Stuart MacBride: 45% Hangover

Stoney wafted a hand in front of his face. ‘God’s sake, stairwell must run like Niagara Falls on a Saturday night.’ He coughed a couple of times, then spat. Wiped his mouth. ‘That’s it at the end.’

Flat four still had its number attached to the red-painted door. The word ‘HOORS!’ was sprayed across the wood in three-foot tall letters. If it was advertising, it wasn’t working. After slogging all the way up here, who’d have the energy to do anything?

Logan knocked.

Waited.

Knocked again.

Had a third go.

Finally, a voice on the other side, thin and muffled. ‘Go away, or I’ll call the police! I know who your mothers are!’

OK...

‘I can save you the trouble — it is the police.’

Silence.

Stoney puffed out his cheeks. ‘Can we not sod about here, madam? It’s a long way to climb and it stinks of pish.’

The door cracked open an inch and a slice of pale skin appeared in the gap. The eye was grey, the iris circled in white. Chamois-leather creases across the cheek. ‘How do I know you’re policemen?’

Logan showed her his warrant card, then Stoney did the same. She peered myopically at them, then grunted and closed the door again. Unlatched the chain. A pink cardigan slumped over a thin, hunched frame. Pink scalp showing through thin yellowy hair. She turned and led the pair of them through a stripped-bare hallway into the living room.

No carpet. No underlay. A tatty brown couch against one wall, a pile of dirty washing against the other. And in-between, a panoramic window that looked out across Aberdeen. A sky of ink, the streetlights glowing firefly ribbons. It would have been breathtaking, if the climb and sudden smell of cat hadn’t already taken care of that.

An overflowing litter tray bulged in the corner, like a heaped display of miniature black puddings.

A large ginger cat sat in the middle of the couch, bright orange with a shining white bib and paws, as if he’d been painted with marmalade and Tipp-Ex. How the cat managed to stay so clean in this manky hole was anyone’s guess. It raised its nose and sniffed at the scruffy pair of police officers, somehow implying that Logan and Stoney were the ones responsible for the horrible smell.

The woman sat down next to her cat and stroked its back, getting a deep rumbling purr in return. ‘Whatever they told you, I didn’t do it.’ She kissed the cat’s head. ‘Did I, Mr Seville? No, Mummy didn’t do nothing.’

Stoney took out his notebook. ‘Didn’t do what?’

She sniffed and looked out of the window. ‘They shout horrible things at me when I get my messages. I’m not well. They could kill me. One of the wee shites tried to kick Mr Seville! What kind of person does that? Should be locked up.’

Logan went to lean back against the wall, then caught himself and stood up straight again before anything could stain. ‘Elaine Mitchel and Jane Taylor. They live here?’

Hard to believe that anyone lived here.

‘I’m an old woman. I deserve better than this.’

A rat deserved better than this.

‘Are they in?’

A shrug. ‘They come and go, I’m not their mother.’ She pulled up the sleeve of her cardigan for a scratch, and there they were: the tell-tale bruises and scabs of a long-term intravenous drug user. ‘Were supposed to get me some cider and ciggies.’ She scratched. Licked her lips. Scratched again. ‘You got any ciggies?’

Stoney dipped into his pocket for a packet of menthol, then cracked open a window, letting in the gentle hum of the city. Lit one of the cigarettes and handed it over.

She took it and pulled, cheeks hollow, the end glowing and sizzling. Holding the smoke in for a beat, before letting it out in a post-orgasmic sigh. ‘They’re good girls. They look after their Aunty Ina.’

Stoney put his cigarettes away. ‘How long they been on the game?’

‘Go’ to make ends meet, haven’t we? God knows we get sod all off the welfare state.’

Logan opened his mouth, then closed it again. Her use of the plural there wasn’t exactly conjuring up a happy image. ‘We need to speak to them. They’re not in trouble, we just need to ask them some questions about something they saw.’

The eyes brightened. ‘There a reward?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ She sat back again and stroked her pristine cat. ‘Are you sure?’

‘The Imperial March’ blared out from Logan’s pocket. ‘Sorry,’ he pointed over his shoulder at what looked like the kitchen door, ‘can I take this in there?’

‘Free country. Long as your pal gives us another ciggie.’

Logan slipped through into a galley kitchen that looked as if it’d been decorated by someone on a dirty protest. Though, presumably, it was food smeared up the walls. Please let it be food. A bin was heaped with ready-meal cartons and boxes, spilling out onto the floor and worktop. Cheap supermarket value own-brand lasagne, burgers, sausages, shepherd’s pie... Mystery meat and gristle with added sugar and salt.

The sink was heaped with dishes and cutlery. A thick dusting of dead bluebottles on the windowsill filled the space between empty supermarket-whisky bottles. A single clean patch was reserved for a placemat on the floor with three bowls on it. One water, the others heaped with glistening brown food. Going by the empty pouches on the cooker, Mr Seville was eating better than the people. The cat’s meals certainly cost a lot more.

Logan stood as far away from the units and surfaces as possible and pulled out his phone. ‘What?’

‘Sodding Clackmannanshire, that’s what! Fifty-four percent “No”, forty-six percent “Yes”. What’s wrong with people?’

He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘Did you call me up to tell me that?’

‘First result and it’s a “No”. Half one and we’ve already got a sodding deficit of nearly three thousand votes to make up!’

‘Go away.’

‘Laz, have you got any idea—’

He hung up, but the phone blared its Imperial theme at him again. He hit the button. ‘I’m working .’

‘Dundee turnout’s only seventy-nine percent. If every bugger had bothered their arse and showed up, that’d be another twenty-five thousand votes, right there! It—’

He hung up again. Scrolled through the menu system before she could call back and blocked her number.

At least now he might get some sodding peace.

Back in the living room, Aunty Ina was well down her second cigarette, while Stoney leaned back against the windowsill. The cat paused, then went back to washing an immaculate pink-padded paw.

Stoney nodded at the kitchen. ‘Something important, Guv?’

‘No.’ He stood in front of the couch. ‘We any nearer?’

‘Ina here says we can search Elaine and Jane’s room for twenty quid.’

She smiled. ‘Seeing as they’re family, and that.’

Stoney had a wee shudder as he straightened up and made rubber spiders with his blue-nitriled fingers. ‘I’m not even going to try to describe what it’s like under the bed.’

Aunty Ina stood in the doorway, another one of Stoney’s cigarettes poking out of the side of her mouth, the big ginger cat clasped to her chest like a purring baby. ‘Aye, they’re a bit manky right enough.’

A bit manky?

The room was an open landfill site for dirty clothes, takeaway containers, and abandoned gossip magazines. They made drifts in the corners, were piled up around the double bed, avalanched out of the battered wardrobe. It smelled like the inside of an old sock in here, one that had been marinated in cannabis resin and sweat.

Logan tried his luck with the chest of drawers in the corner. The top one creaked out with a groan. Nothing but cheap-looking frilly pants. Some of which hadn’t been washed.