was full of fifties, twenties, tens, and fives.
A quick look around to make sure no one was watching, then he counted out the notes onto the seat beside him, keeping his body between the cash and the rest of the bar. Three grand in fifties, five hundred in twenties, two in tens, and a dozen fivers. Three thousand, seven hundred and sixty quid in used, non-sequentially numbered bills.
Just when he thought the day couldn’t get any worse…
13
Logan mashed his thumb against the flat’s doorbell again then turned and waved at the taxi sitting at the kerb. Engine running. Driver staring back at him. Safe and dry out of the rain.
‘Come on, Samantha…’
Finally the building’s door swung open. She stood on the threshold, frowning at him, eyebrows shooting upwards. ‘What happened to you?’
‘I need some cash for the cab.’
She sighed. ‘Hold on.’ Samantha limped back upstairs, returning two minutes later with a dog-eared twenty. ‘This do?’
‘Thanks.’ Logan paid the driver then squelched after her up to the flat, leaving wet-sock footprints on the steps. ‘Christ, what a day…’
‘You’re wringing.’
He peeled off his soggy shirt and chucked it in the kitchen sink, then did the same with his trousers and socks till he was standing there in nothing but his pale, goose-pimpled skin and damp, grey underpants.
She handed him a stale-smelling towel from the washing basket and he scrubbed at his hair on the way to the fridge-freezer. The Wyborowa nestled between the frozen sweetcorn and the fish fingers – Logan pulled the bottle of vodka out and clunked it down on the working surface, followed by two shot glasses covered in frost. ‘Want one?’
‘Sure you wouldn’t rather have a cup of tea or something? You look frozen.’
He filled one of the chilled glasses to the brim, then threw it back. His hand only shook a little.
‘Are you OK? I came home and the flat door was lying wide to the wall.’
‘Been better.’ He made another vodka disappear. Every time he bent his arm, pain radiated out from his battered elbow, a livid purple stain already spreading across the pale skin. He made another trip to the freezer for the bag of sweetcorn, holding it against the swollen joint.
‘Where’s your shoes and jacket? You trying to catch your death?’
Logan dropped the towel around his shoulders, feeling the Wyborowa work its numbing magic. ‘I made pasta bake.’
Samantha pointed at the casserole dish sitting on a trivet next to the microwave. His culinary efforts were all shrivelled and brown. Blackened in places. She hadn’t even tried it.
And he couldn’t blame her. It looked bloody awful.
‘Was a nice thought, though.’ She peered into the sink, then pulled out his shirt, staring at the bloodstained sleeve. Then at him. ‘What happened to your arm?’
Logan shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t believe what that cow Steel said to me today: apparently my attitude’s crap and everyone hates me. Oh, and I drink too much.’ He polished off another shot of Polish vodka. ‘Can you believe that?
Samantha didn’t say anything.
Logan groaned, slumped in his seat. ‘God, not you as well!’
‘Well, maybe—’
‘Oh come on! So I have a wee drink every now and then.’
‘It’s not now and then, it’s every night.’
‘I give up.’ He poured himself another drink.
She stuck her hands on her hips. ‘You asked.’
‘And it’s not every night.’
‘Really? When was the last time you went to bed sober?’
‘Look, it’s not like I’m an alki, OK?’
Samantha’s chin came up. ‘Prove it.’
‘I don’t have to prove—’
‘Go a week without getting hammered every night.’
‘Just…’ He closed his eyes. Counted to three. ‘Can we not do this, please? I’ve had a really,
‘Oh, you’ve had a bad day? Well you know what, mine was just fucking great. I got to spend eight hours scraping a thirteen-year-old girl’s internal organs off the underside of an articulated lorry.’
Silence.
