Banged Up

by Jack Dickson

  Moonface unsure. To Michaels: “Ah’ve no’ got a proper statement yet sir, and there’s the prints tae get, yet.”

  Jas stared at Michaels. “He’ll come tae Stewart Street the morra, gie it then. Ye kin get his prints then, tae.” He searched for humanity in the professional face.

  And found it.

  To Peter: “We’ve got your address, Mr McLaughlin?”

  Peter nodded, scrambling into jeans.

  Radio crackle. Unintelligible voice.

  Michaels turned away and replied softly.

  Radio crackle subsided.

  Michael turned back. “Do you still deny this ...” Doublewrapped white powder brandished. “... is yours?” Humanity tinged with the job.

  A deal. Him for Peter. Jas rubbed his face. “Ah wanna talk tae ma solicitor.”

  To Peter: “Any time tomorrow will be fine, then. Ask for WPC Morrison.” Michaels to Moonface: “See that Mr McLaughlin gets home then bring Mr Anderson up to the station.” Michaels left the room. One of the uniforms went with him.

  An overweight shape reappeared in the doorway. Eyes to hall. Disappointed: “Whit aboot the body search, sir? They kid both huv drugs up their ...”

  “Leave it, Bennett – we’ve got what we came for.” Sound of front door opening then closing as DI Michaels left the flat.

  Jas spun round, inner arms held out for inspection. “Dae ah luck like a user?” Biceps pulsed. Eyes to Peter: “Dis he?”

  Harsh laugh. Bennett seized Jas’s right wrist and twisted it up behind his back. “The tip-aff said ye were dealin’, no’ using, ya bastard! Guid veins means nothin’.” He pulled Jas’s arm further up his back.

  A disabling hold.

  ... the tip-aff ...

  ... the tip-aff ...

  Through the first indication of where the police had obtained their information, the hold’s effectiveness kicked in. Knuckles pressed into spine. Pain throbbed in damaged tendons. Vision blurred. He closed his eyes.

  “Leave him alone!” Low growl from Peter.

  Laugh. Dismissive: “An’ whit ye gonny dae aboot it?”

  Pressure on arm increasing. Sound ebbed and flowed in his cars. Voices faded. Then returned. Shouting. Female voice placating. On the edge of consciousness his arm was released. Jas gasped, shook his head and opened his eyes.

  More shouting.

  Jas blinked and focused.

  Peter. Pinned to the bedroom wall. Bennett’s arm against his throat. Moonface pulling at a serge-covered back. Unsuccessfully. Two other uniforms standing against the closed door. Watching.

  Then silence. Then the sound of laboured breathing.

  Slow motion though star-spangled vision. Jas stared at Peter’s face, white beneath tan. Then bluish around mouth. Hairy arms flailing, then slowing ...

  More shouting. Bennett: “Hit an officer, wid ye, ya wee ...” Jas pushed past Moonface and grabbed flabby shoulders. “Whit the ...?”

  He pulled Bennett around. Knee contacted with groin. Scream, then moaning. Bennett doubled up and fell forwards.

  Jas pushed him away.

  Bennett fell sideways.

  Peter slid silently down the wall and slumped to the floor, head lolling.

  Jas knelt beside him, two fingers on neck. Weak pulse. He smoothed glossy hair back from face and slapped one cheek lightly.

  No response.

  Moonface at his side, worried: “He okay?”

  Jas lifted the limp body in trembling arms and laid Peter on the mattress.

  Eyes still closed. Shallow breathing. Broad reddening line across Adam’s apple.

  Jas turned to Moonface: “Git an ambulance.” He slapped Peter’s face again, harder.

  Radio crackle. Lowered voice. More radio crackle. Frowning.

  He stared at the imprint of his palm and cursed radio blackspots. “Phone’s in the other room.”

  Quivering Moon-voice: “Come on, boys, let me past.”

  He turned away from the reddening handprint, watched as the two uniforms reluctantly opened the bedroom door.

  On the floor, Bennett was still writhing, clutching groin.

  Jas stood up, walked over and kicked the overweight figure twice. In the kidneys.

  Bennett gasped, then fell silent.

  On the mattress, Peter groaned.

  Jas turned and crouched beside him, stroking hair.

  Eyelids fluttered open. Pupils unfocused. Croaking words: “You okay?”

