by Les Wood
When Boddice took an interest in the place however, offered to plough in some cash in return for a stake in the business, the twins placed too much value on the integrity of their gonads to knock him back. The tattoo parlour was the ideal cover for Boddice to launder his drug money. No need for stocktaking, since, apart from the batches of ink, latex gloves and the like, they didn’t really have stock, and any number of clients could be invented to cover the money that was going through the books. Of course, anyone taking a closer look might be surprised to find such a sudden, unexplained burst of public interest in having a tattoo done. But tattoos were more popular than ever now, the numbers wouldn’t seem that unreasonable. The twins had been happy to accept kickbacks from Boddice for allowing him to use the business, and had even suggested alternative ways of using the parlour as a front. Before long, they had earned his trust and Boddice had started to include them in other little ‘jobs’. It became far more lucrative than inking the pale skin of the great Glasgow public.
Without realising it, they had become part of Boddice’s team.
John swabbed the remaining drops of blood from the final D, and stepped back to look at his work. The letters stood slightly raised from the reddened, inflamed skin like little black worms. The guy hadn’t stirred or flinched once during the whole procedure. Got to give him credit for that, thought John. It looked good, even if John still wasn’t sure about that message.
He took the headphones from the guy’s head. ‘Alright pal. Finished.’
The guy swung his legs out over the plinth and stood up.
‘There’s a mirror over there in the corner, if ye want a look,’ said John. ‘But mind, the letters’ll be back to front.’
The guy shuffled to the corner and inspected the tattoo. He stood blinking for a moment and then frowned. He turned his head sideways and bit his bottom lip. He stepped back from the mirror and looked down at his groin.
‘What the fuckin fuck is this!’ he shouted.
‘It’s what…’ John began.
‘What the hell have ye done to me, ya bastard?’ the guy yelled, still staring uncomprehendingly at the tattoo.
Campbell came through from the back room to investigate the commotion. ‘Alright pal, is there a problem?’ he said.
‘A problem?’ said the guy. ‘A problem? Ah’ll say there’s a fuckin problem.’ He was on the verge of screaming now. ‘Ah come in here for a straightforward tattoo and Ah end up with fuckin monkey-boy here who’s went an done this to me.’ He pointed to the tattoo.
Campbell stared wide-eyed at the guy’s flaccid penis lying like a newborn hamster against his scrotum, and the two words arcing above it. He looked at John.
‘John,’ he gasped. ‘Did you…’
‘What the fuck’s the problem?’ said John. ‘The guy got what he asked for.’
‘Got what Ah asked for?’ the guy roared. ‘Ah wanted two simple words, an all Ah get is fuckin Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-fuckin’-Dummer makin a right cunt of it.’
‘That’s what ye fuckin asked for,’ John shouted back. ‘Ah told ye it wasn’t a good idea, but, no, ye wouldn’t listen would ye?’
‘It’s you that didn’t listen ya prick,’ the guy yelled. ‘Ah asked for Sex Stud, an you’ve—’
‘That’s what ye’ve got, ya bampot, what’s wrong with ye?’ said John.
‘No, no, John you’ve got it wrong,’ said Campbell. ‘You’ve wrote—’
‘Sex Dud, that’s what he wanted!’ cried John. ‘It’s no my fault that he’s a fuckin nutter that wants to announce his sexual inadequacies to anybody that wants to look at his prick!’
‘Stud, John, Stud,’ said Campbell. ‘The second word is Stud.’
The room went quiet. A slow realisation dawned on John. His jaw dropped. ‘Oh fuck.’ He put his hands to his head. ‘Oh fuck. Pal, Ah’m sorry. Really, Ah am. Ah thought ye said—’
‘Aye, well we all know now what ye fuckin thought Ah said,’ the guy yelled. ‘But it’s me that’s standing here with the world’s worst fuckin possible tattoo scrawled across the top of my cock. Christ Almighty, Ah’m going out clubbin the night… hopin to get my hole or sumhin. Maybe even a blow job…’ The guy stopped. His shoulders slumped. ‘Aw no. No. For fuck’s sake… a blow job. Some lassie kneelin down in front of me, undoes my zipper, all sexy like, pulls down my kegs, an what’s she gonnae see starin her in the face? My proud manhood standing tall? Will she fuck! Sex Dud. Oh man, Ah’m fucked… Or rather, Ah’m not.’
