A six-foot length of thick chain stretched from her collar to a galvanised bin full of concrete.
Bracing her bare feet against the floor, she pulled. Strained.
The bloody thing didn’t move.
She glared at it.
Stepped closer and shoved it with her knee.
Solid.
Her anchor probably weighed twice what she did.
One of those big fat bluebottles settled on her shoulder, where the skin was scraped and weeping. Having itself a nice little feed.
‘FUCK OFF YOU BASTARD!’
All that came out were some mumbled vowels, but it was still enough to make the fly abandon its meal and growl into the air. Circling. Waiting for its turn to land and feast again.
Don’t cry.
Don’t blub like some little baby.
You candothis.
Just need some time to think, is all.
The caved-in window overlooked a weed-choked courtyard, with a slightly less crappy outbuilding on the right. A bunch of rotting pallets were stacked outside it, beside a hulk of farm machinery that probably hadn’t moved in decades. Then there was a small gap, with a view out across a scrubby field – neglected and overgrown, tall purple spears of fireweed burning against the blue sky.
A big agricultural shed sat opposite Natasha’s prison, its concrete panels half-skinned in wasp-peeled wooden slats, beneath a roof of corrugated asbestos sheeting.
Finally, off to the left, a beige-and-brown static caravan formed the final side of the square. Its windows opaque with dirt and dust. Lichen reached out from the corners and joints, spreading across the walls like mould on a corpse.
You didn’t need to be bloody psychic to know something very,verybad had happened here.
And that there’d be worse to come...
29
Logan held up a hand as the recovery van reversed perfectly into place, and its brake lights flared. Then the driver hopped out and connected his winch to the glazier’s van.
Normally, just after half five on a Wednesday afternoon, Holburn Street would be a constant stream of traffic. Instead, it was all ‘ROAD CLOSED~ACCESSONLY’, and ‘DIVERSION→’ from Bloomfield Road to Abergeldie Terrace. They’d shut off chunks of Balmoral Place and Balmoral Road too, making an inverted crucifix with Mr Muscles playing the part of Christ.
Or at least he had been until the ambulance whisked him away, lights flickering and siren wailing.
Now, the only vehicles left within the cordon were the Toyota Hilux, the glazier’s van, and ‘CAPTAINTOWAWAY~ “IFYOU’VEHADA CRASH, WE’LLCOMEINA FLASH!”’
Two patrol cars sat just outside – blocking Holburn Street at either end. One officer from each car kept the vulgar public away, while the other two swept up all the broken glass. Carefully avoiding the glistening red puddle slowly baking into the tarmac where Mr Muscles came to an almost-dead halt.
Two Outside Broadcast Units had parked on the City Centre side of the barricade – ITV and Channel 4 – and a few hacks milled about outside the cordon on the Garthdee side,but the only thing that seemed to be actively recording was a BBC drone.
Suppose, once the body was removed, all the exciting news had already happened.
The recovery winch whined andpoinged as it hauled the Auchterturra Glazing Company’s van up onto the load bay. Struggling a bit, because the Toyota Hilux had crushed the rear wheel arch and twisted the tyre round nearly ninety degrees.
The Hilux, on the other hand, only had a wee dent in the radiator to show for both impacts. So maybe...
Sod.
