2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel

by Christopher Brookmyre

  “He slagged my sole mornay,” was Pete’s outraged response.

  Provocation if ever anyone heard it.

  The two JJs are even more restless than usual, which is saying something. They’re both marginally taller than Scot, but he’s seldom been around anyone who made him feel so comparatively mature or who could give such a consistent impression of being ‘wee guys’ as this pair. Scot recently saw a David Attenborough programme that included a bit about spider monkeys, and had reckoned that if you stuck a couple of them in St Grace’s uniforms, the two JJs could just dog it and nobody would notice much difference. They are boundlessly energetic, relentlessly chirpy, unremittingly mischievous, frequently amusing and although relatively harmless, you often feel like strangling one of them if they’re around you for long enough. They seem jumpy and excited, like they’re bursting to tell everybody a big secret, and yet edgily nervous and inclined to squabble, as though afraid the other has just said the wrong thing and given something away.

  Lots of people are still going past in the corridor, hastening—or not—to their own registration classes. Scot spots Dom Reilly making his way towards the 1S4 group and gives him a wave. Dom’s been off the past couple of days, and Scot had assumed he wouldn’t be in today either when he didn’t see him in the line. John-James breaks away from the group to go forward and greet Dom, then the pair stop and begin speaking rather conspir-atorially. Scot is wondering why Dom’s two-day absence has elicited such an enthusiastic welcome, then rolls his eyes as he realises: it’s given them one more unsuspecting numpty to inflict their latest stupidity on. The conversation they are having out of earshot right now will mainly involve JJ enlisting Dom in ‘pretending’ that despite being from different schools and indeed different towns, they were big pals before coming to St Grace’s.

  Dom’s slightly confused grin mirrors Scot’s own reaction when it was his turn. He couldn’t see the point of this pretence, but there was something infectious about the JJs’ cheerfulness, so he just werit along with it.

  “Sure we were mates when we were wee?” John-Jo says, once they have rejoined the line and have, in Scot and Richie, an audience for this wee performance.

  “Aye,” agrees Dom.

  “Sure our maws know each other, don’t they?”

  “Aye, that’s right.”

  “And we used tae play thegether during the summer holidays, you and me and John-James, didn’t we, over the Brae and up the dams?”

  “Aye.”

  “And mind the time we got chased by the farmer because he thought we were chuckin sticks at his sheep?”

  “Aye.”

  “And we ran intae the woods tae get away,” John-Jo adds, laughing. “And we aw hid up a tree until he went by in his daft wee motorbike hing.”

  “Aye,” agrees Dominic, now laughing a little, too. “And we were pure shitin ourselves because he had a dog.”

  “Aye, and then we fun that stream and went guddlin for baggy minnows, an you got that big yin that was aboot the size ay a trout, an you flipped it up for John-Jo tae catch an he tripped over ye and fell intae the water up tae his knees. You mind all that?”

  “Aye.”

  “Naw ye don’t, you’re a fuckin liar. We never met afore we came here. Cannae believe the shite some folk come oot with.”

  And everybody decks themselves. Again.

  Mrs Gordon should be along any sec. In fact, she’s running late, Scot can tell without looking at his watch: the numbers filing through the corridor have thinned out. He sees Danny Doyle coming, walking fast because he’s late but trying not to look like he’s walking fast because he’s one of Boma’s mates and therefore too hard to care. He’s two years above, but isn’t that much bigger than the taller First Years, unlike some of the Third Years who have filled out in the chest and arms and are absolute bears. Nonetheless, he carries himself with a bit of a swagger, that practised hard look on his face as he saunters past the 1S4 queue. He doesn’t look at anyone, but it’s like he’s making a point of not looking at anyone, so they can notice how consumed he is by the serious matters of being Third Year and hard.

  Scot turns to comment about this wee display to Richie, but is distracted by a sudden flash of movement up ahead. He looks round in time to see Eleanor knock Danny sideways into the wall with a flurry of blows, having launched herself across the corridor as he went past. He falls to the floor, his back to the bare brick, throwing his hands up to protect himself as Eleanor kicks frantically at his head and chest before being pulled away by her pal Moira Gallacher and latter-day smoking buddie Joanne. Danny Doyle gets to his feet, blood seeping from a cut on the cheek where Eleanor must have got him with her nails or a ring. He looks a little dazed for a moment but quickly hares off when he sees Eleanor straining at the leash for some more.

