The Silver Arrow

by Ian Todd

  9.45 A.M.

  “Here ye go, Ms Flaw,” Robert the Beast said, putting doon the tray wae the tea and digestive biscuits oan it. “Dae ye want me tae pour it fur ye?”

  “No, Robert, I’ll do that,” Fanny replied, smiling, as the music fae his radio wafted in through the door behind him.

  “Right, name the song,” he challenged her.

  “Alone Again Or.”

  “By who?”

  “Love.”

  “Album and year?”

  “Er…Forever Changes…nineteen sixty…sixty…seven,” she declared, initially cursing her memory, bit finally chuffed wae hersel

  “Aye, bit who wrote it?” he asked her slyly, smiling.

  “Ooh, let me see, Bryan…Bryan MacLean?”

  “Aye, ye know yer music, so ye dae,” he acknowledged, smiling, before turning roond tae leave.

  “Not long now until your appeal hearing, Robert.”

  “Aye, jist forty eight hours tae go and I’ll be hivving ma last meal in this dump, so Ah will. Although it’s been a nightmare fur me, it’s that wee maw ae mine’s that’s hid tae suffer the maist. Hivving her only son convicted ae something he didnae dae and being shunned by aw the scum in oor wee village, efter being accused ae protecting me, his been really hard oan her,” he sneered.

  “Leave the door ajar and turn the radio up a little bit, but not too loud,” she asked him.

  It wis wan ae her favourite songs, she remembered, picking up a biscuit, humming alang tae the tune. She wis feeling absolutely ecstatic. She’d tried phoning Jardine, despite the policy ae no using the ootside lines fur personal calls and hid been terribly disappointed no tae get him. She’d arranged a last minute meeting wae George Crawford fur hauf-nine, bit his secretary, Miss Beaker, hid jist been oan the phone, informing her that she’d need tae put the meeting back until aboot twelve o’clock as the governor wid be late in tae work. She said she’d gie Fanny a shout when he wis available tae see her. She picked up the letter again and looked at the Home and Health Department letterheid before reading it again fur the umpteenth time.

  ‘Dear Mrs Flaw, I am pleased to inform you that you have been successful in your application for the post of Assistant Social Work Liaison Officer (Prisons) between The Department and the prison’s social work and health teams across Scotland. A more detailed letter, outlining the terms and conditions of your employment, will be sent to you in due course. In the meantime, I look forward to working with you in the future.’

  It hid been signed by Thomas Peacock fae The Department’s Legal Section covering HM Prisons. At her interview, she’d thought she’d over-emphasised her concerns at the lack ae response by the prison service and the judiciary tae the mental health needs ae long-term young offenders. In return, the interview panel hid praised her involvement wae the previous year’s pilot Early Release Scheme. Although it hid been deemed a failure due tae aw the adult parolees being recalled shortly efter their release fur breaking their conditions ae release, the three YOs fae Dumfries wur still free and, miraculously, leading honest, productive lives apparently, if their reports fae the senior social worker who wis supervising them wis anything tae go by. She’d been informed that if she wis offered the job, wan ae the main priorities wid be fur her tae instigate and facilitate a review ae the psychiatric services currently operating within the prison service in Scotland. She couldnae believe it. She wis leaving Dumfries fur a fresh start in Edinburgh. Although sad tae be leaving, she wis looking forward tae the new challenges aheid. Jardine wid be over the moon. Jake wid hiv a new school and while she didnae like tae take him oot ae the wan he wis settled in, she wis sure that between her and Jardine, they wid be able tae support him tae settle in.

  10.20 A.M.

  “Senga, pleased to see you again,” Stuart McKenzie said in welcome, striding towards her, an ermful ae files and sheaths ae paper tucked under his right erm.

  “Hello, Stuart. Dae we know when they’ll make their announcement?” Senga asked, surprised tae see him in his full regalia ae pinstriped suit, black flowing cloak and a silver curled wig oan that heid ae his. “Ye look very dashing.”

  “The decision will have already been made, so we can expect the announcement any moment now. We better go in,” he replied, smiling at the ‘dashing’ remark before steering her towards the portcullis opening. “Now, listen, Senga, the announcement will only take a few seconds, with the reasons behind the decision being released at a later date. You’ll have to listen attentively as it will all be over in a flash. I’ll meet you back out here and try to answer any questions you may have and to discuss how we proceed from here. Please don’t shout out if the decision goes against us. The judges in here have long memories, despite their age.”