  The concern flushed his face. Jas leant over and brushed purplish lips.

  Behind, three sets of eyes bored hate-holes into his back.

  “Aye, ah’m fine. How aboot you?”

  Trying to sound brave. “Sure.” Head raised inches. Pain flashed across face. Peter sank back onto the mattress.

  “Lie still.” Jas reached down and picked up the Paul Smith jacket. He draped it over Peter’s tanned chest.

  Sounds of unsteady breathing. Then curses from Bennett, in the background.

  Jas tucked the jacket more tightly around the inert form.

  Outside, a siren broke the night.

  Good response time. The Royal was close. His eyes brushed over the alarm clock, which lay inches away: almost five. He looked at Peter.

  Eyes still closed. Breathing laboured.

  Moon-voice above him, whispering. “Look: ah saw whit happened. Put in a complaint. Bennett’s hid it comin’ fur a while. Ah’ll back ye up.”

  Jas stared at Peter. “If he’s hurt. Bennett’ll huv mair tae worry him than a disciplinary hearin’!” He stroked the tanned forehead.

  Bell ringing. Jas looked up.

  The two uniforms at the door moved into the hallway, half-carrying Bennett.

  Ambulance crew appeared. Low voices.

  Jas continued to stroke. Then a hand on his arm.

  Moonface: “Come on. Let them dae their joab.”

  Jas stopped stroking and stood up.

  Moon-voice to ambulance man: “His name’s McLaughlin ...”

  “It’s Peter ...” He frowned as the green-overalled figure located a pulse.

  Moonface talked on: “Neck injury, but ah don’t think onythin’ broken. He’s bin conscious, off an’ oan.” To Jas: “Right. Let’s git you up to Stewart Street.”

  Jas watched as a brace was placed round neck, listened as the ambulance driver talked soothingly, reassuringly. As Peter was moved onto stretcher the Paul Smith jacket slipped to the floor. He picked it up and placed it across the matted chest.

  Eyelids flickered, then opened. Confused. “Jas? Where ...?”

  “Ye’re goin’ tae the hospital, jist til they check ye ower.” He smiled.

  More confused. Too confused to be brave. “Come with me?” Pupils tiny.

  Jas looked at Moonface.

  Sigh. “Sorry. Ah’ve goat ma orders.” Placating. “Ye kin phone the Royal later, find oot how he is.”

  He watched as Peter was carried from the bedroom.

  Soft Moon-voice: “Get dressed. Ah’ll wait in the other room.” Tactful. Understanding.

  Jas scowled. She was a minority. He walked towards a heap of clothes and located an Adidas tee-shirt. One of his Docs was under the window. He found the other beneath a heap of shredded bedding. Jas laced boots, then stood up and looked out.

  Outside, an ambulance pulled away from behind a white and pink squad car.

  He lifted a leather biker’s jacket and walked through to the other room. It was empty, apart from Moonface on the re-righted sofa. She stood up when he entered.

  “Ready?”

  Jas nodded and led the way to the front door.

  Seven

  HE KNEW THE ROOM, had seen dozens similar ...

  Jas zipped up the biker’s jacket and stared at the small, metal hatch. The alkaline stench of ingrained piss and sweat twitched his nostrils. He moved his eyes around three bare walls. Beyond, sobbing. In a more distant cell, someone was singing.

  ... from the other side of the door.

  He raise
d his left fist, pounded the metal hatch for the eighth time. “Oi! Where’s ma breakfast?” Hunger was the last thing on his mind, but he’d given up asking if his solicitor had arrived.

  In the distance, the singing stopped.

  Other pounding. “Aye!” A distant, drunken echo. “Whit kinda establishment is this?”

  Jas smiled wryly and walked to the back of the cell. The smile faded. He walked to the door, pounded again.

  The alter-echo. “A wee paira kippers wid go doon a treat ...”

  Left fist lingered on scarred metal. Jas tilted it, looking at his wrist for the watch which was no longer there. He frowned.

  Approximately four hours ago, Moonface had driven him to Stewart Street Police Station. His personal possessions were now in a another cellophane envelope, behind the Custody Sergeant’s desk.

  Approximately half an hour later, he’d sat in another room. On another desk, three smaller cellophane envelopes. And a tape machine. And DI Michaels, plus a uniform whose name he hadn’t caught. Not Moonface.

