Here’s a sample of my latest science fiction story, Blacker. Having developed software for the visually impaired community, it occurred to me that developing a game for the blind would be useful. Alas, with bills to pay and other commitments, I was never able to exploit the game concept. The Blacker story is based on the original idea that would have been the backbone of the game.

What you see here is very much a work in progress, but I welcome all comments. Note that Blacker has strong language and adult content.


By Richard W. Fairbairn

Chapter One: John Sloane

Someone was hammering on the flimsy plastic panel of his bedsit door.  Somehow, he’d incorporated the smoke detector’s beeping into his dreaming. He opened his eyes, trying to remember what the dream had been about. Jackie was outside, calling to him with forced restraint.  Her hand rapped against the door – threatening to crack the semi-transparent plastic sheet.

“I’m sorry,” he shouted, “I know, Jackie. I’m sorry! I’ll get it.”

“Let me in, John. It’s easier if you just open the door!”

She sounded more frustrated than angry, he thought. It was easy enough to find the door. He got to it in a few seconds. Outside, Greg shouted something that he didn’t really intend Sloane to hear. Sloane ignored the drug addict’s loathsome moans. He opened the door enough for Jackie to enter. She moved passed him pretty closely, but she careful enough not to collide with him. She didn’t say a word as she moved past him, but he turned to follow her. He could smell the smoke now. She had washed her hands using the lavender and pine soap she’d picked up. He could smell that too.

“Your shirt is inside out,” she snapped, “Damn it, John!

“I’ll put it out,” he said, “I’m sorry, let me get it. Jackie, let me put it out.”

He heard her exhale loudly. She wanted him to hear it. She was upset. He wondered what time it was. He heard her stomp across his room. Then he could hear her lift up the large glass ashtray that she’d gotten him some time back. She tapped it against something and then pounded it hard against the corner of the bed that he’d set on fire.

“You set the bed on fire,” she said sharply, “You’re going to burn us all to death. And your shirt is inside out. And now the whole building is going to smell.”

He heard her struggle with the window. Then he heard the window slide upwards and open. The cold morning air rushed in, along with the sound of the railway below.  The stink of the garbage piled up in the drying green assailed his nostrils much worse than the burning newspaper and tobacco.

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly, “I must have fallen asleep. What time is it anyway?”

“It’s almost eight o’clock,” she said, “in the morning,” she added quickly, “Greg and Cella told me that your room was on fire. Actually, Greg said you had burned to death.”

“Maybe in his fucked up loser drug addict fantasy world,” Sloane grunted, “I missed the ashtray, that’s all. And your little present ended up paying for itself. The smoke detector, I mean.”

She laughed. He could smell something else besides the old fashioned soap now. Something sweet and familiar. It was coming from her breath, he thought, or maybe she had spilled some on her clothes. He wondered why it smelled so strong, but then he realised why. She’d moved in close to him. Then her hands were on his collar.

“It’s inside out. All you need to do now is spill your ashtray all over yourself. Then you’ll be a completely hopeless case – to anyone’s eyes.”

She drew in breath too quickly, he thought. It made her mistake more evident. For the badness of it, he decided to twist the knife a little.

“Anyone’s eyes but mine.”

Her hand pushed against his chest. A little too rough to be completely playful, but not too hard that he would fall over.

“You’re breaking my heart,” Jackie whispered, “You know what I think about sympathy. If that’s what you are wanting, you will not get it from me.”

He loved the way that she pronounced her words. She spoke so carefully. The occasional flaws in her English pronunciation made him feel warm inside too. He smiled in her general direction, then waved his hands in front of his own face, clearing the smoke away. The back of his right hand bounced against something soft and round. She let out a yelp of surprise and alarm.

“That is even better,” she said boldly, “Now I am being groped by the poor, helpless, blind man who tries to burn us all to death.”

He laughed quietly.

“I’m sorry about the smoke,” he said, “The place is going to stink now.”

“The place already stinks. McQuade will not even notice – if he shows his dullard head. Which he won’t, because the shower needs to be repaired. But you need to wake up, John. You need to wake up and get your life sorted out.”

“I’m awake. I am awake,” he considered his next statement for a moment, “I’m not the one drinking Southern Comfort at eight o’clock in the morning.”

There was a moment of silence. A train rumbled by, headed for the Cathcart road station a few hundred metres east of the Victorian building. A cold Autumn wind was blowing into the room as a disgruntled wasp bumped against the closed top third of the ancient warped glass window.

“So I’m sitting in my disgusting little room drinking spirits at eight o’clock in the morning? Do you think we are living the same life? Do you think you are getting yourself confused with me?”

He laughed again, shaking his head. Again, he raised his hands. This time, they were in a defensive position.

“Keep those hands away from me!” she joked, “I know what you are up to. Anyway, you are wrong. I haven’t, of course, been drinking today. You have me confused with yourself, maybe. Hmnn?”

“Jackie, I can smell Southern Comfort from a mile away.”

“My, my. What a wonderful talent you have,” she jibed him, “Detecting booze from a distance. And drinking it too, I would guess. But you are wrong this time. It isn’t Southern Comfort. You’re smelling my perfume, perhaps.”

“It’s not that,” he said a little too quickly, “It smells just like Southern Comfort.”

She stepped away from him. He heard her close the window, but she didn’t latch it. They were on the second floor. There wasn’t any point in latching it. Besides, if anyone was going to break in it would be either Greg or Cella. But Greg was doing pretty well these days. He hadn’t tried to kill himself for a good two months. Cella was around more often than not, which Sloane supposed helped keep Greg from falling into the absolute pits of despair that drove him to his frequent bouts of theft, self-harm and limp attempts at suicide.

He heard Jackie walk back to him. She’d been standing at the window for a few seconds. He didn’t know if she had been staring out at the back ends of the Again, she moved her body close to his. Her body was closer to his than any other person’s had been in over four years. He felt his breath catch in the back of his throat.  He had to resist the temptation to lan backwards away from her. He didn’t know why. He felt his cheeks burning. Then, her hands were on his shirt collar again. She was tugging his shirt upwards and, in a moment of confused bliss, he thought that something completely different was about to happen.