  “Aye, you fuckin better run, ya prick,” she screams after him.

  “Whit was that aboot?” Richie asks.

  “Fuck knows,” Scot replies.

  “Must be her bad week,” somebody mutters. This would be funny if the permanently furious Eleanor ever had a good one.

  §

  Noodsy is keeping the edgy at the changing-room door, checking along the corridor so he can let his classmates know if Cook is coming. As the period started about five minutes ago, this is only liable to be if Cook hears sufficient racket to put him off his crossword, or in the unprecedented event of him deciding to start the class inside fewer than fifteen minutes. There’s always something going on in the changing rooms during this gap—games of run the gauntlet, dummy fighting, not-so-dummy fighting—so somebody usually has to keep the edgy, which is a risky and selfless task, and therefore one never taken on by the big men like Jai Burns and Gerry Lafferty. The risk element comes from the possibility of Cook or Blake or one of the lassies’ teachers—Watson and Manacre—clocking you at it; the selfless part being that you miss whatever carry-on you’re on edgy duty to protect.

  Today it’s not such a sacrifice, as they’re playing run the gauntlet, which Noodsy is content enough to avoid. This usually involves lobbing some object around—a ball if there is one, but a glove or shoe will do—with whoever fumbles it having to run from one end of the room to the other while his classmates line up on either side to take wallops at him as he goes past. Noodsy has never understood the appeal because he doesn’t see the fun side of hitting people and is damn sure there’s no fun side to having thirty fists and as many feet flailing at you in a confined space. He’s run it a few times and suffered a few nasty ones. To be honest, most folk just send in a token slap, but there are some vicious wee bastards who love the chance of a free hit and consequently give it all they’ve got. The big men don’t run it very often, mainly because folk are seldom brave enough to lob the object at them. They don’t exempt themselves if caught out, however, but nobody ever tries to hit them very hard in case it’s noted.

  Noodsy is thinking about the mirror on his pet budgie’s cage right now, and how useful it would be for scoping down the corridor without getting caught. Maybe he should start packing it with his PE kit. For now, however, he’s settling for trying to look while exposing as little of his head as possible round the door frame. He hears a door squeak and jumps back in response, but realises it was too close to be from the PE base. It’s right next door, in fact. He pops his head out again and sees Dom Reilly doing exactly the same thing, on behalf of 1S4, with whom 1S3 get PE.

  You often see somebody else keeping the edgy, though never for the lassies. Not surprising, really, Noodsy thinks. With them all in there stripping off, they wouldn’t need much entertainment beyond the chance to stare at each other’s tits. That’s what he’d be doing if he was a lassie, anyway.

  “Awright, Noodsy,” Dom whispers. “Any chance of a doubley-up edgy?”

  This would let Dom go back inside, on the understanding that Noodsy would hammer on the wall to let 1S4 know if Cook was coming.

  Noodsy doesn’t need to think about it long: he’s not missi
ng anything, so it’s a cheap way to be owed a favour. “Aye, gaun yoursel,” he says quietly.

  “Cheers, Noodsy.” Dom smiles, then withdraws again.

  Noodsy returns to his attempts to minimise his visibility. He wishes he could see how it looks from the other end, but reckons there can’t be much more than an inch of his face sticking out. There’s no way Cook’s going to notice anything from the far end of the corridor, not the first second he comes out of the base, anyway, which is all Noodsy will need. He’s got one foot holding the door away from him, so he can get inside in a flash. Just need to watch the door doesn’t slam on the way in. Oh, and better not forget to chap for 1S4, either. Perfect edgy technique. Should be on the official syllabus. More tricky than the gymnastics they’re doing at the moment, though anything’s a major fucking improvement on that country dancing torture they were subjected to last mo—

  “You, boy. Blue tracksuit. In the doorway. Get here, now.”

  Noodsy just about knocks himself out when he nuts the door frame in sheer fright at the sound of the woman’s voice behind him. He turns around slowly and sees Manacre standing just outside the entrance to the main gym hall, ten yards along the corridor in the opposite direction from the base.

