by Jack Dickson
No mention of the few icy minutes, when the man’s future had hung in the balance on the edge of B-Hall’s roof. Jas rubbed his face. He didn’t feel clever, he felt ...? A snort at his side:
“That bastard murdered wee Paul an’ dumped his body in wanna the incinerators – whit ur the polis gonny dae aboot it?”
Jas could hear the familiar anger and frustration. He watched DI Ann McLeod bristle:
“That will be looked into, Mr McStay – our main priority now is getting this place back under control.”
The Bar-L had never been more in control than when twenty men had climbed out onto the roof in protest at the treatment of another. He glanced from Stevie’s sullen face to Ann’s police mask and back again. He knew she was right ...
Paul McGhee would be mourned by his sister, Hamster and maybe Neil Johnstone, but as far as Strathclyde Police were concerned, his death was mere paraffin on Hadrian’s already blazing funeral pyre.
... but it didn’t make him feel any better. “When dae we give oor formal statements?” Maybe seeing the words in black-and-white would help.
Scraping of chair legs. DI McLeod stood up. “Tomorrow ...” Notebook clutched tightly. “... you’ll be taken into the custody of Stewart Street, Jas, as a crown witness.” Professional smile tilting downwards. “I can’t say what’ll happen after that, concerning your own ... er, trial, but I’m afraid you’ll need to spend what’s left of tonight in this ...” She glanced around, then at her watch. “... place. Sorry, but ...” Forced smile. “... don’t suppose another four hours is going to ...” Sentence cut short.
How many hours had it taken Dalgleish to strangle the life from Paul McGhee, or the Bar-L to kill the nameless boy who screamed all night, three cells down?
How many minutes had it taken a Gorbals sergeant to vent racist anger on the helpless body of a restrained prisoner?
How long had he been unconscious, two nights ago, in the gymnasium?
She read his expression wrongly. “Again, my apologies – red tape. But tomorrow, we’ll get this whole mess cleared up. I’ll contact your solicitor and ...”
“Jas-man?”
Stevie’s voice was soft. Jas cocked his head.
Brown eyes burned. “Tell her.”
“Tell me what?” Impatient. “Can’t it wait til morning?”
He locked eyes with Stevie. If the police weren’t particularly interested in the death of one prisoner, how much less interest could they show in the beating and rape of another? He shook his head.
“Tell her, man!” Insistent.
“Won’t it keep, Jas? I’ve got a lot to do and ...”
“It’ll keep.”
Brown eyes narrowed to an ominous glint. Then Stevie looked away.
“Good!” DI McLeod walked towards the locked door. Then turned. “Your cooperation in all this will not go unnoticed, Mr McStay. I’m sure the Procurator Fiscal ...”
“Ah didney dae it fur the fuckin’ Fiscal!” Words exploded from the furious face. Stevie leapt from his chair. “Ah did it fur ...”
The door burst open. Two burly SPS Officers. “Everythin’ okay, ma’am?” Two sets of eyes suspiciously scanning.
Jas gripped Stevie’s arm.
Ann stared at them, expression difficult to read. “Everything’s fine.” Then a shrug. “Put it all in your statement tomorrow, Mr McStay.” To the officers. “Take them back to their cell, please.” Them.
One fence.
Two sides.
Them ...
... no longer ex-polis, even as far as polis was concerned. The gulf between himself and DI McLeod was miles wide.
Criminal?
Not quite ...
... his fingers tightened on a tensed, denim-encased biceps. Jas watched Ann nod briefly in his direction, before leaving the room. He released Stevie’s arm.
As the two screws escorted them along too-familiar corridors, his identity blurred, refocused and blurred again.
No-man’s land ...
Stevie’s boots thumped on the metal walkway behind.
... always a dangerous place to be. He slowed, approaching the open door of their cell.
Their ...
... them ...
Jas paused, eyes flicking over his shoulder. Shared grievances and enemies created bonds ...