“You need to get this in the wash,” she told him sternly, “You’ve got yesterday’s dinner and breakfast all over it. Give it to me and I’ll…”

She stopped talking. He’d pulled back a little too abruptly. His mouth was open,  still waiting for the kiss that he’d momentarily fantasised about.


He laughed nervously to cover his embarrassment.  He couldn’t hear her breathing anymore and realised that she was holding her breath. She released it in a long, whistling sigh.

“It’s nothing.”

“Alright. Then it is nothing,” her voice was soft. Her hands gave one final, half-hearted, tug at his collar, “But this stinks, so please take care of it.”

“Alright,” he decided that it was time to leave the subject of his personal hygiene, “What have you got on today? Anything good?”

“I have a fantastic day ahead of me, thank you for asking! First, I have to buy milk to replace the carton that Cella has stolen yet again. Then I have an interview for yet another position that I totally will not get.”

“I remember you telling me before,” Sloane said, “More hours, but further away. And don’t worry about the stolen milk. They’ve probably found some way to inject it into themselves or something.”

“I think they pour it down the sink just to spite me,” Jackie growled, “I need to get my own fridge. Anyway, listen ok? Yes, more hours and further away. But it could lead to a full time teaching position. And maybe I’ll be able to find somewhere a little nicer to live. Or somewhere suitable for human life, at least.”

“None taken.”

“You know I don’t mean you. But everything else. Absolutely everything else. If we’re not being set on fire by the drug addicts outside we’re being robbed by the ones inside the flat. The bathroom is absolutely disgusting – no matter what I do to it. The kitchen cooker is death trap. Or the parts of it that still work are. This isn’t somewhere to build a life, John. This is somewhere to… exist.”

“I don’t suppose it helps when your flatmate sets his bed on fire,” Sloane said quietly.

She didn’t say anything. He imagined what her expression was. Had he hit the nail on the head? Was he just another one of her problems?

What the fuck? Of course you’re one of her problems. She only came into the room because you were in the middle of burning the place down to the ground. She probably ranks you right up there with Greg and Cella. You’re every bit as useless to her as they are. No, it’s even worse than that. At least she doesn’t give a flying fuck about them.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” he said, “Thanks for telling me about my shirt. I’m sorry about the fire. I’m sorry that you’re stuck in this shithole. You deserve way better than this. I mean it.”

She stepped towards him again and he felt her hands move towards him. But they stopped short of his neck. He could sense them hanging in the air. They gave off a faint heat that he could feel and he detected the smell of washing up liquid and hand cream. The wildly pleasurable sensation of Jackie’s presence lingered for an eternal five or six seconds. Then her body was moving away from his yet again. The conversation was over.

“Wash the shirt,” she said, “And wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

And then she was closing the door behind herself. He listened to her walk across to her own room. She unlocked the door and closed it softly behind herself. He went to sit on the edge of his bed and stared towards the door. Ten minutes later, Jackie left the building. He could hear her heels clicking as she went down the first flight of stairs, but then the sounds were lost in the background grumble and moaning of Glasgow’s south side. The telephone in the hall rang about thirty minutes later, but nobody answered it.

 Fraser Mackay

The phone rang three more times. Greg was in his room and Sloane heard him shout for someone to answer it each time. Zena’s old room was still unoccupied and Jackie hadn’t returned from her bus ride into the city centre. Sloane didn’t want to answer the phone. He’d lived in the flat for a year and nobody had ever called him. Nobody even knew he was here.

Jackie returned to the flat just as the phone rang a fourth time. He could hear her turning her key in the lock quickly, trying to beat the phone. The door opened on the fourth ring. He heard her answer the phone and speak quietly to whoever it was on the other end of the line. He heard his own name mentioned, which surprised him. Then Jackie said a few more words that he couldn’t hear. Moments later, she tapped the wood panel of his door gently.

“Phone call.”

He found the door easily enough. He knew every last centimetre of his room. He opened the door enough for Jackie to enter, as she normally would, but she didn’t.

“Phone call,” she said, “Do you know a Fraser Mackay?”

“Fraser? Er, yeah. From way back… before.”

He touched his hands to his face, realising that he’d left his dark glasses on the edge of the bed.

“He’s on the phone?” Sloane walked back to the bed to retrieve his shades, “Jackie, can you tell him I’m not here?”

She didn’t follow him into the room. She was waiting outside. She’d never done that before. He wondered if she’d been shocked to see his eyes without the glasses. But then he recalled that she’d seen him a few times without the glasses.

“He says he’s a friend from the service,” Jackie stated, still outside the room.

“I know where he’s from,” Sloane spoke a litttle cruelly, “But I’m not… ah … I don’t want to speak to him right now.”

She made the disgruntled tut-tut that he’d grown to enjoy. He was back at the door now, opening it wider and hoping that she’d invite herself in as she usually did. But she didn’t. He could feel her there staring at him. He imagined her standing, tall, with her arms folded under her chest. Her expression might be one of confusion or frustration. It was difficult to read from the tone of her voice.

“Alright. I’ll tell him that you aren’t here,” she said, “Later you have to tell me what service Fraser is referring to. It will be a lot more interesting than my story of the day, I think. You remember? My interview?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but she jogged back to the phone. He realised that Fraser must have heard that he was, of course, in the flat. He hoped that Fraser would get the message and not call back. Somewhere in his mind, it occurred to him that Jackie wanted to talk about her job interview. He heard her dismiss the caller and place the phone back on its hook. Then she returned to his door. He was standing inside the room, waiting for her to come in, but she just stood outside. He could hear her breathing. It sounded like she was growling a little with each breath.

“Oh yeah,” he said, “You want to come in? You’re standing in the doorway like some kind of… sentinel.”

“A sentinel?”

“Yes, a sentinel. A big, foreboding presence,” he shivered with some kind of relief as he exhaled hard, “Won’t you come into the room? You’re freaking me out standing there like that.”

When she didn’t make a sound, he put his hands out by his side.

“You really have a way with words,” she said, “You sure do know how to flatter a woman.”

“Well are you going to come in? Are you mad at me for something?”

“I’m not mad at you. But I’ll have a coffee if you have time.”

“Oh I have time,” he said, “I’ve nothing planned until around midnight.”

“And then?”

He almost said something a little too rude, but his inner censor managed to kick in just in time. Instead, as she walked past him into the room, he simply mentioned that he would be trying hard to get to sleep. But it sounded equally pathetic and he expect, as she was about to, that Jackie would call him on it.

