by Jack Dickson
It was almost nine when he returned. Jas entered the small flat without turning on any lights: it looked better that way. In the bedroom he took off his jacket and switched on the word processor. A green screen lit up the dark room. He drew up a chair and began to type.
Thirty minutes later two more reports were ready for printing, courtesy of IBS. The first a security check on applicants for manager of a children’s home, for Glasgow’s Social Work Department. The second an assessment of three dodgy investment managers, for FIMBRO.
Jas stood up, stretched, and pressed P, then Exit. The ancient printer’s daisy-wheel clattered into action, filling the silence with noise. He smiled. His neighbours had more to complain about than he did. He walked over to the window.
Below, a group of teenage boys lounged at the bus stop. A bus appeared, stopped at traffic lights. One boy pointed and stepped out into the road. Sixteen-year-old face illuminated under sodium. Freckles. Dark, cropped hair. A single shaved line running from ear to back of head. Black canvas Stussy jacket. No-hips in low-slung jeans.
Jas stared.
The other boys moved to the edge of the pavement and stuck out a communal hand. The lights changed. The bus arrived. Three boys got on. Freckle-face and another waved, then walked up Cumbernauld Road towards the chip shop.
His stomach growled. Jas sighed: he’d eat later.
The printer stopped. He removed the disc, switched off the machine, found and addressed two envelopes. He’d post them in the morning.
In the dark bedroom Jas began to undress. Naked, he peered around the room. An orange light seeped in from street lights below. He looked for a jock-strap, then gave up.
In the narrow space between window and bed he lowered his body onto the floor and braced his arms. He began the press-ups.
At fifty his mind freed itself. A year ago each lift had been an effort, his right arm trembling then collapsing beneath him. Physio had helped.
At one hundred he stopped, resting, elbows locked.
Physio.
Jas grinned.
Recreational physio.
He lay down, forehead barely damp.
He’d wanked his way healthy.
Jas flipped over onto his back. Between iron thighs his prick twitched.
IBS. Merchant city offices. An image of bronzed hands dusted with heavy black hair punched into his brain.
He scowled: not now. He needed a wash. Jas stood up. walked around the bed and opened a sliding door.
‘Ensuite shower-room’. More estate agent speak.
Hastily converted bed recess, more like.
Jas switched on the fluorescent strip and stepped into the cubicle. Harsh light blinked twice then blazed into life. Under subzero water he shivered, body glowing. He closed his eyes, turning face upwards to meet the icy jet.
The guy in IBS’s plush office. Assistant? Secretary? If he’d got the measure of Ms Jean Thompson, the latter probably applied.
Mid-twenties. Six-footish. Dark, glossy hair falling over one eye. Tanned skin. Good body under bad suit.
Fingers brushed prick. Hardening.
Meeting his gaze across a crowded desk. Hairy knuckles. Holding out a brown A4 envelope. Gold signet ring.
His hand gripped his prick. Hard.
Hairy Knuckles naked. On his knees. Dark glossy hair falling over face. Smiling ...
Jas’s hand began to move slowly.
... on his knees ...
Jas’s hand moved faster now.
... on his knees ...
Frozen water warming on burning skin.
Banging.
... on his ...
More banging.
Jas opened his eyes. Voices ... or a voice.
More banging. Then shouting.
He looked down. Still hard.
Hairy Knuckles was gone.
The voice. “Jas? You in there?”
He sighed, switched off the shower and grabbed a towel. He rubbed face, hair then threw the sopping towel over one shoulder. Jas made his way from the shower cubicle through the bedroom into the hall past the freezer to the front door. Spiky pink artexing ripped at his skin. “Mhairi? Ye’re early.”
Laugh from the other side. “Lemme in, eh? It’s freezin’ oot here.”
Jas sighed, and opened the door.
Two
SHE WAS TALLER THAN HE REMEMBERED.
Same pale, colourless skin, matt under the stair-light. Same long brown hair. Same crescent scar above crimson mouth, stretching to just under eye. No leather coat, this time. Light-coloured jacket and skirt. Knee-length suede boots, also light-coloured. Smart. Expensive. In one small hand a bottle-shaped package wrapped in pink paper. The other jammed into jacket pocket.
“Fur fuck’s sake, Jas!” Thin body shivering in thin fabric. Stamping on stack heels to keep warm. “Here! Flat-warmin’ present.” Bottle-shaped package thrust at him.
Jas’s shoulder collided with plaster spikes.
