Blind Eye lm-5

by Stuart MacBride

Someone out in the hall started shouting. The only word Logan recognized was 'Ehrlichmann', but the intention was clear enough: come out or we'll kill you. Or more likely, come out and we'll kill you.

  No thanks.

  He scrambled through a stack of what felt like magazines and fell into the living room.

  It wasn't completely dark in here — a faint red glow came from something in the middle of the room. An alarm-clock-radio, the one he'd thought was broken. The one sitting on a big pile of boxes within easy reach of Gorzkiewicz's chair. The one counting down from sixty. That was where the music was coming from.

  00:00:58

  'Oh fff…'

  00:00:57

  Wiktorja was standing in front of it, just visible in the red glow, staring with her mouth hanging open.

  00:00:56

  Bomb. Bomb. BOMB!

  Logan grabbed Wiktorja's collar and yanked her backwards. They hit the wall and he fumbled for her handbag.

  00:00:54

  'What are you doing?'

  00:00:53

  'Gun! Give me your gun!'

  'In my coat pocket… the other one!'

  Another heavy chunk of Soviet engineering. At least this time Logan remembered to flick off the safety catch.

  00:00:49

  He hauled Wiktorja out of the living room and into a pile of something that clattered to the ground. The hallway was still pitch black. The men outside hadn't got past the shouting threats stage, probably working up the courage to charge into a confined space after an armed man.

  Logan had a go at dissuading them, putting two rounds through the front door, the shots so loud it was like being smacked around the head. A dim light blossomed beside him. Logan stared at it. 'Why didn't you tell me you had a torch?'

  'We have to get out of here!'

  'Where did Gorzkiewicz go? He didn't pass us on the stairs…' Logan grabbed the torch.

  'Hey!'

  He swept it along the hallway. There was a room next to the lounge, the door lying ajar. Logan gave it a shove and it opened onto a tiny bedroom — single bed on one side, coffin-like wardrobe on the other.

  'What are we going to do?'

  Logan stared at the wardrobe — it was squint, one corner sticking out into the middle of the tiny room. 'In here!'

  He stuck the torch between his teeth, the gun in his pocket, and hauled at the wardrobe. It rumbled across the threadbare carpet, exposing a hole in the plasterwork, right through to the brick. And a heavy steel door, covered in weld-marks and rivets.

  Logan grabbed the handle and yanked, but the whole thing was solid. Gorzkiewicz had made sure no one would be following him. 'Fuck! Why did we have to break into a bloody bomb-maker's house?' The torch was already beginning to dim as the batteries died.

  Out in the hallway he could hear the shouting and swearing getting louder, and then a thunk. A bullet punched through the door, leaving a perfect circle of light behind. A shop mannequin propped up against the wall rocked as half of its chest disappeared in a shower of brittle plastic.

  Logan staggered into the kitchen, stumbling through stacks of God-knew-what in the semi-darkness as Katrina & The Waves kept on singing their happy song.

  He tried to shake some life back into the dying torch. 'How long?'

  Wiktorja: 'Until what?'

  'What do you think?'

  'Oh…'

  He fumbled through the gloom, feeling for the boarded-up kitchen window.

  And then there was light: bright and white.

  Logan waited for the blast to hit, but it was just the huge, ancient refrigerator. Wiktorja had opened the door.

  At least now he could see what he was doing… And that it was bloody hopeless. The window was covered with a thick sheet of plywood, nailed into the surround. He'd need a claw hammer and half an hour to shift it.

  They were going to die.

  Wiktorja pointed at the fridge. 'In here! We could climb inside and-'

  'It's a bloody fridge, not an air-raid shelter! The blast'll rip it to shreds.'

  THINK!

  'Bathtub!' He grabbed her hand, yanking her back out into the hallway, just in time to see the front door slam open. Three figures were silhouetted against the faint orange glow of the sunset filtering in through the tiny stairwell windows.

  Logan dived through the bathroom door, snapping off a single shot as he fell. The muzzle flash was bright enough to sting his eyes, and screw up what little night vision he had. One of the figures clutched at their leg and went down swearing. And then the other two returned fire, the 'futttt' of their silencers barely audible over Logan's tinnitus.

