by Jack Dickson
Nod.
“Why did ye no’ come tae the hearin’, Mhairi?”
Shrug. Leaning closer towards him. “Couldney make it ...” Low words. Intimate gestures.
Jas glanced around. He knew how this looked. He knew how Mhairi wanted it to look.
“... ony word oan wee Paul?”
He stared into hard eyes. “Whit?” The word was louder than he’d meant it to be. Conversation around them ceased ... then started up again.
Mhairi winked. “Well, since ye’re in here onyway ...” Something was making sense.
“... an’ only on remand, at that ... ah thought maybe ye’d ...”
“You set me up!” He seized her wrist.
She didn’t struggle. A denial equally absent.
“You wanted me in here, so ah could ask aboot yer toe-rag of a brother!”
Small smile. “You’re the best, Big Man, an’ ah ainly want the best.”
He tried to read beyond the smile, then gave up. “You any idea whit ye’ve done, Mhairi?” He released the wrist.
She rubbed it. “Don’t worry – ye’ll git paid fur yer time. Come the fourth o’ December, ye’ll be back in yer flat a coupla thousand richer an’ ah’ll huv Paul back wi’ me!” She grinned.
He scowled. “You’re gonny carry the can?”
Wide-eyed stare. “Well, it wiz ma smack, after aw’ ...” Wide changing to sly. “... like ah could tell yon wee solicitor o’ yours – if ah decide tae return his calls. Aw’ ah gotta dae is appear at yer trial, tell ’em it wiz mine an’ that the hale thing’s bin a misunderstandin’ ...” She cocked her head. “... how diz that sound?” Cigarettes plucked from pocket, unwrapped and extended.
He ignored the gesture. “Sounds like a fuckin’ set-up!” Fury flickered across his skin.
She laughed, stuck a cigarette between his clenched lips, lit it. “Nae harm done, in the long run. The charges against ye’ll be dropped ...” Voice lowered. “... the minute ye find oot where Paul’s holed up.”
He inhaled, then exhaled, watching her face through a haze of smoke. Mhairi held the key to his freedom – a key she intended to hold on to, until it suited her. The powerlessness tugged at his lips. “This is blackmail, ya ...”
“That’s a nasty word, Big Man – it’s mair an ... efficient use o’ resources.”
“So ye’ll come tae court, take aw’ the blame if..?”
Nod. The curtain of hair flicked behind an ear.
Could he trust her? “An’ whit aboot you goin’ straight, gettin’ yer kids back?”
The scar twitched. “Ah’ll handle that, Big Man – don’t you worry aboot me ...”
He laughed for the first time in four days. It was a harsh, half-laugh.
She frowned. “Whit’s so funny?”
Jas coughed, sobered.
His cell-mate. Neil Johnstone. Countless other men. Mhairi didn’t have a clue ...
A small hand on his shoulder.
... or did she? His eyes wandered around the room. Mhairi and he appeared more intimate, more physically connected than most of the other male/female couples in the smoke-filled room. Jas fixed her with his eyes. “You ken whit they dae tae ex-polis in here?”
The stare returned, unflinchingly. “You can handle it, Big Man.”
For the first time in his life, he wanted to hit a woman.
She leant over and kissed him again. Hands wrenched them apart after a few seconds:
“No physical contact, Anderson!”
Low chuckles in the background.
Mhairi wiped red-tinged saliva from his mouth with the back of her hand. “An’ that’ll put paid tae ony rumours about where ye like tae bury yer face!”
He stared at the ancient eyes, and saw the understanding.
Mhairi lit a cigarette. “When ah wiz doin’ the discipline stuff, coupla years ago? Summa ma best customers wur ex-cons. They git a taste fur the domination, an’ their poor wives ur worse than useless – ah ken how things work, an’ so dae you.”
Jas ground the cigarette out in an ashtray.
They stared at each other.
Mhairi extended the packet a second time, then tugged at Telly’s scratchy jumper. “No’ yer usual style, Big Man ...” She winked, “... present fae a friend? Goat yersel’ a cunt awready?”
He flicked the foil-wrapped package of heroin into his right check. “No’ funny, Mhairi.”
She sobered, lowered her face closer to his. “Dae we huv a deal, Big Man?” She smelled of cosmetics, cigarettes and cloyingly expensive perfume. A lower, basser note of desperation soured the scent.