  “How dae ye think we’ll dae?”

  “To be honest with you? I don’t think it looks good. Without access to the notebook, despite all the leaks to the media over the months, the contents won’t be part of the evidence in any future appeal hearing and our argument will be sunk before we begin. That service notebook is the main part of our argument. However, you never know,” he said, leading her intae the chamber.

  10.45 A.M.

  “Er, excuse me, sir, bit ye’re no supposed tae go in there,” Breege Murphy yelped, attempting, bit failing tae block the path ae the two, heavily-built men in the chequered jaickets who brushed past her and her strategically-placed desk intae Dr Brand’s office.

  “What the…”

  “Ah tried tae stoap them doctor, bit they…”

  “Dr Brand…Rory Brand?” the tall wan, wae the Engelbert Humperdinck sideburns, demanded tae know, despite the doctor’s name being emblazoned oan his office door and oan the wee name plate stand oan the desk, facing the bizzies.

  “I, er…

  “Er, excuse me, bit Dr Bran…”

  “Listen, hen, why don’t ye go back tae that desk ae yers oot there and dae something useful…like type up a screed ae apologetic letters oan Dr Brands heided notepaper, begging fur furgiveness or something,” the wee wan wae the Pancho Villa moustache, who wis the spitting image ae Cheech Marin fae Cheech and Chong, drawled, flashing his polis I.D. badge at her, while shutting the office door behind her back.

  “So, Rory, who’s been a dirty manky basturt then, eh? Ma name’s Detective Inspector Crotchet and this is Detective Sergeant Grusset, and we’re investigating a series ae serious sexual assaults…eighty seven tae be exact…oan mentally disturbed and vulnerable patients…your patients…aw female…aw under your care…covering the period fae September 1967 up until the present. Ye widnae happen tae know anything aboot any ae this noo, wid ye?” The Detective Inspector asked him pleasantly, unbuttoning and taking aff his jaicket and plapping that arse ae his doon oan the couch, before lifting up and swinging they legs ae his and lying back, letting oot a big comfortable sigh.

  11.00 A.M.

  “Right, noo, listen up, lads. When yer name is called oot by The Chief, make yer way tae the front tae collect yer certificate fae Mr Starch, The Governor,” Principle Officer Dixie shouted, as the group ae YOs quietened doon, aw eyes looking towards the wee mobile podium in the training suite.

  “Robert Hennessey, City and Guilds Credit in Advanced Craft Level Hairdressing,” The Chief shouted oot.

  Everywan clapped, as the YO leapt forward and shook the governor’s haun before receiving his certificate.

  “Well done, lad,” The Governor said.

  “Thanks, sir,” the YO beamed.

  “John McPherson, City and Guilds Credit in Craft Level Hairdressing.”

  “Well done, lad.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  “Tony Hamilton, City and Guilds Credit in Craft Level Hairdressing.”

  “Well done, lad.”

  “Thanks, sir,” The YO said, gieing his certificate a loud kiss tae laughter fae everywan present.

  “Samuel Smith, City and Guilds Distinction in Advanced Craft Level Hairdressing.”

  “Well done, lad.”


  Silence.

  “Whit the fuck’s his problem?” The Governor asked The Chief, staunin there wae his haun still ootstretched in thin air, as Silent snatched his certificate and casually strolled back tae his seat, folded it in hauf, before quartering it and stuffing it intae his back pocket.

  “Worst attitude ae any prisoner Ah’ve ever come across in aw ma years in training YOs, Governor,” Mr Brine, the training civvy said in The Governor’s ear. “Bit, gie him a pair ae scissors in they hauns a his and he’d put Vidal Sassoon tae shame, so he wid.”

