by Jack Dickson
One problem down ...
He thought about Dalgleish.
... one to go. A low growl broke through the thought:
“Thanks ...”
He shivered. “Ah dinny want yer thanks ...” Jas watched Stevie pull the crowbar wedge from the skylight. He refocused on the now-standing Dalgleish. “When the polis git here, you’re gonny tell them everythin’ – includin’ the cover-up of Paul McGhee’s death ...”
“Where’s yer proof?”
Jas frowned.
“There’s nothin’ in that freezer noo, ’cept frozen chips – an’ your fingerprints.” Gunmetal eyes sighted his. “Ah left a coupla bags o’ smack behind, jist tae be oan the safe side.”
The frown froze. The implication shimmered. On remand for dealing, any further drugs involvement would only muddy the waters.
Dalgleish seized his confusion. “Come on, Anderson – who’s gonny miss wan mair bit o’ double-crossin’ junkie scum, onyway?”
... double-crossin’ ...
... double-crossin’ ...
The phrase rang in his ears. A shiver colder than than the frost on a bullet-headed boy’s teenage stubble swept his skin and focused his mind. Jas grabbed bulky grey shoulders.
“Whit huv ye done, man?” He pulled Dalgleish closer.
“Grow up, Anderson!” Scowling answer to another question. “Did yer years oan the Force teach ye nothin’?”
A muscle pulsed in his forehead.
Laugh. “Jist another bitta rubbish – like that black bastard Somerville!”
Something colder than the night air formed in his head. “You killed Paul ...” He tightened his fists. “You sent guys tae fuck me over, you let them ...”
Last night was a hole deep inside his mind ...
A Dalgleish-shaped hole.
A hole he wanted to to close with his fists.
Gunmetal glinted, inches from his. “Ye wur eyeways a stupid fucker, Anderson – Paul McGhee hud mair o’ a clue than you ever hud ...” Mocking. “... but even he wisney as clever as he thought he wis!”
His heart pounded, threatening to burst out of his chest.
“Ah knew it, back then. Ye were soft, Anderson – yer game wis soft ... ah could use yer ain men against ye, every time.”
Jas blinked.
Dalgleish seized the advantage. “Nae strategy, nae long-term goals, nae overall ambition.”
Jas gripped handfuls of grey Hadrian uniform, twisted the fabric between his fingers and tried to ignore the contempt in the voice. “Ye killed Paul cos ye’re ... ambitious?”
Footsteps behind.
Muscle quivered in his arms. “Cos he wouldney hand over a fuckin’ PC?”
“You canny prove ah killed McGhee, Anderson an’ efter ye’ve bin charged wi’ incitin’ a riot an’ assaultin’ an officer ah doubt the judge at yer trial will ...”
Face wet with Dalgleish-spit, mind reeling. Jas lowered his head.
A hand on his arm.
He turned his head slowly, stared at Stevie and a rodent-faced shape. The former held the crowbar he’d used to seal the roof door:
“Ah found this wan cowerin’ in a corner, thought he’d be better aff up here wi’ us than ...” Words fading. Eyes to Dalgleish. “... did he jist say whit ah ...?”
“He killed Fierce Paul?”
Jas looked from Stevie to Hamster. Rodent-eyes refusing to believe. Wetness convincing them.
“Bastard!”
Jas pushed Stevie away, foiling the lunge towards the Hadrian officer.
“Murderin’ bastard!” On his back, Stevie glowered from wet roof tiles. “Bastard!”
“Bastard ... bastard ... bastard ... bastard ... bastard ... bastard ...”
Stevie’s shouts were echoing ...
Jas glanced over his shoulder.
... not echoes. He stared at the procession of denimed men clambering through the skylight onto the roof. At their head, a shaved skull. The sombre figure held a flickering candle and made its way towards them.
Dalgleish, turning: “Johnstone! Git this mad bastard away fae me!”
Neil Johnstone continued to approach.
Dalgleish, panicking. “Come oan, man! We hud an arrangement – ah took care o’ things fur you, ah ...”
“You ...” Pausing. Holding a candle directly into a sweating, grey face. “... murdered ...” Flame flickering. “... ma ...”
