‘Yes, well…’ Maggie clenched her teeth. Sex was something else that had gone downhill during and after the trial. Not that it had ever been earth-shaking, more an ease with one another, a corner of the comfort blanket George had thrown around her. Along with everything else, Maggie was getting used to not having a sex life. Those times she lay in the night aching for George, she’d masturbate sometimes, fingering herself furtively under the covers as a conduit to sleep.
‘There you go again. Miss Prim.’ Wilma jolted her back to reality. ‘Do I no keep sayin? You can take the girl out of Methlick…’
‘Don’t remind me. It’s weeks since I’ve taken a run out to visit my folks.’
Maggie grasped hold of her neighbour’s hand. ‘You’ve a big heart, Wilma, but you’ll need to be paid for the hours you put in. When it comes down to it, you need the money as much as I do. Didn’t you say just last week you were away to do a couple of cleaning jobs?’
Wilma coloured. ‘It’s the end of the month.’
Dammit. Maggie cursed herself for not having the wit to bring the subject up before. Not that Wilma Harcus was a special case. There must be millions of working women in the world juggling their domestic responsibilities with more than one part-time job. And Wilma would be mortified if Maggie were to offer a loan. Not that she had much to offer.
She tried to think on her feet, only she was sitting down and she had a thumping headache. ‘Why don’t we compromise? Let’s say your cleaning jobs pay £6 an hour.’
‘£7.50,’ Wilma came back, quick as a shot.
‘Well, then, how about you give the cleaning jobs a miss and charge your time out at that? Would that work, do you think? Just to begin with,’ she rushed on. ‘Then if we make a go of things…’
‘There’s not enough coming in to pay either of us a wage.’
‘Yes there is. Just about. We’ve had two invoices settle this week already and another due in.’
‘That’s as may be, but it all sounds so effin serious, this divvying up. It won’t be the same, not sitting down together like this.’
‘Wilma,’ Maggie’s voice was full of reassurance, ‘every time we take on a new case, we’ll have a briefing session, I promise. And regular progress meetings to share feedback. Plus we’ll still sit down together to do the billing.’ She paused. ‘It’ll be teamwork from now on. Agreed?’
‘We-ell…’
‘We’ll have plenty opportunity to have a laugh, still, don’t you worry.’
Wilma grinned. ‘You’re a good person, Maggie Laird.’
Good person my ass. Maggie was mortified now at how she’d misjudged her neighbour in those early days of their friendship.
‘And you’re a head banger, Wilma Harcus,’ she responded with an affectionate smile.
Bit o’ Bother
In a dark alley down by the harbour, Wilma shivered. A snell wind whipped around her ankles, and it had started to rain. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wishing she’d worn boots instead of the six-inch stilettos she’d selected for the job. She checked the time on her phone. 10.27. Must be a slow night. Still…she hiked her PVC miniskirt further up her backside. If productive, that night’s assignment – surveillance of a husband suspected of consorting with prostitutes – would net the agency sufficient to settle a couple more bills.
Wilma leaned back against the wall of a warehouse. She’d had a day of it, what with her shift at the hospital, a whizz round the house with the vacuum, preparing the dinner before Ian got in. Bugger all time to draw breath, far less apply all this slap. Then there was the long list of credit checks Maggie had pressed on her. No hurry, she’d insisted. But Wilma knew from long experience that if you didn’t put your back into something… She had a vision of Darren, her ex-husband. Useless fucker, she muttered under her breath.
She raised a hand to her head. Rain or no rain, the heavily backcombed beehive, stiff with lacquer, was still in place. It was raining steadily now. Fat raindrops plopped onto Wilma’s forehead, slid down her rouged cheeks, formed a drip at the tip of her nose. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. Wilma let out a long sigh. She was fit to drop. Her eyelids drooped. She’d give it another hour.
‘Fuck off,’ a voiced hissed in her ear.
Wilma’s eyes shot open. So much for surveillance! ‘Fuck off yersel,’ she eyed the figure standing in front of her. In the rain-shrouded glow of a single street lamp she could make out an emaciated young woman. Seemingly impervious to the weather, she was clad in a skimpy vest top and sawn-off denim shorts.
