by Jack Dickson
“Naw, ah didney find oot onythin aboot the fuckin’ PC!” Jas rubbed his face. His head hurt, his mind was racing. Paul McGhee ... Neil Johnstone ... Ian Dalgleish ...
Thumps again.
Rules bent ...
... and broken.
Neil Johnstone ... a man kicked to death a year ago.
Neil Johnstone ... settling a very old score, with the brother of the woman whose testimony had put him here?
Were Hadrian so desperate to demonstrate their ability to run an efficient prison they would cover up murder?
Thumps ... louder ...
Jas looked up. Stevie was kicking the door now, large boots impacting on solid metal. He stared at the heavy shoulders, felt the same tension in the cell he’d sensed downstairs ...
... and would probably feel all over the prison. “Quit that, eh?” Jas rubbed his face. He needed to think ...
Alan Somerville.
... needed to ...
Stevie kicked harder. “So whit happened?”
Jas scowled into his hands. Irritation crawled over his skin. He leapt out from the bottom bunk and grabbed a leathered shoulder. “Will ye quit that racket! Noo!”
Under his fingers, the shoulder was rigid. Stevie spun round, fists clenched. In the background, the banging had increased in volume. Over the noise, the heat of breath on his face, he could feel the hammer of his own heart.
They stared at each other. Paul McGhee’s frozen features melted in the face of Stevie’s glowing eyes.
A twitch in his groin.
Not now, not ...
... the movement was razor-quick. Pushed backwards by the force of Stevie’s bulk, he felt his body continue to respond. Jas tried to control what was between his legs with what was between his ears ...
... and failed. He could smell the man, feel ...
... guts churning he stood rigid as fingers fumbled at his zip, gripping then hauling combat pants and underwear down over thighs.
Then hands on his waist ...
... and a furious face against his groin.
Jas flinched. Breathy stubble on his shaft. Then vibrations. Mumbled curses.
He pressed hands to the sides of Stevie’s head, held him loosely. Unheard vied with unspoken words. Fingers tensed. Five o’clock shadow rough against his balls and thighs. Hips bucking instinctively, he thrust into Stevie’s face.
Cock said fast.
Heart said slow.
Brain screamed no.
Hands slipped to the back of his thighs, gripping painfully.
Mind short-circuited by the pressure of lips and tongue on his prick, he moaned.
Stevie sucked awkwardly, with none of the skill of other men who’d used their mouths on him, over the years.
He sucked eagerly. Anxiously. Angrily.
Jas inhaled sharply as teeth glanced off his shaft, then hurriedly hid themselves behind lips.
Stubble rasped against bruised balls, which throbbed further under the friction ...
... then Stevie’s mouth was everywhere, leaving a desperate, frustrated saliva trail over belly, cock, thighs, balls.
Jas shoved a hand into tangled hair, drawing the wet tongue upwards, over stomach and chest hair.
Stevie settled on his right nipple and began to nuzzle like a furious child.
Something knotted, unknotted then retied itself in the pit of his stomach.
Last night ...
... fifteen minutes ago.
The frozen, dead body shimmered in his mind.
Around them, banging from other cells became rhythmic, pounding in his head and syncing with his heart.
Frustrations released themselves ...
... twining the fingers of one hand into thick brown hair. Jas reached down, tearing at Stevie’s shirt, then jeans.
A moan replaced the curses around his stiffening nub. Stevie’s cock leapt free, flexing in his fist. The shaft was damp against his palm. Sweat broke out on his balls, joining the spit.
A shiver racked two bodies.
Jas traced the outline of Stevie with a rough thumb.
Teeth clamped over his nipple.
Jas gritted other teeth, dragging down his cell-mate’s jeans.
Stevie groaned, mouth leaving nipple and burying itself in his neck.
Jas leant forward, pushing until Stevie’s spine connected with the cell wall ...
... and pressed himself against the shaking man. Sweat cemented chest to chest, thigh to thigh ...
... skin to skin. Mouth stabbed at mouth, missed and settled for ear.
Another prick flexed against his own.
