Close to the Bone (Special Edition) (Logan McRae, Book 8)

by Stuart MacBride

  Oh. . . If this was going to be an offer of sex, she was in for a bit of disappointment. ‘Actually, I’m—’

  ‘Tada!’ Claire pulled her other hand from behind her back. There was a shoebox in it with little holes poked in the side. ‘Very much not allowed in the hospital.’

  She placed it on the bed and removed the lid. ‘She’s ten weeks old.’

  A pair of beautiful blue eyes peered up at him from a little stripy bundle of fluff with impossibly large hairy ears. It opened its mouth in a silent meow.

  ‘Her name’s Misty, but you can call her Cthulhu, if you like.’

  A kitten and a sex toy, all in one day. ‘But—’

  Claire patted him on the arm. ‘You’re very welcome. And I’ve got a starter pack from the vets for you at the nurses’ station. Just make sure you take her home before anyone sees her.’ Claire checked her watch. ‘Better get back to work.’

  And she was gone.

  OK. So now he had a cat to look after.

  Couldn’t deny that she was cute. . .

  He reached in and took Misty / Cthulhu from the shoebox and settled into the chair again. She was like a little rigid ball of fur, tiny needle-sharp claws scrambling for purchase on his shirt. Not the cuddling type then.

  He plonked the kitten down on the bed instead and helped himself to one of the bottles of Lucozade, twisted the top off and took a swig. It was warm, but drinkable.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Cthulhu: how did Morgan know where to burn Roy Forman’s body? Turns out that when they were bonding with the coven in Wyoming, Nichole told her all about her misspent youth in Aberdeen, including where she and her dog-murdering boyfriend used to burn the cars they’d nicked.’

  Cthulhu padded her way up and down the covers, sniffing things.

  Logan frowned at her. ‘No offence, but I feel like a bit of a pillock talking to a cat. I don’t care what Goulding says.’

  Samantha sighed. ‘Well, it’s not her fault she can’t answer back, is it? ’

  ‘I suppose.’ Another scoof of Lucozade. ‘I phoned the architects, by the way. He’s getting the builders organized again. Should start sometime in the next couple of weeks.’

  ‘Halle-bleeding-luiah.’ She sat up in bed and picked Cthulhu up, one hand cupped beneath the pale fuzzy tummy. ‘Don’t you listen to stinky old Daddy, you’re perfectly lovely to talk to.’

  A burp rattled Logan’s diaphragm. ‘Oops, pardon me.’

  He sagged back into the chair.

  ‘Been a weird kind of a day. . . After all the sodding about, and the drug raids, and catching Roy Forman’s killer, the ACC says that DI’s job in Peterhead’s mine if I want it.’

  Samantha stared at him, her voice jagged and brittle. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘What, and spend half my life either stuck on the A90, or never seeing you? Told him I’d wait till something permanent came up in Aberdeen.’

  Cthulhu did her silent mew again.

  Samantha looked as if she was trying to hide a smile by nuzzling her nose into the space between the kitten’s ears. ‘What about Wee Hamish’s cheque? ’

  ‘Think I’m going to give it to the guys who run the soup kitchen down the Green. Roy Forman would’ve liked that, wouldn’t he? ’

  ‘No idea. Never met him.’ Cthulhu wriggled and meeped, until she was allowed back down onto the covers. Then Samantha reached for the copy of Witchfire on the bedside cabinet. ‘Come on, Jackanory Boy: make with the story.’

  Logan loosened his tie and settled back in his seat. Opened the book. Smiled. Girlfriend, kitten, and a pat on the back. Maybe things were going to be OK after all. ‘Right, here we go:

  “Above the tower block, the slate-coloured clouds crackled with lightning, followed a heartbeat later by a chest-tightening bellow of thunder. . .”’

  And then, just to round off a perfect day, Cthulhu peed on the end of the bed.

  Read on for an exclusive short story by

  The Ballad of Manky Milne

  … and that was why, on a cold night in February, Duncan Milne was up to his neck in shite. Literally. There was a small stunned pause, and then the swearing started. ‘FUCK, Jesus, fuck! Aaaaaaargh!’ Then some spitting, then more swearing.

  A silhouette blocked out the handful of stars visible through the septic tank’s inspection hatch. ‘You OK?’

