There – on the other side of the road – another young man, but unlike Mr Hairy, AKA: Darryl Merickson, this one wasn’t armed with a bouquet of cheap flowers and a mylar party balloon. Instead he had a carrier bag from the same off-licence as those pirates, earlier. And muscles. Lots of them. Showing them off in a tight wife-beater vest with ‘HARRY’SPROTEINSUPPLEMENTS’ on it. Arms like tattooed anacondas. And one of those halfwit haircuts, where it’s shaved at the sides and shaped like a bunnet on top. Plus moustache.
Strangely, even with the all the muscles, tattoos, and facial hair, he somehow managed to look like a primary schoolboy. Assuming the school had a very lax policy about steroids.
But he wasn’tactuallylooking at Logan – he was staring up at what was left of the hotel.
Fair enough.
The Mobile Command Unit’s side door popped open andout lumbered Darryl, with his balloon and half-bald flowers, followed by PC Kent.
It must’ve been the sound of the door clunking shut again, but Mr Muscles glanced towards the MCU, caught Logan’s eyes, and gave a wee start.
And now hewasstaring at Logan.
The Number 2 bus grumbled down Broomhill Road, heading for ‘AUCHINYELL&RGU’, partially blocking Logan’s view as Mr Muscles flickered between the passengers, through the windows.
Still staring. Eyes are getting wider.
Darryl Merickson frowned. Looking out into the street, as if he was missing something important here. ‘What?’
But when the Number 2 had passed, Mr Muscles wasn’t there any more. Vanished. Gone. Flushed away.
Logan stepped out into the road...and there he was, running after the bus. Waving. Trying to attract the driver’s attention.
Nothing suspicious about it all.
And while that haircut should’ve been illegal, it probably wasn’t an arrestable offence. More a cry for help.
Anyway...
Logan returned to the pavement. ‘Right, thank you for your time, Mr Merickson.’
Darryl went up on his tiptoes, peering after the Number 2 as it shrank into the distance. ‘What?’
‘Nothing to worry about. You take care, OK?’
He stayed where he was, looking from Logan to the road and back again. Shrugged. Then squatted in front of the hotel railings and added his drooping flowers to the growing mass of tributes, tying his balloon next to that strangled teddy bear.
Then stepped back to take it all in. Closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Kids...’
Maybe this was one of those ‘teachable moments’? But given that Darryl clearly wasn’t the sharpest spoon in the cutlery drawer, it was probably best to lay it on a bit thick.
Logan made a big show of looking up at the hotel’s blackened remains. ‘This is what happens when someone thinks it’s OK to hate people based on the colour of their skin. Or their religion. Or their sexuality, gender, nationality, football team: whatever it is they don’t like.’ Pointing at the ruins. ‘Convince yourself that they’relesserthan you and you can commit atrocities.’ Dramatic pause...‘Even kill kids.’
Darryl’s face hardened, then a nod. A grunt. And off he stomped.
Hopefully to be a bit less of a prick.
PC Kent scrunched up one side of her face. ‘Not exactlysubtle, Guv.’
‘Some people don’t work well with nuance.’
‘Suppose.’ She had a good peer down the road, where the Number 2 was little more than a little red lump. ‘So, whatwasthat all about?’
‘Just some guy missed his bus.’ So there’d been no need to go charging out into the road, like an idiot.
But it’d been alongday.
Know what? Steevie was right: a twelve-hour shiftwasenough for any man, and Logan had been at this forfourteen, so it was time to sod-this-for-a-game-of-soldiers, sign out, and be home in time to read Elizabeth that gory story about the little skeleton boy she liked so much.
