by Leon Rooke
Nakit Pope. Ni stockings, ni gown ye lying cockroach. Yer want tae see pictures?
Let the woman have her say Jack, she’s delirious, her gub is motoring.
We find a wig in ye snoozer Pope. Your lassie’s wig or yez own who knows.
What wig? Madeline had greit gude hair, she didnay own or employ nay wig, never the need. In the bed ye say?
Yer Mady’s gore on that wig, that’s aw determined. Platinum blonde like a fucking moon. Ye was wearing that wig when ye bludgeoned her wisni ye? We got hair particles foreign to that wig, which were euro hair, we got yer hair sample and soon’s the lab sez that foreign hair is yers ye’re gony gae bye-bye ower tae Cornton Vale for the rest of ye natchril life.
The wig were no hers. She were a wee dark-featured nelly were me Mady. Pictures? Couldn’t ye’ve covert her with a sheet or something jesus guys.
Prop the lassie Jack she’s leaning, mind the pool neath her feet Jack.
Nibody’s saying ye didni love her. We’re saying things got oot of hand. Yer Mady’s gaing oot dolled up, got that appointment like ye say. In heat like. She’s on ye aboot that bookcase, the glop ye’re making, she’s got spring on frae that bubbly. She’s calling ye names, ye worthless shite, ye bambag, ye pervertit mitherfocker, a romeo yez are nay, ye’re shite int the sack, like that. And ye lash oot, ye gae haywire. The pipe it hops—
What pipe?
—it hops in ye hand, suddenly ye gae ballerina maniacal on her and ye bosh ya gude cunt. Yeh. We can understand that. We aw been in yer shoes have we ni Jack?
Aye we aw been in yer shoes Pope.
Sae get it off yer conscience, Jack and me can see yez is stricken, mind ye shoes there Jack.
Let the truth make ye fucking free.
...
...
...
Pope? Have ye gony asleep? Someone gie the bonny lass a fag.
Open ye eyes Pope. Are ye thinking on it? On ye dastardly deed?
Ye tearful muckfart bony shite we’re talking to ye.
***
The nancy conducting Pope back to her cell is bejesus elephantine fat. No to be rude, no to make a High Court case of it, but aye this polis nellie is bejesus plump. Buttercup eyes, the waggly chin-flesh, though the purest Albino-white skin. A radiant school-lass hue, fucking Dover Cliff face. So Pope yez is learning, auld Mady would be proud: “ye picks oot the party’s best feature Pope and you compliments them on that, that’ll bring on the beam.” “Er sweetheart I like yer fine high blossomy breasts, yer pongy nipples. Like that eh? Yer hips ignite me into flames. Like that?” The baith having a laugh.
This hen, as with the other yin, no to be provoked into uttering a single word. Fucking frogarse mute. How long me to be helt in here, nay a word. The famous silent treatment. When’s grub time, nay a word. Doon this way, up that way, through the door, steps, more steps, now the long hall. Polis smokers along the route, bent at windows, oot on the cherished wee balconies, some bundled up, shivering frae shitekicking wind. Aye it’s something awfy today oot in the free world.
Pope’s belly is grumbling. It must be they haul her up for the gub session during the grub hours, it’s intentional, the bastids mean to starve her flat. She ever leaves this place she’ll be nay but a hat stand, no but creaking bones. Nay that I’m hungry, food’s a natchril enemy, ye can fuck food. What day is it, how many nights and days who knows. Funny thing is as Pope shuffles along her thoughts are wild. Hog wild, nay question, What’s in here I can pinch, she’s thinking. It amazed her, that thought. She’s gony pinch from her own self well jesus christ. Holy fucking Mary what kind of thought is that? A cell, like what’s in a screwbolt cell a woman can blag? Amazing, where the mind can spin off to. Truly incinerating, fantastic. It shows the mental deterioration aye, surely as those monks she now minds Mady telling her aboot, those loonies who set fire to themselves. Immolation, that’s the word. Fucking pyromanics. Years ago that were, an epidermic. Aye those monks, though theirs was nay self deterioration as is her personal case. The self-immolation of those nicks were acts of defiance, topple the govment, provide nutrition for the humble and weary, a kind of Let My People Go thingie. Whereas Pope’s belly grumbles are the speech of pure never-to-be-satisfied hunger, nay that she has any appetite for the food table, nay those belly grumble are grief speaking.
No the grub she’s missing but the barfing it up.