“It’s lies, Johnstone ...” Backing away. “... your brother killed Anderson’s wee boyfriend: he’d say onythin’ tae see you add another twenty years tae yer sentence fur killing me!”
The words hit his skin like blows, stinging with logic. His right arm ached with a wound which still smarted.
Candle turning.
Jas felt its heat in the cold air.
Spectral eyes gazed.
A logic he could use. “He’s right aboot wan thing.” Jas met the stare. “Hurting him’s no’ gonny dae onywan any good.”
The spectral stare never wavered in its conviction.
Jas frowned. “He killed Paul over a stolen PC. but he’s no’ gonny get away wi’ it.” He glanced beyond Neil Johnstone to the growing group of men, spotted Telly’s mottled pate. His gaze moved to Hamster.
Padded jacket edging forward. The rodent-face was blotchy, eyes red-rimmed. “It’s straight-up, man ...” Mouth twitching towards the candle. “Dalgleish threatened me tae – telt me Paul hud given him ma name ...”
Neil Johnstone continued to stare. Dark stars had become black holes, sucking everything in.
Jas clenched his fist. “Let me ... handle it ...”
Powerful lungs blasted up from the car park. “The polis ur on their way, son – jist take it easy ...” The voice sounded like Billy McKinley’s.
At Hamster’s side, Stevie was rigid.
Voice from below. “... an’ stay calm ...”
He held Johnstone’s gaze, balanced on a horizon between order and chaos. “Remember yer vows, Neil: let me handle it ...”
Black holes closing in on themselves. An almost imperceptible nod. In the background:
“Bastard ... bastard ... bastard ... bastard ...”
The unearthly figure of Neil Johnstone turned away, eyes lowered. The chant resounded around him. Jas watched the scourge of the Bar-L rejoin the stocky, muscular man. He turned to the criminal at his side ...
... and glanced beyond an ashen Dalgleish to Stevie’s angular face, lips moving with dozens of others.
Gay-bashers.
Cop killers.
Rapists.
Armed robbers.
Drug dealers ...
... petty thieves, kids caught with half a tab of E ... alcoholics ... TV licence evaders ... the homeless ... the disturbed ...
A society within a society ...
... at the corner of his eye, a blue flashing serpent. Relief relaxed his mouth. Sinking to a crouch, Jas released his grip on Dalgleish and hugged his chest. He focused on the line of police cars writhing through the darkness. A dull ache in the pit of his stomach told him this was far from over.
“Is anyone injured up there?” DI McLeod’s artificial articulation was distorted further by the electronic bullhorn.
Jas hauled Dalgleish onto rubber legs. Cupping a hand around mouth, he mentally phrased his demands.
Bullhorn tones cut through his thoughts. “James Anderson is not to be harmed. Release your hostage and we can ...”
Laughter from behind obliterated the end of the sentence.
He filled his lungs. “Ah’m fine, Ann.”
An amplified intake of breath.
More laughter, ebbing into silence.
Jas focused on the blue/white flashes below, eyes skimming the edge of the roof. Pushing Stevie back, he grasped Dalgleish’s quivering arm and dragged the Hadrian officer forward.
“Is your hostage unharmed?” Amplified inquiry from below.
An icy gust buffeted his face. Boot toes wedged in ancient Victorian guttering, he looked at the
man he had respected – the man who had provided the nearest thing to a role model he’d ever known, in the Force. “He’s fine.”
Ian Dalgleish flinched in his grip.
“Good – that’s good. We want to keep it that way. Jas – we don’t want anyone hurt and neither do you.”
Hurt ... hurt ...
Her voice filled his head. He stared ...
... at a man who had killed in cold blood, organised at least one beating and rape in colder blood, conspired and plotted with Maxwell Fulton.
Two sides ...
... of one man. Resolve and anger took wings. Jas cleared his throat, feeling eighteen again. A probationer. Green. Awkward. Confused..
Dalgleish stared at him.
Jas moved closer, heart faltering ...
Dalgleish braced himself.
... and stopped. “Ah worshipped you.” Jas stared at the pale, sweating face. “When other guys said you wur oota date in yer methods, ah defended you ...”
