Bridge of Doom

by George McCartney

  By contrast, twenty-one year-old Jamie Boyd's Saturday night up until that point had been much less eventful. A self-confessed technology geek, Jamie was something of a rare bird in Glasgow, never having consumed alcohol or taken drugs of any kind. His twin passions were computer programming and French films. In contrast to Fazzo, his night out had been meticulously planned in advance. Three nights before he'd finally worked up the courage to ask a female friend from night school to accompany him to a Saturday night screening of 'Blue is the Warmest Colour,' at the Glasgow Film Theatre. To his surprise and delight she had immediately agreed. Strictly speaking this couldn't be described as a date, since the pair were simply friends with a shared interest in computing, who often worked together on class projects for a computer science course at Glasgow Clyde College. So, definitely not a date … but still.

  Jamie had bought the tickets for the French film online and then, continuing the Gallic theme, had booked a corner table for two at a good French restaurant close to the Film Theatre, for dinner before the film. Finally, he’d pre-booked a taxi for 11pm, in order to drop his companion off at her flat, before heading for his home on the South side, where he lived with his parents.

  So, young Jamie Boyd, you've done all the right things and taken all sensible precautions. You showered, shaved, put on clean underwear, combed your hair and headed out hopefully into the night to have a good time. The odds say you should be alright. Except sometimes it doesn't work out like that. The truth is that bad shit sometimes just happens and there isn't a damn thing anyone can do to prevent it. And sometimes life seems so cruel, so perverse, you would almost believe God has a sick sense of humour and, weary of the boring activities of mankind, He decides to spice things up a little. 'Okay, there's not much happening tonight. Let's put Mr Goody Two Shoes and Mr Wasted Psycho on a collision course, shall we? Just to see what goes down.'

  Jamie was still smiling to himself as he asked the taxi driver to drop him off at the corner of his street, to save the driver the trouble of turning in the narrow cul-de-sac. The evening had really gone much better than he could have hoped. There had been no awkward silences between Jamie and his companion. They had both enjoyed the meal and she had even appeared to enjoy the French film. And as she exited the taxi, there was a warm smile of thanks and a fleeting kiss to his cheek. Life is pretty good, thought Jamie as he quickly sent a 'thanks for great evening' text message to his friend.

  After handing over twenty-five pounds, to cover the fare and a generous tip, Jamie got out of the taxi, squeezed between two parked cars and turned round to wave goodbye to the driver. As he did so he tripped over the prostrate figure of Fazzo, who was lying flat on his back on the pavement, with arms spread wide and palms facing upwards, as if he'd been recently crucified.

  Jamie looked around the street for assistance but, with the taxi gone, it was just the two of them alone on the otherwise deserted rain slicked street. He quickly checked the side of the young man’s neck and was relieved to find a strong pulse. Jamie didn't know why he was lying there on the pavement. He could have been taken ill, or even attacked, although there was no-one else in sight. Or, more likely, it was due to over-indulgence involving booze or drugs, suggested by an unpleasant odour of urine and stale alcohol. However, at this point the cause of the young man’s collapse was less important than what to do about it, until an ambulance could be summoned.

  Jamie made sure the unconscious man's tongue wasn't obstructing his airway and then heaved the short, but surprisingly solid figure over onto one side, into the standard recovery position. He was on the point of dialling 999 when Fazzo stirred, moaned thickly and began rubbing his left side. ‘Hey you … ya bastard, that was fuckin’ sore.'

  'What do you mean?' said Jamie, taken aback.

  'You just kicked me in the fuckin' ribs, ya sneaky bastard, that's what ah mean.'

  'Oh right, I'm sorry about that,' said Jamie, smiling as he held his hands up in apology. 'I didn't see you lying there on the pavement. I tripped, because I was in the middle of paying off my taxi and sending a text to my girlfriend at the same time. Well she's not really my girlfriend, but you know …'

  Suddenly Fazzo had a rare moment of clarity and he forced himself up into a sitting position and tried to get his eyes focussed on his tormentor. Oh right, so this must be the guy who's to blame for the shitty way his evening had turned out. It didn't seem possible, but this skinny, geeky-looking wee bastard had somehow managed to snag a burd, then he'd taken her home and probably gave her a right good pumpin’ as well. And then, fuckin' unbelievable man, he'd somehow managed to get hold of a taxi. How the fuck did he manage to do all that? As his eyes re-focussed, Fazzo homed in on the new iPhone 6 held in Jamie's right hand.

