Rebecca’s scowl deepened, then she stomped over and thrust the teddy bear into her arms. ‘Orgalorg will look after you.’
She blinked up at Rebecca, bottom lip trembling, then gave the bear a big squishy hug.
Rebecca grabbed her hand, then turned and did the same with Stephen’s. ‘Come on, you tits!’ She ran and the others ran with her — Ellie catching up to make the crocodile whole again. By the time they’d reached the drystane dyke they were almost invisible in the dark, only Ellie Morton’s bloodstained angel costume gave their position away.
Then they scrambled over the wall and were gone.
Thank you...
He sagged against the fence post, and breathed — great ragged plumes of fog that drifted away in the rain. In and out. In and out. Until the fire scorching its way through him had faded to glowing embers again.
Cold water trickled down the nape of his neck. Wasn’t a single inch of him that was still dry. Or warm.
He turned, teeth chattering as a wave of cold shivered its way through him. ‘Smart move, Logan. Sending five wee kids off to get help. On their own. In the dark. And the rain. When the place is crawling with paedophiles. Really smart.’
He limped onto the concrete between the buildings again, sticking up two fingers as he passed the barking dog in its four-by-four. ‘Well what was I supposed to do, leave the sixth one behind? No. Of course not. So shut up and leave me alone.’
His feet scuffed through puddles, making for the machine shed. ‘Assuming I don’t bleed to death first.’
Logan hauled open the door and staggered inside. Lurched around the combine harvester to where Number Five lay. Spat. Bared his teeth. ‘Why did you have to have a bloody knife?’
One more kick in the ribs for luck.
Pff...
‘OK, I’m going to need your jacket, your mask, and your hoodie.’
Only there was no way they were coming off with Number Five’s hands cable-tied together. Should have got his clothes off before tying him up. And while we’re picking holes, it might have been better not to leave the packet of cable ties back at the Clio, unless the idea was to let the guy go free.
‘Oh yes, thank you, Captain Hindsight. Very helpful.’
Logan lumbered back to Danielle’s car, stuffed the packet into his pocket, grabbed the duct tape for good luck, and returned to the machine shed. Swearing all the way.
He unfolded the butterfly knife, squatted down and heaved Number Five over onto his side. Sawed through the plastic strip. Stole his gloves. Then struggled him out of his jacket and hoodie, leaving him in a Stereophonics T-shirt.
Good. He could freeze his nipples off for a change.
It took a bit of doing, but Logan got one of the guy’s arms up behind the combine harvester’s bottom step, then out through the gap between the treads. Hauled the other arm up the front and zipped a new cable tie tight around both wrists. Number Five was going nowhere.
And then, just to be petty, he wrapped a strip of duct tape around the guy’s head, making sure it was nice and stuck in his eyebrows and hair. ‘Serves you right.’
The hoodie made Logan’s T-shirt stick to his torso like a clammy claggy hug. The jacket was too tight across the shoulders, but good enough. Now all he needed was the mask.
Back outside.
He inched down and felt under Danielle’s Clio. Had to be somewhere around here... Aha! It was lurking behind the passenger-side rear wheel.
Logan picked it up.
Sod.
The plastic face was cracked down the middle, probably due to all the punching, and the strap was broken on one side so it wouldn’t stay on. Not even duct tape was going to fix that.
Well, it’d have to do.
He limped across the concrete and into the equipment shed.
Someone had filled his boots with lead as well as rainwater — that’s why they were so heavy. Number Five’s jacket must’ve been lined with it too, because the weight of it made his arms droop at his sides. Pushed his shoulders down.
Come on, at least he was warming up a bit. That was something, right?
‘I need a sodding holiday...’
OK, to-do list.
Empty crates: check.
Body wrapped in plastic sheeting: not check.
He stumbled over there, unfolded the butterfly knife again — not easy with gloves on — and slit the plastic from head to chest. A man. Dressed in black. With a black fabric bag covering his face. It probably wasn’t him that put it on, though.
Logan took hold of the bag’s top and pulled it free. Stared down at the battered and bruised head it’d been covering. Was that...?
He got closer. It was. Angela Parks — the journalist from Ellie Morton’s house. The one Russell Morton called a ‘skinny munter cow’. The one desperate to know if the Livestock Mart was real. The one who now looked as if she’d been run over by a minibus. Repeatedly.
‘Great...’
He laid the bag over her face like a veil and hauled himself upright again. ‘Come on, Logan: how do we do this? How do we do this?’
One old tractor. Six empty crates.
‘I know: I’ll ask them nicely to surrender or I’ll bleed on them.’
What else?
‘Need a weapon.’
He held up the butterfly knife. ‘And you’re sod-all use, there’s hundreds of them.’ He folded it shut and stuffed it in his ‘borrowed’ jacket’s pocket. Needed something a bit more heavy-duty than that.
How about the racks of ancient equipment?
Logan hefted a rusty crowbar from a collection of clamps, shovels, and fencing tools. Substantial. Solid. Nearly as long as his arm. ‘Not perfect, but you’ll do.’
He slapped it into the palm of his other hand, smacking it against the leather. ‘And stop talking to yourself. You sound like a mad person.’ Then he pulled up the hoodie’s hood, held the mask over his face, opened the door through to the cattle court and slipped inside.
46
The circle of animal masks had widened. Now, a little boy in shorts, sandals, and a Paddington Bear T-shirt was clearly visible — standing between a woman in a sort of crocodile mask and the woman in the snake mask. The boy looked a bit older than he had in Cold Blood and Dark Ganite, but it was definitely him: Aiden MacAuley.
Up on the walkway, the guy in the grey mask leaned on the handrail. ‘Well, Dragon? The bidding now stands at fifty-three thousand pounds.’
The woman in the sort-of-crocodile mask nodded. ‘Fifty-four thousand.’
Snake put her head on one side. ‘Fifty-five thousand.’
‘Sixty!’
Gasps from the other Animals.
Now, while they were all busy, where was Danielle Smith?
There — the woman in the Number Six mask, standing by a stack of wooden pallets. Logan waved at her.
Grey Mask clapped his hands. ‘We have sixty thousand pounds! Do I hear any advance on sixty thousand pounds?’
Silence.
Logan pointed at Number Six, then at himself, then hooked a thumb over his shoulder towards the equipment shed.
She didn’t move.
Why could nobody do what they were told?
‘Sixty thousand going once. Going—’
Snake nodded. ‘Sixty-two thousand.’
Logan had another go. She’d definitely seen him — she was looking right at him, for God’s sake — so why wouldn’t she... Finally. Number Six gave a small shake of the head, then scuffed across the straw-covered floor towards him.
‘Dragon, Snake bids sixty-two—’
‘Sixty-three thousand, three hundred and seventy-five pounds!’
Come on, come on, hurry up.