by Jack Dickson
... maybe grassing to Dalgleish was a similarly desperate act? If his sister was anything to go by, Paul McGhee’s instinct for survival would break all other supposedly iron codes of conduct.
He let possibilities germinate in his mind. Neil Johnstone: only one of four Johnstones. At least two of whom were in a position to finish whatever retribution job their baby brother had started when he took the brother of the woman who had put him here as his cunt ...
“... eh, Jas-man?”
His attention returned to amber eyes and a rodent face.
Stevie. Frowning. “Ah wiz tellin’ the boay he’d be better aff jist avoidin’ the bastard – he’s ainly on remand ...”
Rodent lips quivering. “An’ ah keep tellin’ ye, he’s no’ said nothin’ aboot ony snitchin’. He jist wants ma PC.” Close to tears.
Jas sighed. “Gie Dalgleish the fuckin’ computer, if he wants it that much.”
Sniff. “Ah canny.”
“Why not?”
Another sniff. Fiddling with an ear-piece. “Ah don’t huv it ony mair – ah selt it oan.” More fiddling. “Help me oot, eh man? Get him aff ma back.” Hand into jeans pocket. Small package removed. “Yer pal Telly telt me ah’m too ... high-risk, whit wi’ aw’ the heat fae Dalgleish.”
Jas stared at the last of Mhairi’s H, and cursed her again for causing not one but two problems. A memory of the cell-search ... and later ...
... stirred in someone else. Stevie lunged forward, gripped a fistful of padded nylon and pulled.
Huge trainers feet dangled three inches from stone floor.
“Did you tip Dalgleish the nod, fuck-face? Did you tell him the Jas-man wiz dealin’ tae save yer ain skin?”
Hamster tried a headshake, failed and bobbed marionette-like instead. “No’ me – honest!” The voice was rodent shrill.
“Put him doon, Stevie.”
Limp figure gently lowered to the bed.
Hamster frowned, smoothing nonexistent lapels. “Watch the gear, eh pal?”
Jas almost laughed. Then sobered. “Dalgleish mention drugs, last time he cornered ye?”
Headshake.
“He mention Paul?”
Headshake. “Said he wanted the PC. Said he’d ...” Adam’s apple doing the marionette act. “... break both ma legs if ah didney gie it tae him.” Suddenly terrified again. “Man, ye gotta help me ...” Fidgeting wildly. Voice from behind:
“Whit wiz oan the hard drive?” Voice from the doorway.
“Eh?”
“Ye said ye tried tae load Windows 98: did ye see whit wiz oan the hard drive?”
Jas’s eyes flicked to Stevie.
Self-conscious blush. Then explanation. “Ah did part o’ a computer course, in the Shotts ...” Back to Hamster. “... whit operatin’ system? Mac?”
“Naw, DOS, an’ ah did access summa the stuff – nae programs, jist files, like some eejit hud saved them tae the C drive stead o’ A.” Snort.
“Gonny shut up an’ lemme think?” Jas closed his eyes.
“Whit should ah dae, man?”
He had no idea. Jas opened his eyes. “Stay here – if Dalgleish appears, stall him.” He strode from the cell onto an empty walkway. Behind, the trolley’s squeak nagged his ears like questions nagged in his brain.
The relationship between Paul McGhee and Neil Johnstone as a three-way?
Neil Johnstone: maintaining his power position with drugs and settling old scores.
Paul McGhee: desperate to get out, and willing to do anything to get there.
One factor in common ...
... Ian Dalgleish – trying to control the Bar-L by controlling the drugs supply. And controlling Neil Johnstone.
Stevie’s voice cut through his speculation: “Ah thought wee McGhee wiz makin’ it aw’ up ...” Low laugh. “... ah widda loved tae huv seen they Hadrian guys’ faces when they wur tellin’ the polis whit got past their fuckin’ security an’ ...”
“Where’s the phones in this place?” Jas paused, turned.
Eyes raised from the trolley.
Jas frowned. Doubt tugged at his brain. “Ah need tae check somethin’.”
“Nae calls oot fur ...” Brodie-speak. “... the duration o’ the strike, Jas-man.” The squeak continued, then stopped. “There’s a mobile in D-Hall, but ...”
