Jack and Annie head East to the
BRIDGE OF DOOM
George McCartney
Copyright © George McCartney 2016
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
George McCartney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved under International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author.
I’d like to thank my copy editor, proof reader, legal adviser, style consultant, hairdresser, navigator and top chef. She’s the ying to my yang, the ping to my pong, the sane and sensible to my crazy.
Big thanks to Moira.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
About the Author
Chapter 1
Annie James, the younger, slimmer, better looking half of the JD Investigations partnership, squeezed her way through the busy lunchtime crowd surrounding the ornate horseshoe bar in the Royal Bar, nodding as she went to a few of the familiar faces. She got lucky and managed to grab a pleasantly warm, recently vacated, bar stool and waved in greeting to her aunt Peggie, the old-school landlady who ruled over the Glasgow pub with a rod of iron. As Peggie finished serving a customer on the other side of the bar, she wiped her hands on the front of her apron and came across to greet Annie.
'So how’s my favourite niece to-day?' she said, with a warm welcoming smile. Then, looking closer, she frowned and observed, ‘you’re looking a wee bit down girl. What’s the problem? Come on now, you know you can’t fool your old auntie Peg. It’s usually either work, men or money. So which is it this time?’
'Work’s fine, auntie. Things are a bit quiet at the moment as far as new business goes, but I’ve had enough bits and pieces over the past few weeks to just about keep things ticking over and cover our overheads, while Jack's still off sick. So, for the first time in my life, I’m actually okay for money. No, that’s all good.'
'Okay then, big surprise. It must be man trouble then. I swear to God, Annie, they’re the root of all evil. To be honest, if someone would just invent a decent vibrator, with an attachment to take the lid off my big catering jars of pickled eggs, then men would be completely obsolete as far as I’m concerned. So is it to do with that new guy you brought in here for a drink last week? You know, the wee skinny-looking geek, with the specs. The one who looks like a half-bag of shite tied in the middle?'
Annie couldn’t help giggling at the typically outrageous, non-PC outburst from her aunt and said, ‘please, auntie, that was so harsh. No, Jamie and I are just pals. I met him at my night school class and we buddy each other with some of our assignments. We've been to see one movie together, that's all. So there's no big romance and that reminds me, he's not replied to my last three texts, which isn't like him. He's probably just really busy with work, but I'll need to try and track him down and find out what's going on. You're right though, he is a bit shy and awkward around females, but once you get to know him he’s really sweet.’
‘Sweet … what kind of man is that?’ snorted Peggie. ‘I like mine to have some hair on their balls.’
‘Well I don’t know how hairy he is, but he's a whizz at coding and I'm totally convinced he’ll invent a really cool smartphone app one of these days and retire filthy rich before he’s thirty.'
'Trust me, that’s the only way he'll get a real girlfriend. Seriously, Annie, I really don’t get this all of this 'we’re just friends, good pals, he’s really sweet' crap,' that you come out with all the time. Things were much simpler when I was your age.'
'What do you mean?'
‘Look Annie, I know that I maybe don't look it when I’m at work, with my hair done and all the makeup on, but I've actually got quite a few miles on the clock, right. And in my humble opinion, men and women just aren't genetically programmed to be close friends. I've known a lot of men in my life and, trust me, that proposition just doesn't work. Unless they're under ten years of age, or raging poofters, they're all just biding their time to try and catch you off guard and get into your knickers.'
'Honestly, things are different these days, auntie.'
'Okay then, if it's not poor wee Jamie that’s the problem, there must be some other man you've been keeping hidden from me?'
'It's not a boyfriend I'm worried about, aunty. It's Jack.'
Peggie snorted dismissively and said, 'well you don't need to waste any time worrying about that old fool, because he's tough as old boots. What's he complaining about now, anyway?'
'But that's the thing, he's not complaining about anything. Quite the opposite, in fact. Although physically he seems fine and his wounds have all healed up nicely, he seems quite happy just to sit at home watching television all day and he's shown absolutely no interest in coming back to work. I talk to him by phone or on Facetime every day, just to try and cheer him up and let him know what's happening back in the office. His doctor keeps saying that he shouldn't try to come back to work too early, until he's fully recovered from the head wound. But I seriously think he needs to get back out into the world. Ever since I gave him an iPad, he just sits around and plays with it all day. He says he mainly uses it to order repeat prescriptions for his medication and to buy groceries. But I suspect he's actually living on takeaway food that he orders online. And talking of online … apparently he's also downloaded the entire Hank Williams back catalogue from iTunes.'
