Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘Yeah?’ She rested her weight on one leg, the other stuck out at a jaunty angle, hands on hips — like the principal boy in a pantomime — and looked him up and down. ‘Well, it takes all sorts I suppose.’ She poked Rickards in the chest. ‘Buy a girl a drink, Sailor?’

The constable did the honours.

Less than an hour later and Logan had discovered there was very little difference between Rickards’ bondage buddies and Insch’s theatre troupe. Both sets spoke their own language of acronyms and euphemisms, both told anecdotes about people Logan didn’t know, and both — if he was being one hundred per cent honest — got a bit boring after the first thirty minutes. And no one seemed to know anything about Frank Garvie. Apparently the north-east hosted about a half dozen different munches, where the various bondage communities got together to socialize, and not everyone mingled. If Garvie was active in the Ellon scene he wouldn’t necessarily be meeting with the Aberdeen crowd. And some people didn’t like to be known in their local communities — which explained why most of those he spoke to had names like ‘Mistress Maureen’ and ‘Kinky Dave’. God knew what Garvie called himself.

The similarities between the constable’s friends and Insch’s became even more obvious when the woman who’d thought Logan was Rickards’ new top cornered him at the bar and told him all about the time she’d played the lead in Jack and the Beanstalk . Going on about the feeling of freedom that comes with becoming someone you’re not, someone with no limits, willing to open themselves up to new experiences. If you only ever eat vanilla, how will you ever discover double chocolate caramel fudge?

Logan smiled and nodded and wondered what the hell he’d been thinking coming here in the first place. She gave him another look up and down, as if she was measuring him up for a leather harness. ‘You’ve never tried it, have you?’

‘No.’

‘What do you think I am: top, bottom, dom, or sub?’

‘Er …’ he didn’t have a clue what the difference was between a bottom and a sub; weren’t they the same thing? But whatever this woman was, it wasn’t submissive. ‘Top?’

She beamed at him. ‘Wrong! Because that’s not where the power is.’

‘Right, right …’ downing the last of his pint with a gulp, eyeing the exit.

‘Think about it: who wields the power, the person whipping, or the person being whipped?’

‘Well, I-’

‘If I’m being whipped it’s for my pleasure. It’s being done to arouse me , the guy on the end of the whip is just a prop — it isn’t about him, it just looks like it. You see-’

‘Ahh.’ Logan leapt upright, then fumbled in his pocket. ‘Sorry, got the phone on vibrate; scares the hell out of me when it goes off.’ He pushed a button and the screen lit up. ‘Damn, excuse me: I’ve got to take this … Hello? … Yes … OK, hold on …’ Mobile clamped to his ear, Logan grabbed his jacket, hurried down the staircase and out into the cold night air.

Union Street glowed like a Christmas tree with the constant swoosh of yellow headlights and scarlet brakes beneath a plum-coloured sky. Sunday night in early March and about fifty per cent of the people wandering about didn’t even have a jacket on, not caring that it was below freezing. Half-naked teenagers rubbed shoulders with people old enough to know better, all out to get absolutely rat-arsed and cop a feel in some darkened corner of a pub or club.

Logan stopped pretending there was someone on the other end of the phone and checked his messages instead. Still nothing from Jackie. He called the flat again. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring: answer phone. He hung up and tried her mobile instead. ‘Jackie? You want to go grab a bite, or a pint or something?’

The reception wasn’t wonderful, but it was good enough to hear her turning him down. She wasn’t in the mood — still furious about the whole Macintyre thing. Knowing her, she’d come lurching back to the flat at three in the morning, smelling of booze and kebab. Well fine, she could sulk if she wanted, he was going to go home, order a pizza, find a decent movie on Sky, and spend the rest of the evening on the sofa. Not exactly a mad, whirlwind existence, but it was better than moping about like a spoilt brat. Sooner or later she’d just have to come to terms with the fact that Rob Macintyre wasn’t guilty.

The gate creaks beneath his hands as he vaults over it in the dark, sending a small flurry of icy water droplets sparkling in the gloom. Everything is shrouded in night, shapes and features indistinct, even to his eyes — and he has excellent night vision — but he’s not worried. He knows there’s no one there to see him. There never is. The police are so fucking stupid it’s unbelievable! He grins, jogging lightly along the small lane hidden between the back gardens, making for the cluster of garages and parking spaces at the end. Did they really think he didn’t know they were there? That he needed that slimy lawyer bastard to tell him he was being watched?

But it’d been the lawyer’s idea to get it all on video. He’d have loved to have seen their faces when they watched that.

Grinning, he unlocks the door of the anonymous small red hatchback, throws his kit bag in the back and climbs in behind the wheel. Number Nine is in for a treat tonight. He’s celebrating. No more police. No more accusations. Just him and a long line of tasty bitches, all dying for him to show them what happens when you play with fire. Lucky Number Nine.

He wonders what she’ll look like.

Aberdeen had done its usual bipolar trick — after the weekend’s freezing temperatures, snow, sleet and wind, Monday morning was surprisingly warm. Lulling everyone into a false sense of security with its blue skies, wispy clouds and snowdrops. It would have been pleasant, standing in a little suntrap in Cults, shielded from the wind by a row of granite shops, if it wasn’t for the blaring alarm bolted to the off-licence wall. ‘I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT WE’RE DOING HERE!’

‘What?’ Steel cupped a hand over her ear and Logan repeated himself. ‘OH,’ she yelled, ‘I’VE GOT A SOCIAL WORK REVIEW FOR THAT BLOODY SEAN MORRISON CASE AND I CAN’T BE ARSED-’ the alarm fell silent, ‘-LISTENING TO ALL THAT SHITE ABOUT … Oh. Right.’ The small crowd of onlookers were staring at her as if she was some sort of dancing monkey. ‘Ahem, yes, well, as I said, carry on, Sergeant.’

The key-holder bolted from the off-licence door, hands over his head, screaming for help as an empty bottle of whisky soared past his ear and shattered against the pavement. ‘He tried to kill me!’ He was closely followed by PC Rickards and a volley of gin bottles. They screeched to a halt behind the patrol car parked at the kerb.

‘Well, Spanky?’ asked Steel, sauntering over with her hands in her pockets. ‘You talk him down like I asked you to?’

A full bottle of brandy spun end over end from the doorway, exploding in a shower of sparkling glass and amber liquid. The key-holder looked as if he was about to faint. ‘That stuff’s ninety quid a bottle!’

Rickards pulled on a sickly smile and shrugged. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

She shook her head. ‘Never send a bondage freak to do a lesbian’s job.’ Steel hooked a finger in Logan’s direction. ‘Come on Lazarus, you go first: he might get frisky.’

Logan edged along the wall and peered through the shop window. The place was a mess, bottles littering the wooden floorboards, some full, some empty, some smashed. No sign of the intruder. He- A bottle crashed into the window by his head, turning the safety glass into a cracked spider’s web as advocaat oozed down the inside. Logan stared at Steel who shrugged back at him.