Jas pulled away. His guts ached for the man.
Stevie reached between them, ran a shaking finger up the shaft then down again. Fingers tightened around him.
His brain told him no. His body said yes with every glide of his cell-mate’s fist. Tightening the grip, fingers sank into the warm flesh of Stevie’s shoulder. His other hand lingered at the root of the man’s prick, ring finger rubbing the underside of the tight ballsack.
Stevie’s hand faltered, lost rhythm for a second.
Jas stared, continued to finger the furry skin. His fingers moved lower, felt Stevie tremble as he massaged the puckered skin behind the man’s balls.
“Oh fuck ...”
His own cock was throbbing, Stevie’s fingers almost painfully tight around his shaft. His right hand began to move faster.
Stevie’s body stiffened.
Jas slowed the motion of his fist.
Stevie groaned, head lowered in frustration.
Brain said no.
Body said ...
... Jas clenched his teeth, fist dragging up and down his cellmate’s prick. He pulled away, gripping shoulders. Balls drawn up hard against his body.
Brain said no.
Body said ...
... hands slipped down over shoulders, coming to rest on two icy buttocks.
The fist remained stubbornly around his prick, which pulsed painfully in the iron grip. And tightened.
Jas inhaled sharply, fingers spreading over the cheeks of Stevie’s arse. He felt the response, the thrust against his open palms, grinding back into his hands.
In the cold, damp cell, panting echoed over distant shouts.
Thumbs dragged the length of the warm crevice.
A moan ... and two solid mounds pressing back.
“Nae condoms ...” His voice sounded strange.
“Ah’ll risk it ...”
Last night was a cold, burning memory, but one part of it could still be with him. “Ah’ll no’.” He grabbed a handful of hair, stared into flaming eyes. They almost melted the burning ice. Hoarse words and an aching need did the rest:
“Pull oot, then! Ah don’t care whit ye dae, but ah want yer prick inside me. Noo!”
A reckless confirmation ground against his thigh and spurred his brain into action. Fumbling in the pocket of the discarded combat pants, Jas located one of repossessions from Ian Dalgliesh’s office.
Stevie’s breath singed the back of his neck. He tore at the packaging with his teeth. Then fingers were tree-trunks, clumsily rolling the condom into place.
The latex was thin, unlubed. Barely adequate for fucking women and smuggling white powder.
Body rigid and mind blank. Jas grabbed Stevie’s shoulders and pushed him in the direction of the lower bunk. Skull impacted with the frame of the bed above. Desire cut through shock. Manoeuvring heavy legs, he hooked pale knees over his shoulders and seized his prick. Beneath the condom, the shaft was tacky with Stevie’s spit, slick with the sweat of the man’s grip.
Soft curses, fingers digging into shoulder skin.
The banging from the other cells faded away, replaced by a distant shimmer in his ears.
Jas stared down.
Pain framed the closed eyes.
His fingers located the moist opening. Shifting position, he gasped as the head of his latexed prick dragged on delicate skin.
“Don’t stop ...
”
Bitten-down nails on his back told a different story. Tensed and unlubed, Stevie was difficult to enter.
Fingers uncurling. Jas stroked the iron rosette.
A moan. Rigid muscle flinched.
His fingertip circled a pucker of tension. Jas lowered his head, spat onto the quivering hole and massaged more vigorously.
A nail’s length slipped in. Breath caught in his throat. A shiver of need swept the length of his prick.
Another moan.
Jas removed his finger, gripped sweating shoulders. Positioning the aching head of his cock, he bucked hard with his hips.
A sharp inhale. Fingers scraped the skin on his back. Muscle quivered ...
... then Jas mirrored the gasp and slid forward. As he pounded into the rigid, frustrated man something pounded out ...
... of them both. Prick half-buried inside Stevie, Jas paused. Hands down, thumbs dug into Stevie’s spine and arched the quivering back. He wanted deeper ...
... nails ploughed parallel furrows into his shoulders and he knew Stevie wanted the same. Elbows braced against the soiled mattress, he withdrew ...