  He’d been asked if he wanted to make a statement.

  Jas had confirmed his name, address, reiterated the request to phone his solicitor ...

  He thumped again. Several cells up, the breakfast demands increased in number and volume.

  ... and eventually got it. Andrew Ainslie had sounded sleepy.

  And surprised.

  Approximately three hours ago, he’d been returned to the cell.

  Since?

  Jas kicked the door. “Breakfast, eh? It’s an EU statute!” Metal vibrated under the sole of his boot. From through the wall:

  “Aye, an’ none o’ yer continental shite: full fry-up – wi’ kippers.”

  His boot hovered. “Come on ...” He kicked again. Somewhere beyond:

  “Keep it doon, eh? Summa us ur tryin’ tae sleep!”

  He recognised the Custody Sergeant’s voice. Jas frowned. Four hours: even without legal advice, he should have been bailed and released by this time. A different approach raised itself. “Ah wanna see Michaels – git Michaels doon here!”

  Distant disinterest. “Gie it a rest, eh?”

  Jas stepped back, thumped the door with the heel of his boot. “Noo!” Peter’s pale face superimposed itself over the scored surface of the door. He’d asked three times that they phone the Royal, three hours ago, then parrotted the same question to a half-awake Andrew Ainslie. Jas blinked.

  Full, blue-tinged lips refused to leave his mind. He kicked metal and watched ancient iron shimmer.

  And again.

  And again.

  From beyond the door, nothing. The breakfast requests had either been satisfied or abandoned.

  Jas walked to the back of the cell, turned then walked to the door ...

  Mhairi.

  ... and walked to the back of the cell ...

  Class A drugs. An ex-junkie trying to go straight.

  ... and walked to the door. A kick. Jas paused, rubbed his face. A statement from Mhairi would explain everything. And leave her open to prosecution.

  He frowned. Regardless of any statement she gave, possession was nine-tenths of the law – but at least the five hundred pounds could be explained, and the Intent to Supply aspect dropped.

  Sounds of scraping metal.

  He moved away from the door.

  The hatch lowered.

  Jas peered. “At fuckin’ last.”

  A round, disembodied face peered back at him. Cropped hair. Not Michaels.

  Not the Custody Sergeant.

  Not Andrew Ainslie ...

  ... the hatch closed. Then more scraping. Key scraping.

  Jas retreated further. “Ah hope this breakfast’s hot.”

  The door opened ...

  He sat down on the bolted-to-the-floor bench, scanned the four men in serge trousers and white shirts moving into the cell.

  No breakfast.

  ... and closed. Cropped-hair flattened himself against the scored surface. One large hand held keys. The other gripped a side baton.

  Jas’ eyes flicked around the other three. He stood up.

  “So you’re Anderson ...”

  He focused on the source of sneering words: blond curly hair. Pink face. Mouth tilting downwards. Blue, narrowed eyes boring into his.

  “... we’ve heard aw’ aboot you ...”

  Another voice. To his left. Jas turned.

  Smaller than Curly. Older. More solidly built. Eyebrow scar. Jas scowled.

  More hours ago than he cared to remember. The bedroom. The same foot which had kicked the cell door impacting with a more yielding subject. “Four against wan – ye’re affy brave, boays ...”

  Behind the trio, in front of the door, Cropped-hair threw the keys into the air and caught them.

  “... it’s aw’ roon’ the station, Anderson ...”

  The third voice came from an inch away, brushing his ear. Jas’s head jerked right. He stared at a thin figure in white shirt/ black trousers, remembered another, flabbier figure ...

  ... and a code of tit-for-tat camaraderie. “Bennett wis askin’ fur it, pal – ye ...”

  Harsh laugh. “This isney aboot Bennett.”

  A gob of spit struck his skin. He felt the hate dribble down his right cheek and thought of last night, with Peter.

  “Ye’re a flickin’ disgrace, Anderson ...” Curly.

  Jas clenched his left fist. The old hate. “Whit ah dae in ma ain hame’s none o’ your ...”

  “... how they ever let ye wear the uniform. Christ only knows!” Something behind the voice.

  Jas moved forward. This wasn’t about now.

  This was about then. “Bent cops ur a disgrace tae everywan ...”

