face, cracking him back into the cooker.
A carton of double cream flew across the room.
Logan ducked: it sailed over his head.
A chair followed it.
He scrabbled in his pocket for the pepper-spray.
Too slow.
Shuggie took hold of the table in his good hand and flipped it, slamming the Formica into Logan’s chest, sending him sprawling against the units. Something crunched under his foot – the beer can – and he went down, elbow bashing into the linoleum as he hit the floor.
Jagged pain rushed up his arm, like cramp and pins-and-needles all at the same time. ‘Bastard!’
Shuggie dived on top of him … or on top of the upturned table. The bottom edge cracked into Logan’s shin, the upper edge hard across his chest. Shuggie drew back a massive fist and swung.
Logan wrapped his arms around his head, ducking down behind his forearms like a boxer, eyes screwed shut as the punch hammered into his right bicep. Then another one, catching him in the right armpit.
‘Aaaagh, get off, you—’
One more on his right elbow, thumping his head back into the kitchen units.
This is all your fault!’ Another punch. ‘I want them fucking drugs back!’
The next one slammed into Logan’s arm again.
Always on the right side – Shuggie was using his left fist, saving his right …
Logan’s head bounced off the units, but this time he dropped his guard and grabbed the bloody bandage, wrapped his fingers around Shuggie’s right hand and squeezed hard.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!’ Shuggie’s face went pale.
Logan jerked the hand to the side, digging his nails in.
‘FUCK!’ The big man slapped at Logan’s wrist, scrabbled backwards. Out of reach. ‘FUCK!’ Eyes wide, a string of spittle spiralling down from his open mouth. And then he lurched forward and stomped on the table, sending Logan crashing back to the linoleum.
‘Fuck …’ Shuggie lurched out of the room, clutching his bloody hand to his chest.
Logan could hear him staggering down the hall, bumping into the wall, the crash and tinkle of framed pictures hitting the floor. Then the front door slammed.
So much for everything going easier than last time.
Get up. Get up and charge after him. Tackle him on the stairs and crack the bastard’s head off the concrete walls. Slap the cuffs on. Then kick him in the balls …
Logan slumped back against the soggy lino.
Sod that.
Just lie here a minute. Catch his breath.
His right arm throbbed.
Willy Cunningham’s hairy face appeared above him, one eye already heading from lurid pink to post-box red, the skin around it swelling and darkening. ‘You OK?’
‘No.’ He shoved the table away and struggled to his feet. Then stood for a minute, holding onto the working surface.
‘Bloody hell …’ Willy turned on the spot, arms held out from his sides. ‘Look at the place. Molly’s going to kill me!’
DI Steel’s gravelly voice came from the hallway. ‘Little help?’
Logan cradled his battered arm, scowling. ‘Where the hell were you?’
A single black-shoed foot appeared in the doorway, about two-feet off the ground, toe pointing upward, followed by a short length of crumpled sock, a flash of bare ankle, then a wrinkled grey trouser leg. ‘Argh.’
He picked his way across the beer-and-milk-slicked linoleum to the door.
She was lying on her back, tangled up in the chair Shuggie had tried to take Logan’s head off with. The battered carton of cream lay beside her, its contents splattered all over her.
Steel wiped her eyes, flicking droplets of thick white against the walls. ‘Sodding hell … Pfffffffp … Ack …’ She stared at her hands, her arms, her chest – all dripping with double cream. Smeared another handful from her cheeks and chin. ‘Now I know what it feels like to star in a porn film…’
Logan hauled her to her feet. ‘You were a lot of bloody good.’
She scowled. ‘He threw a chair at me! What was I supposed to do?’
What happened to, “You’ve got to keep an eye on people like Shuggie”, “Can’t bury your head in the sand and expect them to behave”, “That’s just common sense”?’
‘Oh … shut up.’
‘And an orange-and-soda for the big girl’s blouse.’ Big Gary clunked the pint glass down on the coffee table in front of Rennie.
‘I’m driving, OK?’ The constable took a sip.
The Athenaeum was relatively quiet for a Sunday night, meaning they’d managed to bag two of the big saggy sofas, with a view out onto the Castlegate: a couple trying to conceive in the bus stop, some drunken singing, a lone idiot marching up and down with a placard proclaiming ‘JESUS WILL SAVE ALISON AND JENNY IF YOU BELIEVE!’
Logan reached for his pint of Stella, winced, then tried with his left hand instead. His whole right arm was seizing up, probably covered in thick black bruises. Sodding Shuggie Webster …
Big Gary levered his huge arse down into a creaking sofa. Raised his Guinness. ‘To Superintendent Green – our man from SOCA – may his life be long … and plagued with piles.’
Doreen clinked her white wine against Gary’s glass. ‘And verrucas.’
Steel joined in. ‘Impotence.’
Logan: ‘Anal leakage.’
Rennie: ‘Premature ejaculation!’
Steel hit him. ‘How can he have premature ejaculation if he’s impotent, you tit?’
‘Ow! Just means if he ever does get it up, it’s going to be sod all use to him.’
Big Gary nodded. ‘The loon’s got a point.’
‘Meh.’ Steel tried her whisky, following it down with a big glug of IPA. ‘Right, before we all get irredeemably blootered, how do we find Alison and Jenny McGregor?’
Doreen groaned, let her head fall back until she was staring at the ceiling. ‘I’ve been doing this all bloody day!’
‘Tell that to a wee girl who’s