'That is worrying. He's a sad bastard right enough.'
'Any other bits and pieces that he needs,
he orders from Amazon, or eBay. Basically having the iPad and access to the internet has allowed him to become a complete hermit. What do you think? Does he need more counselling, maybe?'
'If you ask me, what he needs is a good hard boot up the arse,’ said Peggie, decisively. ‘If you like, I'll put on my hob-nailed sling backs and go round to see him to-morrow, for a quiet word.'
'No auntie, honestly, I don't think that would work. You know what he's like, he's so stubborn.'
'Okay then, let's work out a plan. Doesn't need to be complicated, Annie, remember that he's just a man. With a few notable exceptions, they're very simple predictable creatures, who basically only need three things to keep them happy. I've spent almost forty years standing behind this bar listening to drunken men telling me all of their little secrets. So, trust me, I know what I'm talking about.'
'Please share.'
'Firstly they need to be fed, which is kind of obvious, but often overlooked by young women these days. Doesn't need to be anything fancy mind. Just a big steaming pile of whatever favourite stodge their old mammy used to make for them, usually with a big dollop of tomato sauce on top and a side order of baked beans. Secondly, you have to give them a little bit of praise every now and then. It really doesn't matter what it's for, or if they even deserve it. Just make something up … anything to give their wee fragile egos a boost. Believe me, afterwards they'll go bouncing around for days, whistling away with a spring in their step. It's quite pathetic really.'
While her aunt was in the middle of delivering the lecture, Annie took out her iPhone to try and discretely check her messages. However, if she thought that anything other than her undivided attention would be acceptable, she was quickly proved wrong.
'Are you listening to me?' demanded Peggie. 'I really hate that, when people start playing around with their bloody phones, when I'm in the middle of trying to tell them something important. It's like they would rather be somewhere else, talking to somebody much more interesting. It's very rude, you know.'
'Sorry, auntie. You’re right, it's a bad habit. It's just that I'm starting to worry about Jamie. He must be really busy with work.'
'Or maybe he's lost his phone,’ said Peggie. ‘I collect at least three or four mobies in here every week, after closing time. They’re usually down the back of seat cushions, or left lying around in the toilets.'
'But I was still paying attention, honestly,’ said Annie. ‘Okay, I think I've got that so far. Men need food and praise. So what's the third thing they need?'
'Ah, well this is where things start to get a bit trickier, because they all need a regular outlet for their nonsense.'
'Nonsense? You've lost me there, auntie. What do you mean?'
Aunt Peggie snorted in disgust, 'no wonder you don't have a boyfriend. What I mean, Annie, is that they all get the horn and if something isn't done about it, they go as cranky as a tomcat with three balls.'
'Okay, I get the food and the praise bit. That does make sense. So I could take a fish supper round to Jack’s place and tell him that I've always secretly admired his living room curtains. But, trust me, I certainly won't be helping him with the third one. No way.'
'I didn't mean that you personally have to do the dirty deed. But you could maybe just give him a nudge in the right direction.'
'Which is?'
'To give online dating a try.'
'Oh my God, I don't believe it,' gasped Annie in astonishment.
'Don't look at me like that girl. It's not just for young people. Everybody's doing it these days. Loads of my friends have tried it. Some of them are even single. I've actually been trying it for myself for over a year.'
'But you never said anything.'
'Look, it's not just men who get a touch of the horn, you know. Older women have needs too, Annie. Remember, you only live once, or so they tell me. So there's absolutely no point in me standing around here, waiting for Mr Right to come wafting in through the pub door and jump over the bar, to whisk me off in a swanky limo for a romantic weekend. That's not going to happen. So for the independent mature woman, like me, who knows what she wants, we simply have to be proactive and put ourselves in the online shop window. Otherwise nothing happens and your life just slowly disappears down the plug hole and before you know it you’re dead and gone.'
Annie shook her head and said, 'sorry, I'm not knocking it, honestly. I’m just amazed that you still have the energy.'
'Use it or lose it, Annie, that’s my motto. You should always bear that in mind, even at your age. But to go back to the problem of Mr Davidson, I think if you could convince him to try online dating, that would at least give him a reason to climb out of bed in the morning and re-join the world. If you can do that, then it should be fairly easy to nudge him back to work.'
'So instead of just nagging him to get up off his backside, I have to be a bit sneakier. I should plant this idea in his mind and then sit back and see what happens?'
'That's my girl,' said Auntie Peg, smiling broadly. 'Now you're getting with the programme. So is there anything else I can help my favourite niece with to-day?'