“Splendid,” she laughed, “So before I can tell you about my day, I have to listen to you demolish your own before its even begun. Did you know that it’s just past lunchtime? And you’re talking about going to bed?”

He turned the kettle on. It already had enough water in it. He figured that the electric meter had about another five or six boiling in it before he had to feed it another fifty pence. There were a half dozen or so lying on top of the meter.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, “Tell me about the interview.”

The kettle started to click and creak as Jackie told her story. It took a few minutes to boil and he made the coffee with reasonable skill.

The interview had not gone well. She was underqualified for the position and one of the other candidates had already been working as a teacher’s assistant in the school. She’d also forgotten to buy the milk. But that wasn’t so big a problem, as there was a little shop below the flat that she’d go down to later.

“Will you come down with me?”

“To Ashraf’s?” Sloane said, “I can probably manage that.”

“Well done,” she said cheerfully, “To know that I’ve managed to entice you out of the flat for even five minutes is enough to brighten my day.”

The coffee wasn’t particularly good, but Sloane enjoyed spending time with Jackie. It turned out that she was also underqualified for the position she’d pursued. That and she’d screwed up the interview a little by letting her nervousness overcome her. She conceded that travelling would have been a problem, unless she bought a car. Sloane offered to drive her, if she bought one. This made them both laugh.

He almost finished his coffee. Jackie finished hers. She said she had to do something in her room and told him that would give him time to take a shower before they went out. He took the hint, realising that was Jackie’s delicate way of telling him that he stank. He gathered up some clean clothes and took an armful, with his washbag and towel, into the bathroom. It had been four or five days since he’d had a shower and as soon as the hot water hit him he realised what he had been missing. He stayed in the shower too long and the meter that nobody ever seemed to put any money into clicked off. Luckily, he’d rinsed the soap off long minutes ago.

“Feel better?”

She was sitting in his room. On the edge of the bed, perhaps. Or maybe in the spongey armchair with the wooden armrests.

“Yes,” he said, “You let yourself in?”

“Well, you left the door open so I thought I’d let myself in before anyone else did. Are you about ready to go?”

“Is there a rush?”

“Not really. But I thought it would be nice to pop into the Albert for an afternoon drink.”

“What about the milk?”

“I’ll get that later. How long do you think you’ll take to get ready?”

“I’m ready now,” he said, “Just let me get some money.”

“What about your hair?”

He frowned and then pushed the fingers of both hands back through his damp hair.

“Ready,” he said.

He had a little money hidden in various places throughout the bedsit room. He didn’t care if Jackie knew where any of his little stashes were. The money was hidden, mostly, from Greg and especially Cella. But since he’d shown Jackie how to protect their door locks from being opened by credit cards he didn’t worry too much about the drug addicts breaking into his room. They’d fixed both their locks after Greg or (most likely) Cella had taken fifty pounds from Jackie’s room. Jackie had spent ten minutes shouting and cursing in the hall before Sloane had confronted her. That had been their first meeting, five or six weeks ago. Before that date she’d been the heavy footfalls and the occasional muttered curse he would hear in the mornings as she left the flat or the scream of anger in the evening when she went into the kitchen. Now she was the only person he’d spent any real time with in years. Whilst the idea of leaving the flat did not appeal to him, spending more quality time with Jackie would make it worth his effort.

They left the building. He felt a pang of anxiety as the smell of disinfectant drifted into his senses along with a cold, soft waft of the outside world. Petrol and diesel fumes , making their through the vennel and up two flights of stairs. A latent hint of smoke and charcoal from the fire down by the bin storage area. He was going outside. It was never easy. It was getting harder.

“You alright?”

“Yep,” he said, “I don’t know what it is, to be honest. Just feels… weird.”

She started down the stairs.

“Stay close to me,” she said, “I’ll protect you. Do you want to take my arm?”

“Okay,” he said.

He’d managed the stairs on his own eight or nine times. He could have done it without her assistance, but it was nice to feel Jackie’s arm hooked around his own and her body pressed against his. She was about an inch taller than he was and strong enough to bear his full weight if he took a tumble. But he didn’t. They made it to the bottom of the stairs with relative ease. He hoped that she wouldn’t let go of his arm. She started to pull it away from him, but he held onto her with a subtle insistence.

“Alright,” she said, “We made it this far. Ready to feel the sun on your face?”

“Go for it.”

The vennel smelled of urine, but the street smells blowing in with the chilly October air brought a cacophony of odours to Sloane’s senses. Most of them were the same ones he would enjoy when he sat on the edge of his window, wondering if the fall to the hard concrete below would be enough to kill him. The sounds of the city were different now. The traffic seemed unbearably loud. People were shouting and arguing. He felt himself tense up. Jackie gripped his arm almost roughly.

“Come on,” she sounded a little irritated, “We’re outside now.”

“That’s what I… like… about you,” he spoke loud above the noise of the Ashraf brothers arguing, “Your total lack of sympathy.”

The Albert bar wasn’t far away. They had to cross the street away from the Ashraf brothers and then walk past the hairdressers. Jackie tugged him across the road. Again, he felt she was treating him a little roughly. Was she annoyed with him? Frustrated, maybe?

“You want someone to feel sorry for you?”

It had taken her almost a minute to speak. They’d passed the hairdresser and the boarded up front of the little immigration place. She sounded like she was out of breath, but it wasn’t that. He let go of her arm. Or he sort of let go of it. The break was mutual, though he initiated it.

“You know, I don’t even know the answer to that,” he said eventually, “Maybe. I really don’t know.”

She took his arm back with a speed that surprised him. She gripped it tightly and quickened her pace. She was almost dragging him along. He stumbled, almost tripping over something large and soft and squishy. A black bag of litter at the edge of the pavement, he realised.

“Jackie you’ve gone mental,” he laughed, “What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t feel sorry for you,” she grunted.

“I know that.”

They crossed the road to the Albert bar. He recognised the sounds of football and the smell of cigarette smoke from the doorway of the Hampden bar on the other side of the road. The Albert bar was a much quieter place, especially when there was football showing at the Hampden bar.

“So if its sympathy you’re looking for…”

“I’m not looking for any sympathy,” he almost shouted, “It’s just something I said, that’s all! I’m sorry. I just thought you were being a bit rough, that’s it. Damn in, I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.”

