by Jack Dickson
BANGED UP
by Jack Dickson
The Jas Anderson Trilogy
Book 2
ReQueered Tales • Los Angeles
2019
Banged Up
by Jack Dickson
Copyright © 1999 by Jack Dickson.
Foreword to 2019 edition: copyright © 2019 by .
Cover design: Dawné Dominique, DusktilDawn Designs.
First UK edition: 1999
This ebook edition: ReQueered Tales, September 2019
ReQueered Tales ebook version 1.50
Kindle edition ASIN: B07X9CLC86
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Also by JACK DICKSON
The JAS ANDERSON Trilogy
FreeForm (1998)
Banged Up (1999)
Some Kind of Love (2002)
OTHER FICTION
Oddfellows (1997)
Crossing Jordan (1999)
Still Waters (2001)
Out of This World (2002)
The Masters File (2002)
JACK DICKSON
Jack Dickson – former bass player with Gomorrah and the Sodomites, fashionisto and classically trained pianist (Grade VIII, distinction!) - works and lives in the east end of Glasgow with his partner and his Jack Russell, Dixie. A novelist, screenwriter and currently playwright, Jack continues to obsess over the damaged, charismatic mavericks who fill his novels. Shamelessly mining the world around him and beyond, he writes about junkies and babies, old ladies and ash trees, soldiers and Afghani dancing boys: ordinary people just trying to plough a furrow for themselves through difficult landscapes. When he’s not doing this, Jack himself enjoys a charmed life teaching T’ai Chi, baking his own bread and wandering the Easterhouse marshlands looking (these days!) for buzzards and water voles. He’s the world’s most productive layabout, who was always urged to get a proper job. And still hasn't.
Jack is super chuffed that ReQueered Tales are republishing the “Jas Anderson Investigates” series.
Praise for Jack Dickson
“Intricate plots which combine elements of the hard-boiled and the intensely erotic”
—Gay Times
“A reflection of the darker side of our desires”
—Gay Scotland
“More than any other sleuth, Jas Anderson demonstrates the complex circuitry that connects brain, heart, and penis and exemplifies how the power of the last can sometimes short-circuit the other two … In the course of his discovery, they become a projection of the darkness that Jas feels residing within himself, a darkness that he must confront before he can become a complete human capable of connecting fully with others. Jas’s struggle to accept love and its obligations provides the heart of the trilogy.”
—Drewey Wayne Gunn,
Gay Male Sleuth in Print and Film
“Jack Dickson's debut novel, Oddfellows, is well crafted with characters that are extremely dangerous to know … address all the most dangerous and degrading of all abuses — power!”
—Gay Times
“One of the most promising talents in the recent crop of gay fiction authors”
—Gary Bowen,
author of Diary of a Vampire
BANGED UP
by Jack Dickson
For SACRO.
For Stephen Donaldson, whose invaluable work on the US prison system has yet to be echoed in the UK.
For Ray and Jackie, who have lived with ex-DS Jas Anderson for two novels and will hopefully stick by him for many more.
And for everyone who ever found love in the unlikeliest of places.
One
“TEAR THE WHOLE ROTTEN PLACE DOON, Mr Anderson, that’s whit ah’d dae.”
Smooth buzzing behind one ear. Jas stared into the mirror.
Terry’s clippers continued their progress. So did the chat. “Built tae hold nine hundred. There’s ower two thousand in there, these days. Two thousand animals in cells wi’ nae plumbin’.”
Jas continued to stare into the mirror. He watched as the clippers, clutched in Terry’s wrinkled hand, followed the contours of his skull. He closed his eyes.
Terry talked on. “Ken how much ma Billy works fur? Fifteen thousand – oh, ah ken it sounds a lot, but that’s wi’ the shift-allowance. Turns yer life upside doon, does that. But ah don’t huv tae tell you whit like shifts kin be, eh Mr Anderson?”
Jas opened his eyes.