Chapter 2
Eighteen-year old Danny Duff, aka Fazzo, was definitely up for a big Saturday night out. He’d had a pretty good week selling hash for his drug dealer father on their patch, which took in most of a grim housing scheme located on Glasgow’s eastern boundary. Time to head off into the city centre with a good thick wedge in his pocket. Before leaving home he’d hosted an informal drinks party for several of his crew, in the bedroom of his home. Alternating shots of vodka with gulps of Buckfast tonic wine straight from the bottle, the young men were soon suitably pre-lashed and ready for action.
Their buoyant mood and bonhomie was further enhanced by a shared jumbo-sized spliff, stolen from his father’s special stash. Then, for a dare, Fazzo unwisely snorted a full packet of a so-called legal high called JAXXI. The lurid packaging proclaimed, worryingly, that the lime-green powder would keep cut flowers fresh and standing for at least three months. Recommended by one of his crew, who claimed that the effect was ‘pure buzzin’ man,’ JAXXI contained a cocktail of mystery ingredients, with the dire warning NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION printed on the back of the pack in tiny lettering.
Sounds good to me … what harm could it do, thought Fazzo? Yeah, I’ll have some of that … go for it ya’ wee pussy.
Two hours later and further refreshed by five pints of strong lager, Fazzo was completely wasted and his good night out tick-list was now a fading memory.
He certainly hadn't had a good time and he most definitely wouldn't be getting laid. His behaviour and appearance also ensured that his chances of successfully flagging down a late-night taxi were now less than zero.
As the effects of the legal high had gradually kicked in, even his friends had grown tired of his increasingly erratic, paranoid behaviour. They had eventually abandoned him outside a popular club just off Argyle Street, in the city centre, where he was refused entry. He had subsequently had his face slapped three times by young women he'd propositioned in the street who, amazingly, were completely immune to his charms. However, Fazzo was no quitter and gamely staggered onwards, to be refused admittance at several other city centre clubs. At the last one, as the penny finally dropped that his plans for the evening were now in tatters, he'd unwisely insulted then tried to punch the head bouncer controlling the club door.
The pumped-up gorilla, who was built like the gable end of a Glasgow tenement, had easily blocked his wild swing and contemptuously swatted him away, without inflicting any serious damage. Much worse, he'd called Fazzo a pathetic little wanker and told him to come back when he had grown a proper set of balls. A crowd of young women, who were at the front of the queue to enter the club had found his public humiliation seriously funny and, in between peals of hysterical laughter, had taken pictures on their mobile phones, to share with the world.
He reckoned his knock-back had probably gone viral on YouTube by now, with the tag, 'Mout
hy wee Glasgow ned gets knocked on his arse by club bouncer and pishes his pants.’ As he weaved his way homewards through the night, with the pee-stained crotch of his chinos a constant reminder of his public humiliation, Fazzo’s neck burned red with shame and anger.
An hour later he was still slowly staggering homewards, with a further three miles to go. To compound the misery further his best mate, Jody, was sending a constant stream of texts and selfies confirming that all of Fazzo's crew had successfully gained entry to a club and appeared to have immediately struck solid gold. They had hooked up with a large group of drunken young women out on a hen do, who were all crammed into too-tight bunny girl costumes. And his friends didn’t seem to be missing him at all. The fucking jammy bastards, thought Fazzo. That should be me standing right there in the middle of the picture, wearing a big shit-faced grin and with my arms round a pair of busty bunny girls, who could have been lifted straight from a sailor's wet dream. Swaying from side to side, Fazzo peered closely at his phone and concluded that both women were definitely gagging for it.
Bitter tears of anger and frustration started to well up in his eyes and, as his mobile chirped to announce yet another salacious text from Jody, who was probably enjoying a blow-job in the toilets, Fazzo petulantly considered dropping his phone down the next street gulley he passed. Instead he settled for switching it off, to prevent further torture being inflicted. Then muttering, 'fuck them all,' to himself, he shoved his hands resolutely into his urine-soaked pockets and tried to walk faster. But his wobbly legs stubbornly refused to respond and suddenly his world started to spin violently out of control. Sadly, whilst JAXXI's miracle properties ensured that cut flowers would remain upright for three months, no such guarantee extended to Fazzo's legs, which refused to support his weight for one second longer.
His final irrational thought as his knees buckled and he sank in a heap to the pavement was, 'this isnae fair, man. This isnae right. This isnae how it's fuckin’ meant to be. Some bastard, is goin’ to pay for this … aye, and pay big time.'
Bridge of Doom Page 1