Stuart Macbride - Cold granite

He closed his eyes and swore.

Five minutes later he was flying out of the door, dragging a bemused-looking WPC Watson with him. The Turf 'n Track looked every bit as ratty and unwelcoming as it had the last time. Falling snow had not lent it a jolly, festive air; instead the squat concrete rectangle of shops looked more dismal than ever. WPC Watson slithered their pool car into the front car park, where they sat looking out at the howling wind and flying snow, waiting for confirmation that the patrol car – Quebec Three One – was in place around the back. It wasn't their normal beat, but they were free.

There was a knock at the passenger-side window and Logan jumped.

Standing in the snow was a nervous looking man wearing a heavily-padded leather arm protector. Logan wound down the window and the nervous man said, 'So…this Alsatian…big is it?' His face said he hoped the answer was no.

Logan held up the cast of teeth for the handler from the Dog Section to see. It didn't make the man any happier.

'I see…Big. With lots of teeth,' the handler sighed. 'Great.'

Logan thought about the grey muzzle. 'If it's any consolation: he's quite old.'

'Ahh…' said the handler, looking even more depressed. 'Big, lots of teeth and experienced.'

He carried a long metal pole with a strong plastic loop hanging out of the end, and he banged his head on it gently, sending a flurry of water sprinkling in through the open passenger window.

The radio crackled into life: Quebec Three One was in position. Time to go.

Logan clambered out into the slippery car park. WPC Watson was first to complete the journey from the car to the Turf 'n Track, flattening herself beside the door, truncheon at the ready, just like they did in the movies. Hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, ears going bright red in the freezing wind, Logan followed her, the two dog-handlers grumbling and slipping along behind him.

When they reached the bookies both the handlers copied Watson, standing flat against the wall, clutching their long metal poles.

Logan looked at the three of them and shook his head.

'It's not Starsky and Hutch, people,' he said, calmly opening the door, letting a deafening barrage of noise out.

The smell of wet dog and hand-rolled fags washed over him as Logan stepped over the threshold. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. A pair of televisions flickered away, one in each corner of the room above the long wooden counter. Both showed the same dog race, the pictures jumping, the sound cranked up far too loud.

Four men sat on the edge of their cracked plastic seats, all staring and shouting at the television screen.

'Come on you lazy fucker! Run!!!'

Desperate Doug was nowhere to be seen. But his Alsatian was lying splayed out on the floor, next to the three-bar electric fire, tongue lolling out the side of its mouth, fur gently steaming in the heat.

A gust of wind barged past Logan into the dark, smoky room, bringing a flurry of snow with it, setting the posters on the wall fluttering. Without looking around, a large man dressed like a tramp on his day off shouted, 'Shut the bloody door!'

The wind ruffled the fur on the sleeping dog and its paws twitched as if it was chasing something. Something tasty. A rabbit; or a policeman.

Watson and the two dog-handlers slipped in after Logan, closing the door behind them. They eyed up the sleeping Alsatian as if it was an unexploded bomb. Licking his lips in nervous anticipation, one of the handlers lowered the loop on the end of his pole at the mass of steaming grey and tan fur, and crept forward. If they could get it while it was asleep then maybe no one would have to get bitten. With all the punters' attention firmly fixed on the race, he tiptoed closer and closer, until the noose was hanging inches from the dog's grey muzzle. On the television a greyhound in a yellow bib charged over the finishing line, just a hair's breadth in front of one in blue. Two of the punters leapt to their feet and cheered. The other two swore.

The sleeping dog's ears twitched at the sudden noise and up snapped his old, wolf-like head. For a heartbeat the dog just looked at the handler, with his pole and dangling noose.

The handler went 'Eeek!' and lunged. But he wasn't fast enough. The old dog leapt to his feet and let out a volley of gunfire barks as the pole clattered against the three-bar fire, shattering one of the heating elements.

Every face in the room turned to stare at the dog. And then at the four policemen.

'Wharafuck?'

Now all the punters were on their feet. Clenched fists and tattoos. Bared teeth, snarling, just like Desperate Doug's Alsatian.

There was a crash at the far end of the shop and the door through to the back room burst open. Simon McLeod stood in the doorway, the annoyance on his face swiftly turning to anger.

'We don't want any trouble.' Logan had to shout to be heard over the barking dog. 'We just want to speak to Dougie MacDuff.'

Simon reached out a hand and switched off the lights. The room was plunged into darkness, the ghostly green-grey glow from the flickering television sets doing nothing more than highlighting shapes.

The first one to cry out in pain was the dog-handler. A crash, a snarl, the sound of someone hitting the deck. A fist whistled past Logan's head and he ducked, flailing out with a fist of his own. There was a brief, momentary feeling of skin and bone breaking under his knuckles, a muffled cry, a splash of something wet on his cheek, and another crash. He hoped to hell he hadn't just flattened WPC Watson!

The dog was still barking its head off, between snarling, biting noises. The televisions blared as the next race was announced and more greyhounds were loaded into the traps. A metal pole clattered into Logan's back and he stumbled forward, tripped over a supine body and fell headlong to the floor. A foot came down hard next to his head and then was gone again.

White light spilled over the scene and Logan twisted his head round to see a hunched figure, silhouetted against the snowstorm outside. The figure dropped the plastic bag it was carrying. Four tins of Export and a bottle of Grouse clattered against the tatty linoleum.

In that moment the room was revealed in the soft glow of winter daylight. One of the handlers was on the floor, his leather-padded arm being savaged by the snarling Alsatian. WPC Watson had blood streaming out of her nose and a large tattooed man in a headlock. The other handler was being punched in the guts while another punter held him down. And Logan was lying, half-sprawled, over someone in a boiler suit with a bloody gap where their front teeth used to be.

The figure in the door turned and ran.

Desperate Doug!

Swearing, Logan hauled himself off the floor and lurched towards the closing door. A hand clutched his ankle and he pitched forward again, hitting the floor hard, feeling the scars in his stomach scream. The grip on his ankle tightened and another hand clapped onto his leg.

Gasping in pain, Logan grabbed the fallen whisky bottle, gripped it like a club and swung. It battered his assailant's head with a dull clunk and the hands holding him went limp.

Logan back-pedalled, struggled to his feet again and staggered through the door. The pain in his stomach was like fire. Someone had injected him with petrol and set it alight. Hissing through clenched teeth, he dragged his mobile out and told Quebec Three One to get their arses into the betting shop, now! He leant heavily on the railing that separated the shops from the car park. Desperate Doug might have done a runner, but he was hardly a spring chicken any more. He couldn't have got far.

Left: nothing but empty road and parked cars, fading in and out of sight through the snow. Right: a grey wash of brick-and-concrete tenement blocks. More parked cars. Someone disappearing into one of the lifeless, gloomy buildings.