The living room was bright and airy, the sounds of music and laughter coming through from the dining-kitchen. Mr Ferguson sat on the edge of the couch, his wife perched beside him. She fidgeted with the hem of her orange cardigan, working it back and forth between her fingers, pulling little tufts of fluff from the wool.

She looked over her shoulder at the open door. Slipped a fleck of orange fuzz into her mouth and chewed on it.

The wee girl who’d swore they’d never take her alive was sitting at the table, shovelling peas into her mouth while an older man cut something up on her plate.

Mrs Ferguson pulled another tuft of orange fluff. She stared off over Logan’s shoulder, not making eye contact. ‘What’s he done now? ’

Her husband sighed. ‘Why do you always have to do that? ’

‘I’m not doing anything, I’m being realistic. Of course Guy’s done something, why else are they here? ’ She pointed at Logan and Chalmers.

‘Sheila, he’s—’

‘That boy could cause a fight in a cemetery.’

Mr Ferguson laid a hand on her knee. Smiled at Logan again. ‘Guy’s a good kid, he just . . . he’s easily led.’

Logan licked his lips. Cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news. . .’

Mrs Ferguson’s mouth fell open, eyes wide. Then she stood, walked over to the door and closed it, shutting out the sounds of laughter. ‘I see.’

‘Oh God. . .’ Her husband rocked back and forward in his seat. ‘Oh God, no. . .’

She blinked, wiped the heel of her hand across her eye, then brought her chin up. ‘We only saw him this morning. He was supposed to be getting out on Wednesday.’

‘Oh God, Guy. . .’ Mr Ferguson dropped his chin onto his chest and sobbed, fingers digging into the soft cushions of the couch. ‘Oh God. . .’

Logan glanced at Chalmers, then back at Mrs Ferguson. ‘You saw him this morning? ’

‘At the hospital. They said he was going to be all right. Just keeping him in for observation.’ She settled onto the arm of the couch and wrapped an arm around her husband’s heaving shoulders. ‘Was it . . . did he suffer? ’

‘He was in hospital? ’ Oh, shite.

‘They were fooling around and he got petrol all over his hands. How can someone die from burned hands? ’ A thick line appeared between her eyebrows, two more slashing down from the corners of her mouth. ‘It was that MRSA, wasn’t it? ’

‘Ah.’ Logan stood, put his hands in his pockets. Took them out again. Shuffled his feet. ‘There may have been a bit of a . . . mistake.’

Chapter 6

6

The pool car’s sirens carved a path through the afternoon traffic. Chalmers jinked the car around an eighteen-wheeler loaded down with bags of gravel. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my life.’