  ‘No I’m not fucking OK!’ More spitting. ‘Argh! Jesus – that tastes horrible!’

  ‘Aye, well … it is shite.’

  Duncan ‘Manky’ Milne wiped his eyes and flicked the scummy liquid away. The smell was appalling, like a thousand jobbies marinating in a sea of wet farts. ‘Don’t tell me it’s shite, OK? I know it’s fucking shite! I’m bloody swimming in it!’ He screwed his face up and spat some more. Breaking into Neil McRitchie’s septic tank had seemed like such a good idea at the time – smacked out of their tits and jacked up on shoplifted vodka – but treading ‘water’ in a subterranean vat of raw sewage, Milne had to admit it was losing its appeal.

  ‘Can you see it?’

  He scowled up at the dark shape. ‘Help me out!’

  A pause, then, ‘But—’

  ‘Josie, I swear: if you don’t help me out of here I’m gonnae stab you in the fucking eye!’

  ‘But you’re down there anyway …’ Wheedling, putting on her ‘little girl’ voice, because she thinks it makes men squirm.

  ‘It’s pitch black down here. I can’t—’

  ‘So feel about for it! It’ll be easy enough to find. I’ll bet it floats.’

  Milne spat again, trying to get rid of the aftertaste. ‘Why the hell would it float?’

  Pause. ‘Well, it’s powder, it should—’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. If it was bloody powder it’d be dissolved in all this crap! It’ll be wrapped in polythene. And parcel tape. Like in the movies.’ A kilo of heroin for their very own.

  ‘OK, so it’ll sink. You just have to feel about for it.’

  ‘You fucking “feel about for it”! Jump down here and see how you like it!’

  ‘Come on Duncan, pwease?’ She was bringing out the big guns now – the fake lisp. Silly cow. It hurt to admit it, but she was probably right – he might as well look while he was down here. Wasn’t as if he was going to get any mankier than he already was.

  Grumbling and swearing, he groped about in the lukewarm liquid. Trying not to think about what was bobbing about his throat. Thank God he was six foot tall – four inches shorter and his mouth and nose would be submerged. The scum layer was warm, steaming gently all around him. Further down it got colder – between the putrid froth and the knee-deep sludge at the bottom of the tank. The sludge was slightly warm too, oozing into his nylon tracksuit and socks, filling his trainers.

  Milne cursed again. A kilo of heroin would sink. And that meant he’d have to duck under the surface to get it. Not that he hadn’t already been there, having fallen head-first through the inspection hatch. But still: fuck this shite.

  Gritting his teeth he waded forward, feeling for the parcel in the sludge with his feet. Nothing. ‘It’s not—’

  ‘Shhhh!’ Josie dropped her voice to a harsh whisper: ‘Shut up! Someone’s coming.’

  He froze.

  Thin light swept past the access hatch, caught in the steam rising from the rotting sewage, and then a posh accent brayed out. Jagged and angry. Very, very angry. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I … I was looking for someone.’ Josie trying her ‘little girl’ voice again. Only this time there were no takers.

  ‘You think I don’t know what you are? Eh? Think I’m stupid?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re—’

  ‘We’ve had ENOUGH! Whores and drug addicts coming round here all hours!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘ENOUGH!’

  ‘You know what: fuck you granddad, you can—’ A muffled thunk and the sound of something hitting
the ground: something undernourished and three months shy of her nineteenth birthday. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  ‘Enough …’ And then it went quiet for a bit. And then there was some crying. And then some grunting. And then scraping, like someone was being dragged— the stars were blotted out again. Milne backed away quietly until he was against the far wall of the septic tank.

  Click and a beam of cold white light leapt through the access hatch, making the milky-brown liquid glow. More grunting and then an almighty splash as the something was unceremoniously dumped in, making a tidal wave of human waste. Milne closed his mouth and his eyes and prayed for the best.

  When it was over he wiped his face, and stared at the thing floating face-up in front of him.

  Some fumbling and a curse and then the torch was hurled in after her, bouncing off Josie’s cheek and spinning away into the scum. It stayed lit, sinking through the layers of liquid, glowing like a firefly. Flickering. Then dying. Leaving the tank in darkness once more.

