Broken Skin

losing her own — and there it was …

The noise coming from the front of the theatre grew to a crescendo, dragging him back to the land of the living. They’d finally made it to the finale. Two curtain calls, one encore, a short speech from DI Insch about how hard everyone had worked, flowers for the leading ladies, round of applause, and off to the bar.

The little space was crowded, thespians spilling in from the changing rooms, beaming with pride as their nearest and dearest told them how wonderful they’d been. Even the crap ones.

Logan jostled his way through to a small clearing, clutching a bottle of Newcastle Brown and wishing he hadn’t said he’d go out for a curry after the show. He really wasn’t in the mood.

Someone slapped him on the back and he turned to find Rennie beaming at him: face all polished and shiny, traces of stage makeup still hiding in his hairline. ‘Well, was we brilliant or what?’

Logan lied and said he’d enjoyed it.

‘Can you believe we got Debs back? Insch had to do some serious grovelling, but-’

‘You heard anything from Rickards?’

‘Not a peep. Went up there this afternoon, nurse said he wasn’t having visitors. Oh, ta …’ he accepted a bottle of beer from one of the three little maids from school — Logan couldn’t remember which one — and took a hearty swig. ‘Mind you, don’t blame him, poor bastard. Breakdown is what I heard.’

Logan wasn’t surprised: if he closed his eyes he could still see the back of Tina’s head splattering all over the kitchen window in slow motion. Scarlet drops and grey chunks as she falls lifeless to the floor, still clutching Rickards, showering him with blood and brain and little shards of bone as he screams and screams and screams … And she’d been his friend. No wonder he couldn’t cope.

‘Just between you and me,’ said Rennie, leaning in to whisper over the hubbub, ‘I think he’ll be going off on the stress. A dead woman clutching your dick can’t be good for you. You know: mentally. I think …’ he stopped, staring off through the crowd. DI Insch was glad-handing his way towards them, accepting compliments left, right, and centre. ‘Whatever you do, don’t mention Finnie, OK? He’s got a right bee in his- Inspector: look who I found!’

Insch looked like a vast, overstuffed penguin in his dinner jacket and bow tie. ‘Can you believe that bastard Finnie?’ he asked, then took a swig from his Guinness. ‘What the hell did they think they were doing, making a tit like that Detective Chief Inspector?’

Rennie groaned, rolling his eyes when Insch wasn’t looking.

Logan ignored him. ‘Well, he did bring in half a million quid’s worth of cocaine, they probably-’

The inspector’s face darkened. ‘Four hundred thousand. Not half a million.’ He cast an eye over the assembled crowd. ‘Where’s Watson?’

‘Back shift.’ And then Logan changed the subject, steering them round to the Mikado again, listening to them bang on about what a great show it was. Not wanting to talk about Jackie, or think about the thing in his pocket. And then Insch had to go be congratulated by someone else, Rennie was dragged off for a photograph, and Logan was alone again. He finished off his beer and wandered out into the cold night, standing on the top step of the Arts Centre, watching the slow-fire blink of tail lights the length of King Street.

He pulled the thing from his pocket once more — the thing he’d found in Jackie’s bedside cabinet — holding it up so it sparkled in the city’s sodium glow. A large ruby stud earring, just like the one stolen from Rob Macintyre when he was battered into a coma.

Red, the colour of Aberdeen Football Club.

The colour of fresh blood.