easier said than done. The blistered paint on the other side was too hot to touch, so all they had was the handle and the little rack Logan had bought from B&Q to take dressing gowns. He took hold of it, dragged in a deep breath, and stood. Smoke closed around his head, the heat making his skin itch. Like instant sunburn. He kept his shoulder to the warm wood, inching his way forward with his eyes closed.
Clunk. It hit the wall.
Shuffle sideways, breath screaming in his chest, ears nipping and painful as he forced the thing back into the empty doorway.
Logan ducked down again, still leaning against the door. Gasped in a breath. A cough rattled through him, deep heaving barks that made spots swim past his eyes.
‘Move!’
He staggered back and Samantha shoved the chest of drawers against the door, pinning it in place. She backed off a step, staring. ‘What the fuck happened? Bomb?’
Logan sank onto the carpet and coughed till he gagged. ‘… petrol … through the … the letter—’ More coughing.
A pair of jeans smacked into his chest. ‘What are … are you …’ The rest of his clothes rained down on him.
‘We’re naked and the bloody building’s on fire: get dressed.’
Logan hauled on a stripy jumper. No point bothering with socks and pants. He wriggled into the jeans. ‘Where’s my shoes?’
Samantha hauled on a Sisters of Mercy T-shirt. ‘What did you do?’
‘It’s not my fault, OK?’ He crawled across the floor to the bedside cabinet and wrenched out the top drawer, sending all the garbage he’d stuffed in there over the last God-knew-how-many years spilling out across the smouldering carpet and grabbed his phone from the mess.
Something crashed against the wall behind him.
Logan spun around. The wardrobe was tipped forward, its top edge had taken a gouge out of the wallpaper, and Samantha was hauling one of the doors off.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘This shite was expensive …’ She dragged out a black leather jacket, then the corset she’d bought online, then three pairs of thigh-length leather boots, then a black ball gown.
‘Everyone’s gone bloody mental.’ The phone bleeped at him. No signal. ‘Fucking thing!’ He switched it off, then on again … this time he got a single bar. Dialled.
‘Hello?’
He could barely hear the woman on the other end. ‘Emergency Services, which—’
‘Fire brigade!’ He rattled off the address, then made her repeat it back to him.
‘Right, you need to stay calm. I want you to get some wet towels and use them to block any gaps between your door and the floor.’
‘We’re trapped in the bloody bedroom – where are we supposed to get wet towels from?’
‘Well … You could get some jumpers or bedding or something and use that instead?’
‘Brilliant. What do you want me to do for water? Pee on them?’
‘I’m only trying to help.’
Samantha poked his shoulder. ‘Time to go.’
He looked at her. ‘Fire engine’s on its way.’
‘Do the math – how long’s it going to take them to get here?’
‘Five, ten minutes maybe?’
‘And set up the ladders, and get everything sorted. And we’re round the back – how are they going to get a fire engine anywhere near us?’
He risked another glance at the steadily lowering layer of smoke. Three feet from the floor and still falling. ‘We’re fucked, aren’t we?’
‘Probably.’ Samantha crawled over to their makeshift barricade and pulled three of the drawers out. Then dragged them over to her pile of clothes by the window.
Logan hung up on the emergency services woman. Then scrabbled over.
A loud bang and a crash sounded from somewhere on the other side of the bedroom door. The TV exploding, or something like that.
She grabbed him by the neck, hauled him close and kissed him. She tasted of charred plastic and ozone. ‘You still owe me dinner – so no getting killed, understand?’
‘You ready?’
‘No. You?’
‘Nope.’ He grabbed the windowsill and hauled himself up to a crouch. Reached through the smoke for the security catch and snibbed it open. Then hauled. The window creaked, then juddered open. Ancient wood and layers of paint squealing in protest.
It was like switching on a vacuum cleaner – the difference in air temperature hurling smoke out into the night. Outside the bedroom door, the crackle of flames built to a roar: the updraft feeding the blaze.
Samantha popped up beside him and stared down. ‘Oh … shite.’
That was the trouble with living in a top-floor flat, the ground was a long, long way down. Three storeys of vertical granite, and then the flat roof of the building behind.
She ducked back down and hurled her ball gown and corsets out of the window.
Logan looked from side to side – maybe they could climb onto the roof? Haul themselves up on the guttering. He reached up and gave it a tug.
A chunk of rusty black came away in his hand.
Samantha’s boots went spiralling to the flat roof far below, followed by the contents of all three drawers. Pants, bras, and stripy stockings, drifting down like lacy snow.
She coughed, wiped a hand across her soot-covered face, leaving a slightly cleaner patch. ‘You want me to go first?’
‘Where? There’s nowhere to go.’
‘Fine. You can follow me.’ Samantha bit her bottom lip. Took a deep breath. Coughed. Then eased a leg out over the windowsill, keeping hunched down so she was beneath the level of the whirling smoke.
Logan grabbed her. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘Downpipe. We get to the one from the kitchen and we can climb down.’
‘You’re fucking mad!’
She nodded back towards the bedroom door. Flames were licking through the gap around the eviscerated chest of drawers. ‘You want to stay and take your chances?’
No he didn’t. ‘Hold on …’
Logan hauled the duvet off the bed. Sweat dripped from his forehead, he could feel it trickling down his back as well. He wrestled the fitted sheet from the mattress’s grip, then twisted it up into a loose rope. ‘Tie this around you.’
‘It’s not long enough, how am I supposed to—’
‘In case you slip on the way to the bloody pipe. Just do what you’re sodding told for once.’
‘Your face is a mess, by the way.’ She took the end of the sheet and twisted it around her wrist.
‘Right …’ Samantha eased her bum from the
windowsill, lowering herself down onto her elbows, then down again until her arms were wrapped around the granite ledge.
Logan braced himself against the wall, knotting both hands into the sheet, holding tight. It was crappy climbing technique, but the thing was too short for anything else.
The heat was getting worse, the air thick and choking.
She looked up at him. ‘You let me go, and I’ll kill you.’ Then she started edging her way along, making for the cast-iron downpipe that ran from the kitchen down to … whatever the hell it drained into.
A siren wailed in the distance, getting closer. At least that was something.
‘Fuck …’ A lurch and Samantha let go of the ledge with her left hand, reaching out for the black pipe.
Please let it be in better condition than the guttering …
She grabbed it, wobbled for a moment, then stared up into his eyes. Licked her soot-blackened lips. ‘Don’t drop me.’
Logan tried for a smile. ‘I won’t.’
A nod, then she let go of the window ledge.
And didn’t fall to her death. Oh thank God.
‘Fuck this is high up.’ Samantha eased herself down about a foot. Then another, until the fitted sheet was stretched tight. ‘Let go.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t be a dick, you have to let go, or I can’t go any further.’
She was right.
He tossed the end out of the window. It dangled from her arm, stirring back and forward in the updraft – cool air dragged up the side of the building by the heat of the fire. Right. He could do this. No problem. Just ease out onto the ledge. No need to rush. All the time in the world.
This was stupid.
Stay in the flat. Stay put and wait for the fire brigade.
Logan glanced back over his shoulder. The smoke was even thicker, and flames weren’t just licking around the edges of the chest of drawers, they were eating it. A groan, then the bedroom door shuddered as something crashed against it.
The ceiling was caving in.
Oh God …
He clutched at the edge of the window, swung his legs out over the void. Three storeys straight down to a flat roof. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He reached out with his left leg, feeling for the downpipe.
Above his head the smoke was shot through with shards of flame. The roar of the fire nearly deafening.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 26
