A Plague Of Crows

Earphones out and back in my pocket, don't fiddle about with the MP3 to turn it off.

'You like Dylan?'

'Some of it,' she says. 'Haven't listened to him in a while. You and the boss listen to nothing else?'

'Pretty much.'

She nods. That'll be it, then. She planned a four-sentence conversation. And some of them were pretty fucking short sentences. Now I'm stuck with the dilemma of whether or not to put the earphones back in.

What a stupid dilemma. It shouldn't even be a dilemma, but it is. I don't want to stand here in silence, I don't have anything to say to her. If I try to force conversation it'll be awkward and uncomfortable and just generally shit, but then I'm standing here thinking that if I put my earphones back in she might think I'm rude.

For God's sake.

'You ever see him in concert?' I ask.

The kind of small talk that normal people have.

'Is it true about you and DI Leander?' she asks. 'Well, Leander's wife.'

'You don't believe the stories?'

'People make things up,' she says. 'They exaggerate.'

Acknowledge that with slight head movement. Doesn't take much. She's got a nice voice. I like DI Gostkowski.

Jesus, and what are you basing that on? Her voice, she's more organised than I am and she looks good in a coat. Get a grip, Sergeant.

'It seems very cavalier,' she says. 'Once, maybe, because that's what happens. But an affair, a public affair that everyone knows about. Seems curious behaviour.'

She doesn't add, for a grown-up, but she might as well have done.

So I do that thing that ultimately proves very dangerous. I don't try to employ artifice of any kind, don't measure my words, don't try and sound something I'm not, to try to impress her. I'm just honest. Women have this weird view of honesty, as if it's a positive.

Start by shrugging, albeit a shrug that doesn't get any further then a casual movement of the cigarette.

'I thought the same thing too. Just once. Makes sense. You get a taste, you know what it was like, add her to the list, she can add me to her list, everybody's happy…'

'Except DI Leander…'

'Well, at that stage I guess he wouldn't have known. But, of course, you're lying to yourself, aren't you? Maybe if it was shit, if the sex was shit, then sure, once is going to be enough. But we're both in our 40s, we know what we're doing. The sex wasn't shit. It was fantastic. Loud, raucous, tender in places, fast and slow. When she went on top… man, you should have seen her… Jesus.'

Take another draw from the fag. Getting a little carried away. Happy days. Look at DI Gostkowski. She's staring at me, but there's nothing in her face.

Shake my head.

'What are you going to do? Once is never enough. And you know… you know if the first time is brilliant, if it's brilliant from the start, it's only going to get better. It always gets better. So you do it once, and you think, all right that'll do, enough already. But there's a voice, and the voice is saying, imagine what it's going to be like a month from now. Two months from now. You know there'll be a point where you've done it enough, when it stops getting better, when it's no longer fresh, but it ain't after the first time. Never is…'

I'm not looking at her. I've got her hooked though. And the reason she's hooked is because I wasn't trying to hook her. I look across the car park to the dull houses on the street. Some lights on, some people already in bed.

'Well, I had sex with PC Grant once. That was a relationship with a natural lifespan of one night.'

As soon as the words are out my mouth I kick myself. Fucking idiot. Really. For months now I've been priding myself on the fact that I've managed not to tell anyone about Grant, and quite liked the fact that I'd obviously surprised her. And now I just blurt it out. Fucking moron. Gostkowski looks like a safe pair of hands, but you never know, do you?

Look at the ground. Embrace self-loathing. And although it has nothing to do with it, although a glib throwaway comment about a night spent with PC Grant really ought to have no bearing on the past, self-loathing always takes me back to the same place. Takes me back far enough, to a warm night in a forest. A long time ago. A different world. A different me.

That's what I want to think. A different me.

'When are you stopping? Tonight I mean?' she asks, pressing the butt into the ground with her boot.

Dragged back. The chord to the past temporarily snapped. Although it'll never be broken. At least, not until I face up to it in some way other than the odd moment of darkness, staring into the night.

'Don't know,' I say. 'He's a fucking idiot if he thinks he's going to get anywhere with no one getting any rest…'

'Yes.'

There's a movement behind us. One of those young constables whose name I haven't managed to learn yet since I got back. He addresses Gostkowski. Maybe it's because she's the senior officer, maybe it's because he knows her. Maybe I'm invisible in my smoky, melancholic haze.

Shut up!

'The DCI says everyone not on the night shift has to go home, be back in for eight.'

'Thanks Graham,' she says, and the young fellow heads back inside, out of the cold.

She glances at me as she turns towards the door. I've not finished the smoke, and am in no rush. There's a moment while we stare at each other. One of those stares. You know the kind. The one where you both know that at some stage you're going to end up in bed together, but not tonight. The mood might have been heading in that direction, but it's been broken.

The seed has been planted, however, if only because neither of us was planting anything.

'Good night, Sergeant,' she says.

I nod, she breaks the look and heads inside.

The door closes and I'm left on my own looking across the car park. I'm knackered, but tonight will be one of those nights when I don't sleep.

There are too many of those nights.

10

Seven minutes past eight. Made it into work ahead of schedule, mainly because I didn't have time to get drunk last night, hardly slept, was wide awake from about six. Got up, already wearied and worn out. Shaved, showered, made myself some bacon and toast and coffee. Drank orange juice. Watched the news. The Plague of Crows was all over. They had the Justice Minster on, announcing that this would be the government's top priority and that a team of top Edinburgh detectives were being put on the case.

He actually said that, used that very phrase. Top Edinburgh detectives. He didn't say that it was because Glasgow detectives are obviously shit, what with them being so provincial, but then he didn't say it in such a way as he said it.

So I got into work not long after seven, and now it's seven minutes past eight and Taylor and I are sitting in Connor's office. Waiting to be informed, presumably, that we've been put back on traffic duty what with us being so shit, 'n' all. If only we'd received our training in Edinburgh. We're so disadvantaged.

I reckon, and I'm just saying, that if we ever get to be independent, the nation will quickly descend into the kind of ethnic violence and hatred that you get in all those countries in the middle of Africa the minute the sensible (or vicious imperialist) authority buggers off. Catholics versus Protestants, Edinburgh versus Glasgow, Highlands versus soft southern lowland bastards. Someone, somewhere, will want to make amends for Culloden. We hold a grudge. It'll be shit.

I'm still going to vote for it, though. Time to stand on our own two feet, rather than get a piggy back for the rest of eternity.