  Snigger. “Ye’re wan tae talk aboot bent, Anderson!”

  The words shivered on his skin. The spit continued to trickle. Jas ignored both, tried to keep track of the voices. They moved around him, circling then easing away. “Sloan lied – he withheld evidence. He falsified confessions – he wis the disgrace, no’ ...”

  The first blow came from behind, caught him across the right shoulder and off-guard. Breath on his lowered face:

  “He wis wanna us, Anderson ...”

  Something solid impacted with his kidneys. Jas made a grab for the weapon.

  “... an’ you grassed him up, ya bastard!”

  The side baton swept upwards, taking his left arm with it. Someone grabbed him from behind. The creak of leather filled his ears as his arms were wrenched behind his back.

  “Ye stood there, in open court, an’ grassed up wanna yer ain – ye’re scum!” Curly’s features contorted with rage.

  A blow to the back of his knees made them crumple. Jas inhaled sharply.

  “Dirty, grassin’ scum!”

  Kneecaps met the stone floor. Blows designed for maximum pain/minimum damage rained onto his body from side batons. The sole of a boot met tensed abdominals. “Dirty fuckin’ scum ...” He closed his eyes against rising vomit, slid sideways and wrenched an arm free. A satisfying gasp filled his ears as his elbow contacted between vulnerable, serge-covered legs.

  The grip on his arms was replaced by fingers in his hair.

  Jas cursed Terry’s too-long haircut and twisted away. Fist impacted with solid skull.

  A howl.

  Leathered shoulders ground against bare brick. Knuckles stinging, he staggered to his feet. And stared.

  Curly was holding crushed genitals, hissing through teeth.

  Blood from a forehead tear trickled down towards an eyebrow scar.

  A panicked, thin figure was glancing between its two injured companions.

  In front of the door, Cropped-Hair scowled. “Finish him aff – go oan!”

  Pain burned in the pit of his stomach. Jas glowered, raised lead arms and beckoned. “Come oan, then – fuckin’ try it.” The burning moved lower. He winced through the scowl.

  The cell pulsed with wordless breathing and the smell of frustrated violence.

  Then footst
eps. Two sets.

  Through blurring vision, he watched Cropped-Hair resheath the side baton and hastily edge open the door. The other three moved quickly towards it.

  Jas lowered aching arms. He brushed what felt like solidifying snot from the side of his mouth. “This ma breakfast at last?” The words were thick. Jas cleared his throat.

  The door opened completely.

  Four dishevelled figures in rumpled white shirts sloped out. Eyebrow-Scar was holding a handkerchief against a dripping scalp wound.

  Jas stared, rubbing kidney area with a leathered elbow.

  In front of a frowning Custody Sergeant, Andrew Ainslie’s sparsely covered head swivelled:

  “What’s been going on here?” Eyes in the direction of the departing foursome.

  He could still smell the animosity. “The boays jist dropped in tae talk aboot auld times.” His word against theirs.

  Disbelieving stare.

  Jas ignored the scepticism and walked gingerly to the floor-bolted bench. The burning in his kidneys ignited into flares as he eased himself onto it.

  Andrew Ainslie looked at the Custody Sergeant, who shrugged. “Any complaints, Mr Anderson?” The title grudging.

  Jas unzipped the biker’s jacket. “Aye – where’s ma breakfast?”

  A snort. To the solicitor: “Gimme a shout when ye’re through.”

  Then Andrew was opening his briefcase and the cell door was closing.

  Breakfast arrived half an hour later. Jas stared at the underdone fried egg. “So he’s aw’ right?”

  Sigh. “Like I said, Mr McLaughlin was released from the Royal at six-thirty ...” Running out of patience. “... I think we can presume he’s out of danger. Are you sure there’s nothing more you want to tell me, regarding the search of your flat and ...” Pause. “... your four visitors?”

  Jas shook his head. The burning in his kidneys had died to dull embers. He’d managed the rest of the breakfast, but the egg was defeating him.

  A sigh. Then. “About your bail ...”

  Jas sliced into runny yoke with a plastic fork. “Ah should git it oan ma ain recognisance, aye?” He scooped it into his mouth: nothing like adrenalin to boost an appetite. It was cold. Jas chewed slowly.

  The question ignored. “I have a proposition for you.”