Logan McRae. Stuart MacBride

lawn, not a collection of dandelions, moss, and other assorted weeds. OK, so the rickety old shed probably wouldn’t survive another winter, and the greenhouse needed cleaning, but other than that? Domestic bliss.

      He popped his beer back on the wrought-iron table, wiped his fingers on his apron, and poked the chicken thighs.

      Turned some more sausages.

      Naomi and Jasmine screeched their way past again.

      ‘PEW! PEW! PEW!’

      ‘You two monsters: go wash your hands for dinner.’

      ‘DIE, SPACE FIEND!’

      And they were gone again.

      Typical.

      A voice behind him: ‘Sure you’ve got enough sausages? Think the supermarket might still have a couple left.’ Tara stepped out through the patio doors, carrying a bowl of salad and four plates. The cowboy boots made her even taller – a clean white T-shirt and spotless blue jeans rounding off the cowboy-who’s-never-been-near-a-horse-in-his-life look. Her wolf-blue eyes narrowed in the sunlight, making tiny wrinkles on her heart-shaped face. Her long mahogany hair glowing like— ‘Is there something wrong?’

      Logan blinked. ‘Wrong?’

      ‘Only you’re staring at me like I’ve got a bogey hanging out of my nose.’

      ‘Oh. Right. No.’ A smile. ‘The only bogies here are the octopussy kind.’

      She popped the salad and plates on the table as the kids battered past again.

      ‘PEW! PEW!’

      ‘You heard your dad: wash up, horrors!’

      They didn’t listen to her, either.

      Tara helped herself to a swig of his beer. ‘I swear to God, those kids take more after Steel than they do Susan. They’re like drunken wolverines with ADHD and no volume control.’

      Yup.

      He grabbed a pork-and-apple sausage with his tongs, and held it up. ‘You want yours fruity, spicy, or Cumberlandy?’

      She stepped up behind him and slipped her hands into the pockets of his apron. Gave him a very suggestive smile. ‘I do like a spicy sausage!’ And then her hands went a-wandering.

      ‘Arrgh!’ Logan danced away a couple of steps, clacking his tongs at her in self-defence. ‘Hands off the cook’s sausage, you pervert. This is a food preparation area!’

      She polished off his beer. ‘You hear about this missing constitutional scholar? Professor Watson?’

      ‘Wilson.’

      ‘Met him at an Aberdeen University do last year. I know we’re not supposed to talk ill of the dead, but by God that man was a dick.’

      Logan shifted some of the more cooked sausages off onto a plate and opened another packet of Cumberlands. ‘Was?’

      ‘Well, you know, what with him being dead and all.’

      The thick pink tubes sizzled as they hit the hot grill. ‘Don’t believe everything you read on social media. There’s no proof he’s dead, just a bunch of Alt-Nat trolls out flapping their gums.’

      ‘Alt-Nat, Brit-Nat, Unionistas, Independunces, Remoaners, Brexshiteers …’ She toasted him with the empty bottle. ‘Got to love civilised discourse in the modern age.’

      ‘Well, there’s always—’

      ‘PEW! PEW! PEW!’

      Naomi and Jasmine battered across the garden, once around the patio furniture, and disappeared into the house again. Squealing and screaming and laughing.

      Logan sighed. ‘Think it’s too late to call animal control and have them taken away?’

      ‘Probably.’

      Cthulhu burst out through the patio doors, only slowing when she realised she was being watched and it might not look cool for a big stripy cat to be running away from an eleven-year-old girl and her three-and-a-bit-year-old sister. Cthulhu popped up onto the table and settled down for a wash, licking her big furry white paws, massive plumey tail held out at a jaunty angle.

      Tara ruffled the fur between Cthulhu’s ears, setting her purring. ‘You ever think about having a kid of your own?’

      ‘Are Tweedlehorror and Tweedlemonster not enough?’

      ‘Wanking into a cup, so your Lesbian Lothario boss could impregnate her wife with a turkey baster doesn’t count.’ Tara lowered her head, looking up at him through her eyelashes. ‘So … what would you think?’

      He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Stared at her. ‘You’re not … I mean, we … Are you …?’

      She put a hand on her lower stomach and smiled at him – wide eyed, sappy, and serene. ‘The seed of our love has taken root, Logan, and soon it will blossom for all the world to see!’

      Oh God.

      ‘I … We … But …’ Wait a minute. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

      She grinned.

      ‘I nearly had a heart attack then! Are you trying to kill me a third time?’

      ‘You should’ve seen your face, it was an absolute—’

      ‘PEW! PEW! PEW!’ Naomi stampeded out of the patio doors again, shooting everyone with her laser gun. ‘PEW! PEW-PEW-PEW!’

      Tara grabbed her, sweeping her up, turning her upside down and dangling her head-first over a wooden planter full of herbs. ‘Have you washed your hands yet?’

      Naomi shrieked, giggled, and wriggled. ‘You’ll never take me alive, copper!’

      ‘Go wash your hands or there’s no sausages for you.’

      The little monster went limp. ‘It’s a fair cop.’

      ‘Darn tootin’ it is.’ Tara set her down, the right way up.

      Naomi smiled at her, all sweetness and light. Then scampered off. ‘Sayonara, suckers!’

      Tara shook her head. ‘Yeah … On second thoughts, let’s not have kids. There’s enough horror in the world already.’

      Oh God, oh God, oh God.

      Nicholas threw back his head and howled his pain into the gloom.

      Fire burned up and down his arms, pulsing in waves that matched the beat of his heart. Up and down and up and down. Searing. Scorching. Urgent.

      Tears spilled down his cheeks; his chest ached with sobbing, every breath tasting of bitter sweat and hot metal.

      He kicked out against the lid again, slamming his foot into it. The thing barely moved, held fast by the padlocked chain around the outside.

      A white plastic box, smeared with blood. His blood. It saturated the bandages that covered his arms from the elbow down, the damp surface busy with the fat greasy bodies of bluebottles.

      They glittered in the thin sliver of light that crept through the one-inch gap where the lid had been propped open. One inch: just enough so he wouldn’t suffocate. Because that would be quick, wouldn’t it? Too easy. Much better to make him endure a slow lingering hard death. Trapped in this hideous box. His small plastic coffin – too short to lie down flat in, not deep enough to sit up properly, the sides pressing in against his burning shoulders.

      A lifetime spent studying constitutional law and legislation. Lecturing. Educating. Trying to make people understand the truth about how democracy and civilisation really work. And this is how it will end.

      In a gloomy plastic box.

      Eaten alive by bluebottles and pain.

      Nicholas dragged in another foul breath