by Irvine Welsh
Anticipating what I’m going to say he carries on, –Yes, I’ll be a pen-pusher in a dull, no-risk, no-fun job . . . and I can’t wait! I’ve had it Bruce. I’ll leave the Sweeney-type stuff to you cowboys! I’m hanging up my baton and cuffs and getting to know the simple beauty of this little felly here, he smiles, holding up a pen.
– If that’s what you want, nice one, I say, raising my cup and loathing the smugness of the spastic. I drain it, and turn to Lennox. – Ready Ray?
– Cool, Lennox says.
I get a raging anxiety attack. I’ve got to get out of this place now. I’m bounding downstairs and out towards the car park and Ray has to get a bend on to keep up.
I Get A Little Sentimental Over You
I’m happier by the time we’ve started up the motor. Just getting out of that shithoose restores your perspective. We take a slow drive down Leith Walk. I’ve got the radio on, as I’m reluctant to start an argument with Ray over rock. He’s a pedantic fucker when it comes to music and he kens nowt about it. Lyn Paul, formerly of the New Seekers is singing ‘I Get A Little Sentimental Over You’. Lyn’s solo career never really took off. I think about mentioning this to Ray but decide that it would be pointless. I mean, why bother? I’m feeling better though, more focused. My anxiety attack has abated, as it tends to do when the scent of the hunt takes over.
We pull up outside Ocky’s flat and I get out and ring the bell. No reply. I hope we’ve no missed him with Drummond and her dykey casual moll pals wasting our time. We go back into the car and wait for a bit. There’s a baker’s on the corner, so Ray nips over and comes back with some sausage rolls with vanilla slices for dessert, washed down by strong coffee in a styrofoam cup. It gets rid of the taste of Clell’s cheap champers which merged with the bi-carb of Lennox’s pills to form a corrosive, acrid bilge in my gut. I burp.
– Looks like we’ve got those jakeys in that new age crowd bang to rights Robbo. That fucking Sunrise Community, or whatever they call themselves, Ray’s telling me.
– Fuckin well time n aw Ray. These things are springing up everywhere. It’s a threat to the great British way of life and it has to be stopped before it gets a toehold. Cunts think they can live just by looking after each other and dancing to fuckin music. They just want to hypnotise the young cunts with these free parties and get them on drugs. They havenae even got a fuckin telly in that farmhoose. They can afford a huge fuckin sound system, but they cannae afford a telly!
– Scumbags, Lennox shakes his head.
– Mind you, I admit, – they made a good job of doing it up. It was derelict before they got it. I’ll need tae git the cunts roond tae dae up ma hoose!
– It’ll be fuckin well derelict again soon. One of the guys that lives there, that Colin Moss, white, male, six-one, thin, filthy brown-blonde dreads, bad skin, green combat jacket, ripped jeans and boots; he’s been seen coming in and out the flats in Leith. Where Allan and Richards live. We’ll do the cunts. Turn over the flat, then the farmhoose. If there isnae any collies there when we arrive, there will be when we turn the place over.
– Tip me off when the action takes place Ray, I tell him. – I’d like to be in on that one.
The job can be satisfying.
I’ve just downed the last of my coffee when I clock Ocky in the rear mirror, he’s coming towards the flat with a wee bird. They’re wrapped up in each other. Dirty wee cunt. Mister Ockenden is sporting a fur-lined, dark blue corduroy jacket and a pair of blue jeans. He’s about five-ten, five-eleven with striking blond hair and slightly girlish features. His girlfriend is a cracker, slim, five-sixish and exactly the same sort of blonde as him. You could take them for brother and sister. In fact ah widnae put it past that dirty wee cunt tae be shagging his sister!
– Tidy wee piece, Ray says, noting the scene. All that posh he does still hasn’t strung him out or blunted his edge. Yet.
– Wee being the operative word. This is a stoat-the-baw situ. Ye reckon?
Ray looks at her, narrowing his eyes and curling his lip outwards. – Always hard tae tell. Curvy wee erse . . . he observes as they pass us.
– Never mind the fuckin erse, did ye clock her coupon? A wee fuckin bairn!
– Possible, Ray agrees, – A borderline case. There or thereaboots.
– Nae question. Forty sheets at five tae one, I’d gie ye.
Lennox shrugs and starts tae crap his breeks.
– C’mon Ray, double score. Five tae one, I urge.
