Logan crept another step closer. 'Heather, come on, don't do anything stupid. You've survived too much to throw it all away.' Elizabeth leant forward and kissed her on the cheek. And then Heather jumped. 'FUCK!' The hell with inching - Logan leapt, snatching a handful of her pyjamas as she hopped off the railing and into thin air. He was off balance, dragged forwards by her weight as she fell. His stomach slammed into the guardrail. Pain, sudden and immediate, tore across his scarred stomach. He opened his mouth to shout, but all that came out was an agonized wheeze. No strength in his fingers. Logan tried to grab her with his left hand - his shoulder screamed at him as something inside gave way. She was slipping. Their eyes locked. Heather looked strangely peaceful as she fell the dozen or so feet into the hopper. Her feet hit the sloping wall and slid out from underneath her. CLANG: backwards onto the grimy metal. Her left foot jerked into the air. And then fell into the rotating teeth. The only noise was the rumble of the metal driveshaft. Foot. Ankle. Shin. Then Heather started to scream, pushing against the wall with her remaining foot, pyjamas drenched with fresh blood, hands scrabbling for purchase on the sloping sides. The door through to the protein processing unit burst open: Jackie, her hands curled against her chest. She stopped, rooted to the spot, staring open-mouthed at the stuttering bits of leg falling into the lower hopper. Logan forced himself upright and staggered across to the cutoff switch, slamming his palm down on the red button. The grinding noise whined to a halt. He clambered over the rail and dropped down beside Heather, shouting at the top of his lungs:'GET A BLOODY AMBULANCE!' The Flesher was gone.
Six Months Later
Heather dries her hands on a kitchen towel and limps over to the fridge. Twenty-eight weeks and they still haven't managed to get her a prosthetic that fits properly, but that's being ungrateful, isn't it? If it wasn't for Aberdeen Royal Infirmary she'd have lost the whole leg. According to the clock on the microwave it's half past five. An afternoon in May - probably blazing sunshine, but in her little Fittie house it's black as the grave. The neighbours might not like that she's boarded up all the windows, but they don't say anything on account of her 'ordeal'. Dead husband, one leg, not right in the head ... Stockholm syndrome - that's what Mr New called it. That's what the hospital's psychologists said as well. None of them understand. Heather drops a chunk of lard in the pot and adds the sliced onions. All this time and they still don't know where He is. But she does. Sometimes Kelley sends her a postcard from somewhere exotic like Prague. Heather keeps them in a secret box where the police will never find them. '