The guy sank back onto the plinth and started to sob. Campbell went over and put his arm around him. ‘C’mon pal, it’s not that bad. Maybe we can salvage it. What do ye say?’
The guy shrugged him away. ‘Fuck off! How are ye supposed to salvage a disaster like this?’
‘Aye,’ John said. ‘How are we gonnae…?’
‘Shut up,’ said Campbell. ‘Let me think.’
‘Ye could grow yer pubes back,’ said John, brightening.
‘That’s no gonnae bloody well work! Ye’ll still see it,’ said the guy. ‘An, anyway, Ah’ll know it’s there won’t Ah?’ He leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair, and swept his hand across one of the shelves at the back of the cubicle, scattering photographs and bottles of different coloured ink across the floor. The bottles smashed, leaving multicoloured ribbons snaking across the floor. ‘Every time… every time Ah get myself worked up with some lassie it’s gonnae spring into my head isn’t it? What’s written above my bloody love truncheon. An ye know what’s gonnae happen then don’t ye?’ He kicked over the waste bin. ‘Auld John Thomas there is gonnae go into free fall isn’t he?’
‘Ah know! Maybe we could add a letter,’ said John.
‘Add a letter? What the fuck are ye talkin about?’ said the guy. ‘Ah’m no lettin you fuckin near me with that needle gun, or whatever ye call it!’
‘We could add an E,’ John went on. ‘Add it to the end of Dud.’
‘Aye,’ said Campbell, straightening a bit and nodding. ‘That’s good thinking. That might work.’
‘Dude?’ said the guy. ‘Sex Dude? Who the fuck in Glasgow calls themselves Dude?’ He laughed at the twins. ‘Do Ah look like some kinda arsey yank?’ He snorted. ‘No fuckin way.’
‘Wait,’ said Campbell. ‘Think about it. We could add a Y as well.Ye know, make it…’ he spread his hands theatrically, ‘... Sexy Dude.’ He grinned. ‘What about that?’
‘Sexy Dude,’ said John. ‘That’s even better, is it no?’ He nodded at the guy enthusiastically.
The guy stared at them. He started to say something, but stopped. He covered his face with his hands and sighed. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said, his words muffled. ‘That..., that might..., that might actually be okay.’ He took his hands down from his face, his gaze darting from one twin to the other. ‘Sexy Dude… Aye, Ah can kinda see that.’ He gave a short laugh of relief. ‘Aye… Sexy Dude, that could be me...’
‘That’s even better than Sex Stud if ye ask me,’ said John smiling and turning to his brother. ‘What do ye think Campbell? Does this guy no look like one sexy dude to you?’
‘Not half,’ said Campbell, winking at John. ‘One sexxxxy duuude, man!’
‘Lassies would love that, wouldn’t they Campbell?’ said John.
‘Lassies would love it? Hell, Ah love it. Might even get ye to do one for me John!’ He put on a deep Barry White voice. ‘Sexy Dude, that’s me baby.’
‘Maybe do one to myself as well!’ added John, laughing.
‘Do youse think so?’ said the guy.
‘Oh aye,’ said John.
‘Might even start a fashion,’ said Campbell. He noticed John squinting at him questioningly. ‘Ye know,’ he added, nodding at John. ‘Once lassies get to spreading the word and that.’
‘You’re right!’ said John. ‘Christ, we’ll get inundated!’
The guy smiled crookedly and looked at each of them. He took a big breath. ‘Alright, you’re on! Let’s do it!’ He settled himself back onto the pl
inth. ‘Christ, Ah thought Ah was a goner there. Good thinkin guys, good thinkin. Youse’ve redeemed yourselves.’
‘Eh, well… no yet,’ said Campbell.
‘What do ye mean?’ said John and the guy simultaneously.
Campbell tapped his watch. ‘It’s twenty to four. We’ve got to be a place by four o’clock. Both of us.’
John grimaced. ‘Shite, so we have.’ He turned to the guy. ‘We’ll no have enough time to get it finished the night.’
‘No the night?’ the guy asked in a small voice. ‘What about ma…’
‘No, no, don’t worry,’ said John. ‘Come back tomorrow an we’ll get it sorted. First thing in the mornin. Promise.’
‘Aye, but—,’ the guy started to protest.
‘Honest, pal,’ said Campbell, handing the guy his jacket and motioning for him to do up his trousers. ‘We need to leave. Right now.’
