by Ed James
‘I’m sick of being single. I want to share my life with someone.’ Cullen looked away from her. A night bus hurtled past, heading for Dalkeith and its Midlothian cousins. ‘I’ve got a reputation for being a moaner, why I’ve not got a tenure, all this. But there’s a good reason why I’m a cop, why I push myself to be the best cop I can. And it’s complex. Or complicated.’
‘You want to talk about it?’
Cullen shrugged. ‘And it’s connected to the trouble I have with relationships and… And it’s… all so complicated.’
Across the street, a gang of students were larking around. Maybe stayed in Pollock Halls over by the Park, or maybe a flat near here. Either way, they were up to malarkey.
‘We’re here.’ Yvonne waved up at a standard Edinburgh tenement. The street had a few of them at the start then gave way to posher houses. ‘My flat.’
‘I should go.’
‘You want to come in for a chat?’
‘I really don’t know, Yvonne.’
Yvonne unlocked the stairwell door and didn’t look at him. ‘Because of Craig?’
Cullen shrugged. ‘Because I need to get to bed. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’
‘You can just say hi to Craig. It’ll be fine. You look like you really need to talk to someone. And I’m actually a pretty good listener.’
Cullen sighed, his breath misting in the cold night air. ‘It’s not just that. Sometimes the booze makes me feel sad and introspective. This is one of those nights. I should walk it off.’
‘You live in Portobello, though.’
‘It’s fine. About an hour from here.’
‘I understand… that need, Scott.’ She slowly ran a hand down her face. ‘But you’re all about beating yourself up. Whatever’s happened, you can talk to me about it.’
Cullen looked up at the flat. No sign Craig was actually in. And Christ, he really did want to talk to someone. Professionally seemed a bit too much just now, like he was taking himself too seriously. But a friend offering an ear?
He could make sure she got up the stairs.
Sod it, he should take her up on it.
‘Aye, go on.’
‘Good lad.’ She opened the door wide and staggered in. The stairwell was filled with student bikes all locked to the banister, and smelled of Christmas Party perfume. A fat little tortie hissed at them, then scurried up the stairs.
Yvonne followed it up. She didn’t look like she could stay upright for very long. Lucky for her, Cullen was behind her, close enough to catch her, but her arse was almost in his face.
Cullen kept a tight grip on the varnished wood as he winched himself up.
Yvonne sprayed her keys on the marble floor. ‘Buggery bollocks.’ She crouched down to grab them but the crouch became a sit pretty quickly. She yawned into her fist. ‘Christ, I’m so bloody tired.’
‘Long shifts just now, eh?’ Cullen reached out a hand for her and hauled her up. And went flying backwards into their door.
Yvonne giggled like a schoolgirl. ‘Oh my god, Scott. I might die.’ She stood and unfurled her keys, then opened the lock at the third go. ‘Craig?’ Her bellow rang around the stairwell more than the flat. ‘You home?’
Cullen had to lean against the doorframe. ‘I should go.’
‘Scott, it feels like there’s something you want to talk about.’
‘I’m not hitting on you, Yvonne.’
‘I know you’re not. I want to listen.’
‘Because of Craig.’
‘Mm, but you’re talking to me.’ She stepped inside and tossed her keys on the table. They slid to the floor. ‘I need to pee. Get me something to drink.’
‘Sure thing.’ Cullen walked down the hallway and found the kitchen. Basically, half of the living room.
So. Drink. Booze was a very bad idea. Tea or coffee, then.
He filled the kettle from the overly complicated tap and tried to find the button to set it to boil. There. At least it was rattling quickly.
No sign of a bean grinder or even a cafetière, but he found a serviceable tub of instant. One of those fair trade ones that actually tasted like coffee rather than the ashes of a loved one.
Christ, he needed to sober up and fast.
No, he needed to go. He took out his phone, but it wasn’t in that pocket.
Bollocks. Shite, shite, shite.