‘Ye’re on ma pitch.’ A flash of bad teeth.
Wilma squared up. ‘Then how come ye’re no on it yersel.’
‘Ah’ve been…’ The girl – who couldn’t have been more than twenty but looked fifty – stuck one finger in her mouth and made vigorous sucking noises. ‘Otherwise engaged. Now,’ she leered, ‘wull ye fuck off?’
‘Sure thing,’ Wilma tugged at the hem of her skirt. ‘If ye’ll give me twa meenits o yer valuable time.’
‘Aye?’ Suspicious look.
‘Ye widna hae come across a guy doon here name o’ John Cowie?’
‘Ur ke kiddin me?’ She struck a pose. ‘My name’s John Cowie. How do you do? Punters dinna bother wi foreplay. Aside from which, they’re all fuckin johns.’
‘Fair dos.’ Wilma could have swallowed her tongue whole. ‘But this guy’s a big bastard. Red hair. Drives a Beemer.’
‘Half the buggers drive Beemers.’
‘This one has an unusual ornament on the dash: a naked geisha that nods her head when the car’s in motion.
The girl frowned. ‘Might have.’
‘And just say you did,’ Wilma pressed her advantage, ‘would you be able to pin down a date or a time?’
‘Wha’s askin?’ The girl stepped back two paces. ‘Ye’re no the filth, are ye?’
‘No,’ Wilma rushed to reassure her. ‘Nothing like that.’ She palmed a £20 note. ‘Would this jog your memory?’
The girl opened her fist. Held the note up to the light. ‘Naw.’
Seeing her profit margin squeezed by the minute, Wilma proffered another note.
An arm shot out. A hand stuffed the notes down the front of a push-up bra. ‘Fella comes doon most Thursdays.’
‘What time?’
‘Nineish, I’d say. But…’
‘Bit o’ bother, Savannah?’ A male voice rang out from the end of the alleyway.
‘Naw. Ah’m done here.’ Sharpish, Savannah turned away.
Wilma grabbed hold of her arm. ‘You were about to say?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Naethin.’
‘Just one more thing. Would you be willing to put yer name to what you’ve just told me?’
Suspicious look. ‘How, like?’
‘Witness statement.’
‘Thocht ye said ye were no the filth.’
‘Ah’m no.’ Hastily, Wilma crossed herself. ‘Cross ma heart an hope tae die.’
‘Then what are ye up tae?’
‘Just makin a few enquiries. Discreet, like.’
‘Aye…that’ll be right.’
‘So will ye?’ Through the thickening rain, Wilma projected a full-on smile. ‘Put yer name tae it?’
Savannah offered a lopsided grin. ‘Nae fuckin chance.’
The Beach Boulevard
Fatboy lay sprawled on the bed, his mind buzzing with what he’d just seen on the computer screen: images more graphic than anything he’d managed to source thus far. Every nerve end in his body tingled. He wished to Christ he could light up a fag, smoke some weed, swallow a couple of moggies, anything to help him relax. But the walls were paper thin and the smoke alarms would go mental. Fatboy had already got grief from upstairs for setting them off. He could get up, but he couldn’t be arsed going outside. He diverted himse
lf by totting up the spliffs he’d smoked. And after that the tablets he’d popped, the amyl nitrate and the wraps and… Fuck. He’d have to do something about those smoke alarms.
Fatboy propped himself up on his elbows. He looked around. The room was a tip: empty beer bottles, crushed Coke cans, socks and boxers and T-shirts strewn all over the floor. The air was thick, stale with the smell of sweat and spunk and unwashed bedclothes. Fuckin midden! Still, Fatboy smirked, it was his midden. He lay back again. It had been a good move, getting his folks to set him up in a place of his own. Fatboy was well fuckin out of it. He hardly knew his old man, these days. As for his mother, she was a slag. It hadn’t always been so. He closed his eyes. Let his mind drift back to his childhood, that happy time when he could still command his mother’s attention. He slipped a hand down the front of his trackie bottoms. For a few moments he fondled himself, then he began to rub.
