by Jack Dickson
He stopped chewed, stared at the pink, shiny face.
Andrew Ainslie pushed a lank shred of greying hair back from a creased forehead. “DI Michaels is willing to do a deal.”
“Whit sorta deal?” The yoke slid down his throat, coating soreness.
“Plead guilty to possession and they’ll drop the supply charges.”
The yoke hit his stomach. “In his fuckin’ dreams!”
“Come on – this ...” Flicking through notes. “... Mhairi McGhee may or may not explain the five hundred pounds, if I can find her, but I doubt she’ll cooperate over her – the – heroin. Possession’s undeniable. Plead guilty and ...”
“An’ ah’ll huv a record.” He pushed the plate away and stared at his solicitor. “Naw, ah’ll take ma chances wi’ a jury.” Jas wiped his mouth on the back of bruising knuckles. “Jist get ma bail organised an’ ah kin spend fae noo til the trial workin’ oan Mhairi.” He stood up.
Pain flared in his side.
Jas frowned.
Andrew Ainslie mirrored the expression. “You know the way the courts are cracking down on pushers ...” One hand over a sparsely greying head.
“Ah’m ex-polis, ah’ve got a job, ah’ve never bin in trouble before an’ ah’ve nae history o’ usin’. Nae Sheriff in his right mind’s gonny pit me oan remand.” He grabbed a mug of lukewarm tea, drained it.
Andrew’s brow creased further. Eyes to notes. “As your solicitor, I must advise you to seriously consider DI Michaels’ offer – it’s generous, considering the amount of heroin and the five hundred ...”
“Michaels kens he’s no’ gotta leg tae stand oan, wi’ intent tae supply ...” He replaced the mug on the bench. “... that’s the main reason he’s bein’ so generous.” Jas rubbed his face: he needed a wash. “An’ he kens ah’ve a fair chance o’ beatin’ the possession charge – wi’ or withoot Mhairi’s cooperation.”
Eyes from notes. “Think about this carefully.”
“Whit ye think ah’ve been daein’ fur the last four hours?” He frowned. “Ah’m no’ huvin’ a record fur somethin’ ah didney do. Michaels thinks he’s gotta case? Let him fuckin’ prove it in court.”
Resigned sigh. “This is against my advice – you understand that?”
Jas nodded. He’d talk to Mhairi himself ...
Hairy knuckles and a boyish face edged into his mind.
... after he’d checked on Peter. “Ah ken whit ah’m daein’.” Twelve years working with the courts, a year working for them had taught him something. He cocked his head towards the door. “Is there a chance ah kin appear before the Sheriff this mornin’?” The sooner the trial date was set, the sooner ...
Weary nod. “I’ll see what I can do.” Notes-folder closed. “And I’ll arrange bail, if recognisance is denied.”
Jas zipped up the jacket, flexing shoulders. “Ah’m no’ user – an’ the Sheriff’ll agree wi’ me.” Another ache sprang into life.
“I wish I had your confidence.” Andrew Ainslie stood up, gathered the briefcase against a skinny chest.
Jas laughed. “You’re a solicitor – lookin’ oan the black side’s part o’ yer job!”
Somewhere in the distance, someone was singing again. In tune. Jas grinned at the scored, metal door and thought about Peter.
The day could only get better.
He was wrong.
Jas sat on another metal bench. Different room ...
Gyproced walls. Off-white emulsion souring by the minutes. He focused on a red, Magic-Markered red dot within a red circle, and the ironic words: ‘Press twice for room service’.
... different building.
His first mistake had been ever agreeing to do business with Mhairi McGhee.
His second was placing any faith in the criminal justice system.
Resting head in hands, he gazed at scuffed concrete and tried to take in what had happened.
Ex-Strathclyde police ... should know better ... should be ashamed of yourself.
Jas closed his eyes against the Sheriff’s condemnatory words. Andrew Ainslie’s badly hidden I-warned-you face appeared before him. Then another face. Supported by a white neck brace above broad, soberly suited shoulders.
A boyishly naive smile of solidarity glinting down down at him from Court Fourteen’s public gallery.
Jas opened his eyes to get away from it.