It leaked from his own pores. Barrels, and what it felt like to be over one filled his head. Jas sighed. “Okay – jist don’t kiss me again.”
She threw back her head and laughed .
He watched her light another cigarette and stare over his shoulder:
“Ye’re suckin’ oan three grams o’ high-grade smack, man. Use it – ken how tae cut?”
Jas shook his head, staring to where his cell-mate was frowning, deep in evidently unpleasant conversation with a thin, harassed-looking woman: not the woman in the photograph.
“Shouldda brought talc in wi’ me – whit the fuck wiz ah thinkin’ aboot?” Self-reproach.
He looked away from McStay and flicked his cigarette. Gallus, bullet-head Paul McGhee slipped into his thoughts. His mind began to work – at least now it had something to work on. “Whit dae ye want me tae dae?”
Elbows placed on the table between them. “You’re the investigator, Big Man – investigate!” She stared over his shoulder again.
“Whit you lookin’ at?” He watched the tip of the scar edge downwards.
“Somethin’ funny goin’ on, ower there – naw, don’t turn roon’!”
He continued to watch her eyes, which were narrowed in concentration.
“Two lassies ... at a table on their ain ... no wan’s sittin’ wi’ them ... noo they’re talkin’ tae wanna the screws an ...”
“Which screw?”
Eyes narrowed further. “How the fuck should ah ken? Some big bastard wi’ grey ...”
A bell shattered the sentence. Shouting shattered the bell. Mhairi stood up. Jas turned, just as Ian Dalgleish grabbed two overly made-up girls and pulled them towards the exit. A worried-looking Ms Pepperpot trailed in their wake.
A low laugh at his side. “Ah kent there wiz somethin’ goin’ oan wi’ that pair. Aye, well they tried ...” She turned. “... ah’ll no’ tell ye where ah wiz hiding the smack afore ah gied it to you!” The scar twitched.
Before his stomach could respond, a trio of Brodie-clones marched into the room. Another bell rang. Jas watched hastily-conducted farewells before joining the rest of the visited.
Mhairi lingered.
As half the Brodie-clones manoeuvred a mass of women and children towards the outside world, Jas watched her blow him a kiss:
“Seeya soon, darlin’! You take care, mind – ah’ll hear fae ye soon, eh?”
He wanted to laugh.
“Move it, lads.”
Jas recognised Brodie’s attempt at authority. Nodding at Mhairi’s disappearing form, he walked from the visiting area.
The small silver package nestled inside the red briefs. Jas looked across the canteen table at Telly.
The ruddy face grinned and munched. “Heard ye had a visitor the day, Mr Anderson.” Wink.
Word travelled fast.
Munching. “Yer girlfriend?”
Jas frowned. “Jist a friend.”
Nod. “If you say so.” Another plastic forkful of something unrecognisable raised to mouth.
Jas looked down at his plate, prodded a heap of soggy vegetables: no time like the present. “Her wee brother wiz in here. Maybe ye ken him ...” Eyes to Telly’s face. “McGhee – Paul McGhee.”
The mouth paused, mid-munch. Brain slipping into gear. “McGhee ... McGhee ...”
Voice at his side. “Skinny boay? Big mooth?”
Jas gla
nced left. “Aye, in fur possession: E.” He glanced back at Telly for confirmation and reaction.
A frown. “Oh, him ...” Chew, then swallow. “... is he no’ oot, noo?”
“Aye, but causa the ‘nae mail’ rule, he wants me tae gie a message tae wanna his pals’ ...” He stared at the ruddy face. “... wid that be you, Telly?”
Choking laugh. “No’ me, Mr Anderson.” Cough, then chewing resumed.
“Who wiz he friendly wi’?”
Quizzical frown. “Why ye wanna ken, Mr Anderson?” Automatic suspicion.
Jas felt three sets of eyes on him. He shrugged. “Telt ye: ah’ve got a message fur them – the guys he wiz dealin’ wi’.”
Telly rubbed his chin. “Nae eccy in here, Mr Anderson.” Eyes over Jas’s shoulder.
He followed the look to a group of grey uniforms. “Who wiz his mates, then?” Jas watched Ian Dalgleish’s bulky form shake with laughter at some shared joke, then returned his gaze to Telly.
