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views on domestic abuse – abusers aren’t looking for a marriage licence, they need a dog licence. He started to sob, big heart-rending sobs. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me up there in the cold early hours of the morning holding his hand and telling him everything was going to be all right.
    ‘Hold on. I’m coming,’ I told him.
    ‘Brodie, I came out in such a rush I forgot my angina tablets, I phoned Moses and he’s picked them up. I said you’d stop and collect them.’
    ‘Okay, keep calm … I’m coming.’
    I owed Malcolm big time; he’d patched me up physically and mentally on more than one occasion. I needed to get to St Leonards quickly but I’d never get a taxi at this time of the night or year. I pulled back the curtains and saw the cobbles shining with ice. Despite that, I still decided to take the Fat Boy. This decision was influenced by the fact I could see exactly where my leathers were. I stumbled around, pulling on my trousers, and accidentally bumped into one of the grotesque decorations Louisa had put in my room – a fat dancing Santa. A nasally sound that was meant to be Elvis singing ‘Lonely This Christmas’ echoed around the room.
    That finally got the attention of the man in my bed. He sat up and scratched his head.
    ‘Please tell me we did?’ he said – though it was clear from the look on his face that he remembered all too well.
    Jack Deans was back in town.

Chapter Six
     
     
    Cumberland Street, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 1 a.m.
    ‘All I knew, Brodie, was that I missed you.’
    Jack Deans. Investigative reporter, ex-rugby player, and my booty call, was getting serious.
    ‘I missed you, Brodie.’
    ‘Yeah. You said.’
    I was running around like a headless chicken trying to get ready to leave for the police station. As usual I couldn’t find anything and I was making another promise to myself to be more organized.
    ‘You’re a bloody infuriating woman, do you know that?’
    ‘So people keep telling me.’ I pushed my feet into my bike boots.
    ‘You make me so mad but all the time I was in Darfur, I wanted to talk to you, to run stories past you, to get your opinion – even if the only one you ever seem to have is that I should shut up.’
    He looked at me, waiting for an answer or encouragement – I couldn’t give it to him. The safest way was to continue ignoring him. I rifled through a bag searching for my keys – Malcolm was waiting and I needed to see Moses on my way to St Leonards.
    He sat up in bed and a shaft of light came in the window. He was tanned, lean and, in this light, without my contact lenses, did a fair impersonation of George Clooney’s less attractive brother playing a war correspondent.
    ‘Brodie – this has been going on too long … Is there any point in me taking all this crap from you – always ending up back in your bed?’ I wanted to object to his use of the word ‘always’, but maybe he had a point. I thought I was safe with Jack; Mr Deans was definitely not the marrying type. Was I wrong? It’s sod’s law. Whenever you’re not looking for commitment they come running – it’s the same principle as buses.
    ‘I’ve spent the last few hours watching you wrestle demons in your sleep, wanting to hold you and make it all better, and knowing there’s no point in me even trying. That’s not my job is it? That’s for Glasgow Joe to do.’
    He was trying to look all appealing and sad, but that was never really the type I went for. I liked him rough and uncommitted, and I liked him knowing where the door was as soon as we’d finished having sex. He wasn’t playing ball at all.
    ‘Brodie …’ he began. Again.
    I held my finger up to him. ‘Uh! No!’ I barked, as if he was a leg-rubbing puppy (which was a pretty accurate description, come to think of it). ‘There was never a point when I said I wanted to hear another word from you, Jack.’
    ‘You weren’t complaining a couple of hours ago,’ he replied,