Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

If nothing else it might get rid of his hangover.

Logan wandered out onto Union Street, across the road, and down Marischal Street towards the docks. The Regents Arms was a dingy little place, the windows covered with a thick layer of black paint, entombing the drinkers in dim, artificial light. After the brightness of a sunny morning it was like stepping into a tomb. A collection of apostrophes hung behind the bar — postcards, photographs, plastic ones stolen from shop signs, all there to make up for the missing one in the pub's name.

The place was almost empty. Two old men sat in the corner by the cigarette machine, nursing their pints. A haggard woman in a very short black skirt was hunched up on a bar stool, wrapped around an empty glass, a cigarette smouldering away in her hand. Skin pale as milk, blue veins visible in the depths of her cleavage. She looked up as Logan took a seat at the other end of the bar and smiled at him. At least she'd remembered to put her teeth in.

'Hey, sweetheart, you look lonely.'

'Not today, Carol.'

She squinted, then dug about in her handbag for a pair of scratched glasses. 'Aw fuck.' She raised her voice. 'It's the pigs!' The two old men didn't seem to care, so she waved her cigarette at Logan, and a flurry of ash fell across the bar. 'What, you going to arrest me for smoking a fag? Eh? Not got anything better to do?'

He shrugged. 'Carol, I couldn't give a fuck if you want to shoot-up right here. Be my guest.'

A pot-bellied barman poked his head out from the back room. 'What's all the…' He looked at Logan, shifted from foot to foot, then turned on the ageing prostitute. 'You can't smoke in here, it's against the law.'

She looked daggers at Logan, then dropped the cigarette into her empty glass, swirling the thing around until it fizzled out in the residue of dying ice cubes. 'Happy now? Bloody fascists.'

Logan pointed at the taps. 'Pint of Stella, large Grouse.'

The barman stared at him for a moment. 'Yes, Officer.' He poured the pint of lager, then stuck two measures of blended whisky in a tumbler. Paused, then added a third. He put the lot down in front of Logan. 'On the house.'

Logan put his hand out and touched the pint glass, cold beneath his fingertips, beads of condensation running down to soak into a curling beer mat. God he was thirsty… The last time he'd been in here, as soon as they realized he was a policeman, someone had offered to take his head off with a pool cue. And now, all of a sudden, they were handing out free drinks.

'I appreciate the offer,' he pulled out his wallet and put two fivers on the bar, 'but I'd rather pay.' Logan picked up the whisky. It wasn't even eleven yet, on his first morning back at work, and he was about to get hammered.

The glass trembled as he brought it up to his lips.

A police officer, drinking whisky in the morning. Way to go. Way to be a fucking stereotype. Detective Sergeant Cliche.

The shaking was getting worse. He steadied the glass with his other hand.

Closed his eyes.

Tried not to think about fire, and tearing concrete, and blistering paint.

Logan slammed the glass down and bolted for the toilets, barging through the door and into the eye-stinging reek of stale urine. He grabbed the edge of the sink and vomited, spattering the cigarette-burnt porcelain until he was empty. Then stood there, shivering.

He spat, cranked open the cold tap, and washed his mouth out, leaving the water running until all the chunks were gone.

Logan pulled out his phone, found the number he wanted from the memory, and made the call. Goulding's mousey assistant ushered Logan into the psychologist's lair, told him the doctor would be there in a minute, and asked if he'd like a cup of tea.

Milk, three sugars.

It was shudderingly sweet when it arrived, but at least it took away the taste of bile. Besides, it was what you were supposed to drink when you'd had a shock. Hot, sweet tea: that good old-fashioned British spirit of the blitz. Bollocks.

He looked around the office.

This was a stupid idea. Just the latest in a long list of stupid ideas.

Shouldn't even be here.

Logan stuck his empty mug on the glass and chrome coffee table, and stood. Sod this. He didn't need any help. He'd-

The door opened and Dr Goulding bounced into the room. A Liverpudlian Tigger in an ugly tie. 'Sergeant McRae, Logan, great you could come. Just working on the new profile, could really use your help.' He stuck out his hand. 'How you been?'

Logan coughed. 'I… can't stay too long, you know, operational stuff. Just came to… see how you were getting on.'

'Right, yes, take a pew.' The psychologist marched over to his scribble-covered whiteboard and launched into a presentation on his new Oedipus theories, now that Ricky Gilchrist was out of the picture. Goulding was so enthusiastic, Logan didn't have the heart to tell him it was all wrong. Oedipus was Vadim Mikhailovitch Kravchenko, and had been all along. OK, so Logan had no idea why a thug in the pay of Warsaw gangsters would want to torture and mutilate Polish shopkeepers, but it couldn't be anyone else — it would be too much of a coincidence if it was.

Goulding got to the end of his presentation, paused as if he was expecting applause, then settled into the couch's matching black leather armchair. 'I spoke to the Procurator Fiscal this morning: we're releasing Gilchrist on licence, Friday. I've asked for a supervision order, make sure he attends outpatient counselling, but…' Shrug. 'Of course, that's not really why you came here, is it?'

'What? Of course it-'

'There's nothing wrong with asking for help, Logan. Especially after everything you've been through.'

'I don't need help. I'm fine.'

The psychologist sat back, made a little wigwam out of his fingers, tilted his head to one side, then said, 'You don't trust me. That's OK, I understand, a lot of people are scared of therapy-'

'I'm not scared, and I don't need-'

'-they're not comfortable opening up to someone they don't know. It's not easy to take that first step, so why don't we meet half way?' Goulding inched his chair closer to Logan. 'You'll admit that you're having trouble sleeping?'

No point denying it: he looked like crap and he knew it. 'So?'

'I'm going to prescribe you a mild sedative to help you sleep. It's OK, nothing to worry about, just Zopliclone. Take one pill, two hours before you go to bed, and steer clear of booze. They won't knock you out, but they will help you get some rest. You'll feel a lot better.'

'I don't want sleeping pills.'

'And I'll give you some breathing exercises to help with any anxiety, or mood swings.' Goulding reached over to his desk and picked up a BlackBerry, tapping at the screen. 'We should set up a regular appointment… How's Thursday mornings for you?'

'Are you deaf? I said no!'

Goulding popped the top back on his pen. 'Logan, we both know that if you weren't ready for this, you wouldn't have come here.' The psychologist gave a big, theatrical shrug. 'Of course, if you're happy the way you are? Feeling the way you do?' Lunch was a microwaved mushroom risotto that tasted like rice pudding with sliced slugs in it. A factory-produced ready-meal manufactured by someone with a serious grudge against the world. Logan pushed sticky grains of rice around the plastic carton, not even bothering to tip the congealed sludge out onto a plate. It would just mean more washing up anyway.

The flat was a tip, a mess of paint pots and brushes, dust sheets and bits of unidentifiable DIY crap. He'd cleared a spot in the kitchen, just enough room for his microwaved yuck and the pills he'd got from the chemist's on the way home.

Logan stared at the packet of sleeping tablets. Read the list of possible side effects: confusion, hallucinations, memory loss, breathing problems. Might not be so bad. Take the whole lot at once and wash them down with the bottle of vodka he'd picked up from the supermarket…