“Alright,” she said smartly, “I don’t have it in me, John. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t believe in it. Sympathy is for the devil, remember?”

They were outside the heavy wooden doors of the Albert bar. He vaguely remembered telling Jackie, after more than a few Southern Comforts, what he thought about sympathy.

“That’s right,” he smiled, “It is. Nobody benefits from it but the devil.”

He heard the door creak open. Warm air and the smell of a stale beer soaked musty carpet drifted past Sloane’s face. She pulled him inside, but he felt embarrassed and slid his arm from under her own. She might have guessed what he was doing because she didn’t try to take his arm back. He pulled his folding cane from the inside pocket of his hip length leather coat and flicked it open. Jackie let out a surprised yelp and then she laughed a little too loudly.

“My goodness, you got me there. I didn’t think you even had one of those.”

“I don’t use it that much,” he explained, “Mostly I depend on the sympathetic to lead me around.”

She told him that he had a strange sense of humour. Then she ordered a drink for herself and his usual tipple. He hadn’t been in the Albert bar for a long time, but the middle aged and matronly barmaid remembered or knew enough to serve his drink in a short glass.

“Where do we sit?” she asked without thinking.

“Follow me,” he said, taking advantage of her slip.

With his drink in one hand and the white stick in his right, he tapped his way across from the bar to the lounge seats at the north end of the bar. There were three tables there, he remembered, and normally they were fairly empty. The Albert bar itself was a morgue most afternoons.

“Watch it!” she warned.

It was a little too late. The man coming from the bathroom collided with Sloane. But John was used to collisions and spilled only a few drops of his drink. He kept his balance too, even if he was surprised to find that strong hands catching him.

“Clumsy clod!”

He felt a mixture of emotions tripping over each other and stumbling just like his body stumbled in the dark. Surprise – and joy – at the sound of the strong man’s deep tones. Anger, at Jackie’s betrayal. Fear. Fear for no reason he could decide. Then a mixture of disappointment and embarrassment all at once.

“Fraser,” Sloane said, “Let me get you a drink.”

“I’ve got one,” Fraser Mackay said, “I’m sitting right here at this table.”

He felt Jackie touch his arm. Not to lead him. Just a touch. Gently, like a question. Somehow, he knew exactly what she wanted to know.

“It’s alright,” he said quietly, “ Let’s sit down.”

They sat down together at the corner table. Jackie was on his right and Fraser sat across from him, his back to the bar. Fraser was drinking something that smelled like Guinness. Sloane didn’t remember him ever liking that before. But he also remembered that Fraser had never been too picky about what he drank. He was still wearing the same kuoros aftershave and he was still a smoker.

“You must be Jackie,” Fraser said, “I’m Fraser.”

Sloane felt them shaking hands. Sloane wasn’t sure if Fraser leaned in to kiss Jackie’s cheek or not. He didn’t hear anything that sounded like a kiss. Jackie introduced herself a little too nervously. Sloane felt a pang of jealousy. He held a clinking sound. They’d touched glasses together. Then Fraser, damningly, whispered the word “Success”.

“I’m blind, not fucking deaf,” Sloane snapped, “And I don’t like being fucking manoeuvred like this.”

“Fucking, fucking, fucking,” Jackie scolded, “Come on, John. You guys are friends. You don’t hide from your friends.”

“Nobody was hiding. I just didn’t feel like coming to the phone.”

Fraser was laughing. The slow, deep laugh Sloane remembered from long ago. He hadn’t heard Fraser laugh since the accident.

“I’ve caused a lover’s tiff,” Fraser’s laughed, his north Yorkshire accent breaking through stronger than Sloane remembered, “Sorry, guys. I didn’t know that we weren’t all on the same page. Come on, John. Let’s have a drink.”

Sloane jumped to his feet. His knee banged against the table. It stung and he squeezed it with his left hand.

“Fucking hell!” Sloane grunted, “There aren’t any no lovers here to have a tiff, Fraze. We’re flatmates. That’s all.”

“Sit, please,” Fraser said, “I knew you were in that bedsit anyway, so don’t think Jackie here betrayed you or anything. You’ve lost a wee bit of the stealth factor, mate. I heard you telling Jackie that you weren’t home. You need to keep your voice down if you’re going to hide like that.”

“I’m not hiding from anyone!”

Nobody said anything else. The barmaid cleared her throat, indicating her displeasure with the escalating argument. John Sloane waved in the general direction of the bar.


He took a deep breath. He was annoyed that Jackie would manipulate him into meeting Fraser Mackay here, but he was also embarrassed and disappointed. He’d been looking forward to a little alone time with Jackie – outside the bedsit. And he wasn’t up to meeting with Fraser – especially not with Jackie in tow. Slowly, and still debating the decision to stay, he placed himself back into the vinyl sofa a little further away from Jackie than he had been before.

“So how have you been?”

Sloane placed his hand on the glass in front of him. It felt cold and heavy and familiar. He lifted it a half inch and turned it around before placing it back on the table. Finally, he lifted the glass to his lips and tasted the beverage carefully.

“I’m doing alright. I haven’t really done all that much for a while. Just living the quiet life, getting used to things being the way they are. What are you doing these days?”

Fraser had moved on from the SAS. He now called himself an independent security consultant working for a government agency that he couldn’t name. That was all he’d say about his employers and the exact nature of his work. Sloane wasn’t all that interested, but Jackie wanted to know a lot more than Fraser was willing to tell. Fraser told all the old stories that Sloane already knew about. Of his current life, he stayed a little sketchy. He was living in Dartford, just east of London. He was still married to Susan, whom Sloane vaguely remembered. She had been short and voluptuous. An Australian blonde with wide hips and a large smile. They had a three year old son, Matthew. They’d bought, outright, a semi-detached 3 bedroom mini mansion with a two car driveway, an apple tree and French doors leading into a dining room. He drove a black Mercedes SLK and owned a red jaguar e-type which stayed in the drive next to the Merc, covered in a plain tarp.