He found it in his jacket. A missed call and sixteen texts from Bongo. He scanned them, basically dog’s abuse for Elvis vomiting in the back of the cab. And Cullen would never see that eighty quid again.
He texted:
Any chance of a trip home?
Cullen found the mugs in a cupboard. Some romantic ones with lovey-dovey slogans that were all chipped. He left them in favour of some plain IKEA jobs, tipping in spoonfuls of instant, then pouring hot water just before the boil.
Buzz.
Bugger off
Crap. He’d pissed Bongo off big time. And that’s why you don’t mix business with pleasure. He needed Bongo’s info way more than Elvis needed a lift home. And now he needed to keep him onside.
Seriously, mate. Desperate here. Twenty quid
He rummaged in the fridge for milk, but just found some oat-based stuff.
He shouldn’t be here. Not in this state. Craig was the kind to jump to conclusions. And that weird PTSD flashback stuff, well; Cullen had seen the upshot of that, getting pushed back onto the sand. His bum still hurt. That bone at the back. The cock six? Still sore, despite the medicinal booze.
Buzz.
No chance before 12. Still cleaning out the cab
Ill take that
But typing “cheers” on a numeric keyboard was beyond Cullen, so he just sent it.
Just over an hour. Good.
Yvonne stumbled in and sat on the sofa, yawning into her fist. ‘Coffee. Mm.’
‘No milk.’
‘Use Craig’s oat milk.’
‘Will do.’ Cullen tipped oat milk into the mugs. Hopefully it didn’t taste rank. He grabbed the handles and staggered over.
First problem, there was only the sofa, so he had to sit next to her.
Second, Yvonne had a bottle of Sambuca open and was pouring two shots.
Oh shite.
18
Hunter
The interview room was deadly silent, save for the clock hanging squint on the wall. The emptiness seemed to make the ticking louder, like someone was hitting drums at a metronomic beat.
Hunter sat forward and waved a hand across Ricky’s face.
No reaction.
Just the same glaikit expression on his face. Mouth hanging open, drool encrusted around his lips. Eyes staring at a spot halfway between the middle of the table and heaven.
Bain huffed out a big sigh. ‘Well, fuck me six ways to Sunday. Don’t even need the fuckin’ Duty Doctor in here, do we? This boy’s off his coupon on that Valium.’
Hunter couldn’t disagree with the diagnosis, as unprofessionally as it was given. ‘Must’ve taken half the packet before we got there. Make sure he was chilled by the time he arrived at Newcastle tomorrow morning. Or if you’re going to jail, you don’t got there sober.’
Bain pinched his nose and shut his eyes, mercifully silent for a few seconds. ‘Probably why he got his arse stuck in that fuckin’ window.’
‘We probably saved his life, sir. You should still get the Duty Doctor in here. Those pills are deadly.’
‘Know a thing about them, aye?’
‘Back in my army days, aye. Couple of the lads weren’t the best flyers, as you can imagine. And a military transport doesn’t have a Spider-Man film playing on the back of the seat in front of you, does it? So they popped a couple of Valium.’
‘You boys.’ Bain stood up and prodded his fingers off the screen of a phone that looked like it had beamed in from the set of Star Trek. ‘My ex-wife used to take one of them when we flew to Florida with the boy for our summer break. Spaced her out for days, I tell you. But if this arsehole scrann
ed half the packet? Game’s a bogie, Craig. Christ, we should’ve spoken to him back at his flat while he was still on the same planee of existence as us.’ He huffed out a deep sigh, whistling around his moustache. ‘Fine. I’ll deal with this. You get to this Christmas party. I’d say let your hair down, but there’s none of it.’ He reached over and scratched at Hunter’s stubble.
Hunter stepped away from the seedy bastard and checked the clock. Midnight, already. And he could only imagine the state of some of them. Cullen and free wine. Elvis. Christ. And maybe Yvonne was already on the Sambuca. A day off tomorrow so she’d be hitting it hard. ‘Not really in the mood for a party.’
‘Want a lift home?’