Which proves to Pope something dear. Her whole last year has she blagged fuckaw, has she onct thought I’ll pinch me that, as were the situation during the housekeeping days. Naw. The answer is naw. Nay onct. The now here it is her mind returning to its auld ways, reverting to type well fuck that. I wont have it, Pope says, I wont have it ye listening to me? Cut it oot. Mady a mere days dead the now listen to her. Truly incredible, fucking shameful. That’s her true love’s lasting influence, a mere days? My gawd. She’s an abysimal disgrace she is, gude Mady’s dead that’s the best she can do? A few days to shed Mady’s powerful aura, that’s awfy, awfy, it’s sinful, ye’re demented Pope be ashamed of yeself. Then to think blagging again, returning to ye criminal early scavenger runaway shite days, and the best ye can come up with is yez’s gony rip off yer own fucking cell!
!!!
Ye’re gony blag the fucking pizza-crust mattress, the fucking stony rock in ye pillow! Steal the pish pot! Unfucking believable!
but
Maybe it were she were just kidding herself. Maybe it were a joke she were telling herself. Haw haw. Ye’ve lost it Pope. Yer sunny disposition is in meltdoon.
Aye fuck it let it hurt, let the dam break.
Up ahead the bedlam shrieks.
She’s active in ache from Jack’s hands. Sordid, his hands accosting her breasts, doing the wickit flutter twixt her legs. Auld chief’s worse, ach she’s worse, she’s ... Shrieks rising and falling roundabout her, stupifying nightmare, yer friendly frenzied dopeheads.
Walk ye cunt the nellie sez. No tae try yer fainting tactics on me.
***
A Straithclyde crew bundles Pope off to the Royal Infirmary. Ms. Pankhurst is it? a locum doctor sez. Well, such is the name underwhich you were admitted.
Pope dont hear. Pope dont hear naything. She’s stitched, she’s pumped, There you go my lovely, good as God made you. No, darling, rest a while, it seems you lost consciousness, sleep deprivation, I expect. Starvation, assault and battery? I recommend you give thought to acquiring an energetic solicitor, a concerned advocate, darling, who will take up your cause and, at the very least, effect financial restitution. Nevertheless, I surmize wounds received are not at this point life-threatening. You would do well, however, in the general sense, to look after yourself better. You’re emaciated, darling. May I be frank? To my eye you demonstrate the characteristic abnormal thinking pattern associated with incumbent anorexia nervosa. Or perhaps, more likely, your condition has acceded to a stage more active than incumbent. No comment? May I ask your age, darling? ... Ah, as young as that.
...
You are not alone, Ms. Pankhurst. Should you have interest in the questionable official statistic, you are amongst the 9.1 of every 100,000 young women in these environs so afflicted. Or the 14.9 percentile, should we wish to include bulimia nervosa and related disorders. Would you say you experience preoccupation with your body image, do you suffer anxiety, depression, let us say pschological conflict leading to annoying confusion, sorrow, self-loathing, et cetera? Has there been a recent loss of someone in your family?
!!! Quit that light in me eyes please doctor.
Certainly.
Where am I?
A temporary sanctuary. You really should not appear in public wearing such attire.
Polis taken mine.
Bastards. Here, take these pills. Yes, darling, with water.
***
ahchoo
ahchoo
rain rain rain, rain and cold, naything to blow yer nose on, yer feet icy, it’s horriffic horriffic, donay look now but aye Pope ye’ve come doon with
sumptin.
***
When Pope is next returnt to the slammer she sees right away they’ve planted a snitch on her. Mere glance at the stringy hair and she knows: it’s a plant, a dodge. The woman nay even looking up, pretending nay interest, dobbit to the cot edge head twixt the knobby knees like she’s too sick to live or is practising up on High Church prayer.
An insult to the intelligence, this polis initiative. That woe-is-me look on the snitch, a snitch withoot question.
That bald spot, she’s auld, auld and scrony and obviously a snitch.
Them snitchy laceless runner shoes.
Who they fooling eh who they fooling?
They donay let ye compose yeself a minute the conniving clap-ruddered bastids.
She’s got a sour smell, this yin. Nerve gas ye could say. Agent Orange. Clatty knuckles, blotchy knees, raspy breaths like she’s dusting cake. Oh she’s gude, she’s got the proper smell awright but. Pope knows, she knows a snitch, ye can aye tell, aye. Them deep drags, that raspy breath, trembly hands, fucker ought to be in the hospital a fucker breathing like that. The sickie act no will confuse Pope. Emaciation, depression, angst, psychological conflict, none of that will conflict Pope. A woman of her experience, wise auld Mady her mentor, it’s disgraceful, the dogs trying this on her. Gae ahead, ye skuff, ye snotrag, look up, get it started, take the bite, I’m on to ye. Ye’re gony nayplace with me, ye can stuff it yeh git stufft.