Sloane was jealous of just about everything Fraser Mackay told him. But worse than the jealousy was the embarrassment he felt about his own situation. Broke, unemployed and effectively imprisoned in a cheap and nasty little bedsit flat with a shared bathroom and a thin sheet of plastic protecting him from the thieves he shared the place with. He breathed a sigh of relief when Jackie excused herself to visit the ladies’ room. When he was certain that she was out of earshot, he let out a long moan and turned to his old colleague.

“I’m so glad everything’s going so well for you, Fraze. But your life makes mine look like… Fuck’s sake, your life makes my life look like it isn’t even a life. Jesus Christ, I’m glad Jackie’s gone to the…”

“I’m glad too,” Fraser interrupted, “Yep, my life is the shit and yours looks pretty fucked from where I’m sitting. But I might be able to do something about that.”

Sloane felt his heart jump to his throat. He trembled, almost visibly, as a strange sensation electrified him for a moment. There was something in the way Fraser had said his last words that made Sloane feel… hopeful. The feeling was one he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. It only lasted a moment, but in that instant Sloane had felt more alive than he had for years.

“Fuck it,” he growled, “What can you do about my situation? Unless you’ve become a secret millionaire, I don’t see my life changing any time soon. Anyway, I don’t want anybody’s handouts. I’ve got that much pride…”

“Shut it, okay? I’m not talking about a handout, John J. I’m talking about a chance for you to get back into the game. To maybe kick start some kind of life for yourself.”

“No fucking danger,” Sloane rasped, “No… fucking… danger. I was offered all that shit before after the accident. Working a desk with all the latest high tech accessibility options. I didn’t want to end up sitting…”

“I’m not talking about desk work. I’ve got a field assignment. Shit, she’s coming back,” Fraser whispered, “Look, you need to get rid of her so we can talk for a bit, okay?”

It was harder to get rid of Jackie than Sloane had ever realised it might be. He wondered if she felt protective of him or whether or not she was attracted to Fraser. But Fraser has already mentioned his wife – and their young son. Maybe she was interested in his stories. She’d often shown an interest in Sloane’s background, though he’d never shared much about his time with the armed forces. Mainly because he didn’t have many stories to tell. Fraser seemed to have a bottomless bag of stories. But Jackie eventually took the hint and slowly extricated herself from the bar. By that time, Sloane was starting on his third Southern Comfort. Fraser continued to nurse his first pint of lukewarm Guinness.

“Alright,” Fraser spoke softly, careful that the barmaid didn’t hear him, “So how are you finding being blind?”

Sloane scratched his nose. He slid his dark glasses down the bridge of his nose. Enough, he hoped, that Fraser could see his useless eyes. He waited a few seconds, uncertain if Fraser had noticed what he was doing. Apparently, the tall northerner had not.

“Tell me, then,” Fraser pushed, “How are you finding it?”

Sloane took a long swig from his glass. He laughed lightly, shaking his head.

“Well, obviously, it’s an absolute fucking laugh riot. I am completely loving every minute of it, as I’m sure you can see. I am living the dream, Fraze.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Fraser said, “I mean, are you used to it? Can you… find your way around? Have you adapted to losing your site. That girl… Janice?”


“Aye, Jackie. Do you need her to help you find your way around? And are you screwing her?”

“No and no.” Sloane groaned, “I manage just fine on my own. I’ve been blind for five years now. Its a long time.”

“That’s good.”

“It’s a real blast, Fraze.”

“No, I mean good because you’re used to it.”

“To what?”

“The darkness. To not being able to see where you are. It doesn’t freak you out.”

Sloane emptied his glass. This drink hadn’t lasted half as long as the one before. The next one wouldn’t last very long at all, he decided.

“What are you getting at?”

“God damn the fucking no smoking laws. Who’s idea was that anyway?” Fraser said, “Let’s nip out for a smoke, eh?”

“What are you getting at?” Sloane repeated, “About me being used to the darkness.”

“Let’s go for a smoke.”

“Shit,” Sloane shook his head, “Alright.”

He felt the cold air like a splash of water on his face. He heard Fraser click open the zippo lighter he habitually carried. Then he smelled unusual, strong tobacco. Fraser handed him a cigarette. He took it as they stood outside the bar. A boy racer’s oversized exhaust filled the scene with an impenetrable wall of noise. It disappeared down the road, headed for the park and crashing over speed-bumps as it went.

“Thanks,” Sloane said, “So you’re looking for someone who’s used to groping around in the dark? What’s the op? A late night blindfolded orgy party?”

“I’m not looking,” Fraser sucked his cigarette greedily, “I’m recommending. Or I have recommended you. You’re perfect for this, John. And even if you’re not, they don’t know shit about shit.”

Sloane laughed. He coughed loudly. The cigarette was strong. He recognised the blend. It was reminiscent of the Turkish blended Camel’s Fraser had smoked long ago. But these were stronger. Not altogether unpleasant, just a bit harsher on the throat.

“Who’s they.”

“It doesn’t matter. People I work with. Or people who work with the people I work with. Its all layers, these days. One hand doesn’t know what the other foot is doing. But they’re looking for someone who knows their way around in the dark. Someone who can find their way around in the dark. You’re perfect for this, John, and they’ll pay you an absolute fortune. Enough to get out of that stinking grief hole you’ve landed up in.”

A police siren sounded far away. Heading towards the city centre. Across the road, football fans cheered at a near miss.

“I haven’t done all that much lately, Fraze. I don’t know if I’m up to… whatever this is.”

“It isn’t going to be difficult, but I promise you its interesting.”

“What is it?”

“Can’t say. Not unless you tell me that you’ll do it.”

“Do what?”

“I want to tell you. It’s pretty exciting. But I can’t.”

“Fuck’s sake!”

“It’s one or maybe two weeks of work,” Fraser explained, “With a five figure payoff. Five figures. And a high five figure at that. But I need to know if you’re in or not.”

Sloane had to smoke his cigarette carefully. Despite the fact that he was generally smoking second hand tobacco wrapped in newspaper, Fraser’s new Turkish blend was really rough. He thought about Fraser’s cryptic offer.  He was nervous to agree to anything. He wanted to make some kind of excuse to get away from Fraser and back to his bedsit.

“I don’t know. I need to think about it.”

“There isn’t time. I can’t be more specific than that right now, but there isn’t the time. You need to tell me that you’re in and we need to be in Inverness before the end of the day.”