  As his addled brain summed up his current plight, Fazzo worked himself up into a lather of righteous anger. So this smart bastard has the phone, the taxi, the stupid superior grin, the dry trousers and the burd. And me? Ave got nuthin'. He's got fuckin’ everythin' and, despite that, the scumbag still tried to give me a good kickin' while I was lying defenceless on the pavement, havin' a wee sleep and no botherin' anybody. Well we'll fuckin’ see about that.’

  Maybe tonight wouldn't be a complete write-off after all, Fazzo concluded. And as he struggled unsteadily to his feet, aided by his tormentor, a familiar red mist was descending.

  Chapter 3

  Jack Davidson sat up in bed with a start, suddenly awake and trembling with fear. There's never a good time to be gasping for breath, soaked in sweat and shaking uncontrollably like a chronic malaria sufferer. But three o'clock in the morning is the worst time. It's not late enough to have had the benefit of a decent night's sleep and it's still way too early to get up and try to begin the new day.

  He had the same nightmare every night, at exactly the same time. He was instantly transported back six weeks in time, to a deadly confrontation with the psychopath Thomas Burke. Recently released from prison, Burke was hell bent on revenge against Jack, for committing perjury against him in court.

  Night sweats and terrors are frequently extreme versions of actual events, which are then distorted by the subconscious mind. However, Jack's recurring nightmare and the accompanying daytime flashbacks did not require any further dramatization or embellishment. They were one hundred per cent, hi-def faithful to the way his terrifying brush with death had actually unfolded.

  He found that listening to music usually helped to calm him down. So he reached out to the bedside table, slipped headphones on and pressed the play button on his iPod. However, his demons would not be assuaged and half an hour later his pulse was still racing as he stared up at the bedroom ceiling.

  He hurled the iPod across the bedroom in frustration, lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Concentrating hard he eventually regained control of his breathing, but Jack knew that further sleep would be impossible. He got up and went into the bathroom, poured a glass of cold water and gulped down a double dose of the anti-anxiety medication which had been prescribed by his doctor.

  Sighing in resignation, he pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders, before slumping on his sofa and reaching for the television remote control. He felt really guilty about leaving Annie to man the JD Investigations office on her own, but he knew that as soon as he tried to focus on anything to do with work the flashbacks would begin again. He was unable to get a decent night's sleep and, apparently, incapable of rational thought when awake. Definitely not a good combo, Jack.

  Right then, back to more mind-numbing re-runs of the Jeremy Kyle show. But sometimes mind-numbing is good.

  Chapter 4

  A couple of miles from the corner where he'd collapsed on the pavement, Fazzo was starting to feel better about life. Things were definitely looking up. The pee-stained crotch of his chinos was now almost dry and his brain was starting to clear from the effects of the legal high and booze.

  Okay, it wasn’t the Saturday night he'd hoped for when he left home. But, all thing
s considered, he'd felt he'd definitely snatched a victory of sorts from the jaws of defeat. He smiled as he remembered the satisfaction of giving the smart-arsed little prick, who'd kicked him in the ribs, a more than decent doing, considering his wasted state at the time. And, as a bonus, he was now the proud owner of a brand new iPhone 6. Pausing briefly, he remembered to switch the phone off, to avoid it being tracked. He’d also relieved his victim of a fancy Seiko wristwatch, a leather wallet containing around sixty pounds in cash and a credit card. Total value, five hundred quid, maybe more. And best of all, he didn't have to share the spoils with the rest of his crew. This was his triumph alone. He punched the air in celebration, then kicked over a row of dustbins at the kerbside, as he howled to the world, 'Fazzo rules, okay?'

