Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

Susan trailed off, staring past Logan to the vomit-sodden lump in the ugly dress, lying curled up on the garden path.

Logan tried a smile. 'I think she might've killed the roses.' 'I'm sorry about this,' said Susan, watching as Logan arranged Steel into the recovery position on the downstairs bathroom floor.

'Don't worry about it — if she's sick again at least the tiles will be easier to clean than the carpet.'

'I mean sorry about… well never mind. You've got some on your jacket.'

'Oh, you're kidding.' She was right: the outside of his sleeve was covered with vomit.

'Come on, take it off and I'll rinse it out for you.'

Susan made him a cup of tea, then sat him at the breakfast bar while she sponged his sleeve with lukewarm water. Standing at the sink, with her back to him.

Through the kitchen window Logan could see a big fluffy grey cat sprawling on the grass in the back garden. Legs akimbo as it soaked up the sun.

'They…' Susan cleared her throat and tried again. 'To be honest, things have been a bit strained lately.' She pulled the plug and let the foamy, sour-smelling water drain away. 'They won't let us have IVF.'

The cat rolled over onto its front as a white butterfly bobbed and weaved a drunken trail above a clump of yellow buttercups. The cat stared at it for a moment, then pounced. And missed.

Logan watched the cat tear around the garden after the butterfly. 'I'm sorry.'

'Apparently we're not a priority. There's nice heterosexual couples out there and they need babies much more than we do.' She twisted the taps back on again, filling the sink.

Susan dropped her head and sighed, and when she spoke again her voice was brittle with forced cheer: 'But listen to me, moaning away. Forgot to ask how you were… Ever think about hooking up with that Rachael woman from the Procurator Fiscal's office again?'

'Not really — think she's engaged now.' He actually blushed, even though Susan hadn't turned around the whole time. 'Don't tell Her Nibs, but I've… em… started seeing someone from work.'

'Good. Good for you. Yes. Very good. You deserve someone nice. Settle down, get married, start a family. Why not? After all you're not gay, why shouldn't you have bloody babies?' She hurled the sponge into the sink, and water splashed up the inside of the window. 'It's so bloody unfair!'

Logan couldn't argue with that. Back home it was colder inside the flat than out, so Logan opened the lounge windows wide, letting in the noise of Aberdeen harbour: the drone of ship engines, the clang and clatter of loading and unloading, someone singing along to a crackling radio.

Sunlight bathed the buildings opposite, turning them from grey to gold as Logan cracked open a bottle of Belhaven beer. Maybe he should give Samantha a call? Tell her he'd had a nice time last night. Only that would sound desperate, wouldn't it? Much better to play it cool. Maybe bump into her at work tomorrow — accidentally on purpose…

The phone rang. He ignored it, letting the answering machine pick it up. Logan took another swig of beer and listened to his own voice telling whoever it was on the other end they could leave a message.

'Hi, Logan, it's me: Sam. Look, I wanted to say-'

Logan scrabbled through the lounge and grabbed the phone. 'Hello?'

Pause. 'Look, I was thinking about playing it cool, but you know what, I'm a grown up and you're a grown up and I had fun last night, so what's the point of playing daft games?'

He stabbed the off button on the answering machine. 'I was just thinking the same thing.' Liar. 'You eaten yet?'

'Nope. Was hoping a certain Detective Sergeant would turn up unannounced with a takeaway.' And then she gave him the address of a static caravan on Mugiemoss Road.

'A caravan?'

'Yes, a caravan. I live in a caravan, OK? And you make one joke about trailer trash and you're not getting any, understand?'

'Wouldn't dream of it.' Not long after eight, Logan pulled into a small knot of static caravans on the south bank of the River Don, opposite a steeply banked graveyard, and a hundred yards downwind of the Grampian Country Chickens processing factory. A bank of trees screened the caravan park from the sewage plant on the opposite river bank, but it wasn't thick enough to keep out the glare of the huge Tesco on the other side of the bridge.

Samantha's caravan was a big rectangular box of a thing — more like a Portakabin than something designed to grind traffic to a standstill on a bank holiday weekend — surrounded by trellis fencing plastered with climbing roses. At least no one had been sick on these ones. She was waiting at the door for him, watching as he unloaded the carryout from DI Steel's car.

'You took your time.'

'Meal deal.' Logan held up two white plastic bags and a big square cardboard box. 'Pizza, garlic bread, a litre of Coke and a tub of Mackies vanilla.'

'Oh aye…' She waited for him to lock up. 'Didn't think you were the sports car type.'

'Just looking after it while Steel's… not feeling well.' It was cheaper than getting a taxi, and it wasn't as if the inspector was going to be sober enough to drive anywhere for a while, was it? And she had given him her keys.

Inside, the static caravan wasn't that much smaller than Logan's flat. Sam gave him the quick tour: bedroom, lounge, kitchen, and bathroom, all decorated in various shades of dark red and purple. Every surface was jammed full of books, dragons, pewter skulls, goblets, and crystals. The whole place was festooned with flickering candles. Like a morbid Santa's grotto.

Logan stood in the middle of the lounge. 'It's very… Gothic.' The only thing that didn't seem to fit was an ancient-looking orange teddy bear, given pride of place on a throne of Stephen King novels.

'You were expecting little pink unicorns and Laura Ashley prints?'

'Do I get brownie points if I say it goes with your hair?'

'Make with the pizza, Sergeant, and we'll see what you get.' They squeezed together on the couch, fumbling their way inside each other's clothes. Undoing buttons, zippers, pulling off shirts, T-shirts, trousers, underwear. Logan ran his tongue along the curves of her body, tracing the outline of that huge tribal spider tattoo. The skin was marked by little ridges, like stretch marks, on the inside of her thigh, buried beneath the blank ink. Logan kissed them and she arched her back, moaned… then swore as his mobile phone went into an epileptic fit of bleeps and whistles.

They lay in the candlelight, listening to the thing warble its asymmetric tune.

'Go on then,' she said, 'answer it.'

'No chance.'

'But it might be work.'

'I know.' Logan found his place again, kissing his way higher with every word. 'That's — why — I'm not — answering it.'

'Oh yes…' The phone went silent. 'Oh yes… Mmmm, oh God…' Then the ringing started again. 'Oh bloody hell!'

'One second.' Logan opened the lounge door, threw his jacket into the hall, then closed the door again. 'Now where were we?' They lay in a heap on the caravan floor, listening to the first drops of rain pattering on the thin roof. The clock on the DVD player glowed '21:15' as Samantha ran her fingertips lightly over the paths of scar-tissue on Logan's stomach. Playing 'join the dots' with his knife wounds in the candle light.

It was a disconcerting feeling, but in the post-coital glow he was willing to put up with it.

Outside in the hall, the exiled mobile phone started ringing yet again.

Samantha stretched like a cat, showing off her tattoos to disturbing advantage. 'You're going to have to answer it eventually.'

Logan grunted.

She poked him in the ribs. 'Come on. You go do that, I'll get us a couple of beers, then we can crack open the ice cream.' She stood and disappeared into the hall. 'Think there's some garlic bread left too…'