Fatboy felt his dick stiffen and start to rise. With his free hand, he eased the elastic waistband of his tracksuit bottoms over his buttocks and down to his knees. He wriggled out of his underpants, freeing his erection. Cupping his balls in his left palm, he clasped the fingers of his right hand around his penis, easing the foreskin up and over. Up. And over. Pinching the tip with every stroke. As the tension began to seep from his limbs, he let out a long exhalation of breath.
The doorbell shattered the silence.
‘Fuck.’ Fatboy stopped mid-stroke. He pricked his ears. There wasn’t a sound from the landing. He re-commenced his rhythmic stroke.
There was another ring at the door.
‘Christ,’ he exclaimed. He stopped again. Who in hell could it be? Wouldn’t be his folks. Fatboy didn’t encourage social calls at his flat on the Beach Boulevard, and he’d fucked it up big time that last occasion he went home. Wouldn’t be a delivery. He snorted. He’d plenty supplies to see him through. He fondled himself for a few moments, but he’d lost momentum.
‘Fatboy?’ Thin voice. ‘You there?’
‘Shite,’ Fatboy spat.
‘Fatboy?’ The voice again, louder this time.
‘Fuck,’ Fatboy muttered under his breath. Sounded like that wee kid from Seaton. He raised his head off the pillow. Felt for his manhood. It was completely flaccid.
Fatboy tugged up his pants. Rolled off the bed. Crossed the hallway. He squinted through the peephole. Lewis stood on the doorstep. Shit and fuck, he cursed inwardly. Served him right for playing the big man. It had been too tempting: Willie Meston serving him up a daftie on a plate. Who knows what sport the lumpen loon might afford? But the minute he’d extended the invitation, Fatboy regretted opening his big mouth. He’d got a frightener on the Castlegate that last time. Knew he’d need to duck out of sight. And it had been working out so well. Kym’s flat might be a dump, but Fatboy wouldn’t be fingered there. So what in fuck had possessed him to hand out his address? No, having some random kid come knocking at his door definitely hadn’t been one of his better ideas. Christ, folk might even think he was a bum bandit. And besides, even if no harm came of it, when he’d said swing by sometime he hadn’t meant the next fucking week.
Still, it’s not as if he had anything on. And now the kid was here…
Fatboy unlocked the door. He grinned. ‘It’s yourself, wee man. Come away in.’
Fatboy sat in front of his computer, Lewis perched on a stool by his side. For a solid hour, he’d been clicking in and out of porn sites: men on women, women on women, twosomes, threesomes, orgies.
‘What d’you think, then?’ He turned to Lewis, a satisfied smile on his face.
The boy shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘What’s up?’
Eyes averted. ‘Naethin.’
‘You can tell me. It’s OK.’
Lewis fidgeted on his stool. ‘They’re a’ the same, they things.’
Fatboy frowned. ‘You’re right enough, kid. Come to think on it, I’m sick of it an all. Same cocks. Same minges,’ he rolled his eyes. ‘Same moves, same fuckin set pieces. Let’s see if I can find you something more interesting.’ He typed a couple of words into Google. ‘Oh, here’s a good one,’ he opened another link. On the screen, a huge African-American guy was humping a skinny blonde, doggy-style. As the man banged away at the bird, she moaned and sighed, silicone tits bobbing, curls jiggling like crazy around her head. Every few thrusts, the guy would pull his cock all the way out of her. He’d wave it around a bit, so the video camera could zoom in.
Fatboy felt his organ stiffen. ‘Bet you’ve never seen such a ginormous dong?’
Lewis shrugged once more.
The black man changed position. He was lying on his back now, the woman straddling him, his giant pecker sticking up between her thighs. The blonde tossed her head. She shuffled backwards towards the video camera. Bent down. Wiggled her bum in the air so you could see the cleft between her cheeks. She straightened up, then, took hold of the dong, clasping her scarlet fingernails tight around it. Turned to look into the lens, then licked her lips. Like she was gagging for it.
The blonde bent again to take the thing in her…
Fatboy’s cock started to rise. He threw Lewis a lascivious look. ‘What are you saying to it?’ he leered.
The lad stifled a yawn.
‘That’s nothing,’ Fatboy clicked his mouse.
The two watched as a dozy-looking Labrador was licked into a frenzy by a fat brunette.