  The sound of heavy lifting came from above and slowly the patch of stars disappeared. Clunk. And they were gone. Milne and Josie were entombed.

  Two days was a long time to spend trapped in a septic tank, especially when the shakes started to set in. Coming down from a heroin buzz to the depths of cold turkey – making him sweat and shiver, even though the liquid waste was just warm enough to steam. To start with he’d held Josie close, like a child would its teddy bear, but then she started to smell worse than the sewage and he’d been forced to push her to the far side of the tank. Wedging her under the inlet valve so she stayed beneath the surface.

  Now it was just smells and darkness. He knew it was two days because the watch he’d taken from Josie’s dead wrist glowed in the dark. Two days shivering and sweating. Feeling terrible. Scratching at the holes in his arms, unable to stop, even though he knew they’d get infected. Didn’t matter now anyway. He was dead.

  He’d spent hours trying to get the tank’s thick concrete lid to move, but it was too heavy and too high above his head. He was well and truly trapped.

  Two days without a hit and the hallucinations were in full swing, following him in and out of consciousness as he floated on the surface with the frothy scum. Where it was warmest. Trying to stay beneath the ventilation pipe, hoping enough air would be drawn down by the internal/external temperature difference to keep him from suffocation as he slowly died of dehydration.

  Drifting on a sea of warm shite and cold turkey …

  Within eighteen months of meeting Duncan ‘Manky’ Milne Josie has gone from a plump happy teenager to a straggly scarecrow with sunken eyes and track marks down both arms. Red and angry like hornet stings around the crook of her elbow.

  And Duncan hasn’t fared much better – his boyish good looks are gone, now he’s just skin and bone with a drug habit. And it’s all about where the next fix is coming from. Which is why they’re standing at the bar of the Dunstane Arms on George Street, trying to scrape together enough change for two pints of cider. An aperitif before they head down the docks to see if anyone wants to rent Josie for a quick blowjob.

  Of course, in the old days they both tried it, but no one wants to screw Manky Milne for cash any more. So these days he’s her Pimp Daddy. Even if he can only come up with enough cash for a pint and a half. Being a gentleman, Milne lets her take the pint – after all, she’ll be the one doing all the work tonight – and they settle back into a booth, out of sight of the barman who’s been giving them the evil eye since they slouched in five minutes ago, looking like shite.

  And that’s when they hear about Neil McRitchie.

  Two blokes standing by the bandit – poking the buttons, making the wheels spin, the light flash, and the music ding – laughing about how Neil McRitchie just got this big consignment in from Amsterdam: a kilo of uncut heroin. How Grampian Police decide to raid his house, but McRitchie flushes the whole parcel down the toilet before they break down the door. A kilo of smack, right down the drain. And then they drag him off to the station.

  Milne sits back in his seat, face creased in thought, trying to get his drug-addled mind to work. Neil McRitchie … A small-time dealer on the south side of the city – Kincorth, Nigg and Altens. Milne’s bought from him before: blow, smack, and a bit of speed. Always from the guy’s house.

  A smile creeps onto Milne’s dirty face. McRitchie’s house is on the back road between Nigg and Charlestown, the end cottage in a row of four. Not so far off the beaten track that you can’t walk there, but far enough to need private drainage. And private drainage means a septic tank.

  The police won’t have a bloody clue. They’ll think it’s gone for good, but McRitchie’s kilo of heroin isn’t wheeching its way out to the North Sea – it’s bobbing about in a vat of shite, buried at the bottom of the garden. That’s one good thing about being the son of a plumber: Milne knows his drainage. And that’s when the plan—

  He’s hiding behind the Christmas tree, cowering down behind the sharp, dry needles, trying not to breathe, because he knows they’ll fall and spatter against the bare floorboards. And then his father will find him. A scream from the corridor and a thump – his mother hitting the floor, then a thud – his father hitting her. Other kids want GigaPets and Furbies for Christmas. He wants his father to die. Six years old and all he wants—

  Milne spluttered, dragging his head back above the surface. Coughing. Shivering. He was burning up – cold, aching, feverish. It wasn’t just the DTs: it was the sewage. Oozing in through the open sores on his arms and legs. Spreading tendrils of septicaemia through his already battered system.

