Aye, the room’s a bit twee, but then what do you expect? Place is ancient. With its lace doilies, old-fashioned furniture, wooden walls in need of a paint — chipped and scarred from, like, decades of use. Bed’s good, though.
He reaches out a hand and pats Mhari on her naked stomach. ‘That was... that was... bloody great!’
‘You’re welcome.’ She wipes between her legs with his T-shirt. To be honest, it needed a wash anyway. And let’s face it, no way he could grudge her, not after that.
‘Wow...’
She climbs out of bed and pads over to the window, looking up the hill. You could never get tired of ogling that pert round arse, or the firm high tits, or that wee tufty triangle between her legs. Where the magic happens.
He stretches, all the knots and aches and worries of the last two weeks melted away. ‘God, I wish I still smoked.’
‘It’s not good for you, baby.’ She slips on her pants — red with wee black hearts on them — then wrestles herself into a black bra. How come bras were so difficult to put on? See if it was men had to wear them? We’d sort that shit out so it’s comfy. No twisting your arms behind your back like you’re being handcuffed by the cops. She smiles at him, and honest to God he can feel the warmth spreading through his cock again. Cos she can do that.
He adjusts himself under the duvet. ‘We got any beer?’
‘You lie there and I’ll go see.’ Mhari gets dressed: tight pink T-shirt, camouflage cargo pants, sitting on the end of the bed to pull on her socks.
‘Oh, and if there’s any of last night’s pizza in the fridge...?’
‘Course, baby.’ Soon as she’s got her boots on, she’s standing in front of the window, looking up the hill again with a strange wee smile on her face. Then Mhari nods and walks out of the room, on a mission for her man.
Her man.
God, imagine that... All the guys in the world, Mhari could have her pick, you know? And she chooses him.
He grins at the ceiling again. ‘You’re a lucky sod, Haiden.’ Has another stretch.
Lot to do today: make a video of that tit Scotty Meyrick and get it online. Think about who’s gonna be next. Who’s gonna get themselves an all-expenses-paid trip to Chest-Freezer City. Maybe that git on the Scottish Daily Post? Bet they could do something special with him. Turncoat wee bastard. How do you go from, ‘a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to seize our country from the Westminster elite, to reclaim our soul and our destiny’ to ‘independence will destroy Scotland’? Just cos some English wanker buys the paper you work for? That’s your thirty pieces of bloody silver, right there.
Oh aye, Edward Barwell could be their Judas.
Yeah, Mhari would like that.
And there she is, standing in the doorway, holding last night’s greasy pizza box in one hand and a cold tinny in the other. She’s put on her hoodie and a waterproof jacket — like it’s going to rain. No way. Forecast is balls to the wall sunshine for at least the next week. Women, eh?
She passes him the box and he opens it. Not a lot left, but enough for a post-humping snack.
‘Cheers, Mhari.’ Big mouthful of ham and mushroom with extra mozzarella, all salty and earthy. Chewing with his eyes closed, it’s that delicious. Yeah, the base is a bit soggy, but in a good way, you know? He swallows and winks at her. ‘Early morning shag, a beer, and leftover pizza. A guy couldn’t get a better girlfriend. No way. Not possible.’ Another huge bite, talking through it, ‘Mmm, think I actually love this stuff even more the next day.’
She settled on the end of the bed and looked at him, head on one side. ‘Do you think we’ve made Dad proud?’
‘Whose dad, my dad?’ He sticks his hand out for the lager and she clicks open the ring-pull, takes a wee swig, then hands it over. Gotta love Tennent’s: it tastes of school holidays and Saturdays with Mum, and fizzy happiness. ‘Oh aye. Dad hates them English bastards more than he hates his lung cancer.’ Poor old sod, lying there in his hospital bed, dying. Haiden puts the tin down. Sighs. ‘Wish I could go see him...’
‘You know you can’t do that. I told you: it’s what the police expect. The care home would tip them off soon as you walked in the door, and that would be it.’
‘Yeah...’ She was right. She was always right. Didn’t make it hurt any less, though.
She pats his leg through the duvet. ‘Besides, I passed on his messages, didn’t I? Like a good big sister?’
He polishes off the last crust of pizza and washes it down with a scoof of lager. Stuffs down the belch that comes free with it. ‘But I wish...’ Hang on a minute. ‘Big sister?’
She points at the window. ‘Come look at this.’ Then stands, makes her way over there and leans on the sill.
‘No, wait, what? I don’t have a big sister. Had a wee brother, but he drowned. They found him three days later, down the coast from here.’ All pale and wrinkled. Wee black holes where the fish and crabs had been at him.
‘Come on, Haiden. Indulge me.’
Yeah, cos how can he ever refuse her. It isn’t possible.
He wriggles out of bed, and joins her at the window, takes a sip of his tinny. Course some blokes would be self-conscious, standing there like that, stark-bollock naked with everything on show, but not him. Nah, you spend as much time in the prison gym as he had, you wanna show that bad boy off. Brad Pitt’s a podgy slob in comparison. Aye, and that’s Fight Club Brad Pitt, too.
She points up the hill, where a white Audi’s parked, blocking the track down to the cottage. ‘You see that?’
‘How come you said “big sister”?’
‘That’s the police. They’ve come to get us.’
‘The what?’ Oh sodding hell. The police. She’s right; who else would block them in like that? Any minute now they’ll be booting in the door, and it’ll be all helicopters, and dogs, and big bastards with batons and guns. Escape! Make a run for it. Go. Go. GO. ‘We’ve got to—’
Something thumps into his back. Not as hard as a punch, more like a...
Then a crackling, ripping noise and shards of white-hot glass tear through his stomach and spine. Oh God...
Mhari leans in and kisses his neck, breath warm against his skin. ‘There we go.’
Everything tastes of hot batteries and raw meat as his throat fills, little red dots on the window as the bubbles pop between his lips.
Oh God...
He grabs for the windowsill and his tin of Tennent’s bounces off the floor, spilling out its contents in a froth of white-edged gold.
‘See, Haiden, they had me too young, Mum and Dad. She couldn’t cope, so I had to go live with her sister in Canada. Then they had you and suddenly they could cope. Strange that, isn’t it? How a wee boy is more “worth the effort” than a little girl?’
Oh God...
His knees don’t work any more. They give up and he hits the carpet next to the emptying tin. Only now the carpet’s slick with red. That’s not coming from inside him, is it? It can’t be: there’s way too much of it. Can’t be him. Please. Please don’t let it be him. ‘I didn’t... It...’
‘Shhh...’ She squats down beside him and strokes his head, like he’s a puppy. ‘It’ll all be over soon. OK?’
‘Why...?’
‘I’d love to stay and keep you company, but...’ She sucks air through her teeth. ‘Police.’ A smile. ‘It’s been fun catching up, though.’ Then Mhari stands, wipes the hunting knife on the duvet cover, slips it into its sheath as she walks from the room.
‘Don’t... don’t leave... me.’
Oh God...
Haiden forces himself over onto his front and grabs at the bed’s legs — dragging himself across the sodden carpet to the door. Following her.