  The first shots went high, thunking into the bathroom's back wall, just above the stained porcelain cistern. If Logan had been standing up they would have been just above his bellybutton.

  The bathroom wasn't huge, just the toilet, a wooden chair, a pile of towels on the floor, and a collection of grey Y-fronts dripping over a large, old-fashioned enamel bathtub.

  'Get in the bath!'

  He fired off two more shots in swift succession, the gun kicking, lighting up the bathroom with strobe flashes. Each BOOOM followed by the cling-clink-clink of a shell casing skittering across the linoleum, in perfect time to the music. The harsh smell of cordite.

  The silhouettes ducked and Logan struggled to his feet, then slammed his foot into the open bathroom door, forcing it back against its hinges. One more kick and the top one gave way.

  A bullet ricocheted off the wall beside his head as Logan grabbed the door's edge and ripped the whole thing free.

  'futttt'

  He staggered under the weight as something thumped into the wood.

  'Logan!'

  He clambered into the bath, trying to drag the door on top of them, like a lid. It was a tight squeeze, elbows and knees sticking in uncomfortable places. The two of them a jumble of limbs. The door awkward and heavy.

  He could see the men framed in the doorway of the flat, lunging forward into Gorzkiewicz's maze of junk. Logan swore and pulled the door into place.

  'What's Polish for "bomb"?'

  'What?'

  'WHAT'S POLISH FOR "BOMB"?'

  Flames.

  Blinding light.

  Shockwave.

  Noise. Six Days Later

  50

  A grey pall hung over Aberdeen, threatening rain but never quite getting around to it. A pair of plastic bags played chase across the road outside the primary school, swirling up for a moment, before disappearing over the railings and into the empty playground.

  'Uh-huh.'

  Logan rested his forehead on the steering wheel, mobile phone clamped to his ear as Samantha said, 'And I thought we could go out for a drink, Friday. Celebrate you being allowed back to work?'

  'Uh-huh.'

  'Rennie wants to go. And Steel. Maybe Big Gary and Eric?'

  'Uh-huh.'

  Pause.

  'Uh-huh.'

  'Are you OK?'

  'What? Oh, sorry, yeah.' He pulled himself upright and rubbed a hand across his gritty eyes. 'You know what it's like. All this varnishing… the fumes.'

  'You're not still at it are you?'

  He looked across the road at the bland granite lump of Sunnybank Primary School. 'Just giving the lounge floor another coat right now.'

  'The doctor said you should take it easy for a bit.'

  Silence.

  'Logan?'

  'Sorry.'

  'Is that journalist moron still camped out on your doorstep?'

  A light breeze ruffled the leaves overhead, making little ovals of sunshine dance across the car's dirty bonnet. 'What? Oh… no. Guess he's got more important things to do than stalk some idiot who got himself blown up.'

  Another pause. 'Logan, are you sure you're all right?'

  'Sorry, I just… Look, that's the doorbell, I gotta go, OK?'

  They said their goodbyes and he hung up. Slipped the phone back in his pocket. Scowled at himself in the rearview mirror. 'You're a lying b
astard.' And an ugly one too: his face was a mass of scratches and white butterfly stitches. Dark purple bags under his eyes to match the bruises on his forehead and chin. Six days worth of stubble. He couldn't shave without taking the top off half a dozen scabs.

  Logan reached for the glove compartment and pulled out the packet of cigarettes he'd bought from the corner shop. There was something wrong with the lighter — it wouldn't hold still, the flame trembling past the end of the cigarette until he used both hands. He dragged the smoke deep into his scarred lungs.

  Coughed. Spluttered.

  Then wound down the window.

  At least it was a bit cooler for a change. Yesterday the ratty little car he'd picked up for two hundred pounds at Thainstone Mart was like an oven. His very first car and it was a piece-of-shit three-door Fiat in diarrhoea brown that smelled of old lady, stale cigarettes, and mould. But it'd been cheap, and it would do.

  He sat there, smoke curling out of the window, trying not to shiver. Wasn't even that cold. Stupid.

  Logan didn't trust the dashboard clock — half the electrics were shot — so he checked his watch instead. Nearly half ten.

