Blind Eye (65 page)

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Once you started accepting free booze, what came next?

He took the glass out of the evidence bag, tore the foil cap off the whisky with shaky fingers, and poured himself a stiff measure. It glowed like bottled fire.

Logan toasted Goulding's Post-it. 'Thin end of the wedge.' It went down smooth, hitting his stomach and spreading warm, sweet tendrils through his body, soothing out the tremors. Peat and alcohol making his breath tingle. It was good stuff. He finished the rest of the glass before someone came in and asked for a taste, then went onto the internet and found out how much a bottle of thirty-year-old Knockdhu was actually worth.

'Jesus...' It was a small fortune.

Really should phone Wee Hamish up and say thank you. Only polite. Thanks for the hooringly expensive whisky: anything I can do in return?

Logan looked at the Post-it note. Or he could call Goulding, let the psychologist probe and prod away at his problems like a rotten tooth.

Wee Hamish or Goulding?

Whisky or toothache?

He pulled out his phone and made the call.

III

H
ER
M
AJESTY'S
P
RISON
C
RAIGINCHES
- T
WO
W
EEKS
L
ATER

The exercise yard is busy, even with the thin drizzle drifting down from a grey July sky. The outside world invisible behind high granite walls.

He folds his arms and leans back against the equipment locker, enjoying the fresh air. Five days stuck inside in solitary, just because someone accidentally got their hand trapped in one of the heavy cell doors. Six times.

Not his fault, is it? Not that they could prove anyway. No, he was real fucking careful about that. Two months for aggravated assault is quite enough, thanks.

Two months ... God he could murder a joint.

Instead he settles in and watches the game.

It's supposed to be a football match - blues versus reds - but there are too many players, and half the buggers don't have a clue what they're doing. Bunch of Muppets. The score's twenty-three to fifty-two. That's coz no one wants to stay in goal, they all want to be strikers. Morons.

Don't understand the importance of taking one for the team...

He straightens up.

The Russian bloke's here - Russian, Polish, something like that - limping along with a face like a skelpt arse. Two weeks since that cop put a bullet in him, and he's already up and walking. That's one tough bastard.

Russians, eh?

Someone boots the ball out of play. It bounces a couple of times, then comes to rest at the Russian's feet. Should be a throw in, but the halfwits in blue and red all rush to see who can get to it first, hooting like fucking monkeys.

Right on cue.

Colin McLeod saunters across the scrappy grass behind the red team goal, looking dead casual, you know? Closing the gap.

The players hustle around the limping Russian, jockeying for position - 'Come on, pass the fuckin' thing!' / 'Gerroff!' / 'Fuck you!' / 'Hey, it's my turn!' - obscuring Colin from view as he slides the shiv from his sleeve.

Nothing fancy, just a toothbrush, sharpened to a point on the floor of his cell. He rams it into the Russian's back. Three times in the kidneys, and twice in the throat.

The old man doesn't even cry out, just sinks to the ground with blood bubbling out of his mouth. Be dead in a minute. Now who's tough, eh?

Creepy Colin McLeod leans in and passes on the message he's spent the last five days practicing. Sounding it out in his cell every night until it's right.

'
Do widzenia
, you stupid Russian fuck.'

Goodbye.

And then the crowd yells and shouts its way back to the football pitch, taking Colin with it, leaving the old man's body to twitch and shudder, and finally lie still.

That's what happens when you fuck with Aberdeen.

By Stuart MacBride

Cold Granite
Dying Light
Broken Skin
Flesh House
Blind Eye

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental. The only exception to this are the characters Hilary Brander, Alexander (Zander) Clark, and Dave Goulding, who have given their express permission to be fictionalized in this volume. All behaviour, history, and character traits assigned to these individuals have been designed to serve the needs of the narrative and do not necessarily bear any resemblance to the real people.

HarperCollins
Publishers
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Published by HarperCollins
Publishers
2009
1

Copyright (c) Stuart MacBride 2009

Stuart MacBride asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition (c) 2009 ISBN: 9780007322640

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