Another shrug. “Nae idea, Mr Anderson.”
Jas patted the smack in his briefs. “Ah’ll trade.”
Head-shake. “You keep yer fags ...” Another mouthful of slop. “... an’ forget aboot yer lassie’s wee brother.”
Jas put down his fork, leaned closer to the ruddy, still-eating face. “Whit wiz he intae, Telly? Who wis he friendly wi?” He lowered his voice. “Three grams. Pure stuff ...” Jas watched the bait considered.
“Like ah said, nae idea ...” Voice lower. “... ah’ll git ridda hauf a gram fur ye, but that’s it.”
Jas stared. “Ye ken maist o’ whit goes oan in here ...”
Telly crossed plastic knife and fork neatly, then pushed his plate away. “Lea’ it, Mr Anderson – yer lassie’ll no’ thank ye fur the ins an’ oots o’ it.”
“C’mon, man ...”
Slow head-shake. “Ah didney ken him that well, Mr Anderson ...”
Jas clenched his fists. “You kent him well enough, Telly.”
Sigh. “Make it a gram ...” Eyes raised. “... ah really didney ken him that well, but ah ken a guy who did ...” Pushing back his chair, Telly got up. “Come oan, then: there’s corridors tae be washed.”
It was a package-deal. In every sense.
Leaning against the tiled wall of the shower block, he watched skilled fingers unwrap the smack, dab a little onto a yellowing tongue, then nod.
“It’s guid stuff, right enough.” Telly carefully shook approximately half the white powder into a scrap of cling-film, then returned the remainder to Jas. “Keep that oota sight.”
Half an hour later, they both held mops and buckets and a third of the smack he’d traded Telly had been traded on.
Some time after that, Jas found himself on the other side of a heavier gate than usual.
Three Halls away from B.
Segregation wing.
Telly nodded from behind thick, forged iron. “Talk tae Black Bill. He wiz pally with yer lassie’s brother ...” Frown. “... Christ kens whit they had in common, but ...”
Jas raised an eyebrow.
“Go on, Mr Anderson.” Telly nodded down the corridor. Faint music drifted up from the far end. “Ah’ll come back fur ye in hauf an oor.” He lifted his mop and bucket, walked away.
Jas stared after him, then lifted his own cleaning cover and walked towards what sounded like Cole Porter.
He was right. Jas paused outside the final cell-door. It was ajar. ‘Night and Day’ trickled out. He knocked, surprised at his own courtesy.
“Come.” Soft voice.
He pushed the door fully open, and stared.
Painted walls. Pictures ... sketches. Single cell ...
... his eyes zeroed in on a cheap-looking ghetto-blaster, from which Ella Fitzgerald’s rich voice drifted up. “Bill?” He focused on the back of a slim figure, hunched over a small desk.
The figure turned. “Who wants to know?”
Jas rested his mop against the cell door.
The body said mid-fifties. The face said late teens. Blond, wispy hair surrounded youthful, almost child-like features. The denim work-shirt was buttoned to the neck, giving it a formal, white collar look. Elegant, pianists’ fingers protruded from shirt cuffs. One hand held a blackened stick.
“Yes, I’m William Black ...” He placed the charcoal on the table, then turned back to Jas. “... and you are?”
“Ah’m a mate of Paul’s – Paul McGhee?” His eyes were dragged to the sketches which covered the walls.
“Oh, really?”
Something in the voice pulled his eyes back to the gentle-looking man. Jas thought of the bullet-headed kid who had driven him to London, two years ago. He stared at the intelligent, cultured face, hands clasped loosely in a relaxed lap.
Chalk and cheese?
Prisons threw up strange combinations.
“How is he? Enjoying his freedom?”
Jas stepped into the softly-lit environment, closing the door behind him. “You knew he wiz gettin’ oot early?” It was something to say. Grey eyes studied his:
“I knew that was what he was hoping for ...” Eyes continued to examine his features. “... Paul a friend of yours, you say?”
Jas flinched under the stare, moved forward. “A friend o’ a friend.”
“Ah ...” Black Bill stood up, met him half way. “... you’ve got a remarkable face.”
Jas stepped back. He tried to laugh. It didn’t work.
Soft smile. “Am I embarrassing you? Sorry.”