  Bloody doctor. What did he know? Not fit to return to work. Logan wasn't the one they should be sending home, it was that moron Beattie. Detective Inspector Beardy Beattie. How the hell could they promote Beattie? What idiot thought that was a good idea?

  The cigarette tasted like burning flesh, so Logan ground it out in the car's ashtray, along with the corpses of its half-smoked friends.

  He covered his mouth as a jaw-splitting yawn tore free. Then shoogled about in the lumpy seat, trying to get comfortable. Two whole days sitting outside a closed school. Must be mad… Everything goes bright.

  The noise hits a fraction of a second later, and then the heat: blistering the paintwork on the door, flames billowing into the room. Screaming- Logan sat bolt upright, banged his knee on the steering wheel, then slumped back into his seat. 'Fuck!'

  He sat there, clutching his leg, heart thumping, feeling sick. Struggling to breathe.

  There was a packet of caffeine tablets in the carrier bag at his feet — he washed four down with a tin of Red Bull. Shuddered. Swore. Lit another trembling cigarette.

  Jesus…

  Every.

  Single.

  Time.

  Someone slumped past on the other side of the road, head down, shopping bags in hand. Bowed by the weight of the world and every bastard in it. Logan toasted him with the tin of Red Bull. 'Screw them all.'

  The scruffy old man stooped to tie his shoelace. Then stood and stared across the road at the empty school.

  He was wearing a brown corduroy jacket with frayed cuffs, a pair of faded jeans with turn-ups. Scrappy beard. Grey hair sticking out at all angles. Glasses.

  'Ah…' Logan smiled. 'About time you showed up.'

  He waited for the old man to shamble across the road, then stepped out of the car; not bothering to lock it — what self-respecting thief would be seen dead stealing something like that?

  The old man stopped at the playground fence, looking wistfully through the railings at the dark, silent building beyond. And then he turned and started to walk away again.

  Logan shouted, 'Want to see some puppies, Rory?'

  The old man dropped his carrier bags and ran for it.

  He didn't get far. Logan grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and rammed him into the nearest tree, hard enough to make the man's glasses fly off into the gutter.

  'Aaaagh… get off me! I'm not-'

  'The schools closed last week, you idiot: summer holidays. No kiddies for you.' Logan pulled him back and slammed him into the tree again, bouncing the little sod's forehead off the bark.

  'Aaaaagh. Jesus…'

  When Logan let go, Rory Simpson slumped to the pavement, holding his head as if it were about to split in two. Up close he stank of BO, greasy hair, and unwashed clothes.

  'You look like shit.'

  He scowled up at Logan. 'You can talk… attacking innocent people like that…'

  'Innocent?'

  'I think I'm bleeding. Am I bleeding? I need to go to the hospital.' He pulled his hands from his forehead and checked them for signs of blood. Nothing. 'Probably got a concussion. I- Hey!'

  Logan hauled him to his feet. 'The glasses your idea of a disguise, Rory? What, you think you're Clark Kent? That shite might work on the good people of Metropolis, but you're in Aberdeen now.'

  The little man went back to massaging his forehead. 'That's police brutality, you know.'

  'It's called resisting arrest.' He tightened his grip on Rory's collar and dragged him towards the car.

  'Wait! Wait — my shopping! My glasses…' Hands flapping towards his fallen possessions.

  Logan didn't let go, but he did let him pick up his stuff. Then marched him back to the ratty little Fiat. 'Get in.'

  Rory stopped, peered in through the window, curled his top lip. 'Doesn't look very clean.'

  Logan yanked the door open, hauled the driver's seat forward, and shoved him between the shoulder blades. Rory sprawled across the back seat, face down.

  'Wrists together, behind your back.'

  'But-'

  'Don't fuck with me, Rory, coz I've had a shitty week and I'm just dying for someone to take it out on. Understand? Now put your bloody hands behind your bloody back!'

  He did as he was told, and Logan slapped the handcuffs on.

  'Ow! Do you have to be so rough?'

  Logan slammed the driver's seat back into place, then climbed in behind the wheel as Rory struggled upright again. 'Where are we going?'

  'Skipping bail, failing to appear, and resisting arrest. Where do you think?'

  'No.' He shuffled forwards, eyes wide in the rear-view mirror. 'You can't take me back to the station! They're waiting for me!'