‘I’m fine. The walk will do me good. It’s just up the road. So, you need me for the interview first thing?’
‘On a Saturday?’
‘I can come in.’
‘Cheeky bit of OT?’
‘I’ll take Time Off In Lieu. Just want to find Falconer.’
‘Personal between you, aye?’
‘Aye.’
‘Okay. Well, you get in here first thing and we’ll see if this boy’s back on the same planet as us.’
Hunter zipped up his jacket. In no way was he on the same planet as Brian Bain. Not even the same solar system.
19
Cullen
Cullen rested the fresh cups and slumped down next to her, trying to keep as far away as possible.
What the hell was he doing here?
‘So, Scott. Talk to me.’
He nodded. But he didn’t look at her. Or the Sambuca.
‘But first, let’s toast us.’ She handed him his shot glass.
‘Us?’
‘Us being pals. That’s all.’ She stared hard at him as she downed the shot. Those dark eyes, full of mischief and mystery. Her hair draped over one shoulder. Bare arms. And her top was a bit lower, wasn’t it?
Cullen should just walk out. Sod Bongo, he should flag down a cab, then get some sleep and revel in the brutal hangover. It’d be all over.
But something kept him there, stopped him leaving.
‘Sod it.’ He necked the shot and a blast of aniseed filled his mouth. ‘Christ, that’s rank.’
‘It’s good for you, though.’ She topped up both glasses and put a hand on his knee. ‘Now. About you being a shagger.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Look, whatever. Sex can be an addiction, just like drinking, gambling or whatever. At the root of it all, you’re fending off death. Inch by inch.’
‘This sounds a bit deep.’
‘Because it is, Scott.’
‘I didn’t know you were a psychologist.’
‘I did a degree in it.’
Shite.
‘Most of the time, I feel fine. Work helps. But when a woman shows the slightest flicker of interest, I’m like a greyhound after a hare. And afterwards… I’m filled with so much revulsion.’ Saying it out loud felt good, like he was three stone lighter. Or floating in space.
‘Why do you think you have sex with so many women?’
Cullen let out a long, slow sigh. ‘I don’t know.’
‘But you do have sex with a lot?’
‘Not a lot lot, but… some?’
‘Those nurses?’
‘Nope.’
‘The paramedic?’
‘God no.’
‘That doctor?’
‘Right, aye.’
She put the fresh glass in his hand. ‘Drink up.’
Cullen slung it back without any hesitation. The spirit burnt through the wine and he felt a warm tingle in his gut.
And it was melting in here. Like forty degrees or something.
Craig always liked it hot in the car, stood to reason he’d like it hot in the flat.
Cullen shrugged off his jacket and reached for his coffee. Way too hot to drink.
Yvonne put another shot in his hands, then necked her own. She pursed her lips. ‘Outside, you said it’s all connected. To what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t have to talk to me, Scott, but it might help if you told someone what’s going on?’
Cullen cradled his coffee mug. Almost cool enough to consider drinking.
Something in him made him want to open up to her. And it wasn’t just the booze. He couldn’t pick out what it was.
Christ, maybe she was flirting with him, but there was this electricity between them. Always had been.
And he was dicking about with Helen Yule. He liked her, of course he did, but it was more what she represented. Maturity. Stability. A future. As much as what she reminded him of, what he was trying to conquer.
Maybe Yvonne wanted that too.
So why was he in her flat, when his mate—her boyfriend—wasn’t?
Because she was a friend and wanted to help. Focus on that.
‘Something happened to me when I was a kid.’
Yvonne frowned. ‘What, you were bullied?’
‘God no.’
‘Abused?’
‘Aye.’
‘Beaten?’
‘No.’
‘Was it sexual?’
‘Umm.’
‘Were they older?’
‘No…’
‘Scott, the offer’s there.’
Cullen necked the shot and felt it all bubbling around in his guts. The wine, the Sambuca, the disgusting truth.
‘What happened? Did he rape you?’
