Blind Eye

6

Logan knelt on the floor with his forehead resting against the cool chipboard. He was still alive… Oh thank God.

He could hear the gunman and his friend thumping down the stairs; Steel groaning; a magpie cackling somewhere outside; the blood singing in his ears. Fear-induced adrenaline made his whole body tremble.

Maybe now would be a good time to be sick?

A crash sounded from downstairs and Logan struggled to his feet, forcing his wobbly legs to take him to the big window at the far end of the hall. It was double-glazed, the glass covered in blue plastic to keep it clean and scratch free while it was being installed. He twisted the handle and wrenched it open. The world was a blurry haze. Logan wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and squinted through the tears.

The gunman had made it out of the front door — he was half dragging, half carrying his friend across the dry mud of the drive.

Logan scrubbed at his eyes again, but the two men wouldn't stay in focus. And then they were on the pavement and the tarpaulin-draped scaffolding that covered the house hid them from view.

He clambered out of the window and onto the little walkway of boards outside. They bounced beneath his feet as he staggered to the outer edge, yanking back a green tarpaulin sheet. Logan took a deep breath and yelled: 'STOP POLICE!'

They didn't even turn around. The two blurry figures hurried along the pavement towards the CID pool car: the one with Rory Simpson handcuffed in the back.

For a brief moment Logan caught sight of a pale blob — Rory's face, peering up from the gap between the front and back seats — and then the gunman and his friend were past.

They disappeared from view, and the sound of a car starting echoed up from the street below. The engine roared, the wheels spun, and it accelerated away: getting out of there before the sound of distant sirens got any closer.

They were gone. Logan staggered back to the landing, where Steel was lying slouched against the cracked woodwork of the banisters, head lolling, making incoherent mumbling noises.

'Inspector? Are you OK?'

'Nnnffff… can't find my hat… mphhhh…'

Logan dug out his Airwave handset and called Control, telling them to get an ambulance over here ASAP. He slumped back against the banisters next to Steel, listening to the background chatter of the control room as it got everything organized.

His stomach ached, the initial biting pain settling down to a dull throb. His face wasn't much better. No doubt about it — they came, they saw, and they got their arses kicked.

Logan stared through the open doorway into the darkness of the bedroom the gunman had burst out of. There was something lying on the floor.

He grunted his way to his feet and wobbled into the room.

It was a large bedroom, complete with ensuite shower, he could just make out the tiles glittering in the gloom. The whole place smelled of scorched meat.

The something lying on the floor was a man, smoke curling up from the holes where his eyes used to be.

He was large, heavily built, muscle just starting to turn to fat. Half of his left ear was missing. Simon McLeod.

Logan didn't think it was possible, but today had just got even worse. The ambulance sat on the road beside the skip, flanked by a pair of patrol cars. Half a dozen uniformed officers were already going door-to-door. Logan watched their fuzzy, out-of-focus figures from the tailgate of the ambulance, while a paramedic rummaged about in the back.

'Right,' said the man, dressed in a wrinkly green jumpsuit, 'head back and we'll wash that crap out your eyes.'

Logan did as he was told, and instantly regretted it. The stinging pain had been easing off a little, but now it was back at full strength. 'Ahh, Jesus!'

'Hold still…'

And gradually it began to subside. He could actually see by the time they were walking DI Steel out of the house. They helped her into one of the ambulance beds. She sat there swaying back and forth as they checked Simon McLeod was securely strapped into the other bed. Unconscious and hooked up to a heart monitor.

'OK,' said the paramedic who'd washed out Logan's eyes, 'we've got to get going.' He shouted through to the driver. 'Lights and music, Charlie!'

Logan hopped down off the tailgate, said, 'I'll follow you up there,' then marched over to the CID pool car. Trying to pretend he wasn't still in pain. He climbed in behind the wheel, starting the engine as the ambulance pulled away — lights and sirens blazing in the sunny afternoon.

Rory's voice sounded from the back, 'What happened?' He was still handcuffed to the seat support.

'You saw them, didn't you? You must have been looking right at them when they passed.' Logan stuck the car in gear, accelerating after the ambulance as it turned right onto Leslie Road.

'I… What did they do? We-'

'I want a description.'

The speedometer hit fifty as they screamed through the roundabout and onto Westburn Drive.

'Aaaagh! Slow down! I haven't got a seatbelt on!'

'Did you see them or not?'

Right again, onto Cornhill Road, the grey and brown concrete mass of the old children's hospital whipping past as they made for Accident and Emergency.

'Slow down!'

'Hold on tight — speed bump.'

'AAAAAAAGH! OK, OK: I saw them, I saw them!'

Logan pulled the car into the closest A &E parking spot and jumped out.

Rory shouted from the back, 'Wait! You can't leave me like this!'

'Oh for God's sake.' Logan opened the door and uncuffed one of Rory's hands.

'Ow…' Rory creaked upright, groaning, rubbing at the small of his back. 'That wasn't funny.'

There was a uniformed PC standing by the automatic doors; Logan called him over. The officer looked as if he was about twelve, his badge number marking him out as one of the newest batch of recruits — probably only been on the force for a couple of months. Logan steered him towards the pool car.

'Keep an eye on Captain Cardigan, here. And if he offers you any sweeties, don't take them.'