“Shit, Fraze, I’m not up to that,” Sloane blurted, “I’m… I can’t just leave here. I… I haven’t gone anywhere or done anything for years. I’ll be honest with you Fraser; I’m pretty fucked up.”

“So what’s new?”

“I’m a mess. I’m a wreck.”

“Five figures, John,” Fraser said, “It’s a lot of money. A chance to start over. I’ll watch out for you, mate. Trust me.”

“Can’t you just tell me what its all about? Why do you need to be so weird about it?”

Fraser laughed. He tossed his cigarette away. Sloane felt it tumble through the air in front of his nose.

“It’s all weird, John,” he said, “Come on, lets get another some more drinks in.”

They went back into the bar. Sloane still had a half glass of Southern left but he finished it quickly to get his fourth drink. This time there wasn’t any ice left, which annoyed. The lemonade wasn’t completely flat, but it was getting there.

“Inverness? How will we get there?”

“We’ll drive up just as soon as you decide,” Fraser enthused, “Three hours and we’ll be there. We’ve got a beautiful place to stay. Just north of the city. Just tell me that you’re in.”

“I don’t know if I can just leave here,” Sloane verbalised his fears, “I don’t know what’ll happen to my benefits. My rent.”

“Fuck it all,” Fraser said cheerfully, sensing that Sloane was leaning towards a positive decision, “Really, mate, just fuck it. John, you’re wearing your breakfast all over your shirt. You haven’t shaved in fuck knows how long. Your breath smells like anus, man. Like a unwiped sweating anus! So who gives a fucking fuck about the rent or the benefit office?”

Sloane swallowed most of his drink, the Turkish cigarette still making his throat ache.

“My breath is really that bad?”

“Aye! I can’t believe Janice didn’t even tell you about it before now.”

Jackie,” Sloane corrected automatically, “I can’t believe she didn’t tell me about my shirt,” He laughed suddenly, like a cough “Anus breath. I like that.”

“Aye, I’ve still got it,” Fraser said, “So are you coming with me to Inverness, or are you going to stay here in this grief hole.”

“I don’t know,” Sloane breathed, “It’s a lot to think about.”

“Its two weeks of work, tops,” Fraser pushed.

“What do you want me to do? What’s it all about?”

“Consultancy. The people I work with need a blind guy.”

“For what? Experiments and shit?”

“Nothing like that.”

Fraser’s breath smelled of Guinness mixed with the strong, distinctive Turkish tobacco. Sloane leaned away from his old buddy to avoid the other odour coming from Fraser’s mouth. He was losing a tooth somewhere. The combination of smells was revolting.

“Then what is it all about? You have to give me some kind of hint before I decide.”

“Christ, you’re hard to get. Five figures. That’s tens of thousands of pounds. You can buy yourself all the tarts you want for that kind of money. And you can maybe get a decent place to live. This will be brilliant for you. I can’t say much more than they need someone who can’t see. They’re not going to poke you with needles or make you jump through hoops. They needed a blind guy and I thought about you.”

“For what?”

“That I can’t tell you about  – unless you tell me that you’re in.”

Sloane sat silently for a moment. He didn’t know what he was doing in the little bedsit flat. He was alone there, save for Jackie. And Jackie was doing everything in her power to get out of the place. Then he’d be totally and completely alone. She had no idea what kind of sad case he had become. He’d been careful not to talk too much about the old days. Jackie was interested, but he never told her much. It kept her coming back. Or so he thought. There was also the fact that she felt sorry for him, even if she often told him that she didn’t believe in sympathy.

“Two weeks?”

He’d known her for almost a year. They spoke almost daily. They were friends. Surely she wouldn’t disappear if he left for two weeks… And she might think a little more of him. And the money. The money.

“It’s a lot of cash,” Sloane said, “Feels like it has to be something pretty dangerous.”

“It isn’t. Look, they just need your skills as a blind man. Nothing more than that.”

“My skills as a blind man?”

“Finding your way around and shit, I guess.”

“Fraser, I don’t even have any skills like that. What do you think when you lose your sight you become super sensitive with all your other senses? I don’t even know if I’d have made it here without Jackie’s help. I’m sort of a mess these days.”

There was a long pause. Too long. Sloane could feel Fraser’s eyes looking him over. He could almost see the thick, black eyebrows furrowed as Fraser surveyed the ramshackle appearance of his old friend.

“Aye, but you’d find your way back to the flat if you needed to, wouldn’t you?”

Sloane hesitated. He nodded his head slowly.

“Usually Jackie is with me,” he said, “But I’ve come here a few times on my own.”

The last part was a lie. He’d come alone only once before. It had been over a year ago now.  He’d become disoriented before he’d gotten past the Hampden bar. He’d ended up at the Mosque at the end of Dixon avenue, a quarter mile away. A quiet Asian woman had guided him back to the Albert. He’d stayed there until Jackie had come home from work. She had not been as impressed with his display of independence as he’d hoped. In fact, she’d not even mentioned his adventure. She’d simply told him that she’d assumed, after all the time he’d been blind, that he was already finding his way around. She had been quite right. In five years he should have been able to make his way around the whole city, but he’d spent most of those years hiding in his little bedsit.

“Alright, let’s have a go at it,” Fraser said, excitedly. “Let’s just go and do that right now.”

The Southern Comforts had served to settle Sloane’s nerves. He would have said no. But suddenly the idea of finding his own way back to the flat seemed more amusing than challenging. At the very least, it would give Fraser an indication of what being blind was all about.

“Okay,” Sloane said eventually, “Let me fascinate you with my skills.”

They left the bar. Fraser stayed behind Sloane as they reached the heavy door. Sloane could hear him breathing noisily. Then the door opened and the noise of the city washed over him like a wave. A heavy vehicle moving along Pollockshaws road. Something too large for this part of the city, Sloane thought. It vibrated the walls and windows even two streets away. Closer, the murmur of voices in the Albert bar. Voices to the right. Maybe five metres away. A couple of Asian women talking about something in English with a smattering of words that Sloane couldn’t make out. A diesel engine car or van passed by slowly, as if the driver was looking for something. Sloane heard the ting of a cyclist’s bell. He braced himself instinctively, sensing that the bike was on the pavement. It passed by in front of him, Fraser cursing a little too loudly as the cyclist weaved around on the pavement.

“Here we go,” Sloane spoke, “Now, watch this.”