His skin was hot. Jas clenched his fists.
Slender fingers stretched up, traced the outline of his jaw. “That chin’s marvellous ...”
Jas stiffened, twisted his head away. “How did Paul swing early release?” He walked to the side of the desk, stared down at a mess of papers.
“Let me draw you ...”
Jas stared down at faces. Old faces, young faces, male, female.
“... I’ll tell you about Paul, if you like ...” More bait.
The voice was close, soft. His eyes flicked up, past the childlike face to a pen-and-ink sketch on the wall above the bed.
A male version of Mhairi, with step-cut hair stared back at him.
“Agreed?”
Jas nodded, turned.
Black Bill lifted a pad of A3 cartridge paper and the stick of charcoal, moved back a little. As skilled fingers darted and shaded on paper, the small mouth began to move in sync. “He liked to talk, Paul did – he needed to ...”
Jas listened, staring at the drawing of Mhairi’s brother.
Black Bill talked easily. “The way things ... work inside was all very new to him. He had to ...”
Jas shifted uncomfortably.
“... keep still, please ...”
Jas complied.
“... to ... adjust. Told me about his exploits, on the outside ...” Soft laugh. “... about his friends, his cunts ...”
The word seemed at odds with the gentle, soft-spoken figure with the charcoal and the Ella Fitzgerald. Jas shifted uncomfortably. “He talked about his mates?”
“That’s good – keep frowning, it suits the lie of your face ...”
Cheeks began to burn. Jas flinched. “Mates – who wur his mates?”
“We didn’t dwell much on the present – more the past, and the future. Balance, you know? Paul confided in me: he was trying to ... make sense of what was happening to him, and I like to think, in my small way. I was helping him do that.”
The future? “Did he say where he wis goin’, when he got oot?”
Blackened fingers pausing, eyes looking beyond his face. “Ah, you’re the cop?”
The future? “Ex, an’ this has nothin’ tae dae wi’ polis. Dae ye ken whit Paul’s plans were – fur after he got out?” He shuffled his feet.
If Black Bill registered his discomfort, he made no comment. “He was intending to contact a friend of his, in Longriggend.” The sketching continued.
“Dis this friend huv a name?”
Soft laugh. �
�If he did, it escapes me for the moment.” Pause. “Paul was a little boy with big ideas ...” Chuckle. Blackened fingers moving more quickly. “... I don’t know how he did it, but he had something going with one of the officers.”
“Whit screw he wiz friendly wi’?” Jas seized on the information, knew Telly would be back soon. He didn’t have much time.
Grey eyes raised from the sketch. “Mr Dalgleish.”
“An’ whit dae ye mean – something going with’?” He frowned.
“Judge not, lest ye be judged ...” Grey eyes met his. The sketching ceased. “... Paul did what he had to – we all do.” A page torn loose, held out.
Jas ignored it. Fists balled, then relaxed.
Black Bill seemed to suck the aggression into himself, neutralise and render it harmless.
Jas scowled. Something about the man made his skin crawl.
Smile. “Please accept this as a gift ...” The sketch held out. “... I’d love to draw you naked, sometime. Come and visit again. Soon.”
“You keep it ...” He pushed the sketch back at the child-like figure and walked from the cell.
“What’s your name?”
Jas ignored the question, grabbed his mop and bucket. He wanted away from gentle Black Bill and the cell full of faces.
Telly was waiting at the gate. “He see ye right, Mr Anderson?” Nervous eyes darted as he fiddled with the lock.
Jas considered seeking confirmation of the information he’d just received. Then reconsidered. “No’ really ...”
One fence.
Two sides ...
... if Paul McGhee was involved with a screw – in any capacity – it would not be public knowledge anyway.
More fiddling. “Shouldney be in here at aw’ ...” One hand raised to make circular motions an inch from a balding head. “... Carstairs didney huv the bed space ...” Both hands back to fiddling. “... geez me the willies, but if ye’re voice’s broken. Bill’s harmless ...” Gate creaking, then swinging open. Telly pushed Jas down the corridor. “... did a rare drawin’ o’ me fur the wife – fair pleased wi’ it, she wiz ...” At the next gate, he smiled at a Brodie-clone, walking through into B-Hall.
Jas followed wordlessly.