Brian

Brian Burnett sat on his sofa bed. He flicked through the TV channels. On the coffee table in front of him, the remains of that evening’s takeaway – sweet and sour pork and egg fried rice – congealed in glutinous lumps in their silver foil containers. He looked around. In one corner of the cramped bedsit, an airing rack draped with washing sagged alongside an ancient night storage heater. Beneath his feet, the carpet hadn’t seen a Hoover in months. Behind thin curtains that barely met, the single window onto Urquhart Road dripped with condensation. He killed the TV, chucked the remote. Christ, what a fucking way to live!

From the flat upstairs came the dull thump-thump of bass, overlaid with heavy footsteps clumping back and forth. He sat back, let his eyelids droop. His student neighbours were decent enough lads, but laminate flooring and sporadic horseplay were no recipe for a quiet life.

In his job as a Detective Sergeant at Aberdeen Police HQ, Brian had spent an arid few weeks either on duty or steadfastly avoiding eye contact with those well-meaning colleagues who, he feared, might invite him to join in their pre-Christmas celebrations. And all the while obsessing about his soon-to-be ex-wife Bev: Bev whom he’d doted on, Bev who’d cheated on him, Bev who even as he sat there was most likely out on the razzle with one or other of her toy-boys.

There was a crash from upstairs, closely followed by hoots of laughter. Brian’s head jerked up. Above him, the light fitting, with its nicotine-stained shade, swung alarmingly. That was all he needed, the bloody ceiling coming down. What the hell were they doing up there?

He jumped to his feet. He’d better go up and have a word. There had to be more than two of them in the flat to make that sort of racket. Come to think on it, he had noticed a couple of new faces on the stair. Brian wondered how many students were actually dossing in the property. One way to find out. He took a step towards the door. Turned. He really ought to go up, but he couldn’t be arsed. He sat down again.

If he could only move on. Maggie Laird for a start. Brian’s shoulders drooped as he recalled his tentative overtures to the widow of George Laird, his long-term buddy. Brian had carried a torch for years, ever since he and George trained together at Tulliallan. He’d never made a move, not until George was dead and buried.

The meetings Maggie had set up – assignations in the art gallery and the Wild Boar – Brian had read as a desire for male company. She’d been lonely, he assumed, after George died, just as he, Brian, had been lonely these past months. Then there was the night Maggie had rolled up at his place. He’d thought all his Christmases had come at once until he saw the carload of kids. How they’d managed to get embroiled in that student’s murder – and her along with them – still flummoxed him. In all his years in the force, he’d never encountered a case so convoluted.

When, after the round of statements had been taken at Queen Street and he’d finally hit the sack, Brian resolved he’d not be taken for a mug again. He’d draw a line under Maggie Laird. Keep his distance. No more cosy chats. She’d milked his long friendship with George, no two ways about it. Bev had been the same, only she’d screwed him for money. Both ways it had ended in tears.

Not that he could blame Maggie Laird. Not entirely. Woman must have been desperate, what with the debts and the pension cock-up. Still and all, a bloke would have been upfront about it. No, Brian had jumped in too soon, he saw, now. Been too compliant. They took advantage of that, women, and Maggie Laird had been no exception. She’d played him, right from the start. Wangled information out of him: stuff he should never have divulged. He’d been lucky to get off with a verbal warning from his inspector. All because he’d let his feelings get the better of him, allowed himself to be sweet-talked into letting out more than he should. Less than was culpable, he consoled himself, now. As if he, Brian Burnett, would bring the police service into disrepute, and him with twenty-odd years of faultless service…

There was an almighty clatter from upstairs, followed by total silence. Maybe one of the buggers had got knocked out. Then again it might have been a piece of furniture. Fuckit! he mouthed. Why in Christ should he care? The skanky bedsit he occupied had never been intended as more than a short-term fix.

Now, Brian resolved, the time had come to gee himself up, make a start on the next chapter of his life. The New Year would herald a fresh beginning, his first priority to get himself out of this miserable howff he’d never managed to call home. Then he’d be able to invite folk back. He’d become something of a social leper this past while, so much so the invites had dried up.

Hell, he might even find himself a woman. That wee DC Strachan seemed to be unattached. He could ask her out for a meal. No strings. Take it from there.