... but how strong were bonds forged from flawed metal?
Stevie was still scowling.
“In ye go, boys.”
As he entered the cell, he studied the face of another man ...
A man who had tried to beat him to a pulp.
A man whose skin was decorated by reminders of feelings – of a world – he couldn’t control.
A man who had stayed by his side through everything, bathed his damaged body.
A man who had lain beneath him, fucked with him.
A man who was doing time for an unprovoked attack on two innocent men.
... a man with an estranged wife. And two children.
The slam of the heavy metal door resounded in his head. Jas continued to stare.
The alliance between Stevie and himself was convenience-based.
Necessity-based.
His eyes followed denimed shoulders to the far wall. Tension rippled in the cold air between them. He focused on the loop of tangled hair at the back of the man’s neck.
Stevie stared at brick. “He’s gonny get away wi’ it, isn’t he? That bastard murdered wee Paul, near hauf-killed you an ...”
“He’ll no’ get away wi’ it ...” The lie tripped off his tongue, stumbled then fell. “... okay, he will get away wi’ some o’ it, but no’ murder. Ah ...”
“Shouldda fucked him ower when we had the chance, Jas-man ...” Fist raised against bare brick. “... shouldda pushed him aff that fuckin’ roof an ...”
“He’ll pay, Stevie ...” He sat down on the lower bunk, groped underneath for cigarettes. Denied his precious job and promotion prospects was probably the worst punishment Dalgleish could be given. Or losing the respect of an eighteen-year-old probationer? Jas wanted to believe it.
Stevie sank to a crouch. “Aye, he’ll pay – bastard!”
Jas could smell the man, taste him, feel the familiar rage ...
... an anger they shared.
An anger which damaged only themselves. He spun round, gripped heaving shoulders. Fingers under a stubbly chin, Jas tilted the lowered head up to his. Fluorescent light exaggerated every line and crease on the angular face. He stared into dilated pupils, then released the chin. “We’ll talk aboot it in the mornin’.”
Words wouldn’t cut it.
Not now ...
He began to undress. Biker’s jacket ...
... boots ...
... fingers paused as he lowered zip. A twitch against his thumb made him look up.
Stevie was watching, fists clenched.
The gaze met.
Stevie looked away, began to undo his own boots.
Jas continued to undress. The last two hours swayed drunk-only in his head. Shadows of adrenalin continued to gallop through his veins, chasing rational thought beyond his reach. He grasped at it, needing to think about something other than the hardening in his crotch.
“Jas.”
The word sent a low shiver over his scalp and made his prick stiffen further. He kicked feet free and raised his head.
Stevie. Inches away. Naked. Shaking.
They stood silently, eyes on each other’s body. Two pale skins under yellow fluorescent flickers.
His gaze travelled down from amber eyes, past parted lips and bristling stubble to the hard white torso, and the information caned there. Jas tossed the combat pants onto the lower bunk, stretched out a hand and traced the outline of a particularly knobbly scar.
Skin flinched under his touch. A sound, somewhere between a growl and a whimper, brushed his cheek. Then a head on his shoulder.
He looked down between them. Transparent liquid was oozing from the small slit in the head of Stevie’s ha
rd cock.
His guts twisted. He wanted to catch the droplets, rub them into the silky skin.
He wanted to ...
... once was a mistake.
Twice would be ...
Something wet brushed his stomach.
He recognised it as a mouth, rubbing a hand over Stevie’s tangly head. A warm fist gripped the root of his prick, holding the shaft steady ...
... then enveloping warmth. Prick flexed as Stevie’s tongue rolled around the head. Fingers dug into the back of his thighs.
The man kneeling before him trembled. Jas savoured the skin contact, then reached down, fingers settling loosely on heavy shoulders.
The mouth on his cock moved down. A tongue lapped at his balls. Jas moaned, feeling nipples or ridges of scar tissue contact with his thighs. Hands moved to Stevie’s head.