Same as with that doctor, that doctor can get stufft, excuse me darling but may I ask your age, nay but cow piss that nervosa shite.
I feel good, Pope is A number one on ye national health chart, achoo, achoo, well scuse me.
But who knows, maybe nay, maybe this clit is nay snitch, what’ve ye to go on? What’ve ye to go on, what can ye tally up to the correct total, yin, she’s a snitch, two, she’s a snitch, three, a snitch, like ye fucking evidence is piled right in front ye nose. Them shoes, the smell ... yeh but. What can a smell tell ye in the final the final the final ... Analysis. Yeh analysis so fuck it. Wait and see. Nay need being paranoid what help is that? Could be here’s another unfortunate eejit sorry-off as Pope is. Gie the woman the doubt benefit, nay need to climb aw ower an innocent wonker, scarce any merit in that. Ye got to be the better example Pope, that’s what Mady’d be saying.
Poor Mady bosht, well my christ wouldnay ye know it. Wouldnay ye know it, wee gude fortune coming yer way in the form of the blessed world’s best lassie, then wham, boiiinnng boiiinng first ye know ye lifemate is ...
Wouldn’t ye know it.
Forget the snitch, try sleep.
...
“Ah, as young as that,” what did she mean that doctor, a collassal breach in the doctor/patient etiquette, the high-stepping hoitsy-toitsy bitch.
Be it enactit by the Queen’s most Excellent Majesty by and with the advice and consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, ye shall suffer, ye shall suffer, amen it’s writ doon.
I’m missing the wee blether, that’s what’s troubling me, such is my discombulation. I’m a woe cornered rat, the cat will gnaw off me head. But relax, relax, darling, the now I lay me doon to sleep so relax ye noodle a wee min.
Yon ye hen-snitch stretch yeself, that’s the ticket. Lay ye arse doon to sleep yer soul to keep relax Pope have ye nay been a gude girl? Ye have, ye have. Let pure thoughts wing in. If ye die afore ye wake at least ye’ve had a relaxing min have ye no? So what if ye cellmate’s a snitch, ye can cope, what ye concerned aboot a snitch for, how can a snitch hurt ye? Cause they can, they can, one innocent word frae ye gub and they twist it to fit the universal chronic arsehole worldly need, a word innocent in yer own mind signals the deathbell, nay a single fucking word to be trusted, innocent or otherwise. Innocent or otherwise one word frae yer gub and they’ve fitted ye to the crime, they got ye nailed boiiinng boiiing. Ye’re guilty till yer proved innocent and who’s to prove it, who is ever innocent, it’s a tearful shame, ye’re no even born innocent, who is, well fuck that, that’s hardly right, that’s criminal injustice on a grand scale, conspiracy ach conspiracy involving the uppermost aiery regions, yer master on high, that’s rank truth int it?
Oh clap ye brain Pope sleep on it.
Int she flagged? Int she emptied oot? So curl up woman grant yeself a wee token rest. Ye champagne days are ower, them pearly blae days are spilt milk the now, poor Mady bejesus christ it rains it ... it ... fucking aye it drowns yer wee jumping sheep.
Many the men I’ve made ower
And ower
And many the more
Have I led into sleep’s clover.
Aye she changed it, my life, me sweetie in the cold cold ground, ought to be a revolution, million folk marching the street shaking fists at merciless heaven: enough of this! Enough! We will take no more! Gony make ye ower ye fuck ye donay start doing things aright.
Relax yer mind dear. That’s gude, gae with the clean thoughts, let nay creeshie shite intrude.
a powerful instrument the auld ratsuck brain, a powder keg.
squished insect with sixteen legs that’s yer brain Pope.
call 999, send yer emergency vehicle, we has a brain here gone dodgy.
***
Pope sits up in the dark, the snitch is still haunched ower, hasnay moved a muscle. Even snagged lower, a stupit moprag. A stupit snot cloth, soon she’ll be stretched oot on the pissy floor fit to be slopped oot. But could be the mucker is worse off than Pope her own self, ye got to allow the possibility. There’s some doon beneath ye own self feeling the worst hobnails, asking who is that walking on me napper bejesus christ would ye stop it! Would ye stop it jesus christ aw the mighty would ye gie it a break!
!!!
***
I know ye, the cellmate sez.
What?
I know ye ye tarty bitch.
Me?
Yez a fucking snitch, the woman says. I know ye ye snitch, look at ye snitch shoes ye snitch smell ye snitch hair ye’re nay getting shite oot a me.
...
Nay shite, stop looking at me.
Fuck this well fuck this.