  Balls.

  He walks hurriedly towards her. It doesn’t do to be anything less than cooperative, especially if your best bet for a lash-free outcome is to act the innocent eejit. Manacre is tall and skinny, toweling over him. He looks at her long arms folded across her chest, can think of nothing but how big a swing they’d manage with a leather belt.

  “What are you doing out of the dressing room?”

  “Miss…miss…”

  “You know you’re supposed to sit and wait until Mr Cook or Mr Blake arrives, don’t you?”

  Thank fuck, she’s not calling him directly on keeping the edgy. Noodsy opts to go with the enthusiastic dafty line. “Miss, yes, miss, I know, miss. I was just having a wee look to see if Mr Cook was coming, because it’s been a wee while, and it’s gymnastics, and I really like gymnastics, miss, and…”

  “What’s your name?”

  “It’s James, miss. James Doon. 1S3, miss.”

  “Okay, James. I’ll turn a blind eye this time, but I don’t ever want to see you or anyone else out of that room without permission again. Is that understood?”

  Callus. His heart’s beating away, but he can feel the relief. Got away with it, and well played, even if he says so himself.

  “Yes, Miss Manacre,” he confirms.

  Her face suddenly sharpens and her eyes go all wide.

  “Miss what?” she demands.

  James sees it too late. He should have seen it way back, but he’s never spoken to her, seldom even seen her, and never, ever, heard anyone address her. Aye, sure should have seen it and worked it out. She’s standing there, tall and skinny, arms folded across her chest. Folded across her flat chest.

  Manacre, that’s all he’s ever heard her called. Not Miss Manacre, just Manacre.

  Man-Acre. Miss Acre.

  Aw, balls.

  Two of the lash, coming right up. Yet again.

  §

  Karen stops the car at the kerbside in front of Johnny Turner’s place, one of a dozen or so large modern houses in what the marketing brochures like to call ‘an exclusive development’ just off Nether Carnock Road. She played here on her bike when it was a derelict site, rubble and debris from a demolished warehouse appropriated to form an obstacle course of ramps and jumps when BMX was cool. Colin Temple had a proper BMX, she remembers, plus a helmet and elbow pads. She had a Raleigh Commando, its twist-grip gears stuck in third, but it handled the course better than the poor buggers trying to do ramp-jumps on five-speed racers.

  There’s a wide monoblock driveway leading up to a double garage, in front of which a red Toyota MR2 indicates, as they have heard, that Boma has returned to the family pile—probably to put Papa’s affairs in order before the reading of the will. Or to shred some documents and dispose of certain items before the polis get hold of them. Could be either.

  “What you smiling about?” Tom asks her.

  “Posh digs. I’m just remembering how much abuse Robbie Turner used to dish out to anyone who lived in a ‘boat hoose’.”

  “Maybe we’ve finally got a motive for killing his old man.”

  “Sure. “Father, you have brought shame on the family name by your upward mobility, and for committing the ultimate sin of being a fuckin snob, you leave me no choice but to administer the terminal malky.””

  “Where did he live when you were a kid?”

  “Just round the corner from me and my folks in Braeview. My parents live in Saltcoats now.”

  “The Shitey Shore.”

  “Aye. Had to get out of Braeview, the battle-zone it was turning into. Funnily enough, they were unable to afford a pad quite like their old near-neighbour managed to bag. Can’t think why two working households’ incomes should so dramatically diverge, can you?”

  “Naw. Cannae think why the Braeview scheme should have become a battle-zone, either.”

  “He was a labourer back then, Turner,” Karen says. “That’s as much as I knew, other than that he was a hard-case and his weans were murder.”

  “Labourer, aye, but with an interest in joinery.”

  “An interest?”

  “Aye. Specifically fence-work.”

  “Oh, you’re just a wee joke jukebox today, Detective. But do go on.”

  “You should see his file doon the station. The jacket’s older than Arthur Montford’s. Mostly small-time stuff, to start with. Reset and a few assaults. Then he started doing a bit of debt collection for the late and unlamented Jimmy Meechan.”