Mhairi pushed past him into the flat. Then paused.
He closed the door behind her.
“Whit’ve ye goat a freezer in yer hall fur?” Bright eyes in the dark, from him to white formica and back again. “It’ll play havoc wi’ yer Feng Shui – cold reception, an’ aw’ that.”
Jas shrugged. “Nae room in the kitchen.” He pointed to the lounge. “Ah’ll be through in a minute.”
Laugh. “Dinny git dressed oan ma account, Big Man.” Eyes on his shoulder. Broad smile. Eyes from shoulder to groin. “Or huv ah interrupted somethin’?” She poked his chest with a scarlet-tipped finger.
“Only ma shower.” He thrust the bottle-shaped package back at her. “Git yersel’ a drink.” He turned and walked towards the bedroom. The artex-inflicted wounds had started to bleed. He rubbed scratches with wet towel then threw it onto the bed.
Distant voice. “Will ah pit some lights oan? Ah canny see a – Christ! – fuckin’ thing in here!” Sounds of stack heels tripping.
Jas smiled, grabbed jeans from a wardrobe and pulled them on. “Switch’s oan the left, Mhairi.” Sweatshirt from wardrobe.
Faint clinking of glass. Faint voice. “Yer kitchen’s affy wee.” Louder. “Who diz yer cookin’ noo?” Bedroom light switched on.
Jas pulled his head from a tunnel of black sweatshirting.
Mhairi stood before him, glass in each hand. Eyes on his wet hair. “Like the flat-top, by the way. It suits ye.”
He sat on the bed and pulled on socks then Docs.
She walked to the window and looked out. “No’ much o’ a view, eh? No’ like yer auld flat. Aw’ they lovely trees.” Wistful.
Jas tied laces then stood up. “Ah didn’t move fur the view.”
“Naw, ah suppose not.” Turning. Face softening. She walked towards him, sipping from one glass. The other extended. “How huv ye been, Big Man?”
He walked through to the lounge. Pleasantries were cheap. Favours usually weren’t, when it came to Mhairi.
She followed. One empty glass placed on a small table.
Jas sat down on the moulded sofa and tried to work out why he’d agreed to this. He reached over, lifted a packet of cigarettes from the floor and raised one to lips.
Tight smile. She sat opposite.
He extended the packet.
Mhairi took one, produced a lighter, lit her own then held out the flame. As his cigarette neared, she grabbed his fingers. “Ah didney want tae dae it, Jas. Ye ken that, don’t ye?”
He lit the cigarette.
She withdrew her hand.
Jas inhaled, then exhaled. “It’s aw’ water under the bridge, Mhairi.”
Resolute. “Ah want tae tell ye why ah grassed ye up, Big Man.”
Jas shrugged. He looked at the cigarette’s glowing tip. “Ye wur a snout, Mhairi. Is that no’ whit snouts dae?”
Angry. “They dinny grass up mates, Jas.” Sigh. “Ye’re ma mate, an’ ah let ye doon.”
A mate he’d neither seen nor heard from in twenty-four months? He locate
d an ashtray then leant back on the moulded sofa and stared at the ceiling.
The sound of bottle against glass. Pouring. Then drinking. Pause. “It wisney the money, Jas.”
“Ah didney think it wis.” He struggled to suck some satisfaction from her discomfort. It was all a long time ago.
Fidgeting with jacket button. Head down. “Sloan said he wis gonny help me.” Head up. Bright eyes dull now. “Don’t ken why ah believed him. Ye ken whit he wis like.” Earnest. “Telt me he’d pit a guid word in fur me, tae git the kids back. Ah love ma kids, Big Man ...” Eyes reddening. “... ah wid dae onythin’ tae ...”
“Save it fur the social workers, Mhairi.” He stood up and walked through to the kitchen.
The truth?
He filled a pint glass with water and drank. Then refilled it.
Did it matter?
He walked back through to the lounge and sat down.
Sniffing. “Kin ah use yer toilet?” She stood up, unsteady on four-inch heels.
“First left before the front door.”
Mhairi tottered from the room.
Jas stubbed out the cigarette and lit another.
Mhairi McGhee. Eighteen when he’d first met her. Flawless face. Heroin addict. Twilight girl. Two kids. His snout. Instrumental in putting away Neil, the youngest of Glasgow’s infamous Johnstone Clan.
