Dark Blood. Stuart MacBride

      She sucked her cheeks in for a moment, then nodded. ‘Give us a second.’

      She went off to serve a big woman with a bad perm and a Six-Nations rugby top, then made a call on the cordless phone behind the bar. By the time she returned, Logan was halfway down his pint.

      ‘Fifteen minutes, OK?’

      ‘Thanks.’ He took his drink and squelched over to the only free booth in the place, collapsing onto the faux-leather bench. Shifting about, trying to get comfortable. There was something lumpy in his back pocket… Logan pulled out the envelope Reuben had given him.

      He peeled back the flap and peered inside. Money. A lot of money. ‘Sodding hell…’ It was full of fifties, twenties, tens, and fives.

      A quick look around to make sure no one was watching, then he counted out the notes onto the seat beside him, keeping his body between the cash and the rest of the bar. Three grand in fifties, five hundred in twenties, two in tens, and a dozen fivers. Three thousand, seven hundred and sixty quid in used, non-sequentially numbered bills.

      Just when he thought the day couldn’t get any worse…

       13

      Logan mashed his thumb against the flat’s doorbell again, then turned and waved at the taxi sitting at the kerb. Engine running. Driver staring back at him. Safe and dry out of the rain.

      ‘Come on, Samantha…’

      Finally the building’s door swung open. She stood on the threshold, frowning at him, eyebrows shooting upwards. ‘What happened to you?’

      ‘I need some cash for the cab.’

      She sighed. ‘Hold on.’ Samantha limped back upstairs, returning two minutes later with a dog-eared twenty. ‘This do?’

      ‘Thanks.’ Logan paid the driver then squelched after her up to the flat, leaving wet-sock footprints on the steps. ‘Christ, what a day…’

      ‘You’re wringing.’

      He peeled off his soggy shirt and chucked it in the kitchen sink, then did the same with his trousers and socks till he was standing there in nothing but his pale, goose-pimpled skin and damp, grey underpants.

      She handed him a stale-smelling towel from the washing basket and he scrubbed at his hair on the way to the fridge-freezer. The Wyborowa nestled between the frozen sweetcorn and the fish fingers – Logan pulled the bottle of vodka out and clunked it down on the working surface, followed by two shot glasses covered in frost. ‘Want one?’

      ‘Sure you wouldn’t rather have a cup of tea or something? You look frozen.’

      He filled one of the chilled glasses to the brim, then threw it back. His hand only shook a little.

      ‘Are you OK? I came home and the flat door was lying wide to the wall.’

      ‘Been better.’ He made another vodka disappear. Every time he bent his arm, pain radiated out from his battered elbow, a livid purple stain already spreading across the pale skin. He made another trip to the freezer for the bag of sweetcorn, holding it against the swollen joint.

      ‘Where’s your shoes and jacket? You trying to catch your death?’

      Logan dropped the towel around his shoulders, feeling the Wyborowa work its numbing magic. ‘I made pasta bake.’

      Samantha pointed at the casserole dish sitting on a trivet next to the microwave. His culinary efforts were all shrivelled and brown. Blackened in places. She hadn’t even tried it.

      And he couldn’t blame her. It looked bloody awful.

      ‘Was a nice thought, though.’ She peered into the sink, then pulled out his shirt, staring at the bloodstained sleeve. Then at him. ‘What happened to your arm?’

      Logan shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t believe what that cow Steel said to me today: apparently my attitude’s crap and everyone hates me. Oh, and I drink too much.’ He polished off another shot of Polish vodka. ‘Can you believe that? She thinks I drink too much.’

      Samantha didn’t say anything.

      Logan groaned, slumped in his seat. ‘God, not you as well!’

      ‘Well, maybe—’

      ‘Oh come on! So I have a wee drink every now and then.’

      ‘It’s not now and then, it’s every night.’

      ‘I give up.’ He poured himself another drink.

      She stuck her hands on her hips. ‘You asked.’

      ‘And it’s not every night.’

      ‘Really? When was the last time you went to bed sober?’

      ‘Look, it’s not like I’m an alki, OK?’

      Samantha’s chin came up. ‘Prove it.’

      ‘I don’t have to prove—’

      ‘Go a week without getting hammered every night.’

      ‘Just…’ He closed his eyes. Counted to three. ‘Can we not do this, please? I’ve had a really, really crappy day.’

      ‘Oh, you’ve had a bad day? Well you know what, mine was just fucking great. I got to spend eight hours scraping a thirteen-year-old girl’s internal organs off the underside of an articulated lorry.’

      Silence.

      Logan put the top back on the vodka bottle. ‘I’m sorry.’

      She settled back against the sink. ‘Go a week.’

      A week. No problem. Could do that easy. ‘OK.’

      He waited until she disappeared off to the bathroom to do her teeth, then opened the bottle again.

      Logan surfaced with a gasp, the duvet wrapped around his chest like a fist. Jesus…

      He struggled free and sat on the edge of the bed, shivering in the light of the clock radio. 04:21. Another happy night full of sand and severed heads. Only this time it had been Samantha buried out in the dunes.

      He turned and looked at her side of the bed. Empty again.

      Brilliant.

      Logan dragged himself through to the bathroom for a sulphurous pee. He stood there for a minute, trying to decide if he wanted to be sick or not. Mouth dry. Still a bit drunk…

      He coughed, retched a little, then bent over and howched a purple and black splatter into the sink. Red wine and saliva, looking like a tumour on the white porcelain. Logan washed it away with the cold tap, before splashing some water on his face. His cheek had taken on an angry purple-and-yellow tinge where Reuben had hit him – top lip swollen, split and stinging. Could barely bend his right arm.

      Why did everything always have to be so screwed up?

      He knocked back a couple of paracetamol, then dumped the empty blister pack in the little stainless steel bin with all the blood-soaked toilet paper.

      He killed the bathroom light, hobbled back down the hall, eased the lounge door open and peered inside. Samantha was on the couch, stripy-socked feet sticking out from beneath the spare duvet.

      Logan shut the door as quietly as he could then slouched through to the kitchen for a pint or two of water, trying to sabotage the coming hangover.

      The sink was still full of his clothes, so he dragged everything out and stuffed them in the washing machine. Then remembered the envelope full of cash in the trouser pocket.

      It was all damp and wrinkly, but the contents seemed to have survived OK. All three thousand, seven hundred and sixty pounds of it.

      Could