– Naw, mibbee yir right, he concedes.
Too right I am. When it comes tae money doon, he’s no bottle. Doesn’t trust his instincts, that’s why, as smart as he may be, the Lennoxes of this world will never oust the Robertsons.
– What dae ye want tae dae? he asks.
– Steam in Ray, I tell him. – Just what these cunts dae. Only nae cunt steams in like the polis. We’re the hardest firm in this toon, and it’s time these scumbags realised it.
– We have to watch here Robbo . . . Ray’s bricking it.
– Baws. Same rules apply. C’mon. We use The Beast routine, that’ll spook the cunt.
I know The Beast routine off by heart. I should fuckin know it.
– Aye . . . Ray raises his eyebrows doubtfully but he’s getting out of the car with me, and by the time he hits the stair, he’s aw fired up, bouncing with adrenalin, taking these steps three at a time, almost squashing a stunned cat which jumps out from under his feet. It’s knocking on this old cat, getting slow. The stair fairly reeks of its pish.
We halt outside the door to get our puff back. – Reckon he’ll be giving it one by now? I ask.
– I would think so. They were practically gaun for it gaun intae the fuckin stair. Lennox looks at me and then hesitates: – . . . Want a line?
– Right, I nod, looking around as Ray puts some posh on the corner of his credit card and takes a rough hit up that hooter.
I look a bit doubtful, not wanting my nose cavities fucked by roughage. – It’s okay, this is good. It’s as fine as fuck, Ray says, his eyes watering as he sniffs and sniffs.
I take a whack, and it is good stuff; that sweet smell in my head, my face numbing, a surge of power flowing through me. Time for action.
I rap heavily on the door. Once, twice, three times. I hear a whingy voice, – Awright, awright! Ah’m comin.
Ocky, aka Brian Ockenden, aka soft little twat with a gob who got in too deep, opens the door in his t-shirt and boxer shorts. His mouth and eyes widen in shock.
– Mister Ockenden. Hello, I smile pushing past him into the hallway.
– You cannae come in . . .
– SHUT THE FUCK UP! Ray screams in his face, causing him to recoil. Lennox’s puffed himself up and he’s standing right over Ocky who’s aw cowed and bent. – You fuckin well speak when you are spoken to or I’ll fuckin well have you right now! Get it!
This wretched wee cunt looks at him, trying to summon up a bit of defiance.
– I ASKED DO YOU FUCKIN GET IT! Ray roars, and Ocky buckles a little bit more.
– Aye . . . cool it man, ah’ve no done nowt . . . he whimpers.
– You’re in serious bother mate, Ray says, closing the door and shaking his head in disgust.
– Cool it Ray, I say, putting a protective arm around Ocky’s shoulder. – Stay here a minute. Where’s the bedroom? I whisper.
– It’s . . . he looks sideways, – . . . but thir’s somebody in thair . . .
– It’s awright, I tell him with a matey grin. I open the bedroom door, and the lassie’s sitting up in the bed with her t-shirt on. I go in, shutting the door behind me.
– What’s this? she asks. – Who are you?
– Police, I say, whipping out my ID – Do not attempt to leave this room. Do you understand? What is your name?
– I don’t have to say anything to you . . .
She’s a wee honey. Still got those fetching freckles. – Make it easy on yourself hen, I advise, then with urgency ask, – How old are you?
>
– Sixteen, she says, lying.
– Any ID? I look towards a shoulder bag on the bedside locker.
Her cool’s blown. Her eyes are like the satellite dishes on Tom Stronach’s ootside wall. – Fifteen . . . but I’ll be sixteen in September, she says hastily. Too hastily. Too quick to admit it. I wonder why she doesnae want me in that bag.
– Your boyfriend’s broken the law if he’s had intercourse with you. Has he? I ask, moving closer to get a wee scan of those titties under that T. Not large, but certainly firm enough. Yo ho ho and a barrel full of fun.
She moves back against the headboard a little and pulls the duvet up over her chest. The colour fairly drains from her face though, as I reach over and grab the bag, pouring its contents out on to the bed. This unearths a small plastic bag with what is obviously Ecstasy tablets in them.
– I . . . I didn’t . . . she’s stammering. She’s lost it now.
– D.S. Lennox! I shout, and Ray comes through. I hold the bag of pills up to him. – Looks like MDMA tablets to me. Note that they were found on this girl’s person. At least six hundred milligrams. Please also note that this girl is under the legal age of consent.