Twenty-two when he’d last met her. Scarred face courtesy of the Johnstone Brothers. Heroin and temazepam addict. Kids in care. Specialist twilight girl. Friend? Assistant Chief Commissioner Greg Sloan’s snout.
Jas drew on the cigarette.
Twenty-four now ...
Sound of toilet flushing soft, then louder. Stack heels on lino, then cheap carpeting. Bright voice from the doorway: “Where dae ah wash ma hauns?”
“Bedroom. There’s a hand basin in the shower.”
Tutting, then turning. “Sno’ hygienic, Big Man. These rented places ur fuckin’ slums!” Sounds of door sliding, then water running.
Jas inhaled and closed his eyes. The last time he’d seen her: the witness stand. Glasgow High Court. Jimmy ‘Mygo’ Johnstone was now doing life in HMP Peterhead for the murders of Jason and Leigh Nicols.
Jas opened his eyes.
Leigh – best friend: lover.
Blackmailer. Murderer of Jason Nicols, his own brother.
Jas clenched his right fist. It refused to close.
Mhairi’s flat-warming present eyed him.
He walked into the kitchen and drank more water.
Sounds of heels on carpet.
Jas looked up.
Mhairi grinned. The scar twitched.
She sat down. Legs crossed. “Well, noo that we’ve goat that oot the way, ah suppose ye’ll want tae ken why ah’m really here.” Eyes bright again.
“It wid help.”
A sigh. “It’s like ah telt ye oan the phone, Jas. Wee Paul’s missin’.”
Silence.
Jas stood up. “So?” He walked to the window.
Another sigh. “Ah’m worried.”
He frowned. “When did ye last see him?”
“September 23rd.”
“Ye’ve a guid memory!”
“It wis oan the visitin’ warrant.”
“Whit wis he in fur?” Jas stared into the black back court.
“Goat caught at Hanger Thirteen wi’ six eccy tablets.”
Ecstasy. Class A drug. The law making criminals out of guileless kids. The Paul he’d met was no guileless kid. “He shouldda kent the Force wur crackin’ doon oan dealers.”
Snort. “He wisney dealin’, Jas – no’ that night. Widney waste his time wi’ eccy.” Sigh. “Paul wis there wi’ some o’ the boays. A night oot. He got done fur possession.” Harsh laugh. “Been dealin’ H fur three years, then moved oan tae cocaine an’ the polis eventually goat him fur carryin’ fuckin’ happy-pills!”
“How long did he get?”
“Eighteen months.”
“Longriggend?”
“The Bar-L.”
The bullet-headed kid who had driven him to London was obviously older than he looked. “When did he git oot?”
“September 26th.” Pause. “Early release.”
It was now the end of October.’ It’s only bin a month, Mhairi. He’ll turn up.”
Click of cigarette lighter. Soft voice. “It isney like Paul tae ...”
“Why aw’ this concern fur a pusher, Mhairi? His prices that guid?” He grinned. “Or wur you an’ he ...?”
Words barely audible. “Me an’ Paul? Christ, no, Big Man!” Cough. “His family’s worried. Paul eyewis kept in touch.” Silence. Then the sound of smoke exhaled. “Folk dinny jist disappear.”
Her voice pushed the years away. The window was beginning to steam up. Jas traced a name on the cold glass then rubbed it out.
Hand on his shoulder. “Ah don’t ken whit tae dae, Big Man.” Jas turned.
The hand dropped.
He walked past Mhairi and sat down. “Ye asked aroon’?”
Irate. “Whit dae ye think ah am – sure ah did! No wan’s seen him.” Sigh. “No wan kent he wid git early release. Christ! Ah ainly firn’ oot when ah tried tae visit him last week.”
“Huv ye tried his business associates?”
“His pals dinny ken where he is. They wur keepin’ things tickin’ ower fur him til he goat oot.” Scowl. “Some bastard’s taken oan his patch already!” Softer. “Paul didney huv ony really close mates – ’cept his family. Yon wee anorak Hamster’s the ainly wan ah kid think o’ – an’ he’s oan remand in Longriggend. Ah thought he mighta heard somethin’.” Sigh. “They widney let me in tae see him, cos ah’m no’ family.” Faraway eyes. “It’s like Paul’s jist vanished, Big Man.”
Jas lit a cigarette. Mhairi’s information sources were legendary. “If you canny fun’ oot onythin’, whit makes ye think ah’d dae ony better?”