He flicked open his white cane and started walking towards the kerb. He felt confident. And it felt good to have Fraser around. The drink had removed the nervous embarrassment he’d felt about meeting his old friend. Now, the journey home actually felt like it might be a bit of fun.

Fraser touched his arm, his touch resting there too long. Sloane started forward, tapping the stick against the paving slabs. He didn’t use the stick all that often. It took him a few tries to keep the tip from getting stuck in the cracks in the paving stones.

“We’re off”, Sloane said, “There’s no need to hold onto me.”

“I like it,” Fraser said, “It feels romantic.”


Crossing the Albert road was easy enough. Sloane waited between parked cars as three cars whizzed by. A fourth slowed down and the driver thought about stopping for him, but didn’t. Then there was a space in the traffic – apart from the cyclist that Sloane did not hear until the bike almost ploughed into him. He stepped back a pace, pushing Fraser off balance. The bike soared past, its bell chiming gently as an apology. Sloane felt Fraser close behind him again. He stepped out from between the parked cars and into the road. Then, distractingly, Fraser was speaking.

“So, how often do you get shagged when you’re a blind guy?”

Sloane laughed, shaking his head. He continued across the road. It was only a few metres wide. He guessed, correctly, that a parked car would block their path. He discovered the lower part of the car’s sill with the lower part of his white stick.

“Not very often,” he replied as he negotiated the obstacle, “Are you offering? You might have gone that way, but I’m still straight.”

“Maybe later,” Fraser replied, “Maybe never. You’re doing a pretty good job of this van here.”

“Okay, now that helps a bit,” Sloane said, “I thought it was a car. Now I just need to find my way round.”

“Go on then. But how often do you get any? I guess you’re not with that tall bird, what’s her name?”


“Aye. So how often are you two… ah… doing it.”

Sloane found the front bumper of the van and started working his way round to the front of it. There was another vehicle parked close to the van, but there was enough room to squeeze through.

“I… don’t know.”

“You don’t know what? If you’re having sex with her?”

“That wasn’t the question, I thought. But, no, we’re not anything. She lives in the same flat. In one of the rooms. It’s a bedsit. We share the kitchen and the bathroom. We’re kind of panda friends.”

“I know what a bedsit is,” Fraser said, “So you’re not getting any right now? She’s pretty hot. Not that it matters to you now. Or does it? Can you… tell if a bird is hot or not?”

“I can tell,” Sloane said. He wasn’t really sure if he could or not.

Sloane turned right. There were voices approaching. Young adults arguing about something on Youtube. The Hampden bar was on the left, almost as noisy as the group of three or four that swarmed past him. The air was thick with smoke from a few quiet smokers somewhere outside the popular bar.

“Let me concentrate,” Sloane said nervously, “We’re on Albert road. Need to turn left onto Albert drive. It isn’t that far.”

It was further than Sloane remembered. He only realised that he’d missed Albert drive when he smelled the kebab shop on the next street. He’d never known what that street was called. There was a bar opposite the kebab place. It was a little more up market than the Hampden and Albert pubs. Fraser didn’t seem concerned that they’d taken a detour. He became excited about the idea of getting a kebab.

“Haven’t had one in years,” he said, “Looks like you do know where you’re going after all. You instinctively led us here.”

“Maybe,” Sloane agreed, “To be honest, I’m surprised this place is still here. It’s been about ten years since I’ve been to it. And that was just that once, with an old friend – Paul. They do pretty nice kebabs, even if we were usually too drunk to enjoy them.”

“Who’s Paul?”

“An old friend. I met him when I lived in the Dixon Avenue bedsit. He was a Royal Highland Fusilier who’d just left the army. A heavy drinker. We lost touch a long, long time ago.”

Sloane paused. He’d been Paul’s drinking buddy after moving into Dixon Avenue. Their friendship had been based around Paul’s alcoholism and the almost abundant free supply of wine, lager and cider.

“It was the top floor flat across the road from the Mosque. Just round the corner. You visited me there before you joined the army. About ten years ago, I think. You were working in Germany. Do you remember? You were going to get me a job there.”

“I don’t remember,” Fraser said, “I remember Germany. Did I say I’d get you a job?”

“Yes, for fuck’s sake. I had to go get a passport. I wandered about the passport office for about four hours waiting to get one. Then I couldn’t get in touch with you anymore. Don’t you remember? Darf eek herr Fraser Mackay sprecken? You told me to say.”

The kebab shop owner served them both, interrupting the conversation. Fraser left the ordering to Sloane. In fact, Fraser had made his way between the two plastic takes back to the heavy glass door again. He heard it open.

“I remember Germany. Burning steel for twenty four hundred deutschmarks a week. Good, good money. I fucking blew every bit of it. But it was a fun time. I can remember coming to see you now. We came here, didn’t we?”


“Okay. Anyway, can you manage here a minute? I have to go get something.”

Sloane nodded slowly. He knew where Fraser was going. Ten minutes later, he’d started to eat his own lamb doner kebab whilst Fraser’s stayed warmer still wrapped in its packaging. Fraser returned and thumped the crate of beer down on the table’s surface.

“Yep,” Sloane smiled, “I thought that’s where you were going.”

Chapter Two: Jackie Glenn

Someone was hammering on the flimsy plastic panel of his bedsit door.  Sloane blinked and coughed. He was lying on top of his little bed. As he went to the door, he tripped over Fraser Mackay’s sleeping body. There was a pile of beer cans in the way too. Some of them were not empty. Sloane stumbled through them as Fraser moaned and Jackie’s palm slapped against the plastic panel.

“It’s four o’clock in the effing morning!” he heard her say, “This is getting ridiculous, John! Come on, open up!”

He was trying his best, but stumbling over the discarded refuse of the previous night put him in the wrong corner of the room.  Jackie’s slapping brought him back round to where he wanted to be, but he kicked Fraser in the side of the head this time as he passed. Fraser swore at him. Sloane reached the door and fumbled with the lock. It opened. He thought that he felt Jackie push past him, but it was someone else. A heavy body with hard soled shoes. And there was a second man of smaller stature. This man sidled past Sloane carefully with more care. Meanwhile, Jackie was trying to get into the room. But someone was pushing her back out. It was the big man, Sloane realised. The door was closing. Jackie was pushing against it from the outside, grunting quietly. Sloane leaned forward, finding the door handle. He tensed the once powerful muscles of his right arm.

