Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

'It's just-'

'It was Susan's idea, OK?' She stood, chair legs grating on the tiles. 'Me? I wouldn't touch you with a fucking cattle-prod!' And then Logan was all alone.

Fire — blaring through the walls and the floor, curling across the ceiling in violent yellow sheets. Heat. Pain. A sound like the world tearing apart-

A crash of breaking glass.

Logan jerked awake. Heart pounding. Eyes wide in the darkness. Everything was soggy. Oh fuck… he'd wet himself.

No, it was just sweat. He folded his arms across his face and muffled a scream. Then slumped back in his chair and stared up at the dark orange sky, waiting for his heartbeat to go from thrash-metal to slow waltz.

Every — bloody — night.

He tried to stand, but his legs weren't working properly. Finally, he managed to haul himself upright, leaning heavily on the table to stay that way, something scrunching beneath his shoes. It was the vodka bottle, spread in glittering shards all over the patio tiles. Good thing it'd been empty.

He blinked. Swallowed. Peered at his watch until it came into focus. 03:45. Probably still a bit drunk. But not feeling too bad. Thirsty. A bit achy after falling asleep in a wrought-iron garden chair, but other than that he was… he was…

That's when the nausea kicked in.

Logan staggered across the garden, in through the patio doors, the kitchen going by in a blur as he lurched out the other side and into the hall.

He was going to be sick, going to be sick, going to be sick, going to be…

A thin sliver of light seeped out under the downstairs bathroom door, but Logan didn't care. He wrenched the door open.

And stopped dead.

Rory was in there, bent nearly double over the bathroom sink. Trousers around his ankles. Pounding away. And then he froze: one hand wrapped around his erection, the other clutching a thick catalogue. Children's clothes. Little girls running around, grinning for the camera. 'It's… it's not what you think…'

Logan stepped inside and closed the bathroom door.

'… further protests expected this morning as part of the ongoing budget crisis at Aberdeen City Council. Here's our business correspondent Craig Connel…'

'Do you want another cup of tea?' Susan sat on the opposite side of the breakfast bar, and handed Logan a floral plate with a slice of hot buttered toast on it. She watched him nibbling on a corner. 'Are you feeling OK?'

Logan shrugged. Paused. 'Think I've got a cold coming on.'

At least Susan didn't pick him up on the lie.

The man on the radio babbled on about 'strike action', and 'disruption to public services'.

Logan crunched toast and wallowed in his hangover. DI Steel had been long gone by the time he'd crawled out of the spare bed and into the shower. Right now, the clock on the microwave said 07:30 — half an hour after he was supposed to report for duty — but Rennie still hadn't turned up to watch Rory. And it wasn't as if Logan could leave a wanted paedophile to his own devices.

'I…' Susan put her mug down. 'I'm sorry about last night. It's just… We… Well, we're sort of going through a bit of a bad patch.'

He shook his head. 'It's OK.'

'I don't know what else to do. She won't sell the house. Stupid isn't it? House like this: should have children running through it.' Susan wiped a hand across her eyes, smudging the mascara. 'It's so unfair.'

Logan took her hand as the radio news came to an end. 'She really loves you.'

'I know, it's just… We want this so badly.' She stared at him, her eyes pink and needy. It was the same look he'd seen a thousand times before, usually from emaciated junkies, sitting on the opposite side of the interview table, desperate for their next fix.

He let go of her hand.

The DJ said something about a concert at the Music Hall that evening, and then he stuck a record on: Walking on Sunshine, by Katrina and the Waves.

Dizzy. Mouth full of bees. Heart pounding. Nausea.

Logan staggered back from the breakfast bar, the stool clattering down against the floor. 'Don't feel so good…' He turned and sprinted for the downstairs bathroom, locking himself in, wrapping his arms around the porcelain until tea and toast exploded from his throat. Vomiting and shivering until there was nothing left but bile.

God, how much did he drink last night?

He lay on the bathroom floor, waiting for the tremors to pass.

Must've been something wrong with that vodka.

He closed his eyes, resting his cheek on the cool tiles. Definitely the vodka… The whole room shakes, chunks of concrete smashing against the bath, making it ring like a bell. The smell of burning rubbish and blistering paint. Singed hair. The deafening roar that went on and on and on and-

He jumped, bashing his forehead on the underside of the toilet bowl. Then rolled over onto his back, clutching his throbbing head and swearing.

There was a voice in the hall. 'Logan? Logan are you all right?'

He lay there, tears squeezing out from the corners of his eyes. 'I'm fine.'

Susan paused. 'I've got to go to work… will you be OK?'

He gritted his teeth. 'Never better.'

'… OK, if you're sure.' Logan knocked on the bedroom door. Waited. Then tried again. 'Rory?'

It'd taken nearly quarter of an hour for the trembling and tears to subside. Fifteen minutes of lying on the bathroom floor feeling like an idiot.

'Rory? You awake?'

The response was muffled. 'Leave me alone.'

Logan opened the door and stepped into a cocoon of pink fluffiness. Everything was pink: walls, ceiling, bedding, wardrobe, curtains, desk, comfy chair. Even the carpet was pink. It was kind of creepy: like being inside someone, but not in a good way. The only thing not pink was a faded poster of the Bay City Rollers, cheesy pop-star grins with big, seventies hair and tartan trim.

Rory Simpson was a lump beneath the duvet, not a single portion of his anatomy sticking out into the land of pink.

Logan sat on the end of the bed. 'Brought you a cup of tea.'

More silence.

'Look, I'm sorry… I shouldn't have done that.'

'You hit me.'

'I know, I'm sorry it was-'

'You're just like all the rest of them.'

'You were wanking over a catalogue of little girls!'

Rory's head poked out from under the duvet. His left eye was swollen almost shut, skin the colour of ripe aubergine. Another bruise sat on the right side of his face, giving his head a lopsided look, as if it hadn't been put on properly. 'I can't help it, OK? I'm sorry, but I can't.' He sniffed, and turned his head into the pillow. 'This is what I am.'

'You want breakfast?'

'Think you cracked one of my teeth.'

'Rory, I said I'm sorry.'

'Go away.' The older man buried his head beneath the pink duvet again. Retreating into his shell. 'Please… just leave me alone.' It was half past eight before Rennie turned up — dropped off at DI Steel's front door by a petite brunette in an open-topped Jaguar. The driver gave the constable a long, slow kiss, then he hopped out and round to the boot, emerging with the same holdall he'd been dragging behind him yesterday. He waved and the car pulled away, the driver blowing him another kiss as she disappeared.

Rennie stood there with a soppy smile on his face for a moment, then hefted the lumpy holdall over his shoulder. Turned, and spotted Logan leaning against the front door, smoking a cigarette and drinking tea.

'Morning.'

Logan sucked the last gasp from his cigarette, then pinged it away into the street. 'That your mum then?'

Rennie stuck two fingers up at him. 'You you look like crap, by the way.'

'You're late.'

'Yeah, well, blame Steel.' He clumped up the garden path. 'She's in a right grump this morning. What did you do to her?'