  Of course, having possession of a stolen iPhone was nothing new for Fazzo. His main source of income was street level drug dealing, specifically delivering hash to regular customers of the family firm run by his father, Tommy. But in the company of his own little crew, he'd developed a profitable side line dealing in stolen mobile phones. Ideally, the gang would lift them from tables or open handbags in crowded pubs or clubs where careless owners leave them lying around, almost inviting theft. But, if there was no alternative, they were not averse to flashing a knife under someone's nose, to force a premium brand phone to be handed over. It was ridiculously easy, because most young people are so absorbed in staring at their phones, they rarely pay attention to what’s going on in the world around them.

  Fazzo almost skipped the final hundred yards to his home, an incongruous looking bungalow, which stood out like an extremely sore thumb from neighbouring properties, which were mainly ex-council stock. This was due, in part, to a pair of extremely large horse heads mounted on either side of the entrance gate to the short driveway, which even Don Vito Corleone might have deemed vulgar. In addition, the house had been extended in every possible direction, short of breaking through the gable walls of neighbouring properties. Finishing touches to this unique look were provided by faux stone cladding, straight from the Fred Flintstone Originals catalogue, which was stuck all over the front elevation. An array of CCTV cameras, covering every possible angle of approach to the house, suggested a higher than normal level of concern by the occupier for his personal security.

  If Kirsty Allsopp, the formidable host of Channel 4's property show Location, Location, Location, suffered a sat-nav malfunction and found herself driving through the Gargummock scheme, past the Duff family residence, she would surely be compelled to stop and scribble a brief outline for a compelling new property series, with a twist, titled ‘Who the Fuck Lives in There?’

  Fazzo's heart sank, when he saw there was still a light on in the front lounge. That meant only one thing. His father, Tommy, was still awake. Past experience told him that this was definitely not a good thing. In fact, his bowels started to turn distinctly watery at the very thought and he briefly considered suicide, or running away to join the Foreign Legion. But maybe, just maybe, there was a chance he could get inside and slink to his bedroom at the back of the house without being heard. He silently inserted his key into the lock and eased the front door open. Standing in the lobby he paused, held his breath and listened. Silence … thank God, maybe this was going to work after all. Then Tyson, the family's pit bull, which had been caught out sleeping on the job, belatedly woke up and made up for lost time by barking fit to raise the dead, before sinking its formidable canine teeth into Fazzo's left ankle.

  'Put him down Tyson … NOW! There's a good dog,’ ordered Tommy Duff, patting the slavering mutt on the head. ‘Now I suppose you'll need a fucking injection, in case you’ve caught something.'

  'Thanks da,' whimpered Fazzo, clutching his ankle whilst trying to secure the sympathy vote.

  'I was talking to the fucking dog, numbnuts,' snarled his father.

  Fazzo trembled with fear as his father, stamped from the brick shithouse mould and with a deep rumbling growl for a voice, advanced slowly towards him. 'What time do you call this to be coming in? And look at the state your clothes are in. If you dare to bleed on your mother's new cream carpet, I'll fucking kill you. Have you been fighting again, you daft wee bastard?’

  Grabbing his son by the throat and lifting him effortlessly off the floor with one hand, Duff senior continued, 'what did I tell you last week about keeping out of trouble? The last thing this family needs right now is for you to attract attention from the polis, because of your stupidity.'

  'Sorry da, ah promise it won't happen again. I know I've said that before, like, but this time was different. What happened was, this big guy attacked me when I was walkin’ home, just mindin’ ma ain business, like. So, of course, I had tae defend maself, right? There are some pure mad fuckers out there, you know?'

  'Yeah, tell me about it. And I know who the leader of the pack is. Do you remember what I said I would do to you, Danny, if you got into any more trouble?'

  Fazzo knew from past experience that this conversation was destined to go only one way. He was certain to be on the receiving end of a severe pummelling from his father, unless he could quickly pull a rabbit from the proverbial hat. Desperate times called for desperate measures and he didn't have a rabbit immediately to hand. But what he did have was an almost new iPhone 6. With a flourish, he produced the gleaming white device from his back pocket and shamelessly said, 'I picked up this wee beauty specially for you da. It's one of the latest iPhones, you know. It's the one you were talking about the other day, sayin’ you fancied getting one.'

