'Hours and hours.' She says, 'You can open a bottle of wine if you like.' Three tablespoons of paprika when the onions are soft and translucent. He wraps his arms around her and leans in close, smelling her hair. 'Mmmmm. Gorgeous.' He kisses her neck and she giggles. 'I know what you're thinking, and you'll have to wait till I've peeled the potatoes.' 'Damn potatoes.' He steps back, leaning against the working surface, head on one side, questioning. A little physical tic he's picked up from the Flesher. 'Do you still miss Justin? ' 'Yes.' Into the other pan go the chunks of offal: heart and kidneys, browning on a high heat. For some reason she couldn't cope with Justin being alive - it just didn't seem right for him to be walking about when she knew he was dead. 'But I'm sure Mother's looking after him.' The browned meat goes in with the onions, followed by a tin of chopped tomatoes, some white wine and garlic. 'You never cooked this well when I was alive.' 'That's because you were always so bloody precious about your boeuf bourguignon. I thought if I did anything fancier than fish fingers you'd be telling me I wasn't doing it right.' She grinds a few twists of pepper into the pan, adds a dash of salt, then sticks the lid on and puts it in the oven. One hundred and twenty degrees Celsius for two hours. And by that time she's drunk half a bottle of wine and the whole house smells wonderfully meaty and rich. Heather changes into her good frock, does her hair, lipstick, and eye shadow. It's not every day she has someone for dinner. She doesn't bother with the table anymore. Just puts their plates down on the carpet in the lounge, next to the mattress from the bedroom. It's the only piece of furniture in the place, except for one of the dining room chairs - for her guest - and a single candle that flickers on the mantelpiece. It hadn't been easy, tracking down James Souter. He was so small and frail in his tatty little dressing gown, sitting in his room in the hospice. Shivering and terrified. Hard to believe he was the man who'd done all those terrible things to Kelley. And now look at him, all nice and quiet, tied to his chair, skin pale as bone china. Chest hollow and empty. The stump of his missing arm all shiny in the candlelight. Heather digs her fork into the paprikash and pulls out a chunk of meltingly tender meat. Yes, James Souter was a nasty bastard, but his heart's in the right place. And very tasty it is too.
By Stuart MacBride Cold Granite
Dying Light
Broken Skin
Flesh House
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental. The only exception to this are the characters Tom and Hazel
