It wasnt me! It was just well we caught him trying to do a runner over the back fence, and Ellen was handcuffing him, when the biggest dog youve ever seen in your life comes tearing out of the bushes. And we kinda had to leg it. Barely got back inside with the arse still in our trousers. Left him cuffed to the whirly washing line thing.
In the name of Logan closed his eyes. Counted to ten.
Sarge?
Whirlies arent fixed to the ground, Greg: the metal pole goes into a little hole. All he has to do is lift the thing up and hell be off! Logan wrenched the bedroom door open.
A woman crouched in the corner wearing nothing but a bra and a pair of ripped jeans. Stick thin, all elbows and ribs, sunken eyes glittering like polished coal. Hands cuffed behind her back. Chapped and faded lips, pulled back over yellowing teeth. We didnt do nothing!
A small child couldnt have been more than three-years-old was perched in her lap, wearing a filthy pair of Ben 10 pyjamas. Snot silvered the wee boys top lip, something brown smeared around his mouth.
One of the forced entry team was standing over them, fiddling with a mobile phone.
Logan brushed past, making for the window. You better not be updating your bloody Twitter account, Archie.
The pudding-faced constable blushed and stuck the phone in his pocket.
Logan stared into the back garden. There was a man in the middle of the wilderness, fighting with a rotary washing line while a black dog patrolled the knee-high grass around him. Shuggie Webster.
At least Ellen had been bright enough to cuff him to the complicated lever joint that attached the four arms to the pole.
He was getting a bit enthusiastic Hauling, tugging, swearing, trying to break either the handcuffs or the whirly, getting tangled up in dirty yellow washing line. A big ugly fly caught in a plastic spiders web. He turned himself upside down, both feet planted against the whirlys arms, straining.
Logan opened the bedroom window. Hes going to dislocate his wrist if he isnt careful.
PC Ferguson sidled up. Dont get any brighter, do they?
Hoy! Shuggie!
The man froze, still dangling upside down.
Cut it out. Youve been caught.
The dog stopped its patrolling and turned to bark and snarl up at them.
The constable with the mobile phone appeared at Logans shoulder. Bugger me Thats a big dog.
The stick-thin woman shoulder-charged Archie, hands still cuffed behind her back, sending him stumbling into Ferguson. Both officers went crashing to the bedroom floor in a tangle of limbs and swearing.
She shoved past Logan to the open window. Shuggie! Pull the thing out the ground, you daft fuck!
Logan grabbed her, tried to haul her back, but she lashed out with a knee.
Boiling oil flared out from his groin, curdling in the pit of his stomach, making his knees buckle. He steadied himself against the tatty wallpaper. Oh Christ that hurt.
Shuggie! PULL THE FUCKING WHIRLY OUT THE GROUND!
Outside, Shuggie finally seemed to understand. He squatted down as far as he could with one wrist cuffed to the articulated joint, wrapped his other hand around the pole, and hauled the whole thing out of the ground. He teetered for a moment, turned through a hundred and eighty degrees, then fell on his bum, tangled in the yellow plastic washing line again.
GET UP YOU DAFT CUNT!
Logan cleared his throat, gritted his teeth, grabbed the skeletal woman again and threw her onto the bed she bounced off the mattress and went spinning over the other side, disappearing from view with a thud.
The little boy wailed, tears and snot running down his puffy pink face.
PC Ferguson was back on his feet, leaning out of the window. COME BACK HERE YOU WEE SHITE: YOURE STILL UNDER ARREST!
Fucking police bastards! The woman crawled upright, eyes thin slits, graveyard teeth bared, a smear of blood from her cracked lips. Then she charged, head down, like a greasy battering ram.
Logan lurched out of the way or tried to.
She slammed into his stomach. Pain ripped across his scars, digging deep into his guts, tearing all the breath from his throat as they thudded into the bedroom wall, then down to the carpet. All he could do was curl up around the fire and try not to throw up. Barely feeling the harsh nip of her teeth sinking into his arm through his suit jacket. The dull thunk of her forehead battering into his right ear.
And then she was gone. Screaming. Let me go you bastard! Let me fucking go! RAPE! Fucking RAPE!
Logan peeled open one watering eye to see her a foot-anda-half off the ground, legs flailing about. Archie was standing behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, holding her up.
Calm down!
RAPE! RAPE!
And all the way through it, the kid kept on screaming.
Chapter 6
Hows the balls? PC Ferguson handed Logan another packet of frozen chips from the gurgling freezer. The kitchen reeked of cannabis and stale fat, the extractor hood above the cooker covered in a dark-brown greasy film.
Leaning back against the working surface, Logan pressed the bag of frozen chips against his aching stomach. You found him yet?
We should maybe take you to the hospital?