– Check, Ray says, exiting.
– You stay here, I say pocketing the pills. – You’re in very serious trouble. What did you say your name was?
– Stephanie . . . she says sheepishly, hugging her knees up into her chest and letting her chin rest on them. Her hair tumbles forward. She pulls one side back and secures it behind her ear.
– Stephanie what?
– Stephanie Donaldson . . .
– Well Stephanie Donaldson, I’ll leave you to think about how silly you’ve been. You’re going to have to give us a wee bit of co-operation here my girl.
A whole fuckin loat ay co-operation. Stephanie Donaldson. Hmmm.
She sits stiffly up in the bed and I go through to see how Ray’s doing. He’s got Ocky in the front room.
– Judges are coming doon hard as fuck on stoat-the-baw, Ray’s telling him.
– I thoat she wis sixteen. She telt me she wis, Ocky protests, then smiles at me, an all-lads-together smile.
I give him a hangman’s smile in return. I run my finger across my throat and make a crackling, slavering sound. – Sorry mate, but as Ray here says, this isnae the time tae be done for stoat; no now, no wi aw that paedophile stuff in the papers. It’s fair goat the magistrates oan the warpath, aw that palaver. Stoat man, thir daein time for it right now. Only aboot a year or so, which means six months. Nae real bother tae you. Mind you, this is posh fanny, so add oan a year. Which makes it a whole year inside.
He’s no looking too happy.
Ray chips in, – Aw aye, Ocky here could handle twelve months inside, eftir aw, every cunt loves a stoat-the-baw. A wee bit ay tackle pits oan some make-up, aw the red-blooded males in Saughton understand the score. A standing prick hath no conscience, Ray smiles, a cold, ghostly grin. – They always ask aboot the ride, the other boys inside. What was she like? Did she have big tits? Schoolie’s uniform? Lennox laughs, a dry cackle. He pulls a bogey down from his beak and examines it to see if any posh has got caught up in the mucus. Satisfied that it’s clean, he rolls it between the forefinger and the thumb, wringing out the moisture, and flicks it on to Ocky’s carpet. He stares at Ocky for a bit and shakes his heid. – Six months for a ride though, doesnae really bear thinkin aboot, eh no? Hope it wis a good one mate. Be yir last for a while.
– No necessarily, I chip in. – Cause, aye, they aw love a stoat-the-baw. Problem is, that thir’s a thin dividin line between a stoat-the-baw and a nonce. Ye tend tae get a loat ay fishermen’s tales oan the inside, only wi stoat, the size goes doon the wey instead ay up the wey, I spraff, in a pally, trade-secret sharing way as I push my palms together.
– Thing is, Ray says, – see if somebody fae the polis was tae tell a screw like Ronnie McArthur, a strict freemason and staunch family man, that the lassie was eleven . . . or ten . . . or even eight . . .
– Ah know what you’re gaunny say Ray: the poor cunt’s life wouldnae be worth livin. He’d be taken to The Beast’s wing in Saughton. But ah dunno any polisman, any professional in policework who would stoop that low, I tell him, widening my eyes and extending my palms and looking around.
– For the greater good though Bruce, Ray agrees, advancing his proposition, – suppose that this stoat-the-baw had access to certain information and had the potential to help the police with a major investigation but refused to do so . . . you and Ronnie McArthur are pretty tight, aren’t ye Robbo?
– In the craft, aye, I nod, switching my glance to Ocky. This cunt is shiteing it. I let the fucker stew and have a wee scan for potential knock-off. This cunt though: fuck all worth chorrin.
– C’moan boys . . . he pleads.
– Ye see Ocky, thir’s this guy inside, on The Beast’s wing. Thir’s loads ay beasts oan the wing, but only one in the whole ay the Scottish prison system that they call The Beast. Follow? Ray explains.
The cunt looks shat up. It’s like he’s watching an action replay of his life with only the shite bits left in. A bit like watching The Tom Stronach Story on video, should anyone be daft enough to commit the commercial and aesthetic suicide which producing such a film would involve.
– He’s no the felly ye want tae share a cell wi man. But Ronnie would be forced tae make that happen if it wis put aroond that the lassie thair was eight years auld or something.
– For yir ain protection likes, Ray says.