... then thrust again. Eyes closed, he tried to shut out Stevie’s grunts and his own thoughts of tearing latex.
It didn’t work. He increased the speed of the fuck.
That worked. The warm tunnel of muscle was tight and ridged against his shaft. Sensation flooded his body, blocking everything else. Below, movement told him Stevie was jerking his own prick furiously.
The knowledge brought him close ... too close.
Fists clenched under Stevie’s back, instinct pulled him out, gasping. The force of the orgasm took the breath out of his lungs, sent it fizzing in his ears. He opened unfocused eyes, watching a shower of spunk fill the tip of the condom.
Panting ... cursing ...
Guts on fire, sweat drenching them both, Jas pulled the writhing body up from the bed and trapped a fist-wrapped cock between them.
... shouting ... then wetness.
One arm slung around his neck, Stevie clung to him.
Another heart hammered against his chest.
Another wetness. Jas pressed his face against a damp cheek, held the man until two salty liquids dried and sealed two bodies together.
Eventually, he lowered them both back onto the bunk, fumbling one-handed for a blanket.
Stevie’s breath was low and shallow. The smell of their sex filled the small, cold cell.
Jas shivered. A sob against his neck ...
... when his breath returned to normal, the banging had stopped. Or maybe he no longer registered the sound.
Stevie was clammy against him.
Jas eased himself free of the condom, knotted and tossed it away. Wrapping his arms around the biker’s jacket, he pulled the man closer and closed his eyes.
Paul McGhee’s frost-etched features flickered once, then faded.
In sleep, freed and unfettered. his subconscious pushed back the years and held them there. Summer ... July ... the usual winds and rain.
The seventh of an eight-hour night shift. The holding-cells full of drunken, Glasgow Fair revellers. Minor offences. Most sleeping off the results of too much exuberance.
An on-going chess game interrupted for the umpteenth time by four undercover Drugs Squad officers ...
... barely managing to restrain a 6' 4", thrashing dreadlocked form.
Alan Somerville. Address somewhere in Westbourne Park. London. Arrested in Central Station, on possession and suspicion of supplying: specifically, of acting as a drugs courier.
Alan Somerville. A powerfully built man ...
... and extremely annoyed at having to spend any time at all in Gorbals Police Station.
The drugs squad wanted him processed and held until they could check his known associates. And until he calmed down.
All the holding-cells were full. Busy night.
It had taken all six of them to get Alan Somerville into an unused side office.
It had taken one of them to track down the leather restraints, to keep him there ...
Sweat poured down his forehead. Jas mumbled in his sleep.
... “Tighter, Anderson!” Sergeant Dalgleish’s baritone boomed in his head.
The Drugs Squad guys had departed quickly.
A size 12 baseball boot caught him above the right eye. Blood pouring from the cut, Jas hauled the restraint past the fourth notch, threw Alan Somerville into a corner, where he continued to writhe and curse.
The use of restraints were strictly governed, following accidents in other parts of the country. One-hourly checks on the prisoner.
His responsibility.
His responsibility.
His ...
Scraping.
Eyelids shot open. Remembering the previous night, he rolled from the bunk, tripping in his half-undressed state.
More scraping. Not key-scraping.
It took seconds to clear his mind. Jas stared at the door hatch.
Pale face. Brodie-clone. “Roll-call ...” Behind, low, baritone: “Anderson?”
Jas frowned, the dream fresh in his mind. “Whit happened tae Paul McGhee?” He moved closer to the door hatch.
Behind, a snuffle. Then Stevie’s shallow sleep-breathing resumed.
Words from beyond the door hatch. “Finish off up here, then get back to the control room, Stewart.” Quiet, authoritative baritone.
The response was a set of departing footsteps.
Jas blinked, repeated his question.
Frustrated whisper. “Whit dae ye mean?”
Jas moved towards the voice, lowering his own. “He’s dead in wanna your freezers! Whit dae you ken aboot it?”
Seconds after that, more scraping. The cell door opened.
No torch this time.
And silence..
He focused through darkness. The rest of the Hall was silent. Jas repeated the information, eyes finally making out the bulky shape in the cell doorway.
