The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

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       ‘Thanks, Clyde. Merseyside Police confirmed this morning that one of the women killed in the drive-by shooting in Liverpool on Sunday was Mary Ann Nasrallah, an undercover police officer. We’ll have more on that later this morning. Next, the hunt for missing sex offender Neil Wood enters its second day as—’

      Logan slapped the radio into silent submission.

      Should’ve switched the damn thing off before crashing last night.

      Something dark and spiky throbbed behind his eyeballs. It coated the back of his throat with grit and bitterness. Made everything taste of cheap supermarket whisky. Then it sank its teeth into his bladder.

      Unnngh …

      The world was a sharp and queasy place as he lumbered through to the toilet.

      Then back to bed again.

      To hell with the day.

      The padlock tumblers squeak beneath his blue fingertips. The hasp falls to the ground, followed by the lock as he pushes the door wide.

      Its hinges creak like a coffin lid and he steps into the foetid darkness.

      ‘Stephen?’ The word comes out in a plume of breath, pale as a ghost. ‘It’s OK, you’re safe now …’

      No he isn’t.

      The torchlight swings its yellow septic eye across stacks of poles and saws and chains, logs and a cast-iron stove. Settles on a pile of filthy blankets.

      Don’t do it.

      But his hand reaches out anyway. What choice does it have?

      He grips the barbed-wire fabric and pulls.

      ‘Stephen?’

      The body lies on its side, curled up on a wooden pallet that’s stained crimson and black. The gaps between the slats are dark and hollow, like the gaping mouth. Gums torn and ragged where the teeth had been ripped out. Fingers bent and twisted, as if someone had taken a hammer to them. Thick strips of silver duct tape wrapped over the eyes. Dried blood caked around the empty groin and filthy buttocks. More blood across the swollen chest. Chains around the wrists and ankles, heavy and rusted.

      He’s dead. He has to be dead.

      A fist of gravel catches in Logan’s throat. He swallows it. Forces it down into his chest, sharp and hard and cold. ‘I’m sorry.’

      And then that ruined blind head turns and screams …

      The toilet bowl was cool against Logan’s cheek. Breath slowing. The pounding in his temples settled to a galley-slave beat, battering the drums in time with his heart.

      Sitting on the bathroom floor, Logan howched and spat out streamers of bile-yellow spittle. Groaned.

      Pulled himself upright.

      The man in the mirror looked like an extra from The Walking Dead.

      He rinsed out his mouth. Washed his face. Dried it. Couldn’t look at it any more.

      His stomach gurgled and he froze, one hand pressing against the scars that criss-crossed his abdomen. Then it settled.

      Never drinking cheap own-brand whisky ever again.

      Ever.

      Especially not half a bottle of it.

      He slumped back to the bedroom. Stood, looking down at the crumpled, sweat-soaked sheets.

      Yeah, sod going back to bed.

      Sun streamed through the window, turning the air into golden syrup, flecked with glowing dust motes. The ward’s quiet was punctuated by the hum and hiss of ventilators. The wub-wub-wub of a far-off floor polisher. The squeak of comfortable shoes on blue terrazzo flooring.

      Logan knocked on the doorframe. ‘Shop?’

      Louise looked up from a clipboard. Smiled. ‘Logan. Isn’t it a lovely day?’ Her pixie-cut was about twenty years too young for her, bleached blonde, the fringe gelled into a jagged curl above a pair of heavy dark eyebrows. White linen shirt, boot-cut jeans, black trainers. She picked up a large manila envelope from her desk, then pointed over his shoulder. ‘Shall we grab a cuppa?’

      Louise picked her way out onto the balcony, clipboard tucked under her arm, carrying a tray in both hands. One teapot, one cafetiere, two cups, and a plate of tiny triangular sandwiches. She lowered the tray onto the table. ‘Sorry that took so long.’

      Sunny Glen was living up to its name. The timber walls shone in the sunshine, the glass-and-chrome balustrade glinting. Logan had picked the table on the upper terrace, in the shade, with a view down the valley and out to sea. A neon-orange supply vessel ploughed its way towards the horizon, leaving a wake of shimmering white.

      And, more importantly, the upper terrace overlooked the lower one.

      Down there, a handful of wheelchairs were arrayed across the tiled floor. Some of the residents wearing hats, others baseball caps, a couple bare-headed.

      Louise poured tea into Logan’s cup. Nodded at the manila envelope. ‘All signed and sealed?’

      He pushed the thing across the small table towards her. ‘Now what?’

      ‘Now we give it to the lawyers, they give it to the Sheriff, he declares Samantha incapable, and you’re appointed her financial and welfare guardian. Should only take a couple of weeks.’

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