Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

He got up and dropped his lunch in the bin.

Then got the vodka out of the freezer.

'Where the hell have you been? And before you say anything, "hell" doesn't count, remember?' DI Steel had appeared at Logan's side like the shopkeeper from Mr Ben. One minute: nothing. The next: there she was in the CID office, standing right next to him. As if by magic. She wrinkled her nose. 'Why do you smell like an auld wifie's drawers?'

Logan crunched his way through another menthol sweet. 'I've got a cold.' He blew his nose for added effect. 'IB were looking for you. They say your Sperminator boy's got full-blown AIDS, so probably best if Susan keeps her panties on. You know… for sliding down banisters.'

Steel poked him in the shoulder, leaning in to engulf him in a haze of Chanel № 5. 'You been drinking?'

He shrugged. 'Got a lot of paperwork to do.'

'You have, haven't you? You're pished as a-'

BOOM, the door flew open and Finnie marched in, flanked by DS Pirie on one side and PC Karim on the other. Finnie paused dramatically, then flung a hand in Steel's direction. 'Ah, Inspector, how kind of you to join us.'

She hauled her trousers up and scowled. 'I've been busy.'

'Oh, have you? Tell you what, do you think you could possibly spare fifteen minutes from your hectic social schedule to attend the strategy meeting I invited you to?'

'Are you-'

'The meeting about trying to avert a drugs war? Or is that not important enough for someone of your calibre to bother with?'

Her chin came up, dragging her droopy neck with it. 'Five minutes.'

Finnie gave a small bow. 'I know we'll all be thrilled to see you.' And then he turned to Logan. 'I'm glad to see you're back, Sergeant. Hopefully it won't be too long before you're fit for proper duties.' Then he turned and marched off, calling over his shoulder, 'Five minutes, Inspector.'

DI Steel said something that cost her three pounds fifty. Twenty minutes later, she was in her office, grinding her teeth and smoking one of Logan's cigarettes. 'Pompous, sarcastic… flipping… sod.'

Logan stood at the window, watching the sunshine glinting off cars and buses out on Broad Street. The lunchtime vodka buzz was beginning to fade, leaving him tired and headachy. Thirsty too.

'You know,' said Steel, flicking ash onto the stained carpet, 'I hope to God you're right, and that rubber-faced-fffff… That he's bent. I really do. Be a sodding pleasure to help him fall down some stairs.'

'You want something from the canteen? Tea, coffee?'

'And you: coming to work pished, what the hell were you thinking?'

'You ever dealt with Wee Hamish Mowat?'

She sniffed, then hauled her feet up onto her desk. 'We've been after the wrinkly old git for as long as I can remember.'

'So how come there's nothing in the files?'

'Because we've no' caught him for anything. Ever. And we're no' allowed to keep rumour and innuendo on file, coz of the bloody Data Protection Act.' She held up a hand and counted the points off on nicotine-stained fingers. 'We know he's behind half the crap goes down in Aberdeen, but we can't prove it. No one'll stand up against him in court, and anyone daft enough to try is never seen again. He's got that pig farm out by Rhynie — we've no' found a single body. We've got sod-all on him.'

'Oh…'

'Everyone thinks Aberdeen was crime-free before the oil money hit, just a peaceful wee city of shiny streets and happy people. Rubbish: Wee Hamish's grandad was into protection and loan-sharking when Queen Victoria was on the throne. They called him "Big Hamish". His son, "Hamish Junior", expanded into smuggling and prostitution.'

She stuck the cigarette in the corner of her mouth and had a scratch at her armpit. 'Anyway, when his dad dies, Wee Hamish inherits two generations worth of criminal empire. Then the oil comes and suddenly everyone's flush with cash. Wee Hamish goes global. And we can't bloody touch him.'

'Surely after all this time someone would've caught him for something.'

'Nah: Bain's been after Wee Hamish Mowat for as long as I can remember. The guy who ran CID before him was at it for fifteen years. And the guy before him, and the guy before him too. There's this bottle of thirty-year-old Knockdhu sitting up in the Chief Constable's office for whoever gets Mowat. Closest anyone's come was Basher Brooks in 1975: Post Office job. Only witness vanished and the Fiscal dropped the case. No evidence.'

Logan knew what that meant: 'Pig farm.'

'Aye, pig farm.' She blew a long stream of smoke across the desk. 'Now bugger off home before anyone notices you're three sheets to the sodding wind!'

Logan shrugged and hauled himself upright. He stifled a yawn, then scrubbed his hands across his face. 'You want me to come round tonight?'

'After yesterday's performance? No I sodding don't.'

No skin off Logan's nose. He grabbed his jacket and made for the door. There was half a bottle of vodka waiting for him back at the flat.

Steel shouted after him: 'Oy! If you do get anything on Wee Hamish, I want in on it. Might even split the whisky with you.'

Someone said, 'Wake up!'

Logan broke free from the bed, arms and legs thrashing the duvet aside, then thump, he was lying in a heap on the floor. His own bedroom. His own flat. Not a pile of rubble in Poland.

'Jesus, you're drenched…' Samantha sank down on the floor next to him and ran a hand down his chest, sending beads of sweat trickling away through the assault course of scars.

He dragged in a shuddering breath. 'Fuck…'

'You were screaming.'

'Oh God…'

She let her finger drift further down, tracing the little knots of scar tissue. Echoes of the knife.

Logan grabbed her hand. 'Don't, OK? Please, just… don't.'

Samantha's voice was small in the darkness. 'I'm not a freak.'

Here we go.

Logan groaned. 'Can we not do this now?'

'I thought you'd understand… when I… when I let you feel my scars.' There was a long pause, and he felt her stand then settle on the edge of the mattress. 'I started when I was twelve — cutting myself. Never anywhere anyone would see, but… Don't know why; just seemed to make sense at the time.'

Logan looked at her, bathed in the faint green glow of the clock radio. A little after three in the morning.

Samantha sniffed, tying her fingers in knots. 'Wasn't like my parents were beating me or anything, it just… I don't know. They left these shiny marks on my skin. Do you know what I mean?'

She pulled at the flesh of her inner thigh, examining the black ink of the tribal spider. 'Soon as I was old enough I started getting them tattooed over.'

'Sam-'

'And then I saw yours and I thought… I thought it made us… connected or something.' She shrugged and rolled over until she was lying on the bed. 'Stupid, isn't it?'

He crawled in next to her. 'Might as well face it: you are a freak. And so am I. There's no such thing as normal people, it's a myth us freaks put out to torture ourselves. Just something else we can't live up to.'

She smacked him on the arm. 'I am not a freak.' But he could hear the smile in her voice. Twenty minutes later, Logan stood in the dark kitchen, in front of the open fridge door. They'd made love then lay there in silence until Samantha drifted back to sleep. Then Logan had slipped out of bed. He gulped down half a carton of orange juice, not bothering with a glass, washing down three paracetamols. He turned and stared at the kitchen table. The sleeping pills were still there, pristine and untouched, caught in the fridge's pale light.

OK, so he woke up screaming every night — just like Simon McLeod — but at least he could still get it up. No Viagra needed.

Logan took another swig of orange, slooshing it around his mouth. Pity there wasn't any vodka left.