Flesh House

Their dark metal prison stank: the acrid tang of vomit and the cloying reek of diarrhoea. 'Thirsty ...' 'Sorry, Honey, there's no water left.' 'But I'm thirsty ... oh God ...' She scrabbled into the corner and fumbled with the chemical toilet's lid, grabbing the seat and retching. It was like being punched in the stomach time and time again, but all that came out was a bitter trickle of foul-tasting bile. 'Oh God ...' 'Shhhh ... it'll be OK.' Duncan helped her back to the mattress.'How you feeling?' 'I just want ... I just want to die ...' Everything hurt. Her throat ached, mouth dry, lips cracked, pounding headache, cramps - all signs of acute dehydration. She'd seen a programme about it on the Discovery Channel. 'You're not well.' He peeled a strand of hair from her clammy forehead.'You need to rest.' 'So tired ...' 'That's because you're dying.' 'I want ... to go ... home.' 'I know, I know.' He leaned forwards and kissed her on the forehead.'You'll be with us soon, and it'll all be OK. Just you, me and Justin. No more darkness.' Heather nodded, it hurt less than trying to talk. 'It'll all be over soon.'

27

Logan wasn't really in the mood for getting pished, but he made a brave stab at it anyway. Four hours sat in the cramped viewing room with DI Steel - watching Faulds and his criminal psychologist trying to get something useful out of Ken Wiseman - meant that Logan was more than ready to go bowling with Rennie and a couple of people from work. There were only so many times you could watch a murdering scumbag tell a Chief Constable to go fuck himself with a cheese grater. By the time Rennie's girlfriend, Laura, turned up at the bowling alley, they were all on their fourth pints. Logan wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved that she hadn't brought the promised friend with her. More beer, then tequila, then chips. Then Logan called it a night, walking home to the flat alone, feeling drunk and more than a little sorry for himself. The flat wasn't the same without Jackie's crap lying all over the place: the strange little porcelain things, the dozens of unidentifiable potions in the bathroom, the little tangles of hair on the carpet by the mirror in the bedroom. Cold feet beneath the duvet ... Jammy bastard Rennie with his nice perky new girlfriend. Logan collapsed into bed, sprawled out like a half-cut starfish, and stared up into the darkness. They'd caught the Flesher - everything should have been hunky dory. But it wasn't. Eventually he drifted off to sleep, his dreams full of little dead girls and their grieving fathers.

Bright light. Hazy, painful ... but that was nothing new.