‘Think we’ll be late Campbell?’ asked John.
‘Ah fuckin hope not.’ Campbell replied, showing the guy to the door.
The guy turned back. ‘C’mon guys,’ he pleaded. ‘Ye can’t leave me like this! Can ye not finish it the now?’
‘Listen pal,’ said Campbell. ‘This is a kinda life and death matter. An Ah’m not exaggerating.’ He pushed the guy out the door. ‘Come back tomorrow and we’ll fix it for ye. In fact, there’ll be no charge.’
‘You’re bloody right there’ll be no charge,’ shouted the guy as he stumbled out into a sleety squall.
John went round the shop, quickly shutting off the appliances and the lights, while Campbell gathered their coats. The mess on the floor could wait till later.
‘Ye do know we’re not open tomorrow,’ said John.
‘Of course Ah fuckin do,’ replied Campbell.
***
They made it to the Palace with five minutes to spare.
As they climbed the back stairs Campbell turned to John. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘This is your last chance. Here’s another one for ye. Even better.’
‘What?’ said John.
‘Can ye think of a sentence that uses the same word eleven times in a row and that still makes sense?’
John stopped and thought for a moment.
‘Naw,’ he said. ‘But Ah’m sure you’re gonnae fuckin tell me.’
Leggett: The Folsom Prison Blues
It looks like snow, Leggett thought, and giggled. He pushed the white granules around on the plate with the flat edge of a rusted cheese slicer. Snow, just like the weather outside. The similarity comforted him, and he hummed a little tune to himself. All tied together; connectedness. The photograph, the mouse, his uncle Jimmy. All connected. And now the snow and the powder.
He drizzled a little more of the crushed paracetamol tablets onto the plate and mixed the grains with the slicer. Mixed them good and proper, made sure they formed a consistent blend. He’d tried coffee whitener before, but that didn’t work so well, it gave a more lumpy appearance and, besides, a faint perfume lingered afterwards. The paracetamol was a better idea. Less chance of detection.
He fought back the urge to giggle again. He was alone in the bedroom, and giggling to yourself was what loonies did wasn’t it? He was no fucking loony, no way man. Whoo, no. But this was funny, mixing the two powders. Boddice’s gear lay at the side of the table, a freezer bag holding at least a couple of gees worth of finest white. Leggett had spooned half of it onto the plate and he’d gradually added the paracetamol powder, estimating by eye when the amount was back to its original size. When he was finished he would do the same with the other half in the bag. He had a vague suspicion that he should maybe be using scales or something, get a better degree of accuracy, but fuck it, this was good enough. Good enough for junkie wasters. He did giggle then, a little one, which he stifled quickly.
It was funny though. Without knowing, Boddice was helping Leggett build his own little empire. Every bag of stuff Boddice supplied for selling on, Leggett was cutting, getting twice the amount. He would sell one half as Boddice’s stuff just as usual, but he had used the other half to build his own network of customers among the local schemies, off the books as it were, and he was raking it in. Nineteen years old and he had a couple of grand under the bed. Weehoo! The beauty of it was that Boddice didn’t know, didn’t need to know. Boddice trusted him.
It was funny.
On the wall above the table Leggett had pinned a photograph cut from a newspaper. According to the writing underneath the photograph, the image had been taken by a man called Eddie Adams, and it showed a South Vietnamese police chief standing in the middle of a Saigon street, holding a gun against the head of another man wearing a crummy lumberjack shirt. The police chief’s name was Lieutenant Colonel Nguyen Ngoc Loan. Leggett didn’t have a clue how to pronounce it, but he liked the look of the words. It was a gallus kind of name. The picture was grainy on the flaking yellow paper. Leggett knew it had been taken right at the very instant the police chief had pulled the trigger, right at the instant of the guy in the check shirt’s death.
Right at the instant.
The picture showed the muscles in the police chief’s forearm tensed and contracted, the tendons in his wrist and hand bulging, and the finger on the trigger pulled all the way back. It was right at the instant; no doubt.