  11.20 A.M.

  Even efter aw the years ae cultivating the masses oan a daily basis, Honest John McCaffrey certainly widnae hiv taken offence tae finding oot that maist people who knew him still believed that he wis a fat, slovenly, filthy basturt, even though he’d hid the good grace tae pull the Roller o’er tae the side ae the pavement at the corner ae Arlington Street oan Woodlands Road tae let rip. Efter heaving that smelly arse ae his oot ae the car and staunin wae wan leg slightly raised, the clap ae thunder that practically blew a hole in the arse ae his made-tae-measure blue Sta-press troosers, wis testimony tae the fact that he still hid some basic human considerations fur his fellow man, or in this case, wummin. He wis oan route tae meet up wae his newest bit-ae-stuff-oan-the-side, Candy Strachan, Sleazebag Donald’s latest skin-flick star ae strip-stage and screen, and he wanted tae impress her…at least at the start ae this, his latest wee liaison, so collecting her in his newly valeted and polished Roller, withoot the smell ae shite pervading the inside ae it, wis aw part and parcel ae his love-strutting ritual. He wis in buoyant mood, as he’d jist spent the previous two and a hauf hours daeing the roonds a bit earlier than usual, collecting his protection money. Apart fae three scumbags, who obviously saw him coming, he wis noo in proud possession ae a wee antique leather pouch full ae well-thumbed banknotes. Efter gieing the cheeks ae that arse ae his a final wee shake, he opened the door and climbed back in tae his shiny piece ae British craftsmanship. Unfortunately fur him, he hidnae spotted the motorbike pulling up behind the parked Roller and the tall, slim pillion passenger, climbing aff the back ae it tae approach the driver’s side ae the Roller withoot taking his crash helmet aff. Honest John hidnae a clue whit wis aboot tae happen, until he turned in his seat tae see who’d blocked oot the autumn sun oan his side ae the vehicle, in the same instant as the driver’s side tinted-glass windae and that brain ae his exploded aw o’er his freshly clean, cream leather interior. The helmeted assailant then casually reached in and lifted the wee leather pouch fae between they fat legs ae his, before slowly walking back tae the motorbike that hid been sitting idling, waiting fur the pillion passenger tae return. The first thing that hit people as they surrounded the Roller efter the motorbike hid sped aff, wis the strong smell ae shite that wis slowly seeping and spreading across Honest John’s good valeted driver’s seat.

  11.30 A.M.

  The shrill sound ae the phone made her jump. She cursed under her breath, as she reached across and picked up the receiver.

  “Fanny Flaw?” she sang intae the moothpiece, expecting tae hear the sound ae Miss Beaker’s raspy voice.

  “Senga? Is that you? My God, that’s uncanny. I was actually just thinking about you, believe it or not,” she gushed. “How are you doing? I haven’t heard from you in ages.”

  “What’s that? No, I haven’t spoken to Johnboy recently, although Father Leonard has, I believe.”

  “No, I was aware that it was coming up though.”

  “Only what I’ve read in the papers.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Never!”

  “Me? I’m sorry, Senga, I can’t inform Johnboy that. It would have to come from Mr Crawford, the governor. That’s his job.”

  “I can’t, Senga. I can see why you would want him to hear it from you first, but really, the governor is the one, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s nothing to do with me getting the sack. No. It’s his place to…no, I’m sorry.”

  “Me? No, I don’t think he would appreciate it coming from me,” Fanny replied, wondering whit she should dae.

  “Look, I’ll tell you what. Can you phone back in about…” Fanny asked her, looking at the clock above the door. “…in about twenty minutes?”

  “Good. That will be fine. I’ve got some news too, but it can keep until later.”

  “I’m not supposed to do this, Senga, but I’ll phone across to the paint shop and ask Johnboy to be brought across here. I’m not sure if he’ll come, but I’ll try. Yes, twenty minutes. They’ll need to get a member of staff to escort him across.”

  “Yes, you can have five minutes on the phone and tell him yourself. Fine. No, you don’t have to. No, honestly, I don’t mind and you won’t owe me anything. Bye,” Fanny said, placing the receiver oan the hook before lifting it up again and dialling number seven.

  “Hello, Mr Harris? Can you get someone to bring Johnboy Taylor across to my office from the painting and decorating shop, please? Yes, as soon as you can. Thank you.”

  11.59 A.M.

  ‘And that was ‘Hey Jude’ by the fab four, as requested by Marjory Simpson from Portland Square in Carlisle. It’s now coming up to twelve o’clock, midday. You’re listening to Radio Carlisle, your favourite radio station for Carlisle and the Borders and here are the news headlines on this day, Friday the twenty fifth of October, nineteen hundred and seventy four. In Stirlingshire, distraught crowds of local villagers are gathering in large numbers at the gates of an old cotton mill, now used as a civil defence storage facility in the village of Cambusbarron, after the body, believed to be that of a young girl, was discovered in the early hours of this morning by a night watchman. Police are refusing to confirm whether they believe that it’s the body of missing fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, Ann Brown, who went missing on the 9th of November nineteen seventy two…’

  12.05 P.M.

  Robert the Beast finally slackened aff they hauns ae his fae his ears and slumped aff ae his stool, doon oan tae his knees. It sounded as if an aircraft engine hid jist passed through that heid ae his, between his ears.

