Stuart MacBride - 45% Hangover

The front door barely creaked, as a thin man slipped in. Had to be a regular, because no one looked up from their drink. Shoulder-length brown hair, pointy chin. This year’s World Porridge Champion. Alec Hadden.

So Elaine wasn’t lying after all. Wonders would never cease.

Hadden had a quick peer about, then made for the bar. Stood there with his back hunched, in conversation with the bartender. Got himself a pint of Export.

Stoney and Guthrie had extended their brief to take in the United Nations and nipple clamps. Logan leaned forward and hushed them. ‘Alec Hadden. At the bar. Right now.’

Guthrie slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out the cuffs. ‘You want to grab him straight away, or let him settle in?’

‘Ah...’ Stoney licked his lips. ‘Might be an idea to get it over with while Kurt’s in the toilet? He sees us slapping the cuffs on someone, it’ll kick off.’

True.

‘OK.’ Logan pushed back his chair. ‘Let’s go see what Mr Hadden has to say for—’

The front door banged open and the whole bar did its Deliverance impersonation again. Silence. Stare.

Then Logan groaned.

Sodding DCI Sodding Steel. She stood in the doorway, wobbling slightly. One eye screwed shut, the other roving the place.

‘Oh great .’

She lurched across to the bar and dug a hand in her pocket. Came out with a handful of change and a few notes. Clacked them down on the bartop. A couple of pound coins rolled off along the front of the taps. ‘Grouse. Make it a... a brace.’ She grabbed onto the wood with one hand, keeping herself upright.

The barman nodded. ‘Double Grouse, coming right up, Chief Inspector .’ Raising his voice on that last bit, just to make sure everyone heard.

Over at the next table, a large woman with a tattoo of seagulls flying around her thick neck rolled her eyes. ‘Not more sodding cops. Like a bloody masonic lodge in here tonight.’

Steel took her drink and wacked it back in one go. ‘Again.’

Then she turned, new drink in hand, and squinted around the room. Wobbled in place. Pointed up at the TV where a bloke in a suit stood before a big display banner with views of Aberdeenshire on it. ‘Shhhhhh...! Turn it up, turn it up.’

The barman sighed, then did.

‘... turnout is eighty-seven point two percent. The total number of votes cast for each answer to the referendum question in this area are as follows. “Yes”: seventy-one thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven. “No”: one hundred and eight thousand, six hundred and six.’

A roaring cheer erupted from the telly.

And when it had died down, ‘I’m not quite finished.’

Laughter.

Steel clenched one fist, the other wrapped around her glass, and bellowed up at the TV. ‘YOU BUNCH OF UTTER BASTARDS!’ Whisky slopped onto the wooden floor.

The barman cranked the sound down again.

Everybody stared at her.

The bathroom door clunked shut again, and there was Kurt Murison, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘Who’s bastards?’ His voice was unusually high for someone who looked as if they could eat rusty nails.

Stoney closed his eyes and swore. ‘It’s going to kick off, isn’t it?’

Kurt loomed over Steel. ‘Come on then. Who’s bastards?’

She twirled round, more whisky joining the spillage. ‘Aberdeenshire. All of them: bastards .’ She jabbed her free hand at the screen. ‘Look at it! Over sixty percent “No”.’

A shrug. ‘Their prerogative, isn’t it? Democracy and that. Will of the people.’

‘The people are dicks.’ She raised the glass to her mouth and swigged, but there wasn’t a lot left. ‘Oh...’ She clunked it down on the bar. ‘Again.’

‘Got to respect the outcome, don’t matter what side you voted. All still Scotland.’

‘They can respect my sharny arse.’ She rocked a little, then frowned up at him. ‘Here, do I know you?’

Hadden inched away down the bar. Putting a bit of space between himself and the coming storm.

Kurt jabbed a thick, meaty finger into Steel’s shoulder. ‘People like you make me sick, with your “Remember Bannockburn” and quotes from sodding Braveheart .’

Guthrie got to his feet and pulled out the CS gas to go with his handcuffs. ‘Here we go.’

Steel poked Kurt back. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘I don’t remember Bannockburn, ’cos I wasn’t sodding there. And neither were you. We forgived the Germans for bombing Clydebank flat — that was only seventy-three years ago — and you’re holding a grudge from Thirteen Fourteen!’

Her eyes narrowed, then widened. ‘I know you! Kurt “The Mangler” Murison. You’ve got warrants out on you.’

He flexed his shoulders. Loomed some more. ‘Who’s asking?’

Stoney swore again. Stared at Logan with a pained expression. ‘Tell Sonja I loved her...’ Then he got out his CS gas and stood shoulder to shoulder with Guthrie. Put a bit of steel in his voice. ‘Alright, that’s enough.’

Everyone in the place turned to stare at him.

He cleared his throat. ‘Kurt Murison, I’m detaining you under Section...’

But Kurt didn’t explode. Instead he turned and legged it, battering out through the pub’s double doors.

Guthrie grinned. ‘Yeah, you better run!’

Logan thumped him. ‘Don’t just stand there, you idiot, get after him!’

‘Right.’ And they were off, the pair of them charging after Kurt, CS gas and handcuffs at the ready.

Steel grabbed hold of the bar again. Burped. ‘Was it something I said?’

Everyone else went back to their drinks as Logan walked over to the bar. ‘You’re a disaster, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Maybe it’s my perfume?’

Alec Hadden had eased himself closer to the door. Another five feet and he’d be gone.

Logan grabbed a handful of his collar. ‘Oh no you don’t.’

Hadden bit his bottom lip. Didn’t struggle. ‘Sod.’

‘Think you and I need to have a little chat, don’t we, Alec? Maybe you can share your world-beating porridge recipe?’ He dragged the thin man back to the table. Pushed him down in to a seat. ‘You want to make this easy, or difficult? I’m happy either way.’

Thin fingers drifted across the tabletop. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you’ve got me mistaken for—’

‘Chris Browning.’

‘Ah...’ He stared down at his wandering fingers. ‘Right.’

Steel lurched up to the table and thunked three large whiskies down. Rocked in her chair. ‘What we talking about?’

‘Mr Hadden is about to tell me why he paid two prostitutes to lie about Chris Browning being a regular. Weren’t you Mr Hadden?’

Silence.

‘Or would you like to do this down the station?’

He shrugged one shoulder, curling into it until his ear was pinned against his jacket. ‘It was... you know... to counteract the lies?’

‘The lies.’

‘For months, that puffed-up frog-faced git’s been on the telly and the radio and in the papers, giving it doom and gloom, yeah? We’re going to have no jobs. No currency. No defence budget. All the big companies are going to leave us. Won’t be able to pay our benefits, or pensions, or doctors. Got kinda... fed up of it.’ His shrug swapped sides. ‘Thought it’d even the scales a bit if everyone thought he liked getting it rough from a pair of hoors.’

Logan stared at him. ‘And that passes for grownup political debate where you come from, does it?’

Steel threw her head back and laughed. A proper full-throated roar that set everything jiggling. ‘You wee dancer.’ Then she slapped Hadden on the back and pushed one of the whiskies in his direction. ‘You earned it.’