Close to the Bone

you-’

Logan slammed the hatch shut on her. ‘Andy, feel free to spit in her tea, OK? ’

Downstairs, in the lower set of cell blocks, the sound of a pissed-up rendition of ‘American Pie’ warbled and roared out from the cell next door to Dr Marks’s. Whoever was on the other side screamed a non-stop barrage of abuse and threats at someone called Baz for sleeping with his girlfriend.

It wasn’t quite Tourette’s, but it was the next best thing. Which meant Logan probably owed Kathy a couple of pints at least.

Dr Marks sat on the floor, backed into a corner, rocking gently away, chewing on the side of his thumb. ‘I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work. Doctor-patient confidentiality is imperative in my line of work.’

Logan settled down on the end of the mattress. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this.’

‘You can’t. . I won’t betray my principles.’ Blood dripped from the end of his chewed thumb. He stuck it in his mouth and sucked. ‘I won’t.’

‘If you think a couple of hours in the cells is bad, just wait till the Sheriff gives you a week in Craiginches for contempt.’

‘I can’t. .’

‘She’s out there killing people, and you can help us stop her. Think about it.’

He sniffed, blinked. Chewed on his bleeding thumb. ‘I can’t. .’

In the cell next door, ‘American Pie’ was replaced by Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’, roared out like a football chant.

Logan stood and smiled down at Dr Marks. ‘I’ll pop past in the morning: say goodbye before they drag you off.’ A wink. ‘Have a nice night.’

Police. They spill out of the ugly striped building like woodlice from beneath a rotting log. Marching about, dragging coils of fizzing blue and red behind them like angry tentacles. Reaching along the granite streets, searching, probing.

They should be on the same side, but they’re not. They don’t see. Don’t see the Beasts and the Angels, the Witches and the Kelpie, the Wraith and the Ogres and the Ghosts. Don’t see the Hand of Death as they prowl the street.

They think everyone is Sheep.

They think she is Sheep.

But she’s so much more than that.

Rowan takes a deep breath and crosses the road — walks out into the middle of them.

The Kirk is my sword and my shield.

A pair of them laugh at a shared joke, shoulders hunched against the rain. They don’t even see her.

Then there he is.

In the tunnels beneath the earth he looked so normal, but here. . His aura is different from the others. It’s blue and red, but ribbons of gold and black undulate around his head. A halo of light and darkness. Is he an Angel, or a Hand of Death? Does he even know himself?

And if she told him, would it make any difference?

He turns up his collar and runs across the road to his weary battered Fiat, fumbles with his keys, swearing in the rain, then gets in behind the wheel. Reverses out of the parking space in a cloud of greasy exhaust, his aura lighting up the inside of the car like an angry disco.

Rowan steps out onto the road, watching him disappear into the rain. Then reaches into her pocket and feels the knot of bones, safe in its nest of tissue paper.

Soon. .

She turns her face to the heavy orange clouds and closes her eyes. The rain is cool and soothing on her skin, tiny cold kisses from the heavens. Making everything-

The hard blare of a car horn makes her flinch. She spins around and there’s a patrol car less than three feet away. Its headlights flash at her, and she holds up a hand, then steps back onto the pavement.

The patrol car drives by. Its occupants don’t even look in her direction. They think she’s just another Sheep.

Rowan steps back out into the road. His Fiat is nothing but a memory written on tarmac with raindrops. But that’s all right. She has plenty of time to wander back to where her own car’s parked.

After all, there’s no need to rush: she knows where he’s going.

Wednesday 36

The kettle’s grumbling rattle came through from the kitchen, fighting against the sound of Breakfast News in the living room where, apparently, everyone was getting great weather except for the north-east of Scotland. As bloody usual.

Logan lay back on the bed, arms folded behind his head. Have to get up in a minute. Any minute now. .

A clunk and the kettle lost its battle with the weatherman.

Jackie padded through wearing nothing but a Strathclyde Police Judo Team T-shirt, with a mug of tea in each hand and a slice of toast sticking out of her mouth. ‘Mnnnphnnn gnnph? ’

He sat up and accepted the proffered mug. ‘Still raining? ’

She pulled the toast out and chewed. ‘Give me two reasons why I should stay with Bill.’

Oh great: this again. ‘He’s Rory’s father? ’

‘That’s one. And it’s not even that good a reason. He’s still a selfish prick.’ She tore a bite out of the toast. ‘I am not moving to London, I don’t care if this is the job opportunity of a lifetime.’

The sigh escaped before he could stop it. Logan swung his legs out of the bed. ‘If you don’t like him, why do you stay with him? ’

‘That’s what I just asked you.’

Logan picked yesterday’s socks and pants off the floor and dumped them in the laundry basket, before shuffling and yawning through to the bathroom for a pee and a shower.

By the time he got back, Jackie was levering herself into the feat of mechanical engineering that was a concrete-coloured Doreen Triumph bra. Making it look as if she was wearing two halved zeppelins from the 1930s. The shiny crescent-shaped scar above her industrial grey pants disappeared as she hauled on her suit trousers.

At least she only had the one scar.

A linen shirt went over the bra that time forgot. ‘What are we doing? ’

Good question. Logan sat on the bed and pulled on a fresh pair of socks. ‘Same as usual, I suppose.’ Next: a pair of lucky bright-red pants, then suit trousers. ‘Reaching out because we’re lonely. Looking for a little comfort. A little human warmth. . What? ’

She was staring at him with her mouth hanging open. ‘I meant what are we doing tonight? Not what,’ she pointed at them both, ‘whatever this is.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Heat raced up his neck into his cheeks and ears. ‘OK. Well, if you’re not going back to Glasgow, we could-’

‘Are you feeling guilty? Is that it? Guilty because she’s in the hospital? ’

Logan picked the nearest shirt in the wardrobe. ‘Yes.’

‘In the name of the wee man. .’ She grabbed her jacket. ‘Where did I leave my shoes? ’ Then stomped out of the bedroom, making the caravan floor shake.

Yes, because it was all his fault. He followed her into the living room, hauling the shirt on. ‘So you don’t feel guilty for cheating on Bill? ’

‘She’s been up there for two years, Logan, you really think that’s what she wants? You feeling guilty for having sex three or four times a year? ’