Fuck ye tae, ye’re the yeh the snitch.
***
Snitch.
Snitch ye own self snitch.
Ach, the stupit night.
***
Pope’s lashing ower in her mind what she regards as her dear sweetie’s final hours. Mady fetchingly adorned in pearly blae stockings, pearly blae eyes, eye-shadow to match. Pearly blae footgear dear god, toes like cherries ye’d want to suck frae the cherry tree. That hard rain or aye she’d be gony bye bye to meet stud man, it no occurring to her yet more comfort be found in her own bedroom. Would ye care for a nice chat Pope while I wait the rain slackens, oh this damp it’s near baffled me hair. Gae on wi yer monster Godzilla bookcase dear heart, herself will just sit here at the table maybe artsyfy herself’s nails. Ye do scree as to who I’m off to meet d’ye nay my luv? Nay, no his name or face but I’ve telt you aboot him, his gude looks, his gude manners, his fine brain, a firecracker, solid, dependable, no on the Bru, owning his own freehelt quarters ower by the Green near Ramshaw Kirk. So he’s said by phone luv, that still aye that still to be confirmed. Me mate Pinkie, Pinky ye know frae the Brideshead, dear Pinkie warmly recommends me stud. Aye, a wee finder fee but. Now now. Mite of jealousy I can fathom though ye donay need to pain yeself luv ye know where my heart is fastent such a lovely bookcase yez in erecting dolling pet.
A handyman ye are Pope dearest, a wee immature aye, though yer talents yer talents are amazing, ye should mind however I am no ye mither.
...
Pearly blae those nails, no but the best for Madeline Powr.
Pope drives in a nail up high partway only so’s in a minute it can be pulled oot.
Let’s try oot a book luv I think Mr. Mickle’s Collected oh he looks heavenly dear pet.
Herself screaming the min later when Pope’s nail flies loose, the bookcase topples ower, owch, ach, that’s some scream Mady lets fly, the baith scr
eaming, Pope seeing it aw in her mind, that monster bookcase coming flat doon, ower them ower the table the cooking pots, riiiip, there she gaes. Watch oot! Look oot! Crawl free, I cannay hold it I cannay I cannay I cannay hold the fucker! The tyre tool up on the high shelf, stupit she was to leave it there, just forgot the fucker and now that tool gony bash in baith their skulls if the bookcase donay I cannay holt it Mady.
but
Aw fuck.
The bookcase falling in a thousand pieces.
A dust storm.
Where are ye Mady?
Finally the angerit injurit dulcet tones: Ye near kilt me Pope! Ye crazy-arse carp ye near squashed me! Ye’ve ruint me hair, me clothes. Ye couldnay just leave my books stacked on the floor could ye, yez is singularly stupit yer infantile moody-arse twerp ...
crazy arsehole
it’s awfy hard to love ye sometime.
***
The snitch the now stirring, soon she’ll launch into her act. She’s got that fag rolled and lit, rolled and lit, a whole hour she’s been rolling that fag, rolling that fag, ower and ower applying the spit, but now it’s smoky, she’s sucking in the juice, hallelulah, ye twit. The scuffling feet, here she comes.
But.
Aye but.
There’s no rhyme or reason. Ye cannay rhyme or reason with the polis, ye’d best take on the like armed forces. Chief and Jack want the whole story let them look elsewhere. Come on, what can Pope tell them. She’s telt too much aready, that chat talk for yin, Pope had nay business telling them aboot that. Nay business Pope that was yez’s and Mad’s business, a hers and hers dialogue-thingie, nay bit of theirs, nay bit. It were dishonourable, nay fair to the gudewoman’s memory divulging such. How they met at the Brideshead, the cosiness, the seeding business by the ootside third fucking stud party, no business. Shameful, she ought to had cut her throat. Kicked Jack and the chief in the treasury. Private is private. Aint private private? The affairs twixt two women? Like Jesus at the Last Supper, wont that private? Mary and her infidelity, wont that? Might as well she’d telt aw, telt the whole story, to that chief and Jack, who werenay such prickly bastards ye got right doon to it, sodjers nay more than doing their jobs. Badly, but. That Jack, the crummy bastid. Ye cannay blame him he gies ye a doing the now and then, douse ye wi water, cops the feel. Close them legs, knees the gether, ye tart, he’s saying, aw the while he’s prying ye knees open. The chief grinning, a fucking sadist, fucking voyeur porno fuckface, the baith fucking dementit. Still, ye cannay blame them, look on the bright side. Aw the maggots and vermin they put up with, hell fire, naw ye cannay blame them. Never mind, never mind.