Words swarmed in his head.
Recognisance denied.
Bail denied.
Trial set for December 4th. Six weeks away.
He rubbed at a mark on the scuffed concrete floor with the heel of his boot.
Remanded to HMP Barlinnie.
Jas waited for the Sheriff’s words to sink in. They floated on the surface of his brain.
The sound of keys jerked his head up.
Door opening. Andrew Ainslie’s weary face. The I-warned-you expression now back behind professional mask.
Jas looked away.
Throat clearing. “The Fiscal’s office are under a lot of pressure to make an example of what few dealers the police can come up with – and that means holding on to them. Nine out of ten jump any bail set. You know that.”
He knew, and didn’t blame them. Jas looked up. “Ye get in touch wi’ Mhairi?” One face had been noticeable by its absence, back in the courtroom.
“Left three messages – if she doesn’t return them, I’ll get someone onto it.”
Less than twenty-four hours ago, he would have been that someone. Now?
“Don’t worry, Jas – we’ll argue the heroin is circumstantial. You work from home – you can’t be responsible for ... contraband dropped by your clients.”
He looked beyond Andrew Ainslie’s sparse grey hair. Now?
“I’ll get Jim Duncan briefed on your case – he’s a good barrister. You’ll get the best possible legal ...”
Reassurances faded. Jas stared at the door.
Now?
Six weeks.
Six weeks in Barlinnie.
The Bar-L. The Big Hoose. One of the toughest penal establishments in the country. The animosity from Curly and co. shrank in the face of six weeks in Glasgow’s infamous prison.
Andrew Ainslie’s professional tones rumbled on in the background.
The hair on the back of his neck sprang to attention.
The Bar-L.
A voice crept through the shiver. “... with a bit of luck, you’ll go straight to Isolation – the prison authorities are usually sympathetic to the plight of ex-police officers in their custody.”
They might be: ‘ex’ wasn’t a prefix with much meaning for the others amongst whom he was to pass the next six weeks. He refocused on the suited figure.
It tried a smile. “They’ll do everything to ensure your safety.”
Jas almost laughed. As well as a good few petty offenders with long memories, the Bar-L was now home to someone with a sharper axe to grind ...
... who had sworn to bury that axe between Jas’s shoulder-blades.
The sound of tentative knuckles on the half-open door.
He followed his solicitor’s eyes.
Tentative hairy knuckles. A similar smile, inches above a white padded neck brace. Above that, large tear-filled eyes.
“Ah, I think your ... friend wants a word ...”
Commiseratory hand on his arm:
“... I’ll be in touch – and don’t worry. We’ll sort this out.”
Worry wasn’t an emotion his mind had room for. Jas listened to the sound of leather-soled shoes on concrete and continued to stare at the boyish face.
Then Andrew was gone and hairy-knuckled hands were on his shoulders, damp eyes pressing against his neck.
“... Jean’s given me the rest of the week off, but I feel fine ...” Croaking voice. “... bruised larynx, or something – I’m not much use around the office like this ...”
He wasn’t doing a lot of good here, either. Jas leant back against the wall, inhaled the orangy aftershave with its bitter
undernote.
Peter had eventually stopped crying ...
Jas patted a broad shoulder and opened his mouth.
... but would not stop talking. “And she says if there’s anything she can do, don’t hesitate.” The new, hoarse delivery was at odds with the boyish face.
Jas exhaled, closed his mouth.
“I’d like to ... er, help too. Since I won’t be at work, maybe I could ... keep an eye on your flat – tidy up, forward your mail and that sort of thing.”
A hand squeezed his. Jas stared at the hairy knuckles linked between his own grubby fingers. Beneath combat-pants and the Adidas tee-shirt, his unwashed body still smelt of last night.
Last night ...
... only last night. Tonight?
Jas tried to return the pressure. Barlinnie beckoned, inevitable and terrifying.
“Oh, I ... brought you some things ...” One hand removed from his. White-rope handles slipped from blue-suited shoulder.
Jas focused on the name on the side of the carrier bag and tried not to think about the strong, male body beneath the blue suit.
“... your solicitor told me what you might need ...”