  “No, no, no…” he groaned and wept, swaying. “Why the hell noo?” He cursed bitterly in self-pity, rapidly punching they thighs ae his wae baith fists clenched tightly.

  “And here’s another sixties classic from the Lizard King himself. This is ‘The End,’ by the one and only Jim Morrison and that amazing band of his, The Doors,” the DJ growled doon intae the microphone, as Jim Morrison’s haunting voice confirmed whit Robert Connor hid awready sussed oot, aw by himsel…that this wis indeed the end.

  The Beast opened his eyes and looked aboot in a blind panic. He wisnae too sure how long he’d been kneeling there. He didnae think that it hid been long. The radio wis still oan, bit the only sound tae be heard wis somewan’s fingers running up and doon the frets ae an electric guitar, the fingers hammering oan the strings like drums, slowly at first, before gaining traction, starting tae get louder and faster in an attempt tae catch up. Hid he been imagining whit he thought he’d jist heard? Wis his whole existence meant tae be jist wan long nightmare? Whit hid he ever done tae deserve aw this pain? He took a deep breath and stumbled tae his feet, willing himsel tae step through intae the corridor as the singer sang aboot being lost in a romance while aw the children wur insane…waiting fur the summer rain. He’d tried tae tell them at school, bit they widnae listen. Aw they’d wanted tae dae wis laugh at him…especially the lassies…especially her…especially Ann Broon. He’d tried tae tell her that she wis the wan, bit she widnae bloody listen. She’d become jist like the rest ae the sluts…sneering…laughing…laughing. He hidnae really meant tae hurt her…no Ann…no her. It wis The Python and that fat basturt ae a mate ae his who’d made him dae it…they wur tae blame…the fuckers. He’d tell them that...the authorities…they’d let him go. He needed tae get hame tae that wee ma ae his. He suddenly became alert. The wee roond speaker oan the front ae his radio, sitting oan the shelf, hi
d used the password. A voice wis alerting him…there wis danger oan the edge…weird scenes inside the goldmine…ride the snake…the west is best…the blue bus wis calling us…shit, he hid tae get a move oan before it wis too late and they blamed him again. He gulped doon a deep breath and popped his heid oot ae the cubbyhole. The screw beyond the barred gate, behind the plate glass windae, still hid his heid stuck in The Glesga Echo. He quickly glanced doon towards Fanny’s office door. It wis still sitting slightly ajar. He couldnae detect any movement or sound fae it. He quickly withdrew his heid back intae the cubbyhole, drapping doon oan tae they knees ae his. At the same time, he slipped his haun up and under the arse ae the bottom shelf where the cardboard soap box sat. His fingers curled roond whit he wis efter. He looked doon. Nelson, the civvy’s putty knife, wae the razor-sharp blade glinted under the glare ae the bare light bulb that wis hinging doon above his heid fae the light oan the ceiling. The deep voice oan the radio said the blue bus wis coming…he hid tae get a move oan or he’d be too late.

  “Fucking slut!” The Beast spat, sliding the blade up the left sleeve ae his blue striped shirt, before staunin up.

  “The killer awoke before dawn…he put his boots on…and walked on down the hall,” Jim Morrison proclaimed, as Robert The Beast pushed open the cubbyhole door and stepped oot intae the corridor and slowly, so as no tae alert The Gatekeeper, wae his face stuck in the newspaper, walked alang the corridor towards Fanny’s office.

  As he gently pushed open the door, popping that heid ae his in first, jist in case she wis sitting facing him, he practically squealed in ecstasy. The bitch hid her back tae him, bent o’er, trying tae force a file that wis refusing tae be interred, back intae the drawer ae the filing cabinet. He quickly stepped through and quietly closed the door o’er behind him and silently crept up behind her, jist as she stood up. He clamped his haun o’er that mooth ae hers before she hid a chance tae turn roond, while at the same time, placed the blade under her left eye.