your eyes tested and you can read it yourself.’ Logan dropped the sheets of paper back on the bed. ‘What sort of person signs a love letter with their full name and a fake rank?’
‘Ah, you’re no fun.’ She slumped back until she was lying flat out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Logan abandoned her, going across the hall to Jenny’s bedroom instead. The window was coated in that familiar film of Amido Black, making the back garden look dim and grey.
Pink wallpaper. Fluffy animals piled up on the toy box. Every breeze-block-sized book in the Harry Potter series.
The horse on the duvet cover was actually a unicorn … He stopped. Frowned. Tried to remember the video footage. There’d been something on the end of the bed. A teddy bear? It wasn’t there any more. Wasn’t lying on the bedroom floor either.
Maybe they’d let her take it with her? Maybe it’d offered a bit of comfort while they shot her full of morphine and thiopental sodium, so they could hack off her toe.
Maybe they’d even buried it with her. Out in the middle of nowhere, wrapped in a black plastic bag. Mouldering away in a shallow grave. Keeping her company as she rotted.
Christ, there was a cheery thought.
‘You look like you’ve eaten a cold jobbie.’ Steel: standing in the doorway.
Logan turned his back on the room. ‘There’s nothing here.’
Just a dead girl’s bedroom in an empty house.
A thin slice of sunlight lies on the bare wooden floorboards, little binks of dust glittering like fairies just above it. Everything’s blurry. And it smells. She wipes her pyjama sleeve across her eyes. Shifts her bum along the floor a bit so she’s sitting closer to the sun.
It smells of old people in here. Old people like Mrs McInnes next door, with her hairy mole and thick glasses, and breath like a sausage that’s been left in the fridge too long.
She wipes the sleeve across her face again, getting Winnie the Pooh all soggy with tears. Tries to wriggle closer, but the chain around her chest and neck pulls tight. They used to keep Sooty on a chain in the back garden, fixed to a big metal spike so he could run round and round. Till he had to go to heaven.
Only she’s not a dog, chained to a spike in the back garden. She’s a little girl, chained to a bed in a dark, dusty old house.
She reaches out a pale little foot, and wiggles her toes in that tiny line of sunshine. Not making any noise.
The monsters will come back if she does.
A groan behind her.
She turns, the chain cold against her chin. Mummy’s talking in her sleep again.
‘No … You can’t … I don’t want to…’ Then her mouth twitches, opens and closes with little smacking noises. Mummy turns over onto her side. The chain around her ankle rattles against the metal bed. ‘No…’ Then her breathing goes in and out slow and steady.
Teddy Gordon’s eyes sparkle in the gloomy room. He’s lying on the bed, on his side like Mummy, staring.
She snaps her head back to the front. Not looking at him. Not looking into those shiny eyes. One time, she’d watched a crow eating a squished rabbit in a lay-by, while Daddy was having a wee behind a tree. The crow had eyes like Teddy Gordon’s: black and shiny and horrible.
Look straight ahead. Don’t move. Don’t make any noise. Be a Good Little Girl.
There’s a clunk and she flinches, a tiny squeak pops out between her lips.
A thump.
Coming from the shadows where the door’s hiding.
A rattle.
Eyes front. No moving. Biting her lip hard enough to make it sting and taste of shiny new pennies.
Clump. Clump. Clump.
A shadow blocks out the little slice of sunlight, killing the sparkly fairies.
The monster’s voice is all metal and buzzy, like a robot. ‘Hey sweetcheeks…’
She closes her eyes.
15
‘—memorial service tomorrow at noon. Sarah Williamson is at the church now. Any change, Sarah?’
The TV picture jumped to a woman in a black overcoat. ‘So far, all we know is that the memorial service will be open for the public to come and show their respects for Jenny. I can tell you that Robbie Williams will be attending, along with Katie Melua and a host of other celebrities, before heading back down to London for a special live tribute episode of Britain’s Next Big Star.’
‘Ooh…’ Samantha sat forward on the couch. ‘Have to set the recorder.’
Logan took another mouthful of wine, washing down the last of the pasta they’d had for tea. ‘Why do we have to clog the machine up with that shite?’
There was a small pause. ‘You’re such a bloody telly snob.’
‘I’m not a snob.’
‘Just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean it’s shite.’
‘—special guests performing the songs that Jenny and her mother—’
‘It is shite. It’s just more cheap reality TV bollocks where halfwits humiliate themselves just so they can get on the bloody telly.’
‘Here we go again.’ She pulled her knees up to her chest, black leather jeans squeaking against the couch. ‘Like what you watch is so damn intellectual.’
‘—charity single tipped to hit number one, we spoke to Gordon Maguire, chairman of Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions—’
‘At least I—’
‘The Simpsons isn’t bloody Panorama, is it?’
A middle-aged man in a T-shirt and suit jacket appeared on the screen. He had trendy sideburns with bits cut out of them, a soul patch, a Dundee accent, and a bald head. ‘—bear in mind that the kidnappers still have Alison and we all have to make sure—’
‘I’m just saying it’s exploitative, OK? It’s—’
‘Have you even watched it?’
‘—have to keep raising money while there’s still a chance we can bring her home safely.’
‘What? I don’t need to watch—’
‘See!’ She poked the arm of the couch with a black-painted fingernail. ‘You have sod-all idea what you’re talking about!’
‘—thank you. And now over to Gail with the weather.’
Logan
