Free Flesh House by Stuart MacBride Page B

still be alive.
Duncan ... she'd cried till her whole body ached, screamed till she couldn't breathe. And now there was nothing left, but a dull numb pain that wrapped around her heart like poisoned barbed wire.
She laid her head back against the dark metal wall and moaned.
There was a noise outside and light flooded her prison, sparking off the puddles of blood that littered the rusty red floor. All that was left of Duncan.
Heather closed her eyes. This was it - the Butcher had come back for her. It was her turn to be hung upside down over the tin bath and gutted. In a way it was a relief; at least she'd be with her husband and son again.
The Butcher stepped into the room and Heather scrabbled back, terrified.
She tried to plead for her life, but her mouth was too dry, her lips cracked and bleeding. She'd changed her mind: she didn't want to be with Justin and Duncan. She didn't want to die!
But the Butcher wasn't carrying a knife, he was carrying a hose. Cold water battered against the floor, bouncing off the hard metal surface to shower everything with droplets of pink liquid as the last remnants of Duncan were washed down the drain.
When there was nothing left, the Butcher disappeared, only to return thirty seconds later with a tinfoil parcel and a bottle of water. He placed both on the floor - just within arms' reach of the bars - then stood there, staring at her.
God she was thirsty.
Trembling, Heather inched forwards and snatched the bottle, scurrying back till she was in her corner again. The bastard hadn't even moved. She wrenched the top off the bottle and drank, coughing and spluttering as it went down too fast. Nearly bringing it all back up again.
The Butcher nodded, then pointed silently at the tinfoil bundle. Then at the mask's mouth. Then rubbed his stomach.
Heather stared at the parcel, too scared to pick it up.
He gently peeled back a corner of the foil and the smell of hot food filled the room. Her stomach growled.
She peered between the bars. It was just black pudding. Normal, everyday black pudding. And she was so hungry ...
The Butcher backed off to the door again and Heather darted forwards, snatching the parcel back to her side of the bars. Breathing in the heady aroma of hot food. With trembling fingers she crammed the first disk of pudding into her mouth, closed her eyes and chewed. Her family was dead and she was eating black pudding as if nothing had ever happened.
Heather almost spat it out, but it was food and she was hungry and she felt miserable and she didn't have any pills with her. So she did what she'd done all her life: self medication through comfort eating.
She ate every last scrap, till there was nothing left, but greasy tinfoil.
And all the time the man watched her in silence. Then, when she was all finished, he nodded, stepped back outside and closed the door. Leaving her to the darkness.
Logan cupped a hand around his ear and asked DI Steel to say that again. The nightclub was far too busy, far too noisy, and far too hot. That's what they got for letting that idiot Rennie organize a staff night out. The carpet was sticky; the place stank of stale beer, sweat, aftershave and perfume; and the music was loud enough to make his lungs vibrate.
'I said,' Steel shouted,'I wouldn't kick that lot out of bed for farting.' The inspector pointed at the group of girlies up on the dance floor: long blonde hair, short skirts, skimpy tops, the pulsing disco lights glittering off the jewellery in their pierced bellybuttons.
As Logan watched, Detective Constable Simon Rennie boogied his way past them, doing a pretty good impersonation of a octopus being electrocuted. One of the girlies laughed and joined in, bumping and grinding.
'Jammy bastard.' Steel took another swig of her vastly overpriced beer. 'I'm no' surprised he wanted to come here.'
Rennie wasn't the only off-duty police officer up there, strutting his funky stuff - even Faulds had gone up when they'd put on an old Phil Collins number - but