Dark Blood

She hit him again. ‘Do you want to see me in prison, is that what you want?’

‘But they’ll-’

‘Your pregnant girlfriend, in handcuffs?’

‘Stacy, love, we-’

‘Sharing a cell with some junkie lesbian scumbag?’

‘But-’

‘God, I hate you!’ She turned her back and stomped over to the hole in the wall, making the whole caravan rock on its windy-down legs.

‘Come on, Pooks, don’t be like that…’

Her shoulders came up. ‘Don’t you “Pooks” me.’

Danny turned his swollen squint on Logan. ‘I dinna know their names. Got introduced by a friend of a friend.’

Logan held up the handcuffs again. ‘No deal.’

‘Honest, I dinna remember, it’s-’

‘How’s the face?’ Logan stepped forward and peered at the bright-pink skin. ‘Looks sore.’

Shrug. ‘Soapy water’s helping, but it-’

Logan reached out, placed the back of his thumbnail against Danny’s cheek, then raked it downwards.

‘What the hell was that…?’ Danny’s swollen eyes bugged, he gasped, then went, ‘AAAAAAAAAAGH!’ Clutching his hand over the new scarlet line down his face. Deep breath. ‘AAAAAAAAAAGH!’

He plunged his head back into the sink, sending soap suds spattering up the walls, across the working surface, and out onto the carpet. Gurgling and glubbing.

Stacy turned, sniffed, then thumped herself down on the bench by the table. ‘Serves you right.’

‘Burns, doesn’t it?’ Logan settled back against the wall. ‘That’s why you’re not supposed to rub — it opens up the capillaries and lets the capsicum oil in. Disco inferno.’

Danny surfaced, dragged in a deep breath, then dived in again.

Logan grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him out. ‘Who loaned you the money?’

‘My face…’

‘You’re a Christian, right Danny? Feel like turning the other cheek?’ Logan held his thumb up again.

‘NO! No…I’ll…It was these two new blokes with posh accents, Angus Black put us on till them, they was in the snug at Dodgy Pete’s-’

‘Names, Danny, Mr Thumb’s getting itchy again.’

‘Gallagher and Yates, that’s all I know, I didn’t get first names, please it-’

Logan let go and he splooshed into the sink again, sending another mini tidal wave crashing to the carpet.

Stacy folded her arms under her swollen breasts. ‘And if you think I’m cleaning that up, Danny Saunders, you’ve got another think coming!’

Logan looked around for something to dry his hands on, but all the tea towels smelled of yoghurt. ‘He’d better be telling the truth, or I’ll be back for the pair of you, understand?’

Stacy just stuck her nose in the air.

Logan let himself out.

He hauled the car up onto the pavement behind a dented blue skip overflowing with battered kitchen cabinets, swathes of plaster, and a stained mattress. A streetlight washed the road in sulphur-yellow light. Like God had peed on everything.

The back of Logan’s head stung if he touched it, and throbbed when he didn’t. It felt as if there was a rat gnawing on the back of his eyeballs with sharp little teeth.

He clambered out into the cold, dark night. No point locking the car. A: there was nothing there worth stealing, not even the car. B: the passenger-side window was missing. C: it was a piece of crap, ancient, brown Fiat, and if anyone was stupid enough to nick it, they’d be doing him a favour.

Fat snowflakes drifted down in a slow-motion ballet. When they touched the tarmac they disappeared into off-brown sludge, but it wouldn’t be long before they started to lie and the whole city ground to a standstill.

He turned up his collar and lurched up the street through the snow.

Bucksburn was one of those strange little self-contained areas of Aberdeen, stranded out on the north-east corner of the city, on the end of Auchmill Road. The kind of place people from Blackburn, Kemnay, and Inverurie drove through on their way to a long delay at the Haudagain roundabout.

This side of the dual carriageway was lined with little shops, most of them closed for the evening. The lights flickered off in a newsagents as he passed, the owner rattling down the security grill over the window. A few doors down, the smell of garlic, frying onions and sesame oil wafted out from a Chinese takeaway. Logan’s emptied stomach growled.

A little alleyway led between two of the shops. He lifted the catch on a wrought iron gate and stepped into orange-tainted gloom, feet squelching through puddles of slush. A light was fixed to the wall above his head, but it couldn’t seem to muster much beyond a faint glow.

He skirted a cluster of wheelie bins, past a featureless metal door with reggae music thumping out from somewhere inside, and turned the corner.

The pub sitting at the end of the alleyway wasn’t called Dodgy Pete’s. Not officially anyway. The sign above the chipped red door said ‘THE BURNING BUCK’, complete with a demonic Monarch of the Glen illustration.

Logan pushed through into the muggy interior.

At least it wasn’t one of those places where everyone stopped talking and turned to stare when someone new entered. No one in Dodgy Pete’s cared.

It was a traditional, old-fashioned Scottish pub: cracked vinyl seats; a dart board; a puggy machine in the corner, flickering away to itself; a cigarette machine with an ‘OUT OF ORDER’ sign Sellotaped to it; a short wooden bar; and a smell of stale beer and damp dog.

Logan levered himself up onto a barstool. ‘Quiet tonight, Pete?’

The barman looked up from the copy of Private Eye he was reading. Grunted. His chest-length white beard was flecked with little grey streaks of cigarette ash, the hair around his wide mouth stained a dirty yellow. Large nose with red veins capering around the tip, a shock of unruly white hair. Half-moon spectacles. He looked like Santa Claus after a particularly nasty divorce.

‘Usual?’ He was already reaching for the Stella tap.

Logan licked his lips.

Prove it. Go a week without getting hammered every night.

The DIs are fed up with you complaining all the time and stinking of booze.

Maybe you’re angry with her because you think she’s right.

Damn.

‘Make it a fresh orange and lemonade. Pint.’

Pete raised a snowy eyebrow. ‘Oh…you’re on duty.’ He shuffled off to get the drink.

Logan turned his back to the bar, scanning the low room. A couple of old men were slumped over a game of dominos by the fire, a young woman in a Royal Bank of Scotland uniform was getting herself outside a pint of Guinness and a packet of prawn cocktail while a bloke in a soggy hoodie tried to chat her up. No sign of Danny Saunders’s friend.

‘Angus Black about?’

Pete squirted lemonade from the gun into a pint glass. ‘What you reckon to Scotland’s chances in Antigua then? Daz says three nil, but you know what he’s like.’

‘I need to have a word.’

‘Three nil. Pffff. Daz wouldn’t know his cock from a bicycle pump if he didn’t keep yanking the damn thing.’

‘What about two posh-sounding blokes: Gallagher and Yates? Supposed to be new in town?’

‘Caught him having a tug in the ladies’ bog last week.’