The Nationalist by Campbell Hart

make out the figures lurking in the background. Once his eyes adjusted to the light he scanned the room where he saw all walks of life. Young students looking for love, older men looking for company, bored bar staff, and a battered juke box. This was the Brunswick.
    “Pint please.”
    “What you for?”
    Arbogast looked at the barman, who could have been any age. Both arms were covered in fantastic tattoos, the lobes of both ears with filled with black discs. His beard was long and groomed while his hair was styled in a 50s quiff.
    “What you for? Maybe you’ve already had enough?”
    “Sorry, I was just looking at your tattoos.”
    The barman looked at his arms, impressed by what he had taken as a compliment, although that had not been the intention. He nodded his own self approval before returning his stare to Arbogast.
    “Look, do you want a drink or not?”
     
    Arbogast found a corner table and sat down. He checked his phone for a message from Rose, but there was no reception. Sighing he took a long gulp from his pint of IPA. His agitation was broken by a familiar sound.
    “Hello stranger.”
    He knew the voice but looking up he could only see the outline of a woman in dim silhouette.
    “Annabelle?”
    She leaned forward and kissed him on his right cheek. Lingering over the table she allowed him to see her breasts, their outline enhanced by a low cut dress.
    “It’s been a long time, John.”
    She still had the same scent. Issey Miyake. Without meaning to, he inhaled deeply and was overwhelmed by nostalgia.
    “I—”
    “—I know; can I sit down?”
    “Sure, I’m just in myself.”
    Annabelle had been a short lived affair around about 15 years ago, when they had both still been in their twenties. He was just starting out in the Police. She was an art student and was about five years his junior. Back then she wore only black. Before long they both knew they weren’t going to last. His lasting memory of her had been making love on a couch at the end of a long, drunken party.
    “I haven’t seen you since—”
    “—I can remember it well. I’m not likely to forget. That was a special night but then I didn’t see you again. Not until yesterday.”
    “Yesterday?”
    “On the TV, I saw you at George Square, it must have been terrible.”
    Annabelle looked better at the age of 35 than she ever had at 20. The gothic look had given way to a beauty he hadn’t really appreciated at the time. She was wearing a tight green full length dress which left little to the imagination. She wore a gold necklace with a small crucifix. Her hair was long, dark brown, something which complemented her eyes. The slightly chubby face he remembered had been toned through exercise. The girl he remembered had gone.
    “You look great Annabelle. How long’s it been?” He took another long swig on his pint, feeling nervous he wanted to drink.
    “It’s been a long time, John, too long.”
    “Are you just here yourself?”
    “Just passing through. I was expecting to meet up with some friends but they don’t seem to have made it out.”
    “I’ve had a really shitty day, Annabelle, maybe now’s not a great time to catch up.” His mind was racing. He wanted to do something to get back at Rose. He wanted to chat up Annabelle; see what happened. But he knew he should leave. If he did this, it would be the end of something. A taboo would be broken.
    “I don’t think you want to go anywhere John. Not without me.”
     
    At 2:00am Annabelle turned both mortice locks until the bolts clicked into place. She stopped and stared at the door, a moment of uncertainty. She felt his presence behind her before she felt his hands slide across the fabric of her silk dress. She flinched slightly as his hands travelled slowly to caress her stomach, gasping as he inched slowly down. His breath whispered against the back of her ear.
    “Now, where were we?”

12
     
     
     
    Graeme Donald was unveiled as the new Chief Constable of Police