– Some protection, I laugh, – The Beast is fuckin mental. No way should that cunt should be in the jail. But that’s the fuckin prison system fir ye eh? They did have the cunt in Carstairs for a bit. He escaped though.
– That was a fuckin big joke that eh? Ray coughs out another dry, humourless cackle, then rubs that hooter again. He’s been on the sniff awright, and no just that one wee hit outside there. Just as long as he’s no haudin oot on auld Robbo here, his mentor.
– You’re tellin me. The good thing though, thir wis a few fields between him n the toon. So the local livestock took the brunt ay The Beast’s frustration. They had tae put four cows doon eftir he’d finished wi them. Big-time OT for the vets. Peter Savage fi Strathclyde telt ays that in aw his years oan the force he’d never seen anything like it. The thing is, they’ve goat The Beast back in the mainstream prison system. The only wey that they can keep the cunt quiet is by pittin a new model in his cell every few weeks.
I look doon at this silly wee fuck. There’s a faint noise coming from his throat. He’s trying tae say something. Ray coughs and makes a wee comment which ah dinnae catch.
– What was that Ray?
– Models, Ray goes, – what’s aw this models shite?
– Aw, that’s what the local screws call the laddies they send him. Usually young pretty boys, early twenties . . . like this one here. I swivel and point at Ocky, who’s now just a quivering wreck. No such a smart cunt now. – Ah’d say that you were an identikit model, I tell him. – See, the boys that get pit oan The Beast’s wing are usually rapists rather than stoat-the-baws. They git a wee bit too carried away and cannae hear the word ‘No’ fae a lassie. Well, they git plenty ay opportunity tae practise that word wi The Beast; they can try oot aw the permutations ay pitch, tone and volume, but see The Beast? Well, he’s goat that selective deefness n aw. N fact he’s goat it bad.
Ray smiles at the young tube. – Bet ye eh enjoys the resistance. Likes tae see the boys struggle.
– Six fit four ay solid muscle. Hung like a fuckin hoarse. Legendary. Always splits thum the first time; even they wee Calton Hill rent boys they feed him, and these boys are used tae takin loads ay hard meat.
– Phoa! Makes ma eyes water tae think aboot it! Ray gasps.
– But the wardens indulge The Beast tae fuck like. They’ve goat a selection ay wigs, dresses n make up so that he can dress the models up as he likes. He gies them their names: usually French sounding ones: Juliet
te, Justine, Celestine, Monique an aw ay that. They reckon eh gits them fi the go-go’s at the Bermuda Triangle in Tollcross. This yin here though, ah pucker ma lips at Ocky, – he’d be a Christine.
– How’s that? Ray goes, letting his mouth go moronically loose, and I realise that I am too, as we’re enjoying the twisted but undeniable sexuality which is part and parcel of the complete dominance over another human being. This is one of the things which makes poliswork such a satisfying career.
– Blonde hair, I say, slowly and softly.
– Aw aye, Ray picks up, – ah heard aboot that. When he gits a blonde he always calls them Christine. They say it wis tae dae wi his wife. They tell ays that ehs much mair possessive towards blondes.
– It’s fuckin oot ay order really, but that’s the system, eh?
– This is the perennial problem wi the system Robbo. A dustbin for society, for everything it cannae or willnae deal wi. Thing is but, ye’d find oot a lot aboot yersel n that situ, like. Banged up wi The Beast. Phew!
– Ah cannae imagine a worse fate.
– Might find oot things aboot yirsel ye’d rather no find oot, Ray notes sombrely. Ocky’s done, we’ve broken him. We just need to rub his face in it a little bit more before reassembling him with several modifications in the psychic specification, in order that he does our bidding.
– Well one thing’s certain: ye dae a stint n thaire wi that monster, ye come oot a changed man, I smile.
– That’s if ye come oot at aw. They tell ays ehs chalked up a couple ay suicides over the years.
– Aye, and another young laddie went and hung ehsel eftir a few months oan the ootside. That experience changes a cunt. Defo, I snap at the terrified tube, who springs back from future hell to present hell.
– Maybe the guy would’ve done it anyway; a spastic, a fuckin common criminal. Whaes tae say?
– The Beast though man, daein time wi that would tip the fuckin scales. No think so Ocky? Help! Help! they shout at the wardens, those poor models. No that it does any good.
– So ah’ve heard Robbo, Ray grins.
The wee cunt sits there shivering. He’s ours. He always has been.