“Under-valued, under-paid ... an’ under the thumb o’ they pen-pushers at the Scottish Office: that’s whit prison officers ur.” Terry switched off the clippers and produced a comb. “That Inspector o’ Prisons’ guy’s no’ livin’ in the real world.” His eyes never left the work in hand. “Ye couldney pay me enough tae work in the Bar-L, an’ they don’t pay ma Billy enough, by hauf. It’s a dirty joab ...”
A strand of blond hair fell from the comb onto an eyelash. Jas blinked it away – “... but somewan’s got tae dae it.”
Terry met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. “Billy’s ma ainly boay – ah worry aboot him.”
Jas grinned. “Yer gettin’ like an auld wuman, Terry. Billy’s a big lad noo.” Billy MacKinley was nearly forty. “He ken’s whit he’s daein’. They aw’ dae. The strike’ll no’ last.”
Terry lifted scissors. “Ah’m no’ so sure. That security company the Scottish Office huv brought in seems tae be dain’ a guid job, fae aw’ accounts.”
Silence, then snipping.
“Ah wanted Billy tae come in wi’ me, Mr Anderson, make the wee shop intae a family business – ken whit ah mean?” Fingers and scissors moved expertly over the top of Jas’s head.
“Ye’ve bin here – how long noo, Terry?”
In the mirror grey hands continued their work. “Near on forty years.” Pride in the ancient voice. “Came straight oota the National Service an’ started up. The army taught me a trade. Mr Anderson. They did me a big favour. Now, if Billy hid even wanted tae join wan o’ the Forces ...”
Jas switched off. He stared into the mirror, past Terry’s busy babbling form, past his own pale face, past the inverted barber’s shop. Past twelve years with Strathclyde Police.
Billy McKinley: a screw – a prison officer.
A year ago he’d considered applying. A move from putting them inside to keeping them there. Then reconsidered. He’d fail the medical, anyway.
Under the blue nylon fabric tucked tightly around his neck Jas clenched his right fist.
Nails brushed palm.
Two years ago, the consultant at the Royal Infirmary had told him he’d never use the hand again. He’d proved him wrong. Or partly wrong, at least. The middle and ring fingers still tingled occasionally and sometimes his grip let him down. But it was far from useless.
After he’d considered then reconsidered the Prison Service?
Six months as a nightwatchman, patrolling the grounds of the derelict cigarette factory with a bad-tempered Alsatian dog. Not a marriage made in heaven. And the work was mind-numbing.
After that? Store detective: three months. Bouncer: three days. Jas had drawn the line at Sheriff’s Officer, but the job had been there, had he wanted it.
He hadn’t.
Jas scowled. Ex-cops could always find work. But the type of work offered was limited – and limiting. Policing in the private sector. Good references, good body and a hard face: that was all they wanted.
“Ye want gel, Mr Anderson?”
He refoc
used in the mirror. Terry gestured with a small jar of garish blue gunk. Jas shook his head.
“Short enough fur ye this time?” Laugh. Terry angled a hand mirror behind Jas’s neck.
Jas scrutinised the back of his skull. White scalp gleamed through fair bristles. He turned his attention to the rest of his hair. The shorter Terry cut it, the less often Jas had to return – and Terry knew it. Still a bit long on top. Jas smiled. “Aye, Terry, it’s great.”
The barber untied the blue nylon coverall, removed then shook it over the floor. Showers of fair hair joined a sea of grey and black.
Jas stood up, ran a hand over his head. Stray strands itched under shirt collar. “How much dae ah owe ye?”
The next customer, a white-haired man in a shiny suit, was already in the chair. Terry tied the blue nylon coverall around the wizen neck. “Two fifty, Mr Anderson.”
Jas fumbled in his pocket. “Still fifties prices, Terry, eh?” He handed the barber two pound coins and a fifty-pence piece.
Terry grinned. “Well, ye goat a fifties haircut, Mr Anderson. Come back an’ see me soon. Ah enjoy oor wee chats.” Turning. “Noo, George, how’ve ye bin keepin’? Ma Billy’s oan the picket line the morra, did ah tell ye?”
Jas shrugged on a Levi jacket and moved towards the door. Terry’s voice followed him out of the barber’s and onto Cumbernauld Road. He looked at his watch. It was just after three-fifteen p.m.