The guy in the lumberjack shirt had his hands tied behind his back, and he looked as if he might be crying. His face was screwed up and distorted, his bottom lip petted. One of his eyes was closed against the force of the shot. But his other eye, the left one, looked as if it might be open slightly. Leggett could never be sure. He had studied the picture endlessly, scrutinising every detail of the man’s face, and had always come back to the left eye. Was it open? What was he seeing? What was the last image that burned into the man’s mind as his life came to an end as suddenly as switching off a light? You’d want it to be something good, fuck aye, something beautiful – a sunset, or a gorgeous woman, or a flower or something. But not this guy, no siree, he was seeing some shitty street in a rundown town, with clapped out cars and guys on bicycles passing down the road. Maybe a dog taking a dump in the middle of the street, or a crowd of yabbering men in cheap shirts, slick with sweat, pushing and shoving to get a good view of his last moment in the universe.
Nice.
It was the instant – that beat of time between existence and oblivion – which fascinated Leggett. One second you’re alive; the next, nothing. Would the guy even have time to register he had ceased to exist? Leggett puzzled over that one a lot. If you ceased to exist, could you know anything? Of course you fucking well couldn’t. But, then again, there might just be a fleeting microsecond, right at the point where the world closes down around you, when you realise: I’m gone.
He was breathing heavily. A thin string of saliva had inched its way down his chin and he slurped it back. He could feel his prick pushing and pulsing against his jeans. It happened just about every time he studied the picture, and, more times than he liked to admit, he’d locked the bedroom door, taken the picture down from the wall, and wanked over it; all the while scrutinising the look on the guy’s face.
Not this time though – he had work to finish. Money to make.
He went back to mixing the powders, working them around the plate, dreaming of when he would be able to set out on his own. When he would be Mister Leggett and have his own team around him – guys who would do his bidding and be at his beck and call. ‘Mister Leggett,’ he said out loud. ‘Mister, aye that’s class, man.’ But, first, he would have to get their respect, these guys, whoever they were going to be.
Not arseholes like Kyle or Prentice, that was for sure. They looked down their noses at him, sneered at everything he did. As far as they were concerned he could do nothing right. To the likes of them, Leggett was a snivelling wee snot of a wean. But they were wrong. He was nineteen; he knew things; how to scam off Boddice for a start. They could put that in their fucking pipe.
The pricks.
What was it Kyle
had said the other day?
Leggett had been in the car, waiting for Kyle to come out of a house after collecting payments from some druggie or other. Leggett had been bored and started playing a game on his mobile phone. He didn’t see the police car draw up and park behind him. Not a problem – the rozzers had gone into a close across the way – but when Kyle came out, he went apeshit, jumping into the car and booting it to the floor down the road.
When they were out of sight at the end of the next street, Kyle stopped the car and grabbed Leggett by the collar, dragging him across the front seat. ‘Ya stupid wee shite,’ he shouted. ‘Ye coulda got us both lifted. Too busy pissing about with yer stupid toys. You know the drill. Somethin like this happens, you get to fuck as quick as ye can, and phone me to let me know, give me a chance to get out the back way. But no, not you. You’re spendin yer time fannyin about with this.’ He had grabbed the mobile from Leggett’s hand and threw it on the back seat. ‘Ya wee retard,’ he said. ‘Your mother should’ve put you down as soon as you popped out her smelly fanny.’
Leggett had thought about that remark. Oh, aye. Thought about it a lot. Kyle was going to pay for that one. Weehoo, was he going to pay. Once Leggett had his own team, he would make sure Kyle showed some respect. Oh, yes. It wouldn’t be long now.
He knew what was required of course. It was all connected. The picture, the mouse and Uncle Jimmy. That guy in the picture, that Nguyen Ngoc Loan, he knew the game as well. He was just standing there, not a shred of emotion as he pumped his gun into the other guy’s head. Cool as fuck. Weehoo! That was how to do it.
And Leggett knew he could do it too. He’d practiced. Oh, aye. Ever since the time with the mouse. He stopped mixing the powders again and settled back in his chair, closed his eyes and allowed himself to think about it.
***
The washing machine had been on the blink, and his mother was clattering about in the kitchen doing the week’s wash in the sink. There was a pile of dirty laundry on the floor and she’d gather up an armful and slunge it around the grey water for a couple of minutes, wring it out, then take it down to the back green and come back to start on the next lot. Leggett sat in the corner, smoking a roll-up and flicking through a copy of FHM. He just looked at the pictures, couldn’t be arsed to read any of the articles. He glanced up at his mother as she bent to lift another load to the sink. Her arse was getting fatter. It looked like she had a fucking king-size duvet stuffed down there. No wonder the old man had buggered off.