“Can you set it up? Get a price?”
Stare. “It’s Neil Johnstone’s mobile, Jas-man.”
He scowled. Devils and fathomless blue oceans floated before him. But maybe it was time he took a swim: as a man who had known Paul McGhee intimately, Jas knew his own passage to the outside was dependent on information Johnstone could give him. “Set it up.”
Blink.
“Do it!”
“Okay, Jas-man. But ah’m comin’ with ye.” Turning.
The squeaky wheel faded.
So did his nerve.
Maybe the prey coming to the hunter would catch him off guard ...
Jas fumbled for cigarettes like a condemned man.
... but there were all types of hunters.
And all types of traps.
Twenty
ON HIS WAY TO COLLECT bucket and mop, he passed three Hadrian uniforms. Jas peered beneath the grey, tried to see through the facade to the man beneath.
Neil Johnstone had facilitated last night.
Neil Johnstone had access to keys ...
... he waited at the gate, under the gaze of another red eye, a gram of high-grade H once more snuggled against his balls.
Peace offering?
He stared down the empty corridor. Guts turned to slush.
If past and recent experience were anything to go by, Johnstones were hard to appease ...
... was the future a different matter?
The slush froze, churning in the pit of his stomach, a block of semi-liquid ice.
Three years ago, Neil had threatened him from this prison, left interesting messages on the Eastercraigs answering machine.
Jas leant the mop against a yellow-brick wall and rubbed his hot face.
Three years was a long time.
A lot of water under the bridge, since then ...
... bridges could be burnt. Or built.
Bootsteps. Minus trolley-squeak. His eyes flicked right.
Stevie sauntered towards him, mop and bucket in hand. “Okay, Jas-man?” The greeting echoed in the stone tunnel.
He attempted corresponding enthusiasm. “Aye.”
“There’s somethin’ goin’ oan, ower in C-Hall – ah passed six o’ Hadrian’s cowboys an’ no’ wanna them asked me where ah wis aff tae.” Lop-sided grin.
Jas frowned, mind elsewhere. A hand on his shoulder, fingers massaging:
“Ye sure ye wanna dae this?”
The temperature dropped. The slush ball in his guts solidified. Jas mirrored the hardening in his mind, shrugged a shrug he didn’t feel. “Ah jist wanna use his mobile – this is business.”
Last night had been business.
Four years ago, arresting Neil had been business.
Three years ago ...
... Leigh.
Neil Johnstone’s brother – Jimmy Mygo – had slit Leigh Nicols’s throat, left his signature in blood on Jas’s bedroom wall.
Not business – pleasure?
The ball of ice was spreading outwards. There were old scores on both sides ...
... he watched Stevie patiently wave a hand in front of a blinking red eye.
Time healed some wounds.
Others, it closed prematurely, sealing infection inside.
A click. The sound of metal on metal. The gate slid open.
Jas lifted his mop and bucket, followed Stevie through two sets of security gates. They left B-Hall.
Cold, November wind blasted between the weave of the scratchy jumper. He glanced at Stevie, who still wore the biker’s jacket, in breach of all prison rules.
Jas frowned: maybe Hadrian had other things to think about. Like he did.
They
walked quickly. Stevie talked nervously:
‘Never met him, masel’, but everywan kens Johnstone – ye hear stories ...”
Jas quickened his pace.
“... ma first year here, he blinded a guy – the screws couldney prove nothin’ ...”
A sudden gust of icy air rippled over his skin.
“... last year, ah heard he kicked somewan fae A-Hall tae death – somethin’ tae dae wi’ somethin’ somewan said aboot his brother – stomped oan his heid that hard there wur bits o’ the guy’s brain embedded in the fuckin’ floor.”
Jas thrust hands deeper into the pockets of his combat pants.
“Got fifteen years added tae his sentence, fur that – been a bit quiet since.”
Last night had been quiet? Dealing inside on a larger scale than he’d ever considered outside was quiet?
D-Hall loomed ahead.
Paul McGhee. Eighteen months for possession.
Neil Johnstone. Technically, a long-termer. Here for the duration, with little more to lose ...