Under his fingers, shivers fled up and down the officer’s arm. Eyes stared back into his. Message unreadable.
“... when ah hud doubts aboot the job, whit you’d telt me kept me goin’: wan rule fur aw’ ...” Jas released the arm. His fingers felt stained, contaminated.
Dalgleish inched away, backing along the narrow roof-edge.
Jas followed. “... when ma ain faither widney look at me, you said ma ability tae dae the job wis aw’ that mattered.”
“Now, is there anything we can get you?” Somewhere in the distance, a bullhorned voice talked on. It was miles away ...
... and he was back in Gorbals division, sitting on the other side of a night sergeant’s desk, spilling his eighteen-year-old heart to a grey-haired night sergeant.
Dalgleish took another step backwards.
Jas continued to walk. “When ah made ma mistakes, you wur there fur me. When ah made ma first arrest, you bought the drinks ...” Something wet on his face. Jas brushed it away. “... an’ goat tickets fur the Celtic/Aberdeen game.” He hated football – always had. Memory soured in his stomach. The stands at Parkhead football ground. Roaring ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ with tens of thousands of others. Smugly reading past the words, to their sham application for himself, and every other gay cop who wore the uniform. Tears coursed down his face.
He always walked alone.
Always had. Always would.
“You taught me respect fur masel’ an’ respect fur the job – when ah applied tae CID, your report goat me the post ...” Icy wind froze the tears. “... you knew Alan Somerville choked on his ain vomit cos ah’d restrained him too tightly an’ didney dae the second hourly check. You put yersel’ oan the line fur me ...” Words more sobs than syllables. “... if ah wis that much o’ a stupid fucker, why did ye dae that, Sergeant Dalgleish?”
The face on the man inches away was an unreadable, fear-sealed mask.
“... why?” Jas reached out, touched a shoulder and tried to close the gap and the hole inside himself.
Dalgleish wobbled precariously, shrieked.
Jas barely heard the sound.
Gorbals Police Station.
An unfurnished side office.
Staring at the black, lifeless face of Alan Somerville – a prisoner in his custody, whom he had allowed to die.
A gust of wind tore through the self-pity. Jas wiped his eyes on the back of a goosefleshed arm. And saw clearly for the first time.
... black bastard ...
A desk sergeant’s two unaccompanied visits to Alan Somerville’s cell, Jas himself dispatched to the toilets to wash blood from his face and smoke endless cigarettes.
... black bastard ...
A desk sergeant who had been sympathetic, conciliatory beyond the call of duty and uniformed camaraderie when Jas had thought his career was over.
... black bastard ...
A desk sergeant who had arranged for Jas to be elsewhere, when he’d returned to Alan Somerville’s cell alone for a third time, removing and returning the restraints to the locked cupboard ...
... black bastard ...
... and swearing under oath that they’d ever been used. Something snapped in his mind. “Why did ye let me believe in somethin’ that didney exist?”
Dazzling light.
Jas took a step back, out of the path of sudden, powerful illumination from below. Vision sparkling, he stared at the up-lighted shape that was Dalgleish.
His guts churned. For twenty years he’d carried the guilt of one fatal mistake. For those same twenty years he’d borne a burden of gratitude ...
Jas looked at the silhouetted face, then pushed the man to his knees.
... which was as much of a sham as the uniform he’d worn for an equal number of years.
A cover-up. A desk sergeant’s cover up. Not to save the career of a green probationer. To save his own.
Silence ...
... below, even the traffic seemed to stop.
Fizzing in his ears. Jas lowered his voice and stared down. “You’re ... scum.”
Gunmetal eyes stared up, no ammo left. Grey lips moved. Jas didn’t hear the excuses, didn’t want to. Sound whooshed around him. He stared at the grey face, watched it grey further as he gripped a pair of broad shoulders. His own face glowed scarlet.
A scream through the night.
He thought about the man he’d counted on as fair, honest and decent: one of the few genuine apples, compensating for all the rotten fruit he’d ever had to work with..
He thought about two nights ago, shaking and terrified, tied to a vaulting horse, on one man’s orders.
He thought about Paul McGhee, strangled over a missing PC ... Jas swayed.