‘Not all abuse is done by men.’ Cullen tightened his grip on the handle. ‘It was a teacher. My English teacher. Miss Carnegie. She was not long qualified, maybe twenty-five?’
‘How old were you?’
Cullen stared into the scummy coffee, at the undissolved granules. ‘Twelve.’
‘She was more than twice your age.’
‘Right.’ Cullen tried to sip the coffee but it was still too hot. ‘My school did this thing where our classes went to Holland at the end of first year. And she… She was very flirtatious. Made me feel so special. All of the boys were giving it all that locker-room bollocks, you know. But she made me go to her room. Then she started kissing me. And started taking off my clothes. Made me touch her. I mean, knowing what I do now, she was very clearly in the wrong, but she made me feel bad. Talked about my cock being weird and all that. Made me have sex with her and tell nobody about it.’ He shut his eyes. ‘The next year, I was at a different school, in a different town. Just for, like, a year, then I got back and she’d left the school that summer, never heard from her again.’
‘Jesus Christ, Scott. I’m glad you told me. It was wrong what she did. And it’s not your fault, okay?’ Hand on his knee. ‘You’re not to blame. She is. Miss Carnegie. Christ.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘No, it’s very far from fine. That’s really bad.’
‘I mean, I’ve had counselling for it. After uni, just before I joined the cops. Going through it, I persuaded myself that being a cop would be how to deal with it.’
‘Your parents knew?’
‘Mum did. But only recently. I mean, I think I’m mostly fine. But I still have issues.’
‘You ever find her?’
‘No, she left.’
‘But you’re a cop. You could’ve looked her up.’
‘Aye, and some things are better left in the past.’
‘Right, right. But there’s some closure you need to get with Miss Carnegie.’
‘No, there’s not.’
Yvonne wrapped an arm around him. ‘It explains a lot to me.’
Cullen fell into the cuddle. ‘The way I see it, the whole abuse thing is connected to trying to prove that I’m a man. All the shagger reputation stuff. That doctor, who I really like… There’s something about her that triggered me. I don’t know. I really like her, but something spooked me and I ran a mile. I tried texting her to break it off and thought it was all fine. Then I saw her at the hospital today and I felt so bad because she was really angry with me for
not contacting her when I had the wrong number and… I had texted her. Tried calling, tried to own it all. But they’d bounced.’
‘Why do you think she spooked you?’
‘I think it’s because she wears glasses like Miss Carnegie did.’
Christ, he was crying.
‘I’m sorry to dump this on you, Yvonne.’
She held him closer. ‘I’m so sorry for what happened to you, Scott. I’m glad you told me.’
‘Thank you.’
20
Hunter
This close to Christmas and the cards would have you believe it would be snowing. Robins, holly, reindeer, snowmen. But not in Edinburgh. A true card would have pissing rain, drunken arseholes shouting their way home, a couple shagging in a phone box, spilled chips covered in urine, and a Santa Claus slumped against the wall by the posh light shop, completely out of his box. Sick down his front, his trousers missing but his beard and hat still intact.
Hunter should call it in, but he couldn’t be arsed sorting it out himself, so he stepped past, and got out his phone.
No missed calls from Yvonne or any texts. Probably meant she was having a good time. Life and soul of the party.
He sent a text:
Working? Drunk Santa sleeping on Causewayside. Light shop
He pocketed his phone and walked past the chip shop. Looked like the owner was getting shouted at by a skinny wee bastard. Not Hunter’s fight, but someone else’s. He got out his phone to text in another report.
But Finlay had replied:
Hey, jabroni. Long time no hear. Aye, working. Will head up the now. City centre is a war zone. Need a break! Pint soon?
Hunter tapped the keys as he walked:
Pint would be good. And cheers. Oh, and minor stramash in chip shop
He put his phone away and got out his keys, then rounded the corner to their flat. Lights on, though, so Yvonne was back. No sounds, no music and not even her chainsaw snoring. But probably she was off her face on Sambuca and had half the team back for a nightcap and Lady Gaga on the stereo.