“The lady doesn’t need to be involved in this,” the big man grunted. His accent belonged to the south of England. Every word was carefully spoken. Sloane couldn’t decide if the man had speech problems or if he was trying to sound menacing.

“She’s already involved,” Sloane said.

The push and pull contest went on for a few more seconds. Then Sloane sensed movement from the centre of the room. The smaller man had made some kind of signal or gesture. The pressure on the door disappeared. Jackie moved into the room.

“Jack,” it was Fraser’s voice, but he was still somewhere on the floor, “Oh fuck, what’s going on?”

“The situation has changed,” the smaller man replied. He was an American. Much younger sounding than the middle aged mountain man that accompanied him, “We have to leave immediately.”

“What situation?” Jackie asked, “Leave for where?”

Sloane could hear Fraser staggering around. Empty cans of beer were going everywhere. There was a thud as what could only have been the ashtray hit the floor.

“John?” Jackie pushed, “Leave for where?”

“I didn’t know… sorry. I didn’t know you were talking to me,” Sloane said quietly, “Ah, I don’t know where…”

“Miss, I’m afraid that this is not any of your business,” the big man said, “Do you mind leaving the room so we can…”

“Thank you, Sharpe,” Jack interrupted with calm authority, “This will move much more smoothly if we just keep things nice and calm. Mr Sloane, I presume? I’m Jack Biehn. This is my associate Taylor Sharpe. I’m afraid that there’s been a development. We need to leave right away. Please, would you come with me. I’m sorry, Miss. I didn’t catch your second name,”

“Its Glenn,” Jackie replied, “Jackie Glenn.”

“Well, Miss Glenn, this is what we would call a matter of national security. I’m not sure how much Mr Sloane has told you…”

“Everything,” Jackie lied, “I know everything.”

Fraser coughed. Sloane heard the sound of the brass lighter working. He reached an arm out towards the sound. He could feel the heat from the zippo’s flame. He could smell the heavy smell of petrol. He heard the lighter snap shut again. Fraser handed him the lit cigarette. Sloane brought it to his lips and inhaled greedily.

“There’s to be no smoking in the car,” Sharpe gruffed.

”We’ll toss them before we get to the car,” Fraser said, “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“I’m coming too. I know everything about this already anyway,” Jackie spoke with flawless assuredness, “So I’m coming with you guys. Whether you like it or not.”

“How can you know everything about this?” Sharpe almost laughed, “I bloody don’t even know everything about this?”

Sloane heard Jackie draw a slow breath. She didn’t know what to say next, he thought. She was making a little time for herself. In the end, she didn’t need the pause.

“I’m sorry, Miss Glenn, but that won’t be possible.” Biehn interjected, “I wish we did have room for everyone, but we just don’t. So I’m afraid you’ll have to find something else to do with yourself this morning. Mr Sloane? Will you come with us now?”

Jackie didn’t rise to Biehn’s insult. Sloane felt her tugging with discreet insistence at his sleeve.

“What’s going on, John?”  she whispered.

“I don’t know,” he said in her general direction, “I don’t know what’s going on here. No more than you do.”

There was a third man, Sloane realised. He’d been standing outside the room the whole time, but only now was stepping inside. Sloane could smell kuoros aftershave. Fraser had worn the scent years earlier when they’d become friends. But not anymore. There was a strong smell of medicated shampoo. Something that smelled like a bad sinus infection. The kuoros mixed with the shampoo smelled quite disgusting.

“Miss Glenn, my name is Robert Hall. Bob Hall,” the voice was young and cheerful. An overly caffeinated Starbucks employee or an Asda store nightshift worker who’d been smoking crystal meth during his toilet break, “I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have. Just think of me as your personal liaison. That goes for all of you guys.”

Sloane wondered who the Hell Robert Hall was talking to. He realised that some of the other doors in the bedsit had opened. Sleepy, drunken and confused faces must have been peeking out. Suddenly, Sloane felt a strong arm hooking under his elbow.

“Time to leave,” Sharpe grunted, pulling Sloane towards the door.

“For fuck’s sake!” Fraser said, “You can knock that off. We’re fucking coming.”

“Cigarettes out!” Sharpe snapped.

Sloane relaxed his arm enough form the big man to loosen his grip. Then he pulled it away with a swift motion. He stepped away from the big man. He felt Fraser’s hands on his shoulders.

“Easy big man,” Fraser said, “Sharpe, just get the fuck away from him. We’re coming. But we’re going to finish our smokes first.”

“John, I want to come with you!” Jackie said.

Sloane turned to her. He frowned. He didn’t understand why she wanted to come.

“It’s alright,” he said, “If there isn’t room, you should stay.”

Sloane felt Sharpe’s fingers touching his elbow again. Then there was a rush of air in front of his face as Fraser’s hand left his shoulder. He heard Sharpe gasp in shock and anger.

“I said fucking leave it,” Fraser snarled, “I meant it. For fuck’s sake, Jack, can’t you control your dog?”

“Alright,” Jack Biehn sounded impatient, “We’re wasting valuable time here. Mr Sharpe, as we faff around in this dingy little shithole our time is slipping away. Smoking or non smoking? It doesn’t matter. Let’s all of us just get out of here while we still can.”

Biehn’s words affected Sharpe. Sloane felt the big man’s presence receding and, finally, he could hear the big man’s footsteps retreating out of the flat. The outer door opened and Sloane could hear Sharpe’s hard soled boots thundering down the concreate steps.

Biehn’s breathing sounded ragged, like he’d just finished a sprint. His exhalations were heavy and quavered with tension.

“Gentlemen? Shall we please get on with this?” he said, “I know enough to tell you that we really are running out of time. Mr Sloane, you’ve obviously agreed to help us out. Well, if you’re going to be of any help at all we need to leave immediately.”

Sloane smoked his cigarette. A long, hard drag. He could feel the heat from the burning edge close to his knuckles. Fraser’s left hand was still on his shoulder. He felt the long fingers tapping him there.

“I’m ready when you are,” Fraser said, “Nice meeting you, Jackie.”

That’s it for now. I’m working on this right now. If you’d like to find out more, Contact Me.

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