... McGhee’s need for release burned inside him, an echo of a dull ache. Last night ...
Jas stared at barbed-wire topped walls. Icing on a stone cake, escape that way was impossible, and pointless. He thought about the egg-yolk warrior at breakfast.
Other places to escape to. Safer places. Permanent places.
Tempting places. Jas listened to the sound of their boots over the howling wind and concentrated on the here and now.
Ahead, the gate to D-Hall stood ajar. Three shapes framed the doorway. The only grey was the sky above their heads.
Jas lowered his face against icy air.
He was expected.
The denimed men led them along more corridors, up more metal stairs onto more metal walkways. Yellow brick had become comfortingly familiar.
No grey anywhere.
Fingers tightened around the mop. His guts were knitting a densely stitched straitjacket, which stretched from throat to groin.
Music ... faint music ...
His ears strained.
... a low, vocal melody ... repetitive ... haunting ...
And a smell.
... fruity ... waxy ...
Ahead, the blue escort halted and parted.
Jas dumped the mop and bucket on the metal walkway and strode into a cell. Behind, Stevie did likewise.
The music was louder, but still low, emanating from a small, expensive-looking CD player on a shelf above the piss-pot. Two candles burned slowly on the window-sill, either side of a seven inch stone phallus.
Jas blinked, looked around. He didn’t recognise either of the two men present.
Both had completely shaved heads, both wore the regulation denims.
He stared at a short, middle-aged man with skin like a baby and the body of a miniature Schwarzenegger, searching the memory of last night for a matching body type.
And found none.
Too small.
Too bulky.
Arnie met the stare with complete detachment.
Gaze moved slowly from the man on his feet to the man on the bunk.
Age?
Hard to tell. The sallow face had a lived-in look. Eyes lowered. Stubby hands in lap, stubbier fingers flexing and unflexing the intricate strings of a cat’s cradle. Light from the candles shone against the top of a gleaming skull.
Neither man resembled the seventeen-year-old kid Jas had last seen in the dock, in Glasgow’s High Court, glaring angrily at himself and Mhairi McGhee as the judge passed sentence.
Maybe Neil was too important to handle Jas himself – he had been, last night.
Then he looked closer ...
... met and held a familiar stare.
Neither of them spoke.
This wasn’t about words. This was about actions.
And reactions.
In the background, the soothing hum of some kind of digital incantation mirrored the movement of other, string-draped digits.
A scowl twitched his injured bottom lip.
Neil Johnstone stood up, the cat’s cradle flexing slowly, gaze or rhythm never faltering. “You’re deid, Anderson ...”
Lightning-like, Stevie was at his side, fists clenched.
“... sooner or later, we’re aw’ deid.”
Jas held a hand in front of Stevie. Tensed muscle flexed against his arm.
“Life is the flight o’ a sparra through the feastin’-hall o’ eternity.” Pupils like dark stars raised to his. “Gone in the blink o’ an eye.”
Arnie moved fluidly left, taking his place as right-hand man beside the strangely serene Neil Johnstone.
“Lea’ us, William.” Dark stars darkened further.
Jas turned, watched as the small man began to usher Stevie towards the door. Mohamet moving the mountain.
Stevie remained still.
Jas focused on mahogany eyes, then flicked his head walkwaywards.
Disbelieving frown.
Jas nodded.
Reluctant. “Okay, but ah’ll be jist ootside if ye ...” Mohamet got his way.
Two men, one at least six-one, the other no more than five-six, made their way from the cell onto the walk-way.
As the door closed, the small space filled up with the sound of the stringed eastern instrument and the musty scent of candles.
“Sit ...” Neil Johnstone resumed his previous position on the bunk, fingers flexing.
Jas remained on his feet. Sounds, smells and uncertainties crowded into his head. He focused on the top of a shining skull.
“... or stand. Ah bear ye no harm, Jas Anderson.”
The words had an archaic quality, like dialogue from a bad film. The baby of the Johnstone family had either found religion ...
... or lost his marbles. Jas wondered if he’d get anything approaching sense out of the man. “If ye bear me nae harm, why did ye send four guys tae ma cell last night?”
