'--but this year the streets of the city are empty, left to the cold and the mist. Because this year, there really is a monster out there --' 'Oh for God's sake!' Logan excavated the remote control from the sofa's cushions and stabbed the button, hunting through the channels for something decent to watch and coming up empty. Nothing to help him ignore the little red light on the answering machine. Another mouthful of beer and the tin was empty. Logan stifled a belch and got to his feet. Should probably get something to eat ... The little red light blinked at him. He walked over, and pressed the button. 'MESSAGE ONE: Hi Logan, it's me ...' Jackie, the words alcohol-slurred and fuzzy.'I miss you, OK?I do. I miss you ...' He could hear raised voices in the background, a jukebox, a bandit pinging and bleeping to itself. 'Just thought you should know.' Beeeeeeep. And the tape rewound itself. He pressed the button again. 'MESSAGE ONE: Hi Logan, it's me ... I miss you, OK? I do. miss you ...' Pub noises.'Just thought you should know .' Beeeeeeep. RRRRRRRRRRingggggggggggggg - the flat's doorbell. 'MESSAGE ONE: Hi Logan, it's me ... I miss you, OK? I--' RRRRRRRRRRingggggggggggggg. 'Oh ... bloody hell. OK, I'm coming.' There was a short, stocky Glaswegian waiting outside, clutching a couple of plastic bags as a thin drizzle oozed down out of a dirty orange sky. 'Laz, my man! Trick or treat?' Logan scowled at him. 'Don't you bloody start.' 'Aye, and a happy Christmas to you too. You look like shite, byraway. C'moan, shift over, curry's no' gettin' any warmer here.' 'Colin, I ...' But the reporter had already shouldered his way past. Sighing, Logan closed the stairwell door and followed him up. Colin Miller: even dressed casually, the wee man looked like a deranged, muscle-bound clothes model. God alone knew what Isobel saw in him. 'You seen those arseholes on the news, but?' Miller stuck his plastic bags on the kitchen table, then dug into one and tossed a cold bottle of Kingfisher beer in Logan's direction. Logan caught it just before it hit the kitchen floor. 'Don't you ever ring first?' 'Aye, you're right,' said the wee man, pulling a plastic takeaway container out of the second bag, then stacking another five beside it, topping them off with a bag of poppadoms,'what was I thinkin'? You could'a had a hot date!' 'Very funny.'
Вы читаете Flesh House