“Is this some sorta joke?”
“Paul wisney laughin’.”
The shape moved into the cell, closing the door.
He could make out features now, make out a mixture of shock, curiosity and ... something else.
Baritone whisper. “McStay ...” Sigh. “He huz access tae the kitchen – he shared a cell wi’ the McGhee-boay fur a couple of nights before his release ...”
The voice was very close. The implication unmistakable.
Jas frowned. “Who signed the release papers? Is there no’ some record that Paul never left Barlinnie?”
Unexpectedly, the light flickered on.
He stared at Dalgleish.
Gunmetal stared back, ignoring his question. “Ah tried tae warn ye aboot McStay ...”
In the background, a groaning snuffle.
“... tried tae warn McGhee, but he widney listen. No wan should be sharin’ wi’ McStay. He’s in here fur kickin’ the shite oota queers. The way things work in prison fucks wi’ his brain: he’s either offerin’ his mooth tae ony prick he can find, or tryin’ tae off himsel’ – an’ them! Disney ken if he’s comin’ or goin’ – it’s aw’ in his psych report. It wis ainly a matter o’ time before he ...”
“Ya bastard!”
Something pale and naked launched itself at the Hadrian-grey back, roaring like an animal. Then Stevie was on top of Dalgleish, thumbs digging into the man’s windpipe.
Barlinnie Standard Time stood still ...
He watched Hadrian grey and the black leather of the biker’s jacket roll together on concrete. Stevie was howling something over strangled, rasping breath.
... then speeded up. Jas lunged into the Dalgleish/McStay struggle and seized a tensed, leathered shoulder.
Another roar ...
... then pain. Stevie threw him backwards. Spine contacted with the bunk’s metal frame.
Thudding ... in his brain ...
Jas stared.
More thudding.
Hands presse
d to temples, he levered himself upright. Fuzzy shapes waltzed before his eyes.
Thudding ... then a sickening crunch ...
He shook his head. Vision cleared ...
... just as the back of Dalgleish’s skull impacted on the stone floor for a third time.
Jas threw himself forward, hooked and tightened an arm around Stevie’s throat. And pulled.
Dalgleish’s face pulsed blue-white, eyes rolling back in his head. A thick, sticky pool of red was spreading outwards from beneath his body.
Jas grabbed one ear, twisted viciously.
Stevie’s grasp slackened.
Dalgleish’s head dropped to the floor one last time.
Stevie was still shouting as Jas wrenched an iron grip from a badly damaged windpipe. He elbowed his cell-mate aside and searched for a pulse.
Amazingly, Dalgleish was still breathing.
Fingers moved over damp hair, examining then raising the head. Red seeped over knuckles. Jas frowned. Scalp wound: a lot of bleeding, no real damage. “Gimme yer hand!”
Behind, the shouting had eased to low curses.
“Yer hand, Stevie. Now!”
A trembling palm appeared at his left. Jas grabbed fingers. pressed them against a long cut on the back of Dalgleish’s scalp. “Keep it there!”
The hand quivered against his. The mumble became audible. “Let him fuckin’ bleed!”
He stared at the inert form. Dalgleish was breathing – just. But unconscious. A dangerous state, given the head injury. He scanned the cell, then reached for the piss-pot. Stevie yelled, darting back as Jas hurled the icy contents over the Hadrian officer’s pale face.
A cough.
More coughing.
Beneath the now-retching head, he watched ketchup dilute to burgundy under flickering fluorescent light. The blood-piss soup coagulated then stretched, separating into tiny concentric circles within circles.
“Finish the bastard aff – or ah will!” The words were low, rigid with anger.
Jas ignored him, grabbed yesterday’s red, contraband underwear. Fingers tightened on damp fabric. Deftly, he removed a bootlace, eased Stevie’s hand away from the scalp cut and fashioned a makeshift pressure-pad. He stared.
Adequate, but the man needed medical attention. He glanced up.
Brown eyes glazed with rage. Skin flushed with exertion. “Whit’s goin’ on, Jas-man?”