Читать книгу 22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories - Stuart MacBride - Страница 10

Oh dear God … it was a long way down.

Logan shuffled along the damp concrete ledge.

His left shoe skidded on something, wheeching out over the gaping drop. ‘Aaagh …’

He grabbed at the handrail, heart thumping as the carrier bag from Markies spiralled away, down … down … down … fluttering like a green plastic bat on a suicide run.

All the saliva disappeared from his mouth, leaving the taste of old batteries behind.

Thump.

The bag battered into the cobbled street: prawn-and-mayonnaise sandwich exploding, the bottle of Coke spraying foam out at the circle of onlookers. The ones nearest danced back a couple of paces, out of reach of the sticky brown foam. Then stared up at him again: a circle of pale faces and open mouths. Waiting.

One or two of them had their mobile phones out, filming. Probably hoping for something horrible to happen so they could post it on YouTube.

Had to be at least sixty feet down.

Why couldn’t jumpers leap off bungalows? Why did the selfish sods always threaten to throw themselves off bloody huge buildings?

Logan inched closer to the man standing at the far edge of the roof. ‘You …’ He cleared his throat, but it didn’t shift the taste. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

The man didn’t look around. One hand gripped the railing beside him, the skin stained dark red. Blood. It spread up his sleeve – turning the grey suit jacket almost black.

His other hand was just as bad. The sticky scarlet fingers were curled around a carving knife, the blade glinting against the pale grey sky. Black handle, eight-inch blade, the metal streaked with more red.

Great.

Because what was the point of slitting your wrists in the privacy of your own home when you could do it on top of a dirty big building in the east end of Aberdeen instead? With a nice big audience to watch you jump.

And it was a long way down.

Logan dragged his eyes away from the slick cobblestones. ‘It isn’t worth it.’

Another shrug. Mr Suicide’s voice trembled, not much more than a broken whisper. ‘How could she do that?’

‘Why don’t you put down the knife and come back inside?’

The distant wail of a siren cut through the drab afternoon.

‘Knife …?’ He turned his head and frowned. Little pointy nose, receding hairline, thin face, watery eyes lurking above bruise-coloured bags. A streak of dried blood across his forehead. The front of his shirt was soaked through with it, sticking to his pigeon chest. The sour stink of hot copper and rotting onions radiated out of him like tendrils.

Logan inched closer. ‘Put it down, and we can go inside and talk about it, OK?’

He looked down at the carving knife in his hand, eyes narrowing, forehead creasing. As if he’d never seen it before. ‘Oh …’

‘What’s your name?’

‘John.’

‘OK, John: I’m Logan, and I’m going to— Bollocks.’ His phone rang deep in his pocket, blaring out the Imperial March from Star Wars. He fumbled it out with one hand, the other still wrapped tightly around the railing. ‘What?’

A smoky, gravelly voice burst from the earpiece. ‘Where the hell are you?’ Detective Chief Inspector Steel. She sniffed. ‘Supposed to be—’

‘I’m kinda busy right now …’

‘I don’t care if you’re having a foursome with Doris Day, Natalie Portman, and a jar of Nutella – I’m hungry. Where’s my sodding lunch?’

‘I’m busy.’ He held the phone against his chest. ‘What’s your last name, John?’

‘What does it matter?’ John went back to staring at the ground, blood dripping from his fingertips. ‘Skinner. John Skinner.’

‘Right.’ Back to the phone, keeping his voice down. ‘Run a PNC check on a John Skinner, IC-one male, mid-thirties. I need—’

‘Do I look like your mum? Lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch—’

For God’s sake.

‘Just for once, can you think about someone other than your sodding self?’ Logan pulled on a smile for the blood-soaked man teetering on the edge of the roof. ‘Sorry, my boss is a bit …’ He curled his lip. ‘Well, you know.’

‘And another thing – how come you’ve no’ filled out the overtime returns yet? You got any idea—’

‘I’m busy.’ He thumbed the off button and stuck the phone back in his pocket. ‘Come on, John, put the knife down. It’ll be OK.’

‘No.’ John shook his head, wiped a hand across his glistening eyes, leaving a thick streak of scarlet behind, like warpaint. ‘No it won’t.’ He held the knife out and dropped it.

The blade tumbled through the air then clattered against the cobbled street below.

A uniformed PC turned up, pushing the crowd back, widening the semicircle, looking up over her shoulder and talking into her airwave handset. With any luck there’d be a trained suicide negotiator on scene in a couple of minutes. And maybe the fire brigade with one of those big inflatable mattress things in case the negotiator didn’t work. And this would all be someone else’s problem.

‘It’ll never be OK again.’ John let go of the railing. ‘How could it?’

‘Don’t do anything you’ll—’

‘I’m sorry.’ He crouched, leaned backwards … then jumped, springing out from the roof. Eyes closed.

‘NO!’ Logan lunged, hand grasping the air where John Skinner wasn’t any more.

Someone down there screamed.

John Skinner’s suit jacket snapped and fluttered in the wind, arms windmilling, legs thrashing all the way down. Getting smaller, and smaller, and smaller, and THUMP.

A wet crunch. A spray of blood.

Body all twisted and broken, bright red seeping out onto the dark grey cobblestones. More screaming.

Logan crumpled back against the railing, holding on tight, and peered over the edge.

The ring of bystanders had flinched away as John Skinner hit, but now they were creeping closer again, phones held high to get a decent view over the heads of their fellow ghouls.

The wailing siren got closer, then a patrol car skidded to a halt and four officers clambered out. Pushed their way through the amateur film crew. Then stood there staring at what was left of John Skinner.

Logan’s mobile burst into the Imperial March again. Steel calling with the PNC check on their victim. He pulled the phone out. Pressed the button. ‘You’re too late.’

‘Aye, see when I said, “Get your bumhole back here”, I meant now. No’ tomorrow, no’ in a fortnight: now. Sodding starving here.’