  Which was stating the bloody obvious.

  'Of course they are: with jelly and ice cream, because you're so fucking popular.' Logan started the engine — it sounded like a washing machine full of ball-bearings — then fought with the groaning gearbox. 'Now sit still and shut up.'

  Rory managed to do as he was told for a whole two minutes. Then he was leaning forwards again, his head poking between the front seats, bottom lip trembling. 'Please! I'm begging you. You can't take me back there. Please.'

  Logan pulled up at the junction, waiting for the lights to change. 'Not going to happen, Rory.'

  'Please… It was… A policeman tried to kill me.'

  'Bollocks.'

  'That's why I ran: I swear on my sainted mother's grave. A policeman and that Russian you were after: they tried to kill me!' The wind had picked up. Logan sat in the driver's seat, watching the North Sea churn against the beach, smoking another cigarette he didn't really want. A seagull lurched past on the pavement outside, giving him the evil eye on its way somewhere important.

  There was a knock on the passenger window and DI Steel peered in. 'Where'd you get this piece of junk? A skip?'

  Logan got out of the car. 'You took your time.'

  'Don't you bloody start — I get enough of that from DCI Frog-Face.' She pointed at the cigarette still smouldering in his hand. 'Thought you'd given up the demon cancer sticks?'

  Logan shrugged and took another drag. 'You going to give me a hard time?'

  'No' if you lend us one.'

  He did and she lit up, then blew a long stream of smoke across the roof of the car. 'You know this stuff'll kill you, yeah?'

  'It can join the queue.' Logan walked round to the Fiat's boot. 'Got a present for you.'

  She followed him, stepping forward as Logan unlocked the lid and swung it open. She looked inside. Looked at Logan. 'Why is there…?' Looked back inside again. Rory Simpson lay on his side in the boot, tucked in beneath the parcel shelf, next to the threadbare spare tyre. Hands still cuffed behind his back. He blinked up, eyes squinted against the light.

  Steel poked him. 'Rory, you daft sod: normal people ride up front in
the seats. The boot's for dead bodies.' She puckered up for a moment. Then said to Logan, 'Mind you, we could always drive him out to the middle of nowhere: do the world a favour? I've got a shovel in my car.'

  Rory blinked, grumbled something about pins and needles, then tried to sit up. Steel pushed him back down again and slammed the hatchback shut.

  'Laz, why have you got a kiddy-fiddling scumbag handcuffed in the boot of your crappy car?' The inspector slumped back into the passenger seat, brushed the rust and dust from her hands, and said, 'This better be good.'

  Rory Simpson's voice whined out behind them, 'I'm getting cramp in here.'

  Logan turned, staring through the gap where they'd put one of the back seats down so they could see into the boot. 'Shut up and tell the inspector what you told me.'

  The old man wriggled, probably trying to get comfortable. 'Can you at least take these things off?'

  Steel popped a pellet of nicotine gum in her mouth, talking and smoking and chewing all at the same time. 'Clock's ticking Rory.'

  'Fine…' Big sigh. 'They were waiting for me when I got home. You know, from court. The building's front door was kicked in. "Oh-ho," I thinks, "bloody kids up to no good again." And then I go upstairs and someone's broken into my flat.' He shuddered. 'If I hadn't gone past the shop on the way…'

  'Should've called the police.'

  That got her a dirty look. 'I could hear two men talking in the lounge, and I'm about to leg it — just in case it's… you know, concerned parents or something — when I realize they're talking about how to get rid of my body. My body! Like I'm already dead… One of them sounds Russian, but the other's a policeman.'

  'Who?'

  Rory went silent, staring down at the grubby surface of the back seat.

  'Rory, who was it?'

  'I didn't see him.'

  'You're such a liar.' Steel stretched her gum with the tip of her tongue, then popped it. 'If you didn't see him, how do you know he was a police officer?'

  'Because the other man said so, OK? That's how I know. He said, "You call yourself a policeman and you can't even catch one little…" He called me the "P" word. And the other one said he'd get patrol cars looking for me. So I snuck back out and ran for it.'

  Rory started fidgeting again. 'Are you sure you can't take these handcuffs off?'