Dark Blood

Knox turned and smiled at Logan. ‘And there was light.’

And then there really was – blinding white light, shining straight in through the bay window. Logan covered his eyes with a hand, peering out.

Someone shouted, ‘There he is!’

An outside broadcast van sat on the other side of a lopsided holly bush, TV spotlights trained on the house. A bank of cameras. A group of people, placards jabbing into the cold morning air: ‘KNOX OUT!’ ‘ABERDEEN DOESN’T WANT GEORDIE RAPISTS!!!’ ‘PERVART GO HOME!’

‘Bloody hell.’ Logan creaked out of the armchair. ‘Richard, close the curtains!’

The weaselly little man just stood there, staring out at the people staring back at him.

‘Richard!’ Logan pushed past him, hauled the dusty red curtains shut.

Darkness.

Then the chanting started. ‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

‘But…it’s me home. They…’

‘Go. Pack your stuff.’ Logan grabbed him by the sleeve. ‘We have to—’

‘DON’T TOUCH US!’ Knox scrabbled backwards, hands working at his chest like angry spiders. ‘Don’t touch. You’re not allowed to touch!’

‘I’m sorry, OK? Calm down.’ Logan held his hands out. ‘No one’s going to hurt you.’

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

‘Make them stop!’

‘It’s OK, you’re safe. They can’t—’

A loud crash ripped through the musty room, the curtains billowing, the shatter of falling glass, shards spilling out across the carpet.

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

The lounge door clattered open: Mandy from Sacro. ‘What the hell was that?’

Another crash and the curtains humped out again. More glass. A fist-sized lump of rock rolled out into the gloom.

Logan backed away, looked at her. ‘Get him out of here.’

‘Come on, Richard, it’s not safe.’

‘Don’t touch us!’

‘I’m not going to touch you—’

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

Through the lounge door, Logan could see Butler and Guthrie running for the front door, extendible batons at the ready.

More glass, another rock.

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

Logan stood at the upstairs window, looking down at the crowds. They’d grown thicker over the last hour, now the whole street was packed with angry faces, staring up at the house, shouting.

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

Had to be two, maybe three hundred people out there, chanting in the snow, breath steaming into the cold morning air. Waving their placards. Being outraged for the cameras.

And there were a lot of cameras: newspapers and TV channels basking in the collective hatred of a community at war with one creepy little man.

At least reinforcements had arrived. Two unformed officers shivered at the front gate, while a reporter with a Channel 4 News umbrella did a piece to camera with them in the background. BBC Scotland had done exactly the same thing ten minutes earlier, probably catching the last live slot on Breakfast News.

A pair of large police vans had parked at the edge of the crowd, one of them slowly filling up with people arrested for public order offences.

The snickt of metal sounded behind him, and Logan turned to see DI Steel sparking up a cigarette. She wiggled the pack at him.

‘Thought Knox didn’t want us smoking in the house?’

She settled onto the room’s single bed. ‘Screw him.’

It was obviously a boy’s bedroom: dusty Airfix model kits of Spitfires, Hurricanes, and other assorted warplanes, sitting on top of a tatty chest of drawers. A football poster on the wall so faded that the Newcastle United team were a collection of ghosts. Blue wallpaper. A Thundercats duvet and pillow set spotted with mildew.

Logan took a cigarette and lit it, then hauled the sash window open, the swollen wood squealing.

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

Steel plumped up one of the pillows and settled back. ‘Think they’d get bored after a while, wouldn’t you? Same thing, over and over.’