Investigative journalist Russell Findlay had spent decades exposing Scotland’s career criminals. In 2015 he became their target. His new book tells the astonishing story behind the attack. In this exclusive extract, he describes the morning his life changed ...

TWO days before Christmas and the red blur of a postman’s jacket could be seen through the frosted glass of my front door. I eased it open slightly and his hand passed through a Royal Mail card and pen, with a mumbled instruction to sign for an unexpected special delivery. As I turned slightly to my left and looked down to scrawl my name, a shock of cold liquid splashed upwards across my face. From my mouth came a scream of terror. A glass bottle flew past my head. Mere milliseconds had passed but my brain calmly informed me that I was under attack – that some kind of toxic liquid had been thrown in my face and that my life was in danger.

The postman was fake. The card a distraction. His special delivery, I later learned, was a bottle of sulphuric acid. His task was to blind and maim – possibly even murder.

The empty bottle was instantly followed by the postman himself, who crashed into the hallway and lunged towards me. Fight or flight? Repel him and retreat? Or meet force with force? Truth is, there was no such choice. I had to get the postman out of my home, where I lived alone with my 10-year-old daughter, who was enjoying a long lie on the first day of the school holidays. With all my strength, I expelled him back into the cold morning air. We fell out through the door in an unorthodox embrace. We tripped, pirouetted and I landed on my back. A rib cracked as the postman’s bulk collapsed on top of me, forcing the air from my lungs.

My face was burning and the skin felt tight. The taste in my mouth was foul and bitter. My right eye – doused in acid – gave the ordinary suburban street a soft white filter, as if it were a dream. I sank my teeth into his meaty head and frantically gouged at his face and eyes, TV having taught me the importance of getting his DNA under my nails. The postman scrambled to his feet and lumbered towards the road. "You’re going f***ing nowhere," I bellowed, grabbing desperately at his Royal Mail jacket, which came away in my hands like a snake’s skin. He broke free, lurching towards his idling getaway car, but he was too slow and my fingers just managed to regain their grip. We both crashed back down hard onto the monoblock driveway, where we flailed violently. I was wrestling for control – he was fighting to flee. The tables turned. I was now on top of the postman. The getaway driver panicked and drove off, leaving him stranded. I straddled the expanse of his stomach and jabbed him with my fist, hard on the face.

Over my shoulder, I saw my daughter in pyjama shorts and T-shirt, wide-eyed and frozen. Clasping her favourite stuffed toy to her chest, her face was a study of fear and confusion as her mind tried to make sense of this extraordinary scene. Her piercing cry of "Dad!" struck at my heart. I shouted at her to go to a nearby friend’s house. "Run, quickly!" She didn’t pause. Springing out of the doorway, her little bare feet almost tripped over the postman’s boots as she bravely dashed a couple of doors along, fearful that he would give chase to stop her.

She hammered the door and our friend, a lady in her 60s, opened it to the sight of a tearful and terrified little girl, her urgent plea for help so garbled as to be almost incoherent. The startled neighbour then saw me on top of a postman and I shouted that I had been attacked. I urged her to get the police and ambulance. She phoned 999 and shepherded my daughter inside to safety, where she curled up beside our friend’s pet dogs, who comforted her with gentle familiarity and warmth.

It was just past 8.30 a.m. and I was wearing only a pair of pyjama bottoms and grey T-shirt. My bare feet were bruised and shredded by the brick driveway but the adrenaline masked any pain.

Having gained the upper hand and by now utterly consumed by rage and indignation, I took the opportunity to pause, to catch my breath and to examine my attacker. With my teeth set in a clench of anger, I grinned manically at the thug trapped beneath me. As I stared into his piggy eyes, the only emotion on show was bewilderment. This was clearly not how he had seen his day unfolding. He had come to my home to inflict serious damage but had instead become my captive, now as helpless as a beached jellyfish.

