In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride
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On the other side of the glass, Aberdeen twinkled in the distance and darkness like a loch of stars.
Logan leaned against the windowsill.
The red, white, and green flashing lights of an aeroplane tracked across the sky, making for Dyce airport.
Muffled voices came through the door behind him – it sounded like an argument, but the words were too faint to tell what it was about.
And then the door opened and John Urquhart stepped out into the corridor. Closed the door behind him. ‘Sorry about that.’
Logan nodded at it. ‘Reuben?’
‘Nah. Doctor’s kicking up a fuss. Says Mr Mowat’s too weak to see people, he needs to sleep. So Mr Mowat tells him to pick which kneecap he’d like removed with a jigsaw, and suddenly Dr Kildare decides that visitors are fine.’
‘Funny how that works.’
‘Yup.’ Urquhart joined him at the window, frowning out into the darkness. ‘Reuben’s…’ A hissing sound, as Urquhart sucked at his teeth. ‘Yeah. Going to be interesting times ahead.’
Logan turned his back on the darkness. ‘Is he planning something?’
‘The Reubster? The Reubenator? Ruby-Ruby-Reuben?’ A little laugh. ‘Anyway, you can go in now.’ He opened the door and held it for Logan.
Picture windows made up two walls, the view hidden away behind louvre blinds. It was dark in here, with a wooden floor, a couple of leather armchairs by the French doors, a settee and a coffee table opposite them in the gloom. And right in the middle, lit by a single standard lamp: a hospital bed – set up where its occupant would have an uninterrupted view out over the garden and the city beyond. A sweet earthy scent filled the room, presumably coming from the pair of joss sticks on a low table, their twin ribbons of smoke coiling around each other like ghosts.
The bed was grey and huge, bracketed by banks of equipment and drip stands, all hooked up to the paper skeleton lying there.
Wee Hamish Mowat’s skin was milk-bottle pale, his veins making dark green-and-blue road maps under the surface. Beneath the liver spots and bruises. Wisps of grey clung to his scalp in demoralized clumps. Cheekbones like knives, his nose large and hooked – getting bigger as the rest of him shrank. Watery grey eyes blinked out above the plastic lip of an oxygen mask.
Had to admit that the doctor was right: Wee Hamish didn’t look up to visitors. He didn’t look up to anything at all.
Logan pulled on a smile and walked over, trainers squeaking on the wooden floor. ‘Hamish, you’re looking well.’
A trembling hand reached up and pulled the oxygen mask away. ‘Logan…’ Voice so thin and dry it was barely there. ‘You came.’
‘Of course I came.’ Logan stood at the foot of the bed.
A shape lumbered out of the gloom: a bear of a man; tall and broad, with a massive gut on him. His face was a landscape of scar tissue, knitted together by a patchy grey beard. Dark sunken eyes. A nose that was little more than a knot of squint cartilage. All done up in a sharp suit, tie, and shiny shoes.
When he smiled, it was like small children screaming. ‘Well, well, well.’ The words were thick and flat, dampened by that broken nose. ‘If it isn’t Sergeant McRae.’
Logan didn’t move. ‘Reuben.’
A bone-pale hand trembled into the air above the sheets. ‘Boys…’
Reuben turned to Wee Hamish and his smile softened. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Mowat, the sergeant and me have come to an accord, like. Haven’t we, Sergeant?’
The machines beeped and hissed and pinged.
Then Logan nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Wee Hamish took a hit on the oxygen, closing his eyes as he breathed. Then sank deeper into his pillows. ‘John … can you get … Logan a seat?… And … bring the Glenfiddich. … Three glasses.’ More oxygen.
‘Yes, Mr Mowat.’ Urquhart hurried off to the corner and came back with a wooden chair. He placed it beside the bed, level with Wee Hamish’s elbow.
Logan sat. Scraped the chair around by thirty degrees to keep Reuben in sight. ‘How are you feeling, Hamish?’
A long, rattling sigh. ‘I’m … dying.’
‘No, you’re—’
‘Please, Logan.’ He placed a hand on Logan’s – bones wrapped in cold parchment. ‘Just … shut up … and listen.’ He buried his face in the oxygen mask again. Three long damp breaths. ‘You have … power of attorney. … If I … slip into anything, … you tell them … to let me … die. … Understood?’ The hand tightened. ‘I don’t … want these hacks … keeping a sack … of gristle and mush … breathing for … the hell of it.’ A smile twitched at the edge of his lips. ‘Promise me.’
Logan stared at the liver-spotted claw covering his own hand, then up at Wee Hamish. The hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Why not? It wasn’t as if he’d never had to make that decision before. ‘Promise.’ Twice in one day.
Urquhart came back to the bed, carrying a tray with three crystal tumblers, a bottle of whisky, and three glasses of water. He lowered it onto the foot of the bed, then backed away out of sight.
Wee Hamish trembled a finger at the tray. ‘Do the … honours, … would you?’
The foil cap was still on, so Logan slit it open with a fingernail. The cork squeaked out of the neck, then came away with a pop.
Logan poured a finger of mahogany-coloured whisky into each tumbler. A rich leather-and-wood scent coiled up from the crystal as he placed one into Wee Hamish’s hand.
It wobbled, grasped in knotted fingers as it was raised in toast. ‘Here’s … tae us.’
‘Fa’s like us?’
Reuben picked his glass from the tray, intoning the final words like a death sentence. ‘Gey few, and they’re a’ deid.’
They drank.
One line of whisky dribbled down the side of Wee Hamish’s chin. He didn’t wipe it away. Picked up the oxygen mask instead and dragged in a dozen rattling breaths.
Reuben just stood there. Looming.
Over in the corner, someone cleared their throat.
The machines bleeped.
Finally, Wee Hamish surfaced. ‘Tired…’
A man appeared at his shoulder, glasses flaring in the room’s only light. He’d rolled his sleeves up to the elbow and tucked his tie into his shirt, between the buttons. He fiddled with one of the machines, then licked his lips. Stared off into the gloom, not making eye contact with Reuben. Probably thinking about that threatened jigsaw. ‘I’m sorry, but Mr Mowat really needs to rest.’
Reuben grunted, then jerked his chin up, setting the folds of flesh wobbling.
Wee Hamish reached beneath the sheets and produced an envelope. Held it out to Logan. It fluttered like a wounded bird. ‘Take the … bottle … with you. … Drink it … for me.’
Logan swallowed, then reached out and took the envelope. Slipped it into his jacket pocket. Stood. Patted Wee Hamish on the arm. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Goodbye … Logan.’
Stars glared down from the cold dark sky. Aberdeen’s streetlight glow hid them from view on one side, but on the other they stretched across the baleful darkness like angry gods.
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