A head rested on his shoulder. Jas flinched: not this. He stared at a carton of cigarettes, watched as three polythene bags and a fourth, crinklier-wrapped package joined them.
“... is there anything else I can bring you?”
Jas picked up the packet of Bic disposable razors. “They’ll no’ let me take these in.” He replaced the razors beside three packs of expensive designer underwear and lifted the cigarettes. “But thanks fur ...”
“Oh Jas ...” Blue-suited arms around his neck again. “... I’ll come and visit you – just let me know when. I want to do whatever I can to ...”
“Peter?” He gently gripped hairy wrists and eased them away. Expensively cut head raised from his chest. “You’re innocent, Jas ...” Huge eyes brimming again. “... I’ll be here, when you come to trial – I’ll wait for you.”
There was a good chance there would be nothing to wait for – in every sense of the word. Jas stared at the packet of Bics.
He was as disposable as one of the razors: the odds on him ever leaving the Bar-L alive were slimmer than those thin blades, safe behind their plastic guards.
Something twisted in his stomach, overshadowing the pain in his side. Brain searched for words.
Brave smile. Then an open mouth moving towards his.
The twisting curled into a knot of affection he couldn’t afford. Jas released hairy wrists and stood up. He walked to the door. “What’s wrong?” Confusion from the metal bench. “What have I ...?”
“Sno’ you.” Jas turned, rubbed a hot face.
More confusion. “Did I bring the wrong ...?”
“Ah said it’s nothin’ tae dae wi’ you!” The shout echoed around the tiny, stinking space.
His fight.
His problem.
Peter had a job, a life ...
... Jas turned.
Red-rimmed eyes shone, beacons he couldn’t afford to reach out to. Peter stood up. An uncertain step towards him.
Jas backed away, fingers clenched. Left fist thumped on the door. “Okay!” Ears strained for the footsteps of the officer who would take Peter out of this cell and out of his life.
Other footsteps. “Jas ...” Pleading. “... I know prison’s awful, but we ll ...”
“We?” He hurled the word at the handsome face. “There’s no we, pal!” The pain and confusion in the red-rimmed eyes pulled at his heart. “Ye wur an okay fuck, but that wis it!”
Peter flinched.
Jas capitalised, moving in for the kill. “Wan night, pal – that’s aw’ it wis. You ken nothin’ aboot me, an’ ah don’t wanna ken onythin’ aboot you!” He couldn’t look at the confused, hurt face so he stared at the wall behind it. “Get oot, Peter ...”
A limp body in a blue suit was motionless.
Silence pulsed between them.
Jas pounded on the door again. “C’mon – get this wanker oota here!”
Seconds later, a white-shirted police officer led Peter from the cell. He didn’t look back.
Half an hour later, the cell door opened again. One of the Bic razors now lodged between underwear and pubic hair. Jas walked from the holding cells and out into the yard.
Eight
WET, GREY DUSK THREW ITSELF against already darkened windows. Glasgow twilight flicked past outside. The smell of unwashed clothes and cigarettes seeped into his nostrils.
At the rear of the half-full bus, Jas looked up from cuffed wrists and surveyed his fellow passengers.
All equally restrained, courtesy of the new rigid handcuffs. Jas stared at the back of a Zero-crop, then a greasy, balding head.
All types.
Most already ensconced in the ancient vehicle when he’d boarded: transferrees and remand prisoners from the High and other regional courts.
Most on their own.
With the occasional exception. Jas stared at a trio of sportswear-clad teenagers, bodies squashed together on a seat meant for two. Barely-broken voices bonding with engine vibrations.
Groups within groups.
Eyes brushed a small, hunched figure in a padded jacket across the aisle. Alone. Younger-looking than the trio, but had to be at least eighteen. Step-cut hair skimming earphones. Sleeves hung down over cuffed wrists. Stubby fingers waggled rapidly above something Jas couldn’t see. A cardboard Kwik-Save box sat on the double seat beside the boy.
The bus changed gear.
Jas refocused down the aisle to the front.