  'Let me see that. Nice … very nice indeed. Where did you get it?'

  'Ah took it off the tube who jumped me. Ah thought that was only fair. It's like compensation for ma injuries and emotional distress.'

  'So what's it worth?'

  'Dunno, maybe a hundred quid, for a quick sale. But only if it's no been locked by the owner. Most people have started to do that with these new ones, as soon as they realise they've lost it. It's a right pain in the tits, so it is.'

  'Okay, so what if it can't be unlocked? What's it worth then?

  'I'm not sure,' mumbled Fazzo, bracing himself.

  'Well, I think I do … how about sweet fuck all?' snarled his father in disgust.

  Fearing the worst, Fazzo whimpered and closed his eyes. But, mercifully, nothing happened. His father held up the iPhone and barked, 'I need to find out a bit more about this thing, before I decide what to do with you. Now fuck off to bed, and I'll speak to you again in the morning.'

  Chapter 5

  The next morning Tommy Duff sent Tyson, the pit bull, towards his son's bedroom with the command, ‘good boy, go fetch.' Two minutes later the faithful mutt shadowed a bedraggled Fazzo, limping and yawning into the front lounge.

  'Okay, sit on your arse and pay attention because, while you've been lying in your bed, snoring like a blocked drain, I've been doing some research online about this iPhone you gave me. You were right, they have beefed up the security on these things recently and all the latest models are now being sold with a 'kill switch' already activated. This feature is operational straight out of the box so, if it's lost or stolen, the owner can immediately lock it remotely. The phone is then officially Bricked, as the techie guys at Apple HQ would say, or completely fucked as we say around here. And then, on top of that, there's a couple of other sneaky little features that could really spoil your day, Danny. They’re called Lost Mode and Find my iPhone.'

  'Yeah, I've heard a bit about them already. It's a total bummer, da. Tryin’ tae stop people like us from makin’ a decent livin’.'

  'But the weird thing about this particular phone, is that the owner hasn't used any of those things.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I turned it on for a couple of minutes, when I took the dog to the park for a walk earlier. It was the only way to find out if it’s worth anything. So when I powered it up, everything worked as normal and I took the chance to copy a few of the most dialled numbers from the guy's
contacts list. I'll explain why later. But it’s really weird, it's like whoever owns this phone doesn't know that it's been stolen, or he somehow doesn't care.’ Suddenly Tommy Duff jumped up from his seat and grabbed his son by the front of his t-shirt, lifting him bodily off the floor. ‘For fuck's sake, Danny, he's not dead is he?’ yelled Tommy. ‘Because if you've gone and killed somebody over a stupid bloody iPhone, I swear to God I'll swing for you.’

  'Naw da, don’t worry. He's no dead, I just nutted him and then kicked him a few times, that's all. It was nuthin’ too heavy, honest. A few cuts and bruises is all.'

  'You better be fucking right. Anyway, the main thing is that it now stays switched off. That way it can't be tracked, locked or any of the content erased. That's how we want it to stay, in prime condition.’

  'I found out that all of Apple’s security measures can be overcome, although that’s not straightforward and it would involve me trying to find somebody a lot smarter than you who could do it. That wouldn't be difficult, obviously, but it would still cost money. And then I was sitting here thinking and it came to me. Why bother arsing around trying to unlock the phone? Instead, why not try and sell the phone to the one person in the world who values it most?'

  'Who's that?'

  'The original owner, stupid.’

  'What? You've lost me there da.'

  'I wish. Look, I know this will be really difficult for you, Danny son, but just try and imagine what life would be like if you had an ordinary straight job. I know, it's a scary thought … no drug dealing, no thieving, no beating people up for fun, no lying in bed till lunchtime every day, pulling your plonker. Just trying to hold down an ordinary dumb job like everyone else. Most of them struggle every month to make ends meet and pay their bills. So buying one of these bad boys is a major commitment and, if you're on an average wage, five or six hundred quid is a tidy sum of money to lay out. Even if you take one on a contract, it's still forty to fifty quid coming out of the kitty every single month.'