Shaven pate tilted back. Eyes at odds with the face – blank, yet full of something unreadable. Small smile. “Polis never could get their facts right ...”
He debated correcting his status. Thin lips talked through the internal debate.
“... ah’ve taken vows – wanna which prevents me inflictin’ or bein’ party tae the inflictin’ o’ violence on any livin’ creature – includin’ ex-polis, Jas Anderson.” Eyes on the facial bruises. “Ma hands only touch flesh in love.”
The truth? His mind was read.
“Ah huv a past, ah’ll no’ deny that – we ur all the sum o’ oor experiences. Ah got tae atone fur whit ah done.”
Jas watched dark pupils expand, then contract. The man was something else: half-fakir, half-faker? “So ye’re dealin’ H as an offering tae Shiva?” He scowled, thrust a hand into the combat-pants and threw the cellophane package onto the cell floor. “Well, say a fuckin’ prayer fur me!”
A tiny smile stroked the outline of thin lips. The cat’s cradle contorted into an intricate lattice. “Shiva thanks ye.” Strings twisted again.
“Tell her ah don’t want ony trouble.”
Silent nod.
Jas blinked. The eastern music, the smell ...
“So what dae ye want, Jas Anderson?” Eyes to the cellophane package. “Ye workin’ wi’ Dalgleish?” Eyes raised.
He sensed suspicion for the first time. He risked the truth. “Ah’m workin’ wi’ somewan, but it’s Mhairi McGhee.” He scanned the sallow face for a response.
Dark eyes expanded.
So did Jas. “Paul’s sister?”
Fingers flexed. Strings shivered. “Ah ken who she is.”
More to the point, he knew who Paul was. “These vows don’t include celibacy?”
The cat’s cradle pulled tight, then deftly twisted. Eyes to the curving stone phallus. “Sexual energy is wanna the maist positive forces in the universe – Shiva kens that. Paul kent it tae.” Eyes back to the cellophane package. “How’s he doin’?”
Jas stared at the most reliable source of Paul McGhee’s where
abouts, the reason he was here at all. At the moment, it was the least of his concerns. He leant down, lifted the square of heroin and sat it on the bunk. “So you didney arrange ma night visit?”
The question ignored. Eyes still on the heroin. Cat’s cradle drooping. “We aw’ huv oor ain demons.”
Jas frowned. Lines of communication as tangled as the cat’s cradle.
Small smile. “Didney think it had sunk in yet.”
He inhaled lungfuls of waxy, too-sweet air. His head swam with the sitar’s sliding strings.
“Wi’ Dalgleish behind me, ah don’t need ony physical stuff tae stay at the top, Jas Anderson. Whitever demon’s efter you, it’s no’ wanna mine.”
The man sitting cross-legged on the bunk before him was a million miles from the sullen-eyed boy he’d seen sent down for two years ...
... but the passivity was more distracting than any aggression.
Jas needed answers. He needed the truth.
He needed ...
... voice to his left:
“Ye wanna use oor mobile?”
His eyes flicked to the stocky man with the impassive face, who had reappeared in the doorway, then beyond to Stevie’s shaggy head. Jas nodded abstractedly.
“Where ye wanna call?”
Jas frowned.
Impassive face became explaining face. “Ootside the UK’ll cost ye mair ...”
“Local.”
William blinked agreement, then walked to a small, custom-built locker in the far, right-hand corner of the cell. Crouching, he produced a key from his pocket.
Humming ...
Jas’s eyes flicked back to Neil. The man was rocking gently, fingers flexing rhythmically in time to the sound which escaped slightly parted lips. Voice at his side:
“Ye ken how tae work it?”
He took the mobile. An Oki. Parent company somewhere in the Far East, the cellular phones were manufactured just outside Glasgow. It seemed appropriate. Jas nodded.
Brief bow. “Next door’s empty – ye’ve goat ten minutes.”
Shuffling behind told him Stevie was edging towards the doorway. Jas nodded again to William, then glanced at Neil.
The strings of the cat’s cradle draped stubby hands which were now united in prayer position. Eyes closed, still humming, the figure continued to rock.
The movement was hypnotic. Jas stood mesmerised. Sound behind him.