As the young constable got into the back, Rory Simpson smiled, patted him on the knee, and asked him if he liked puppies. Accident and Emergency looked as depressing as it always did. This wasn't a place people came to have fun, it was where they went when something had gone spectacularly wrong, and after all these years a little bit of that suffering had seeped into the room's magnolia walls and green lino floor. A couple of women sat at opposite ends of the grimy seating area, one of them breastfeeding a small child and swearing quietly to herself. The other was sitting next to a little boy who kept screaming, 'Mummy, it hurts! It hurts!'

'Well you shouldn't have fallen down the bloody stairs, should you?'

Logan flashed his warrant card at the desk and asked what had happened to DI Steel and Simon McLeod. One of the admin staff looked up from her computer, sighed, then said, 'Are you a relative? Because-'

A cry of, 'HELP!' came from the direction of the examination rooms, then, 'LIE STILL, DAMN IT!'

Someone screamed.

Logan lurched into a run, following the sounds down the corridor, towards a row of cubicles. He burst through the curtain: a nurse and a female doctor were struggling with Simon McLeod, trying to keep him on the examination table. A second doctor was crunched up against the far wall, clutching his groin and moaning.

The nurse glared at Logan. 'Don't just bloody stand there!'

He grabbed one of Simon's flailing arms, putting a lock on the wrist. The huge man roared and tried to break free, feet flying in random directions. One caught the nurse on the side of the hip and she staggered back, swearing.

The doctor let go of Simon McLeod's waist and grabbed his ankles, trying to pin them to the table and failing — he was just too big for her.

'Bugger this!' Logan tightened his grip on Simon's wrist and yanked, pulling Simon off the examination table and onto the floor. He crashed into the linoleum, and Logan twisted, forcing him over onto his ruined face.

The doctor tried to drag Logan off. 'What the hell are you doing? He's been seriously injured!'

Logan stuck a foot on Simon McLeod's shoulder and shoved, keeping the arm fully stretched out and twisted round. 'You want me to let him go?'

She paused for a second. 'No. Stay there!' She hurried out through the curtain and was back thirty seconds later with a hypodermic syringe and a small glass vial of clear liquid.

She threw the syringe cover onto the floor, drew a hefty measure from the vial, then stepped in close to Logan. 'Hold him still…' She yanked Simon's shirt sleeve back, smacked his wrist a couple of times, and slid the needle in.

Slowly the struggling began to fade. One kick. Two. The fingers clenched and unclenched. And then Simon McLeod went limp.

Which was when three burly men in hospital security uniforms burst in through the curtains.

The doctor dropped the used syringe in a yellow sharps bin, then gave the new arrivals a slow handclap. 'Oh yes, well done. Very good. We could all be dead by now.'

One of the guards shrugged. 'Fight in the maternity ward — some bloke turned up to see his kid. The mother's husband wasn't very happy about it.'

'You think Doctor Patel's happy about the state of his goolies?' She pointed at her groaning colleague. 'You're lucky I was next door, or he'd be a eunuch by now.' Then she asked Logan to help her get Simon McLeod's unconscious body back onto the examination table.

'Is he going to be OK?'

'I doubt it.' The doctor peeled back the gauze dressing they'd put on in the ambulance, exposing the top half of Simon's face. Then winced. 'Both eyes are gone and the optic nerve's been burnt. He's blind. Probably in a great deal of pain. All we can do is clean his wounds, keep him sedated, and hope he doesn't get an infection.' Five minutes later, Logan followed the doctor through to the next cubicle, where DI Steel was sitting up on the examination table, wobbling slightly. The doctor pulled out a tiny torch and shone it in Steel's eyes, flicking the light away, then back again. 'OK,' she said, 'can you tell me who the Prime Minister is?'

'Is it…? I can picture him…' Steel scrunched her face up, lips moving silently for a moment. 'Whatsisname — slimy, lying tosspot…?' As if that narrowed it down.

'Well, you've definitely got a concussion.' The doctor felt around the back of Steel's head with a latex-gloved hand. 'Probably going to have one hell of a lump tomorrow, but nothing's broken. We'll keep you in overnight for observation, OK?'

Steel frowned again. 'Is it Margaret Thatcher?'

'I'll give you something for the headache.' She turned to Logan, 'Do you want to contact her next of kin? Let them know where she is.'

'I'll give Susan a call. Get her to bring in some-'

'Next of kin!' Steel hopped down from the table. 'We- oops!' Her legs gave way and the doctor grabbed her. Steel kissed her on the cheek. 'Is that a stethoscope in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?'

'Maybe we should sedate you?'

The inspector tugged at Logan's sleeve. 'We need to tell McLeod's next of kin.'

'I'll get someone on it when I get back to the station.'

She shook her head, and nearly collapsed again. 'You do it. I'm no' trusting one of Finnie's monkeys: they'll screw it up.' She snapped her fingers. 'Tony Blair!'

The doctor steered her towards the wheelchair in the corner. 'Nice try, but no cigar. Come on, we'll get you into bed.'

'Ooh, saucy. I love a woman in uniform.'

Logan held the curtain open for them, watching as the doctor wheeled Steel away. The inspector flapped her arms and tried to turn around in her seat. 'Laz! Laz — look after my car, OK? It's parked round the back of… thingy. You know: the place we work?' And then she was round the corner and out of sight, laughing like something out of a Carry On film.

But Logan didn't have anything to laugh about — not if he had to tell Colin McLeod someone had mutilated his brother.