... and Alan Somerville, not the first black man to die in police custody. A sudden gust of wind swirled up from the courtyard, thirty feet below and carried baritone pleas with it.
He thought of roof-top scuffles, of accidents ...
Tears ran from gunmetal eyes.
He clenched fists, his own vision blurring. Fingers tightened around grey fabric ...
... bullhorned words cut through something worse than pain:
“Jas? Jas Anderson?”
Different voice. He wondered vaguely what had happened to Ann.
“... this is Billy – Billy MacKinley ...”
He drew the broad figure up towards him. Grey knees left the roof. Booted feet dangled. Icy gusts howled around them.
“... he’s no’ worth it, Jas. C’mon doon, pal ...”
He stared at Dalgleish. Not worth it ... not worth it.
“... they stupid bastards in the control room huv fucked their state-o’-the-art automatic entry-exit. Gonny open the gates fur us, wi’ the manual override? Ah’m freezin’ ma arse aff oot here!”
His right arm trembled, fingers uncurling. Legs melted. He slumped down. Somewhere to his left, he was aware of movement. Jas raised his head.
Dalgleish was scrabbling over sloping tiles, hauling himself back up the roof.
An opportunity gone. The moment had passed.
Then more movement. Closer. And the warm leather of his own jacket draped around shaking shoulders. Behind, Stevie’s hands trembled against him.
The moment had passed. Something approaching satisfaction coursed through his veins ...
... only approaching. One last request: the reason he was here at all. Jas eased himself upright, numb hands cupped around mouth. “Ann? Phone Mhairi McGhee an’ tell her ah’ve found her brother. We’re comin’ doon!”
As he picked his way through the sea of damp denim, a voice at his knees:
“Ye did aw’ right. Anderson ...”
He peered through the flickering candle at the cadaverous face.
“... fur ex-polis.”
He held Neil Johnstone’s blank, luminous stare for a few seconds, then continued towards the skylight.
Dalgleish’s keys had ended up fuck knew where, but all the gates were open anyway ...
... barring the larg
e security door which separated the outside world from the world of the Bar-L. Jas gazed up at the small metal box, six feet above his head.
A couple of circuit-boards and some wiring.
He glanced to where Stevie stood with Hamster ...
... then beyond to the sorry figure which was what was left of Ian Dalgleish.
Waves of denim had parted to let them through, ebbing away from the Hadrian officer, trusting to justice.
Jas raised the metal crowbar, swung it behind his head then brought it down on the fuse-box.
Instant darkness ...
... then the smooth grate of a door opening.
And voices.
Twenty-Four
MORE BARE BRICK. MORE BARS.
Different bare brick ...
... his eyes moved from the small window. In the interview room, Jas stared across the table at DI Ann McLeod. His final sentences of explanation hung in the air between them.
In the distance, the sounds of order reasserting itself. SPS and police order.
Jas glanced at Stevie, then Ann.
Three a.m. eyes animating.
He sighed. “Diz that make clear why ah started the riot in B-Hall?”
DI McLeod smiled. “I don’t think you realise what we’ve got here, Jas.” She fingered the edges of a notepad. “If what you’ve told me pans out, there’s going to be a lot of red faces in a lot of high places.” Smile shrinking. “Hadrian can kiss goodbye to any corporate aspirations they have, as far as prison security is concerned.” Frown. “I’ll be surprised if anyone will hire them to run as much as a sack race, after this!”
He leant back in the hard plastic chair and tried to feel a sense of achievement. “Whit happens noo?“
“David Hamilton’s given us the approximate whereabouts of his PC. If the hard drive corroborates what you’ve told me, we can start proceedings against Hadrian.”
“Whit aboot Dalgleish?” Stevie voiced an echo of his own discontent. Ann’s professional tones:
“We should be able to persuade him to cooperate, regarding dates, places and names more important than his own ...”
He watched Stevie’s frown harden.
“... but I don’t think he’ll be pressing any charges, Mr McStay, if that’s what’s worrying you: his injuries could have been sustained any number of ways.” Eyes to Jas. “It’s thanks to you two he wasn’t more seriously hurt. Clever move to get him up onto the roof and out of harm’s way!”