Greg: have you found him?
The constable pinched his face into a painful chickens bum. Well, theres a funny story, and-
You let him get away, didnt you?
It wasnt-
Why the hell didnt you have anyone watching the back? I told you to get someone watching the back!
But it-
For Gods sake, Greg, did you sleep through the bloody risk assessment and planning meeting? Two out front, two out back to catch any runaways!
PC Greg Ferguson stared at his shoes. Sorry, Guv. It all kinda got away from me. A bit
A bit? He was handcuffed to a bloody whirly!
Its just Ive been having a tough time at home, with wee Georgie ill and Liz on the tablets, and her mum moving in and I cant He ran a finger around the collar of his black fleecy top. I cant go up in front of the rubber-heelers again. Bains thinking about making us up to sergeant, and we could really do with the extra dosh
Logan slumped back, stared up at a strange brown stain on the ceiling. Way I see it weve got three options. One: I dob you in.
Please, Sarge, you-
Two: I take the heat and let Professional Standards tear me a new one.
Ferguson broke out a thin smile. Would you really do that for-
No I bloody wouldnt. Three: we come up with some sort of cover story Logan straightened.
Ellen, the officer whod given everyone a leg-up through the lounge window, lurched into the kitchen, face all pink and glistening. She puffed and panted her way across to the sink, set the cold tap running, and stuck her head under the stream of water. Bloody hell
Ferguson licked his teeth. Did you?
She turned, dripping all over the kitchen floor. They should rope rope him in for the 2012 Olympics. If the bugger can can run that fast handcuffed to a rotary drier hell walk the five hundred metres She stuck her head back under the tap again. Swear I watched him hurdle a six foot fence like it like it wasnt even there.
Oh God Ferguson covered his face with a hand. Im screwed.
Ellen? Logan fidgeted with the bag of frozen chips. I think Greg here wants to ask you a favour. He cleared his throat. Just make sure the pair of youve got your stories straight for Professional Standards, OK?
A knock at the kitchen door.
It was Guthrie, clutching an assortment of white paper bags, most of them turned peek-a-boo with grease. Wouldnt believe how hard it is to find an all-night bakers in Kincorth. He handed a bag to Logan.
Bacon?
Fried egg. Us veggies got to stick together, right?
Logan took a bite out of the soft, floury roll, getting a little dribble of yolk on his chin. What about the ambulance?
Out front. Got Billy Dawson in the back already, they say the other bloke just needs a couple of stitches. Guthrie helped himself to a flaky-pastry-log thing. Speaking with his mouth full, getting little chips of pale brown all down the front of his black uniform. Social workers here too, Guv. Wants a word.
The social worker was in the lounge, poking through a twirly CD tower unit, her black hair streaked with grey: tweedy trousers, yellow shirt, red waistcoat straining over her belly like something out of Wind in the Willows. She turned and sniffed at Logan. Then held out a clipboard. I need you to sign.
He scanned the form, then scrawled his signature in the box with a cross marked beside it. Its a-
Ooh, Ive got this one. She pulled a copy of Annie Lennoxs Diva from the stand. You ever meet her?
Er, no. We-
I was born in Torry, just like her. Even went to the same school: Harlaw Academy. The social worker turned the album over, frowning at the back. Is Trisha still here, or have you carted her off?
Trisha?
Trisha Brown? The mother? Addict? Has a little boy about so high? She held a hand level with her own swollen belly.
Upstairs.
A nod. I remember thinking, When I grow up, Im going to be that famous. Going to be on Top of the Pops and MTV and in all the papers. Sang in a couple of bands, nearly got a record deal. She stuck the album back in the tower. Then my dad died, my mum fell apart, and I had to get a job in Asda. Here endeth the pop stars dream.
Were doing her for possession, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer.
The social worker took the clipboard back from Logan, squinted at his signature. Loren McRoy? That not a girls name?
Logan, and its McRae, not McRoy.
God, your handwritings worse than mine. Lucy Woods, nice to meet you. She headed towards the stairs. Might as well get it over with.
Trisha? Can you hear me, Trisha? She squatted in front of the stick-thin figure. Trisha? Its Lucy. Ive got to take wee Ricky into care while youre with the police tonight, OK?
Trisha swung her head around, like a lump of pasty concrete attached to a chain. Pupils like tiny bugs, heavy lids, mouth open, lips connected by little strings of drool. Whmmm?
I said Ive got to take wee Ricky into care. While youre in custody?
A frown crawled slowly across Trishas pale face. Whore?
Lucy. Lucy Woods? From the social?
The frown turned into a glacial smile. But Im comfy here.
The social worker sighed, looked up at Logan. Heroin?
Probably. They tried to redecorate the toilet with it when we forced entry.