“Ye’ve goat contacts. Ye kid get permission tae talk tae the guys he wis inside wi’, an’ Hamster. Mebbe Paul telt them whit he hud planned – him an’ Hamster wur as thick as fuckin’ thieves.” Frown. “Ah’ve phoned the Bar-L a coupla times, but they’ll no’ gie me the time o’ day.” She pushed an ashtray towards him. “If Paul’s bin picked up fur somethin’ else, you kin fun’ oot fae the polis.” Scowl. “After the last time ah’m no’ goin’ within ten miles o’ them!” Appealing smile. “Ye kin talk the way they can. They’ll listen tae you.”
He stared. They’d never listened in the past. Until he’d made them. Jas stubbed out the cigarette.
“Anderson Investigations, Big Man. It’ll be easy fur you.” Pause. “Ah’ll pay the goin’ rate, if it’s the money ...”
“It’s no’ the money.” He exhaled and examined her ashen face.
The scar winked.
Everything about her brought back times he’d rather forget.
“Let me think aboot it, Mhairi.” His stomach growled audibly.
She laughed. “Huv ye eaten, Jas?”
He shook his head. “Ah’ll git somethin’ later.”
Mock stern. Standing. Thin arms folded across chest. “Ye’ll eat noo, an’ nae arguments!” She walked into the hall. A triangle of light appeared. “Well, at least yer freezer’s well-stocked.” Rummaging sounds. Small head round lounge door. Hand holding two rectangular packages. “Whit dae ye fancy – lasagne?”
“Whitever.” He ground out the cigarette.
Mhairi stalked past him into the kitchen. Sounds of packaging tearing then microwave programmed. She reappeared. “Pit yer feet up an’ relax, Big Man. Yer dinner’ll no’ be long.”
Jas smiled.
Fifteen minutes later he was eating.
She was watching, smoking.
He laid down a fork. “So, Mhairi. Whit ur ye up tae?”
She poured another vodka. He marvelled at her tolerance.
Proud smile. “Oan a methadone programme.” Smile broadening to grin. “Ma key worker says ah’ve a guid chance of gettin’ custody o’ the ki
ds, if ah keep ma nose clean.” Pause, then flourish. “An’ ah’m aff the game, tae.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Laugh. “Dinny look so surprised! Ah’m ... er, managing human resources, noo.”
“So it’s Madam McGhee ah should be callin’ ye, is it?”
The grace to blush. “Ah’m gettin’ too auld fur aw’ that masel’, Jas.”
Over the hill at twenty-four. He laughed.
She continued. “Ah look efter ma girls, pass oan ma experience. Ah treat them like ah’d want tae be treated masel’. They git a better deal aff me than ony pimp.”
“Where ye runnin’ them oota?”
“Nice place in Wilton Street, up the West End.” Uncomfortable. “Ah run a clean hoose, an’ we dinny gie onybody ony hassle.”
“Ah’m no’ polis noo, Mhairi.” He stood up and carried his plate through to the kitchen. “Makes no difference tae me whit ye dae or where ye dae it.” He returned to the lounge, sat down and lit a cigarette.
She nodded, then leant forward and winked. “An’ whit aboot you? Who ye gettin’ it up these days?”
He looked down at his right hand.
Mhairi laughed. “Sex wi’ the wan ye love best, eh? Ah, well, there a loat tae be said fur wankin’. Ah’ve no’ fucked in three years, an’ ah’m feelin’ the better fur it.”
“No wan keepin’ ye warm at night, then?”
Shrug. “When wis there ever, Big Man?” Frown, then smile. “Huv ye hud enough time tae think aboot Paul?”
Something pricked at his brain.
If Mhairi was off H, why did she need a dealer?
He stared at the small, pale face. “So, this Paul guy goat early release fae Barlinnie an’ husney bin seen since: whit’s it tae you, really?” He searched her eyes for information. “Ye sure there’s nothin’ mair tae this, Mhairi? Nothin’ yer no’ tellin’ me?”
Head shake.
“Ah’m no’ gettin’ involved in ony drug wars ...”
“Big Man!” Mock hurt. “Wid ah lie tae you?”
He locked eyes with her.
She looked away. “It’s like ah telt ye. Paul’s reliable, disney slip ye ony dodgy gear. Ah kin eyeways fun’ him when ah need tae – usually. Noo?” Shrug. “Ca’ it curiosity, if ye like.”
“Yer curiosity’ll cost ye, Mhairi. Ah don’t come cheap.”