rose from the big man’s body, breath fogging the air as I dumped him by the hole where a whirly washing drier would have stood, if some thieving Jakey bastard hadn’t nicked it.
The drizzle had started up again, soothing and cool. I turned my face to the sky and let it soak into my skin.
Got to take pleasure in the little things.
I rested the spiky end of the pipe on Mr Pain’s ankle. Tapped the spines against the joint. ‘You know how this is going to go, don’t you?’
The big man gurgled and twitched.
‘Yeah.’ I swung the mace overhead. ‘That’s about right.’
I hauled the boot open and threw the wheelie suitcase in next to Dr McDonald’s posh red luggage.
She turned and stared at me between the seats. ‘I thought you said you’d only be five minutes, it’s been quarter of an hour, what if something happened, that dog’s been sniffing around the car …’ She pulled her head back, eyebrows furrowed, top lip curling. ‘What happened to your face?’
I slammed the hatchback shut again, then turned and limped back into the house, grabbed one of the cardboard boxes from the spare room. Put it in the boot, then did the same twice more, until there wasn’t room in there for anything else. That was the only good thing about living in a shithole – it wasn’t worth unpacking after Michelle threw me out.
One last trip inside. I dragged out my phone on the way up the knackered staircase and called Parker. Seemed to take forever, but eventually he picked up, voice all muggy and slurred. ‘Embers! How they hangin’?’
Already pissed. Or high. ‘I need you to stay away from the house for a bit.’
‘You’re no’ shaggin’ her again tonight, are you, Embers? God, man, you’re a randy—’
‘It’s not safe, OK? Someone wrecked the place.’ I pulled back the bedroom carpet and prised up the loose floorboard. Reached inside, pulled out Rebecca’s cigar box, cradled it against my chest.
‘Fuck … Wasn’t Big Johnny Simpson, was it? Man, I swear I didn’t know she was his sister, she—’
‘Find somewhere else to crash for a while: go see Mum or something.’ Through to the bathroom. The front panel came off the bath easily enough. I grabbed the collection of zip-lock bags hidden under the tub and stuffed them in my pockets. Back down the stairs.
‘Embers, I’m sorry, OK? I didn’t mean—’
‘I’ll call you when I get back.’ I hung up, slammed the front door behind me, and hobbled over to the Renault.
Dr McDonald peered at me from the passenger seat, eyes wide, chewing on her bottom lip.
I popped the boot, unzipped the wheelie suitcase and tucked the wooden cigar case inside. Unlocked the driver’s door, and climbed in behind the wheel. Sat there for a moment with my eyes closed, letting the seat take my weight, muscles settling into new and painful configurations.
She cleared her throat. ‘I think it might be a good idea to just drop me off somewhere, doesn’t matter where, I mean I don’t want to take you out of your way, and I can probably—’
‘Going to be tight, but we’ll make it.’ I turned the key, and the Renault spluttered into life. ‘The trick is to only brake when you see the speed cameras.’
‘You’ve got blood on your face.’
The steering wheel was set in concrete, but I dragged it all the way over, the bearings groaning as the car bumped up onto the opposite kerb, then down again onto the road, facing the right way. I snapped on the lights, cranked up the blower to clear the foggy windscreen, switched on the radio. Identikit pop music buzzed and crackled out of the speakers.
‘Constable Henderson …’ Dr McDonald turned to look out the back window. ‘Ash? What happened?’
‘An hour to Aberdeen. Hour and a half with rush hour.’ I put my foot down, weaving the car through the sodium-lit streets. ‘You got your seatbelt on?’
‘Are you sure you’re all right to drive?’
Not really.
The song faded away and what sounded like a kids’ TV presenter, or coke addict, burbled from the speakers. ‘Yeah, wasn’t that great? Really sets you up for: midweek madness!’ Sirens and trombones made roaring farting noises. ‘Ha, ha. You’re listening to Crazy Colin’s Rush-Hour Drive-Time Club, and we’ve got the sports news coming up in a minute …’
‘If something’s happened, perhaps it would help to talk about it? That’s what I do after all. Usually it’s not till people have been arrested, but that’s not important right now.’
Mr Pain. What kind of name was ‘Mr Pain’ for a grown man? Had to be on meth. Or crack. The big bastard had to be taking something to keep on coming like that.
Two missed payments and they send someone round to cripple me. How was that fair?
My head pounded, blades digging into my eye, every oncoming headlight turned into a rusty knife.
Dr McDonald grabbed the handle above the door as the Renault screeched around the roundabout and I floored it, heading north. ‘Is it … Do we really have to go this fast, I mean, what if something happens, like a tyre bursts, or we hit something, or there’s diesel on the road and—’
‘Please … shut up. For a minute. OK? Just one minute.’ I ground the heel of my hand into the socket of my left eye. It felt as if I’d been battered with sledgehammers. Should pull over and pop some of the Tramadol in my suitcase. Only take five minutes. And then we’d probably miss the boat.
Probably miss it anyway, thanks to Mr Pain-in-the-Arse.
There was silence from the other side of the car.
She had her arms folded, legs crossed, head turned to the window. Didn’t have to be an expert in body language to know what that meant.
Well, you know what? Sod her. See how chatty she’d be if some junkie bastard tried to cripple her.
The lights on the Oldcastle bypass flickered through the rain ahead.
OK, so maybe I had been planning on doing a runner for a couple of days, but it wasn’t as if I had any choice, was it? Police business – escort the lunatic psychologist up to Shetland, make sure she didn’t fall into the sea, or get hit by a bus, or mauled by a sheep, or whatever other disaster she had up her stripy sleeve. OK, so I missed a couple of payments; there was no need to send a coked-up nut-job after me with a plumber’s mace.
Bloody lucky for Mr Pain I’m a reasonable man.
The slip road swept down to the left, dipping below the level of the motorway, then up again, joining onto the A90 north to Aberdeen. The speedometer crept past eighty.
She was still sulking.
Just because I’d asked her nicely to shut up for a minute.
Well, maybe not asked …
OK, so I was wrong, happy now? It was all my fault. As usual.
‘I’m sorry. It’s …’ Deep breath. ‘Didn’t meant to snap.’
She shrugged one shoulder, bringing it all the way up to her ear.
Oh, for God’s sake.
‘Really: I’m sorry.’
She turned in her seat and looked me up and down, then smiled. ‘Fifteen minutes, I’m impressed, I thought you’d take at least half an hour to apologize, there might be hope for you yet, Ash. Ash … Ash … it’s a strange name, isn’t it? I mean your parents probably named you after the tree, but I bet most people think of fire and burning and running and screaming …’