The tongue flicked around and under his ball-sack.
Jas inhaled sharply, fingers digging into tangled hair.
Flinching. And the sound of air rushing into lungs as Stevie pulled back.
The smell of sweat and a salty odour hung in cold, inhospitable air. Jas stared down.
Breath and five o’clock shadow rasped against his thighs.
A low moan ...
... then one hand removed from his thigh, and a mouth replaced over his prick. Stevie’s nose pressed against his belly, the rough chin dragging against his aching balls.
Jas listened to the sounds, shivered at the movements and tried to hold back.
Once was a mistake.
Twice was ...
... spreading palms. Jas gripped his cell-mate’s scalp with both hands and did what he should have done after their fight. He fucked Stevie’s face hard and mercilessly, ignoring the choking sounds as an all-too-efficient gag kicked in and sent shivers of pleasure up through his body.
Nipples tingling, he gripped Stevie’s ears and thrust faster, pounding himself past spasming throat muscle and into the warm, tight tunnel ...
... balls clenched against Stevie’s chin, Jas threw back his head and tried to pull out.
Two strong hands wouldn’t let him.
He jerked forward, pushing with his hips.
Stevie sprawled backwards panting, choking, sobbing.
Once was ... cunt. A series of holes, to be fucked when there was nothing better to fuck.
Twice would be ...
... under dull yellow gloom Jas gripped heavy shoulders, pulled Stevie to his feet and kissed him, pushing a lock of brown hair back from the reddening face. Arms tightened around his waist.
Jas pushed the world away and slipped his tongue into Stevie’s mouth. He felt the shiver in his own body, felt the corresponding moan in his own mouth as another tongue explored the inside of his gums.
Two feet below, another prick flexed against his own, anger mutating into something else.
Holes were for cocks ... not tongues.
Staring at closed eyelids, Jas tried to read Stevie’s face, then gave up and read what the man’s body – and his own – was painting in letters six feet high ...
... then they were on the bottom bunk, mouths moving less gently as frantic hands explored and caressed two very different bodies.
Jas seized scarred wrists, pinning Stevie’s arms above his head.
The sound of shallow breathing filled the cell.
He straddled thighs and stared down.
Amber eyes hidden behind screwed-shut eyelids.
Jas watched the way the man’s prick bucked, stabbing the air between them as Stevie thrust up with his hips ...
... then he regripped wrists with one hand, covered the prick with the other and heard the corresponding moan.
Desperate.
Angry.
Awkward ...
... he watched Stevie fuck his fist like it was an opponent.
He watched the man struggle in his grip, lunging upwards off the soiled mattress, contorting his body in an attempt to get free ...
... and only thrust himself deeper and harder into Jas’s curled fingers.
It was a fight Stevie couldn’t win.
A fight he wanted to lose.
Sweat dribbled onto closed eyes.
Jas leant over, licked it away ...
... and began to drag his own cock up and down Stevie’s thigh.
In a writhing morass of skin and sweat, he lost the rhythm of the hand-job, then lost it completely as balls clenched unexpectedly and his mind shattered. Fingers tightened on wrists, then relaxed as he shot against Stevie’s thigh ...
... and his cell-mate’s spine arched up from the bunk.
Warm wetness filled his fist.
Panting filled his head.
Jas blinked back shock, opened his mouth ...
... and met the returning kiss head on, holding the damp face between spunk-sticky palms. Rib-cracking arms wrapped themselves around him. Bristling stubble rasped against his hands as he winced and sucked Stevie’s tongue into his dry mouth.
A thigh edged between his. Then arms pushed him over onto his back.
A body covered his. He groaned into the open mouth. His softening prick flexed against the leg. Stevie was heavy, took his breath away ...
... again ... and again ...
A low moan. Not pleasure. Something else.
Sweat and spunk cooled rapidly on his burning skin. He eased out from under the bulk, stared at the spent force.
Eyelids shot open. Enormous pupils stared up at him.
