Broken Skin

‘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.

39

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.

‘Soon as you’re ready.’

Logan poked his head round the open door and shouted, ‘We only want to talk!’ That got him four tins of Tennants and a bottle of Merlot. The wine smashed, but the cans just dented, then fizzed out spumes of lager all over the place. Taking a deep breath he dashed inside. The shop was a long rectangle, stretching away from the front window — shelves on all walls, counter and glass-fronted fridges on the right, display stands of wine on the left — and a limp leg being dragged behind a stack of Australian sparkling. Logan charged for the counter, vaulting it as a Drambuie hand grenade exploded on the shelves beside him. He dived to the floor, scrabbling forwards on his hands and knees as more glass burst above, showering him in gin, whisky and vodka.

DI Steel shouted in from outside: ‘You got him yet?’

Swearing quietly, Logan eased himself to the edge of the counter and peeked round. The intruder was slumped back against a stack of Italian wine, swigging from a bottle of Talisker, his left leg bent back at a very funny angle. He pulled the bottle from his mouth and belched, and that was when Logan recognised him. ‘Tony?’ The man turned a bleary, bloodshot eye in his direction, the other squinted shut, presumably to help him focus. ‘Jesus, Tony, what the hell have you done to yourself?’

‘Fffff …’ He waved the bottle at Logan. ‘Fffffuckin’ fell, did … didn’t I?’ He pointed at the unnaturally bent leg and Logan realized what the lump sticking out of the side of Tony’s calf was.

‘We need to get you an ambulance Tony, OK? You’ve fractured your leg.’

The man wobbled a bit. ‘Does … doesn’t hurt … at all!’ And took another swig. ‘Fffffukin’ skylight bastards!’ He grabbed a bottle of rioja and sent it flying out the front door. Even drunk on his arse the man’s aim was impressive.

‘Come on, Tony, let me help you. I’m drowning in booze here …’

‘Iss, isss …’ He belched, winced, and rubbed at his chest. ‘Iss too late. Only wannnned some money. Couple of hunnerd, tops. Juss … juss enough. Eh?’ More Talisker disappeared. ‘Passssport. Gonnae take mother on … on … Florida! See Mickey Mouse! Big … big fuckin’ mouse.’

Logan pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance.

‘Cannnn go see Mickey Mouse withow … withow passport.’

‘Ambulance is on it’s way Tony. You’ll be OK. You going to come outside with me? Sit in the sun? Much nicer out there.’

‘Fffffff … no — can’t get passsssport back. Have … have to … you like horses?’ Tony giggled and helped himself to more whisky. ‘I like horses! But … but money … too much money …’ He leant forward, tapping his nose conspiratorially, his voice a wet, loud whisper as he keeled over onto his face, ‘Ma woan … woan let me …’ THUD! ‘Passssssport. Big fuckin’ mouse …’ He was snoring long before the ambulance got there.

‘You smell like a brewery.’ Steel was sitting on a low granite wall, rewarding herself for her inspirational