Fatboy turned to Lewis. ‘That more to your taste, eh, kid?’
Lewis sat, blank-faced. ‘Naw.’
Fatboy was hard now. He could feel his pants bunching uncomfortably. ‘Fancy something to eat?’
‘Such as?’
‘Coke? Crisps?’
Lewis swung his legs. ‘OK.’
Fatboy stood up. Rushed his erection out of the room.
‘There you go,’ he slapped two cans of Coke and a big bag of salt and vinegar crisps onto the desktop.
Lewis fell upon the crisps. ‘Ta.’
For a few moments the two sat, glugging from the chilled cans, snatching handfuls of crisps from the open packet.
Fatboy winked. ‘Fancy watching some more?’
Lewis drained the last of his Coke. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Naw.’
Fatboy scrunched the cans and chucked them into a corner. The empty crisp packet followed. ‘Didn’t Willie mention Goth movies were more your scene?’
The boy brightened. ‘Aye.’
‘What?’ Fatboy racked his brains. ‘That Twilight stuff?’ He’d heard that was what young teens were into these days.
‘Naw,’ Lewis scoffed. ‘Twilight’s fur quines.’
‘Something a bit meatier, then?’
Lewis sat forward.
‘Tell you what,’ Fatboy bent to the boy’s ear, ‘let’s see if I can find you something horny that’s got blood-sucking as well.’ He keyed in some search terms. ‘Wait till you see this…’ He opened a link.
The wee lad’s eyes swivelled back to the screen. ‘Holy moly,’ Lewis breathed.
‘That better?’ Fatboy turned.
The boy nodded assent.
‘You up for more?’
Vigorously, Lewis dipped his chin.
Fatboy typed another couple of words into Google. Scrolled down the page that popped up. Opened a link at random.
Lewis’s eyes were out on stalks now, his mouth hanging open. A snail-trail of drool made slow progress down his chin.
‘You OK?’ Fatboy turned to him.
The boy sat, rigid, eyes locked on the flickering screen.
Suddenly, ‘Ch-rist,’ Lewis screamed at the top of his voice.
‘Shhhh,’ Fatboy pressed a finger to the boy’s lips.
‘Jes-us,’ Lewis screeched again.
‘Lewis,’ Fatboy hissed. ‘Shut it.’
Lewis started to so
b, then: huge, wrenching sobs that shook his small frame. Fatboy could hear heavy footsteps cross the floor above his head. Shite! All he needed now was his fucking neighbour.
‘Be quiet,’ he put a restraining hand on the small boy’s arm.
Lewis was hysterical now, his body shuddering, his voice shrill.
Above his head, Fatboy could hear a door open, slam shut again. Christ, what the hell was he going to do?
He squeezed the boy’s arm. ‘Did you hear me?’ he threatened.
Lewis squirmed, but carried on sobbing.
Fatboy’s grip tightened.
No reaction.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ he clamped a large hand over Lewis’s nose and mouth.
Baby Steps
‘Good Lord,’ Maggie looked up from the witness statements she was working through as Wilma staggered through the back door. ‘What on earth have you been up to?’
‘Chrissake, let me get shot of these heels first.’ She kicked off her shoes, sank onto a chair. ‘My feet are bloody killing me.’
‘Where have you been?’
Sheepish look. ‘Down the harbour.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Checking out that John Cowie. Like you asked me to.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Wilma, when I asked you to check out Cowie I didn’t mean you to take me literally. Nor,’ her lips formed a thin line, ‘dress up like a…a…’
‘Hoor?’ Wilma shot back.
‘You said it. In addition to which, we’ve only just got started. We’re not equipped yet to be conducting clandestine operations.’
Guilty thought. Maggie hadn’t yet told Wilma about her surveillance on the boys.
‘Let’s confine ourselves to the routine stuff for now. Take it in baby steps,’ Brian’s admonishments came back to her. ‘If we don’t do this right, we could get in serious trouble.’
‘Right?’ Wilma scoffed. ‘Do ye no think we’re in the wrong business for that?’
God only knows. ‘I’m not arguing with you. All I’m saying is that we have to walk before we can run.’
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