He squatted down and hit play again.
Oh
Beeeeeeep.
He flipped open the cover and hauled the little cassette out. What if someone found out? What if Samantha picked up his messages? How the FUCK was he supposed to explain it?
He dug his fingernails into the cassette, tugging out the tape and unreeling the whole thing until there was a spaghetti mess of shiny brown-black ribbon curled across the sticky sideboard. Then dropped the plastic case and stomped on it.
Still not enough. The IB could just wind it back onto another cassette.
Logan scooped the lot up and carried it through to the kitchen, dumped it into the empty sink, then went rummaging through the cupboards for the methylated spirit and drenched the lot.
Better be on the safe side…
He tore a dozen pages out of that morning’s
Whooomp: the stainless steel sink filled with purple-blue flame, the newspaper crackling as the tape melted and shrank. Until there was nothing left but curls of ash, a lump of brittle plastic slag, and a gnawing coldness in the depths of Logan’s stomach.
37
Just six words, like, but they’re true. Richard Knox places a hand against the doorway, stands there quietly, looking into the bathroom. Three o’clock in the morning, and all the lights in the flat are off. Except for this one.
Richard’s da’s in heaven – had himself a bit of an accident, didn’t he? With a length of metal pipe over the back of the head. On his knees in a vacant warehouse, blood pouring from his shattered mouth, making gurgling noises. Sobbing. Trying to kid on he was really sorry, you know? Like he didn’t mean to run out on Richard and his mam. That it wasn’t his fault.
Mandy from Sacro’s on her knees too. Gripping onto the toilet bowl. Heaving and retching. Bile spattering from her open mouth. Not caring she’s getting sick on her hair.
‘Are you all right?’
She waves a hand, without looking up. ‘I’m fine…I just…I…Oh shite—’ She heaves again, spine humping as the sound echoes back from the toilet bowl.
It’s a crappy modern flat, in a crappy modern development, walls and carpets the same colour as prison porridge.
Mandy groans, then gives the toilet another mouthful.
Richard’s eyes drift down to the rolling pin in his hand. It’s no lead pipe, but it’ll work just as well. Only Christian to put someone out of their misery, like…
There’s a fine mist of red on his face. Tiny red dots.
His arm aches. Wrist throbbing.
Richard pushes open the door to the third bedroom. Harry’s there, lying curled up under the covers, face all pale and glistening. The room stinks of sour sweat.
Richard flicks on the light.
Harry gives a little moan in protest and sticks a hand over his eyes. Poor lamb. All helpless and defenceless. Richard could do whatever he wanted, and no one could stop him.
Been a long time.
There’s clothes spread all over the floor: jeans, jumper, shirt, towels…Hasn’t even been here twenty-four hours, like, and already the place is a tip.
‘Please…you need to call…call a doctor…’ Voice all slurred and blurry.
Richard licks his lips, they taste of copper pennies.
Course Harry’s a bit young, isn’t he? Bit podgy. Not quite Richard’s type. Still…
Been a long,
He steps inside. ‘Hey Harry, not feeling so well?’
Harry forces a smile. ‘Something didn’t…didn’t agree with…with me.’
Richard smiles back. ‘It’s called Flunitrazepam, you know? Rohypnol? Takes everyone different, like. Your mate Mandy’s in the bathroom spewing her ring. Sometimes happens if you take it with alcohol – think she’s a secret drinker?’
He closes the door. Not that Mandy’s going to interrupt them, just…well, modesty and that.