Leaning against the dashboard, a slight figure in grey blouson jacket and matching trousers. Blond. Looked barely older than the kids in the sportswear. The uniform sat uneasily on narrow shoulders. Clipboard in one hand, mobile phone in the other. Chatting to the driver. The black embroidered brickwork of Hadrian Security’s insignia glared at him from breast pocket.
Jas frowned. The Scottish Prison Service never transported prisoners with anything less than a five-man escort, excluding driver.
The mobile phone burred.
One of the teens sniggered.
The blond Hadrian officer curtailed his conversation. Face lowered to mobile. Jas refocused beyond the tinted window.
The bus idled at traffic lights.
Traffic was heavy on George V bridge. Umbrella’d and rain-coated figures scurried along slick pavements.
Shoppers.
Schoolkids.
Office workers.
Fingers tightened around Peter’s Armani shoulder-bag.
Ordinary people doing ordinary things ...
Ahead, wet red light slipped through amber into diluted green. The bus moved slowly forward.
... ordinary people homebound. Jas rested his face against the tinted window and tried not to think about his home, for the next six weeks. Engine vibrations shivered through glass. Then the sound of a throat clearing from the front of the bus:
“Your attention please.” Too loud, given the size of the vehicle. Front attempting to compensate for inexperience?
Someone else sniggered.
His eyes swivelled left. He watched approximately twenty-five other pairs do likewise.
Across the aisle, one step-cut head remained lowered.
A name tag was now visible above the embroidered-wall insignia: Jas peered, couldn’t read it.
Another throat clearing. “I’m Officer Brodie, and you will address me as that, or sir.”
Jas tried to place the accent: educated, middle-class Glasgow – Milngavie or Bearsden.
“Is that understood?”
Mumbled assent. A snigger.
Less uncertain. “Good.” Clipboard held at chest height. “Please respond when your name is called, lads.”
The title struck another wry note.
Three rows in front, one of the teens found it equally amusing.
“Abbot?”
“Aye ...”
He
watched a mid-fifties man in a shabby overcoat raise a mottled hand. Jas thrust his own hand into Peter’s carrier-bag and fumbled for cigarettes.
“Abernethy?”
“Here!”
A voice somewhere near the front. Jas tore at cellophane, stuck a Benson and Hedges between his lips.
“Adair?”
“Mr Brodie, sir!”
Muffled sniggers.
Jas looked to where Zero-crop was on his feet.
Mock salute. The skinhead was grinning around himself.
“Thank you, Adair.” The sarcasm ignored.
Jas caught one cocky eye as the skinhead reluctantly sat down then returned his attention to a pink disposable lighter.
“Adamson?”
“Here, miss!” One of the teens.
Jas inhaled deeply, drawing the smoke into his lungs.
Baiting: part of the routine – part of separating Them from Us. He hoped the rest of the bus was enjoying the fun: once inside Barlinnie’s iron gates, there would be little to laugh about.
“Ahmed?”
A silver cuff slid down a coffee-coloured forearm. “Present.”
Jas leant back on the worn, vinyl seat. He closed his eyes and smoked, listening as the roll call continued. Then:
“Anderson?”
Jas opened his eyes, nodded.
Frown. “Can’t you read?”
Twenty-four heads swivelled on twenty-four necks. Forty-eight eyes stared at him, along with Brodie’s.
Jas raised an eyebrow.
Clipboard pointed to a barely visible No Smoking sign on the dashboard.
Jas gripped what was left of the cigarette between thumb and forefinger. “Ye didney tell them tae put theirs oot ...” He took a long drag, exhaled ceilingwards.
A snigger from two of the smoking teens.
A deepening frown from Brodie. “Never mind them – do as the sign says, Anderson.”
Jas inhaled again, meeting and holding a gaze which for the first time bordered on antagonism.
“Now!”
Jas stood up. “Whit’s your problem?” He gripped Peter’s Armani bag beneath one cuffed arm.
Brodie was striding up the aisle towards him. Inches away, he stopped, grabbed the bag. “This should have been confiscated.” Jas glowered.
“Now put that cigarette out.”
Jas sighed. He stared at the last few millimetres of tobacco, then squeezed the end between thumb and forefinger. The burn on his skin hardly registered as he flicked the filter floorwards.