Stevie’s breath was low and shallow.
Jas shivered, groping backwards with one hand. Finding the blanket, he dragged grey woollen scratchiness over his shoulders.
Once was a mistake.
Twice was ...
... something he didn’t need.
Flinching. And the sound of breath rushing into lungs as Stevie pulled away:
Hoarse. “Man, ah gotta say something.”
Jas frowned: you and me both. He reached for a large hand, laced fingers with his own and watched Stevie stare towards the small, barred window. All sorts of sex ... all sorts of pillow-talk.
Fingers rigid in his. Jas watched his cell-mate’s lips, watched the man try to form words from thoughts still beyond him ...
... in a world beyond Barlinnie’s stone walls, guys like Stevie peppered cruising grounds and cottages the length and breadth of Scotland.
Sometimes they watched.
Sometimes they indulged.
Sometimes they beat the living shite out of those whose bodies they craved ...
... as if killing the man would kill the desire in themselves.
“Ah dunno why ah ...” The words were low, rigid with concentration. Stevie’s Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively.
Jas remembered the actions of the one man his teenage self had found the courage to approach. He stared at the scarlet face inches from his.
An angry push onto the floor of a seaside public toilet had been the thin end of the wedge.
His index finger lay along the line of least resistance. The raised scar tissue of a scored wrist pressed into his skin.
Was anger turned inwards progress, of a sort?
Was prison the only environment in which Stevie could vent feelings?
Jas tightened his grip on the fingers, staring at a patch of drying spunk, just above Stevie’s left nipple and below a long-healed slash. He rubbed with the index finger of his free hand, watching crystals powder under the movement.
Fingers gripped his, crushing.
He winced, rubbing a rough finger over the knobbly scar tissue which ringed Stevie’s wrists like handcuffs.
“... ah dunno why ah feel ... oh fuck ...”
He raised his finger, licked the tip and tasted the results of another unwanted encounter.
His spunk, or Stevie’s?
“... ah, forget it!” The voice broke. Stevie didn’t have the words.
Jas thought about the woman in the photograph yards above their heads.
A hand grabbed his
arm. He looked down.
Brown eyes glazed with confusion. Stevie glanced away.
Jas stared at the hand on his arm.
“... ah widney hurt you ...” Fingers were digging in painfully. “... fur aw’ the world, ah widney ...”
“Ye’re fuckin’ hurtin’ me now, pal!” Humour: the great diffuser.
Low laugh. The fingers removed.
Jas could still feel their imprint. Other words crouched at the back of his own throat.
Convenience-based.
Necessity-based.
He wondered vaguely who Stevie would team up with, for the remainder of his sentence ...
... more than vaguely. Jas edged way, disentangling their limbs.
Not his problem. None of his business.
A spluttering flicker. Then darkness.
The timer switch gone haywire ...
... breath on his face. Jas scowled in the darkness.
Movement.
He flinched.
Stevie edged out from his side.
Jas watched the hulking outline pad across the short distance to the piss-pot. The lower bunk suddenly felt very empty. He tried not to listen to the sounds of pissing. Or the footsteps. Or the pause.
His stomach lurched ...
... then tensed as a chilled body eased itself back in beside his.
“Gimme some o’ the covers, eh Jas-man?”
He lifted the blanket, draping it around the shivering shape.
Stevie snuggled down, face buried in Jas’s chest.
The sounds of slowed breathing ...
... then sleep breathing.
One leg was numbing with the weight of the man. His brain raced under the weight of other things.
Glancing shards from a voyeur moon illuminated two arms.
One reaching back, the other stretching forwards.
He wondered what Stevie dreamt about.
Then gave up wondering.
Twenty-Five
WITH THE DAWN, he edged out from beside the gently snoring shape and dressed in half-darkness.
He had no idea when the police escort from Stewart Street would arrive.
It couldn’t come soon enough. Pulling on boots, Jas braced one arm against cold bare brick and stared down.