  And it was all for nothing. He’d searched the tank from top to bottom and there was no heroin. No kilo of smack wrapped up in a nice plastic package, sealed off with parcel tape. They’d been stupid to ever think there was: how was it going to get through the pipes? The package wouldn’t have got round the toilet U-bend. They’d been stupid and now—

  Half past ten and Josie’s on her knees, earning them enough cash for three wrappers of Heroin and a Big Mac with fries. The guy’s something in accounting from the look of him, dressed in a Barbour jacket and checked shirt with his chinos round his ankles. Leaning against the wall, grunting as Josie’s mouth works its magic.

  Hiding in the shadows, Milne gives the guy’s car a once over. It’s an anonymous Renault with all the panache of a bottle of brown sauce. Perfect. Milne fingers the half brick in his pocket and crosses the road. He doesn’t even let the guy finish before smashing him over the back of the head.

  Josie sits back on the doorstep, giggling as Milne pops the Renault’s boot and tries to manhandle the guy inside. He’s still breathing, but the bastard weighs a ton! A quick search of his pockets turns up car keys, house keys, credit cards, a wallet with a hundred quid in it – result – and half a packet of cigarettes. Milne strips him naked and ties him up with his own clothes. The man just lies there, pale, curled up like a foetus, bleeding onto the dark blue carpet. Milne slams the boot shut, then he and Josie smoke the guy’s cigarettes. Telling jokes about—

  It’s cold, barely past dawn, but he’s running for all he’s worth, chasing down the blond kid from Robert Gordon’s private school, diving at him, dragging him to the ground. The rugby ball flies off to one of the other wee boys on the opposite team, but Milne doesn’t care, just starts punching and kicking the blond kid. Hammering away until the teacher acting as a referee drags him off. Shouting and swearing.

  The wee blond kid lies on the frosty grass, curled up in a ball, bleeding and crying. And Milne has no idea why he did it. But he’s crying too. And the teacher hauls him round and screams in his face—

  It’s after midnight, but they’re nowhere near sleepy. A hundred quid goes a long way if you know what you’re doing. One of Josie’s mates sells them a couple of wrappers of heroin each and a litre bottle of Asda’s own-label vodka – shoplifted fresh that afternoon by a gang of eight-year-old girls. And then Josie and
Milne are driving off to McRitchie’s house in the guy’s stolen car, pausing to shoot-up in a lay-by off the A90. Taking the long way round.

  Milne parks down the road a bit, where they’ve got a good view of the cottages, but far enough away not to draw any attention. This is the difficult bit, figuring out where the septic tank is. Sometimes it’s right up close to the house, sometimes it’s more than a field away. But it always—

  He couldn’t tell if the noise was coming from inside his head or not: a dull rasping, grinding sound, like two stones being dragged apart. And then the air burst into fiery light. He opened his mouth to cry for help, but nothing came out. Not even a dry croak.

  A man’s voice broke the silence: ‘Bloody hell …’

  It took a minute for Milne’s brain to catch up, but it was him: the bastard who’d shouted at Josie. The bastard who’d battered her head in with the heavy, metal torch. Milne had found it when he was searching the tank – lying buried in the bottom layer of sludge – the casing all battered and dented round the bulb end. Like someone had used it as a club.

  The sound of gagging came from above and the light drifted away, then swung back in through the inspection hatch. Milne pulled back against the wall, screwing his eyes shut, unaccustomed to the change from perpetual darkness—

  Standing at the side of the grave, looking down at the shiny brown coffin. Holding his mother’s hand. Pretending not to see the woman in the dark blue uniform cuffed to her other wrist—

  A long pole reached in through the hatch, bringing the sound of muttered swearing with it. Something about backed-up plumbing and blocked pipes and people starting to notice … The pole slipped into the layer of frothy scum, leaving a trail behind it as the man above swept it through the sewage. Looking for something.

  Prod, prod, prod. And then Josie’s bloated corpse floated to the surface, bringing with it a smell even worse than before. Her face appeared above the froth for a moment, then slipped sideways. Eyes open, looking at Milne one last time, before her body rolled over onto its front.

  The pole clattered down into the tank as the sound of retching erupted from above. The light disappeared again. Then more retching. Spattering. Swearing. Coughing. And finally the light returned.