  “Moving stolen gear and beating folk up for money-lenders,”

  Karen says. “That’s what being a crook used to amount to round here. And a cooncil hoose in Braeview was as much lifestyle as it paid for. Never used to be drugs in the town. Just wee hard men. Now there’s organised and regimented wee hard men. Heroin was something you saw on Panorama, cocaine in the movies. Closest thing we had to a drug problem when I lived there was solvent abuse.”

  “Hard to turn much of a profit from that,” Tom says. “Certainly not one to pay this kind of mortgage. Turner’s business latterly was ostensibly a security firm, covering building sites and the like. More like a protection racket, considering he knew every thief in the county. But mainly he controlled the drugs in the town for Jimmy Meechan Junior. That’s where the real money came from.”

  “What about the boys?”

  “Boma’s the right-hand man since Joe got sent doon. Joe was done for murdering—”

  “Wullie Minto,” Karen interrupts. “I remember the case. Minto worked for Bud Hannigan back then. I was on the drug squad in Glasgow at the time.”

  “Aye. A big loss to Johnny. Joe was a lot smarter than Boma, a lot more controlled. Just as violent, but dispassionately so. Clinical. Boma’s far more volatile, and the vibes were that Johnny didnae trust him the same as he’d trusted Joe.”

  “And where does Robbie fit in?”

  “He doesnae. Definitely not anointed for a role in the family business. He and the other Turners don’t have much to do with each other, especially since the mother died. Bad blood, for sure, but Christ knows what it’s about. That’s family for you, I guess.”

  “Noodsy have much to do with them?”

  “Off and on, yeah,” Tom tells her. “He did security shifts for the firm, a lot of folk do. It provides a legit cover so they can get a paypacket for other services rendered. Noodsy’s a career thief, and it’s hard to move anything around here without Johnny Turner having something to do with it.”

  “What about the Fenwicks? The Turner boys were always having bust-ups with them.”

  “I remember there was a Frank Fenwick died of an overdose, be about eight years back. Would that be one of them?”

  “The oldest, yeah. There was a Darren and a Harry, and a girl, Eleanor
, who was in my class. Bit of a poor soul. Mother was an alcoholic.”

  “Aye. Darren Fenwick. That rings a bell. A bampot, but not a player. Fortunately, not all junior hard men turn into master criminals. He moved away, if memory serves. The others I’ve never heard of, so they must have turned out okay.”

  “I hope so,” Karen says, remembering the shite Smelly Elly had to put up with, and the more literal shite that had blemished Honkin Harry’s schooldays. She kills the engine. “Okay, let’s go in and pay our respects,” she says.

  Games

  The JJs are getting changed into their PE kits in what looks like being an abnormally short time. Given that the pair of them are sufficiently distractable as to be easily able to waste ten minutes pulling their sleeves into funny shapes or hanging assorted inappropriate items from the jacket-pegs, they’re invariably the last ones to be ready; Christ, sometimes Cook even shows up before they’ve got their trainers tied. But this morning, they are purposefully—if gigglingly—getting changed with an urgency that has got Scot intrigued. It could simply be that it’s gymnastics this morning—never underestimate the attraction of those wall-bars to a pair of spider monkeys—but he doubts it, doubly so when they start urging everyone else to get ready quicker, too. That’s usually a sign that somebody wants to maximise the free time before Cook reluctantly decides he’d better do a wee bit of what he’s paid for. When the teacher does show up, it’s a bit of a give-away that there’s been some serious extra-curricular activity if half the class is still standing about in their Ys.

  “Right, check this,” says John-James, reaching into his schoolbag, a vinyl Adidas effort that looks like it’s being held together by the ink from all the mentions scrawled across every tattered inch. He produces an off-white Tupperware box, of roughly the kind Scot had been erroneously informed was social suicide round these parts, and sets it down on the floor. In practice, he’s found that nobody gets slagged for bringing one, but sightings still remain pretty rare at lunchtime. This is because their true disadvantage is that they act as an advertisement to all the gannets and scroungers that you have something in there worth cadging, and they’ll hover around you like wasps at a picnic, chanting their endless mantra: “Gunny gie’s some, eh, gaunny, just a wee bit, come on, don’t be moolsy, just a wee bit, gaunny eh, don’t be a Jew, come on, give us some, you’re a pure starver.”