us, is it?'
'It… London?'
'Personally I think Rory's very brave: informing on the people who gunned down his boyfriend must take a lot of courage.'
Rory simpered for a bit. 'Oh, well, I wouldn't say courage, per se, I just want to make sure my Barry didn't die in vain. We've got to stand up to these people Susan, or what's going to happen to society?'
Steel plastered on a smile. 'Rory, can I have a word, please. In the hall. Now.'
The old man hopped down from his stool. 'Certainly. And when I come back, Susan, you just have to give me the recipe for that fabulous carrot cake!'
The inspector dragged him out of the room, leaving Logan behind.
'So…' Susan handed him a mug of tea. 'How have you been? We've not seen you since before… well, Poland.' She placed a hand on his arm. 'Are you OK?'
Logan pointed at his face, the patchwork of scabs and butterfly stitches, the bruises, the heavy purple bags under his eyes, the stubble. 'Looks worse than it is.'
'You'll stay for dinner?'
'Thanks, but I can't.'
'Nonsense: you're staying, and that's final. You look like you haven't eaten in a week. I'm doing fish pie.' She frowned. 'You still eat fish, don't you?'
'I really-'
The door flew open and Rory struck a pose. 'Did you miss me?… Hey!'
Steel shoved past. 'Alright if Laz stays for his tea? Maybe crash here tonight?'
'What? No, I can't, I-'
Susan nodded. 'It's already settled.'
'But I can't-'
'Aye you can.' Steel's smile wasn't pretty. And as soon as Susan's back was turned, she grabbed Logan and pulled him over to the patio doors, her voice lowered to an angry whisper: 'You're no' buggering off and leaving me with Rory Sodding Simpson all night! Any more of his gay stereotype act, and he's spending the night in the morgue.'
'Rory's just trying to be funny, you know what he's-'
'I will kill him.' She stepped back and slapped Logan on the shoulder, raising her voice for, 'We'll make up the other spare room, you can sleep there.'
'But I've got plans.' Which was true — he was going to go home and sit in the dark drinking vodka until he passed out. Same as he'd done every night since getting back from Poland.
'I don't care: you're sodding well staying!' Rory shuffled off to bed almost immediately after dinner, and as soon as the kitchen door swung shut, Steel was on her feet. 'OK…' She coughed, licked her lips, fidgeted. Shared a look with Susan. 'How about some vodka?'
They abandoned the dishes and headed out to the patio to drink shots of neat vodka. The bottle was fresh from the freezer, covered in a thin film of frost, steaming in the evening air as Steel and Logan sank three shots to Susan's one.
A citronella candle fizzed and crackled as midges and flies committed suicide in the hot wax.
The inspector filled their glasses up again, proposed a toast, 'To good friends!' then threw it back.
'Actually,' said Susan, fiddling with her hair, 'we…' She ground to a halt.
Steel filled Logan's glass. 'They won't let us adopt.'
Logan froze, vodka halfway to his lips. 'Do we have to-'
'We can't get IVF on the NHS,' she said, 'and we can't afford to go private.'
Susan sniffed. 'Well, we could sell the house.'
'We're no' selling the house!'
'I'm just saying-'
'Been in my family for three generations.'
'Well, there won't be any more generations if we can't get pregnant!'
There was an awkward silence.
Steel downed her vodka and poured more for everyone. 'I ever tell you about the Sperminator, Susan? Goes about smearing his spunk on handrails in shopping centres. All you'd have to do is take your knickers off and slide down every banister in Aberdeen — probably get pregnant somewhere between Markies and John Lewis's.' She laughed, trailing off into silence as Susan's face went pink, tears glinting in her eyes.
'I have to tidy up.' She snatched up the plates, clattering them together, not saying a word, then marched back into the house and slammed the patio doors.
Logan helped himself to more vodka, then pulled out his cigarettes, the lighter sparking in the fading light.
Steel slumped back in her chair. Closed her eyes. And swore. 'Great, isn't it? That's what I have to live with.'
He didn't say anything, just poured them both another glass. Threw it back. Already working on a nice numb haze.
'You know…' Steel took a sudden interest in the shed over Logan's shoulder. 'We could… ahem… threesome. I mean, it's what all you men fantasize about isn't it?'
Logan spluttered, vodka exploding from his nostrils, making his eyes water. 'I… With…'
Steel threw a coaster at him. 'Oh thanks. That's very sodding flattering, that is!'
'It's just-'
'It was Susan's idea, OK?' She stood, chair legs grating on the tiles. 'Me? I wouldn't touch you with a fucking cattle-prod!' And then Logan was all alone.
54
Fire — blaring through the walls and the floor, curling across the ceiling in violent yellow sheets. Heat. Pain. A sound like the world tearing apart-
A crash of breaking glass.
Logan jerked awake. Heart pounding. Eyes wide in the darkness. Everything was soggy. Oh fuck… he'd wet himself.
No, it was just sweat. He folded his arms across his face and muffled a scream. Then slumped back in his chair and stared up at the dark orange sky, waiting for his heartbeat to go from thrash-metal to slow waltz.
Every — bloody — night.
He tried to stand, but his legs weren't working properly. Finally, he managed to haul himself upright, leaning heavily on the table to stay that way, something scrunching beneath his shoes. It was the vodka bottle, spread in glittering shards all over the patio tiles. Good thing it'd been empty.
He blinked. Swallowed. Peered at his watch until it came into focus. 03:45. Probably still a bit drunk. But not feeling too bad. Thirsty. A bit achy after falling asleep in a wrought-iron garden chair, but other than that he was… he was…
That's when the nausea kicked in.
Logan staggered across the garden, in through the patio doors, the kitchen going by in a blur as he lurched out the other side and into the hall.
He was going to be sick, going to be sick, going to be sick, going to be…
A thin sliver of light seeped out under the downstairs bathroom door, but Logan didn't care. He wrenched the door open.
And stopped dead.
Rory was in there, bent nearly double over the bathroom sink. Trousers around his ankles. Pounding away. And then he froze: one hand wrapped around his erection, the other clutching a thick catalogue. Children's clothes.