I hammered my fist so hard into his face that his set of dentures flew out of his mouth and broke in two. With an amusing lack of self-awareness, he wailed: "My teeth!" Each punch was joyful and satisfactory, instant doses of justice. My only later regret was that I showed too much restraint. More appropriate perhaps would have been to dispense biblical redress by taking his sight as he had intended to take mine – an eye for an eye.

"What’s your name?"

I asked but he was mute. His fight was mostly gone and all he could do was to gob bloody chunks of phlegm at me, which ceased when I reciprocated with a foaming white blob of acidic spit. By now, the street was slowly filling with residents edging out of front doors. I barked at a man to go into my house and fetch a basin of water to rinse my face and eye. The vision in my right eye was virtually gone – everyday fine details and vivid colours had been replaced by fuzzy shapes, soft pastel tones and a hazy light.

The husband of the lady who called 999 was first at my side. He crouched beside the postman, took his wrists and pinned his arms to the ground. With my free hands, I scooped handfuls of icy water on to my face, desperately trying to wash away or dilute the cloying liquid which was eating my skin and stealing my sight. One neighbour threw the entire basin over my head, which also drenched the postman underneath me, causing him to recoil ridiculously in apparent umbrage. Another basin was filled and the rinsing continued. I could feel the burning sensation sink deeper as the acid intruded behind the orb of my eyeball. I gargled the water to try and clear the bitter phlegm seeping down my throat.

We maintained this position for at least 10 minutes but it felt much longer as I continually shouted for police and medical help. I fired questions at the postman – "What’s your name?", "Who sent you?", "Where are you from" and "How much were you paid?" In response, he offered either silence or glib replies such as, "I don’t know what you’re talking about", "I’m just a postman," and "You just attacked me". Occasional blows and threatened ones caused him to flinch but not loosen his tongue. This was clearly a man familiar with the criminal’s right of silence. His answers were rendered even more absurd by his whiny and petulant tone, like a toddler protesting innocence despite being caught scribbling on a wall.

My most important question was: "What did you throw in my face?" He offered nothing but feigned ignorance. I added: "You’d better tell me – if I end up blind, I will f***ing kill you!" but he was in no mood to talk and no amount of threats or blows elicited an answer. All he could do was hold out and pray for the police to rescue him. At one point in the interrogation, I mockingly – albeit sincerely – asked: "Why the f*** did they send a fat clown like you? Is that really all I’m worth?" The playground barbs may have hurt more than his superficial cuts and bruises.

I must have looked deranged. Dressed in pyjama bottoms on a cold winter morning, face and eye livid and ugly, sitting on top of a postman while bombarding him with questions, insults and punches.

Eventually, a police car arrived, its blue lights and sirens adding to the madness that had shattered the pre-Christmas peace. Just as the police officers were approaching, the postman snarled: "Wee Jamie sends his regards." Who was Jamie? I knew of at least two major criminals of that name. But the postman refused to say any more and was hoisted to his feet and escorted to the safety of a police van which had also appeared, soon to be joined by many more blue lights, reporters, press photographers, well-wishers and gawkers who found a reason to take a drive down a cul-de-sac. Left at the scene were his snapped dentures in a pool of blood and a genuine Royal Mail bag that matched the jacket and delivery card, all of which had to be bagged as evidence and forensically examined.

One of the young police officers asked me to talk him through exactly what had happened. It was only when I reached my front door that I saw the glint of a steak knife – a black handle with six inches of sharp, serrated steel – lying across the threshold. I suddenly realised that the pristine blade had been meant for me. If the postman had done his job properly, it would have been buried in my guts and I could now be dead. At the moment he came through my door, he had lost control of his weapon. It seems that he had just too many items to carry – acid bottle, pen, delivery card, knife. It certainly didn’t feel like it but it was my lucky day.

Acid Attack: A Journalist’s War with Organised Crime by Russell Findlay is published this week by Birlinn (£9.99, paperback) He will be appearing at the Aye Write festival on March 22 at 6pm in the CCA. For full festival programme and ticket details visit www.ayewrite.com