Thunk.
The hand around his throat loosened.
Once more for luck.
THUNK.
The mask flipped off, skittering away under the hatchback.
Number Five’s eyelids flickered, as if the wiring inside was faulty. Then they closed and he sagged, strangling arm flopping out across the ground. Mouth open, breath steaming in the rain. An unconscious wee nyaff with forgettable features and a bloody nose.
Logan sat up, pushed himself to his knees, and collapsed sideways against Danielle’s Clio.
Why did...? What...?
He looked down — not at Number Five, but at...
Oh God.
No.
His black police-issue fleece glistened in the dim orange glow of a bulkhead light. The handle of butterfly knife stuck out of the fabric, at a jaunty angle, halfway between his bottom right rib and his hip.
Ox ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ as a tiny girl, dressed like an angel, is led into the cattle court by Number One.
Number One doesn’t drag her, he holds her hand and lets her walk through the straw at her own pace, with her blonde curly hair, flowing white robes, cardboard wings, and a tinfoil halo.
‘I’m sure our next auction lot needs no introduction, but just in case: it’s Ellie Morton!’
The Animals stare as she’s guided into the middle of the semicircle and Rooster bursts into a one-man round of applause that peters out into embarrassed silence when nobody joins in.
‘Ellie’s been the subject of a massive search by police, with articles and news reports published and broadcast all over the world.’ The Auctioneer points at her with a pantomime flourish. ‘Whoever goes home with this little girl will be the envy of everyone here!’
Goat and Dog move in for a closer look, but Ellie backs away from them, scuffing through the straw till she bumps into Sally’s legs.
Ellie lets out a little squeak.
Sally flinches like she’s been burnt and Rabbit catches her arm.
His voice is still too low for anyone else to hear. ‘Steady...’
‘Ellie’s only three and, I think you’ll agree, magnificent. Who’ll start the bidding at twenty thousand pounds?’
Goat nods. ‘Twenty.’
Dog: ‘Twenty-one.’
Snake raised a finger. ‘My client bids twenty-five.’
Logan gritted his teeth and took hold of the knife’s handle. Huffed out three short panting breaths.
Come on.
You can do this.
He pulled and the blade slid free with a wet sucking noise.
Logan clamped his other hand over the wound. Blood oozed out between his fingers.
Didn’t hurt though. That was something. Probably in shock.
He tightened his grip on the knife and sawed through the cable tie around his ankles.
Stood. Staggered against the Clio.
Looked down at Number Five and his stupid unconscious face.
Logan slammed his boot into the guy’s ribs. Hard. ‘A knife!’
Kicked him again.
This isn’t helping.
You need to stop the bleeding, you idiot.
Yes. Right.
He reached into the Clio’s boot, searching the corners with his free hand. It had to be here somewhere... Ha! Duct tape.
Logan ripped off a palm-sized chunk, then unzipped his fleece and eased up the hem of his T-shirt. The dim orange glow turned the blood dark and glistening, like used engine oil. He wiped his sleeve across his side, taking the worst of it off, revealing a tiny black hole in the pale smeared skin. It oozed more oil.
Somehow, seeing it made all the difference. It went from being a numb, slippery thing, to a burning oil-well — the flames ripping through his insides, burning up into his chest and down to his knees.
‘Arrrrgh...’
He gritted his teeth, wiped the blood away again and slapped the strip of duct tape over the top.
Yeah, that wasn’t going to stay there, was it.
He took the roll and wrapped a length of tape all the way around, behind his back, across his front, pulling it tight, then added another layer, keeping the pressure on. A sort of sticky silver tourniquet. But the bloody thing still oozed.
It would have to do.
He tucked his T-shirt in again. Zipped up his fleece. Turned.
A skinny boy stood beside a massive muddy four-by-four, arms wrapped around himself. Shivering. Wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms. So thin that his ribs stuck out like knuckles on a clenched fist. Hair plastered to his head. Blood running from his squint nose. Shuffling his bare feet in the rain.
So it was true: the Livestock Mart was real.
They were actually selling children.
Logan staggered over and a huge dog went off in the four-by-four, spraying the rear window with saliva as it lunged and barked. What was it with these people and massive weaponised dogs?
He hunkered down in front of the wee boy, trying not to wince. Failing. ‘Are you OK?’
No reply, just a trembling stare.
Up close, his pale skin was covered in small circular scars. Someone had put cigarettes out on him. So many cigarettes that it looked as if he had measles. Poor sod.
‘I’m a police officer. You’re all right. But I need you to...’
What?
Logan swallowed, looked across the rain-puddled concrete at Number Five lying sparked-out in front of the parked cars, between a pair of large agricultural buildings. The gable end of a cottage was visible at one end of the gap. A five-bar metal gate at the other. Eight parked cars — all with their number plates removed. No sign of Sweaty’s ancient Jag, Snake’s Audi, or Tiger’s Hilux.
He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Did his best to sound confident and in charge. To sound as if he wasn’t bleeding to death because someone had stuck a knife in him. ‘Are there any other children here?’
The boy stared at him with big dark eyes.
‘Are there other children like you here?’
A tiny nod, eyes flicking towards the agricultural building on the left. The one with an open door and lights on inside.
Great.
So much for stealing a car and speeding off to the nearest hospital. Now he had to stay here and figure out a way to rescue them. Without getting himself killed.
Well, it wasn’t as if he actually knew how to hotwire an engine anyway.
Gah... Why did everything always have to be so hard?
Come on, Logan. Focus.
First — get the boy to safety. Or as near to it as possible.
He pointed. ‘You see those lights in the distance? I need you to go that way. I need you to keep low, and I need you to run. OK?’
No response.
OK. So it wasn’t ideal, but at least it was a plan.
Logan unzipped his fleece and winced his way out of it. Draped it around the boy’s shoulders. ‘I need you to run till you find another farmhouse, far away from here, and you call the police. Can you do that for me?’
Those big dark eyes stared up at him.
For God’s sake!
Logan patted him on the shoulder, trying really hard not to shout at the silent wee sod. ‘Can you be a good boy and do that for me?’
His bottom lip wobbled. ‘I’m a good boy.’
‘Good. Great.’ He cupped Chatterbox’s face with his hands. ‘Off you go then.’
The boy backed away a couple of steps, Logan’s bloody handprints on his cheeks, gathered the fleece around himself, turned, and ran. Past the end of the house, into the darkness.
Logan gritted his teeth and levered himself upright again, left hand clutching his side as the oil-well burned.