‘Handy for all local amenities.’
Estate-agent-speak for busy and noisy. He walked the few yards to the M8 feeder road and paused. The man was red. Jas lowered his eyes.
A stream of articulated lorries and cars careered left inches from his feet. Two orange buses carried straight on, up Cumbernauld Road. One stopped ahead. Three women and a dog got off. Jas lifted his eyes.
The man was green.
He stepped off the pavement in front of a revving, impatient car, crossed the feeder road and the railway bridge. From the other side of the road two loud booms were just audible over traffic. The Lanarkshire Blast Cleaning Company was hidden behind a twelvefoot wall. What they cleaned, he had no idea: all he could see from his bedroom window were long, asbestos-roofed sheds. How they cleaned it was audibly obvious. Jas shoved hands deep into pockets and walked on.
He passed the office of the estate agent from whom he had rented the flat. It came with her personal recommendation:
‘Friendly area – good close. You’ll have no trouble with the neighbours.’
They’d have trouble making themselves heard over the traffic, trains and booms. But she’d been right. He’d been here nearly two years and had only seen, never mind talked to, his neighbours half-a-dozen times.
Changing times.
Cumbernauld Road: Eastercraigs four hundred yards away.
A lifetime away.
Jas quickened his pace. Three closes on was 247. He pushed open the wrought-iron gate, closed it, and jogged up four flights of stone stairs. Green tiles glinted. Outside the top right-hand flat he stopped, located keys, opened the far-from-solid door and walked in.
In the narrow hallway spiky pink artexing scratched his shoulder, the way it always did. He closed the door and walked the length of the hall, past the freezer and through to the bedroom: one of the flat’s plus points. Sunlight blanched gloss-white walls. Jas took off the Levi jacket, threw it on the bed and walked to the window.
Four floors up. East-facing view. He rested his knuckles on the sill’s fresh paintwork.
On a good day you could see the sun rise over Coatbridge.
On a bad day you could see Haghill.
Four floors below another bus stopped, disgorged passengers, then continued down Cumbernauld Road into town.
Jas turned from the window and sat down on the bed. The only piece of furniture he’d brought with him.
New mattress, of course.
He reached over and traced the faint handcuff scores on the bars of the brass headboard. Jas lay down, stretched out and closed his eyes.
The phone rang.
He let the machine pick up. His own voice growled through the open door from the lounge: “Anderson Investigations. I can’t come to the phone at the moment. Leave your name and number and I’ll call you back.”
Three short beeps, long beep, then deep, male voice: “Andrew Ainslie here. It’s ... er, Wednesday afternoon, half past three. Got the report this morning. Your cheque’s in the post. Good doing business with you. I’ll be in touch if there’s anything else. Bye.”
Jas smiled. Interviewing nervous prosecution witnesses for Macintosh and Ainslie, solicitors: money for old rope. He opened his eyes, sat up and rubbed his face. Not exactly Phillip Marlowe stuff, but it paid the rent. He scowled at the lie.
His invalidity settlement from Strathclyde Police would do that. Or the disability pension ...
... or the fifty-four thousand blackmail money, still in a bank book he had no idea what to do with.
He hadn’t started working again for the money. Jas got up and walked from the bedroom past the freezer into the other room.
One of the flat’s minus points. It looked out onto a permanently sunless, triangular back court. Jas sat down on the cheap, moulded sofa. The ansaphone read ‘3’. He pressed the replay button and waited.
One beep: rasping male voice, middle-aged. “Er ...” Embarrassed, uncertain. “A pal gave me yer number, said ye kid ... er, ah need some work done. It’s aboot ma ...” Noise in background. “Er ... ah’ll phone ye back, pal.” Severed connection.
His ... what? Wife? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Daughter? Son? Dog? The caller had bottled out. A lot of them did.
Another beep: woman’s voice, polite, polished. Professional. “IBS. Jean Thompson here, Mr Anderson. Wednesday morning, nine thirty a.m. We’ve completed the company search you required. Stop by the office any time today. Thank you.”
Another beep: Andrew Ainslie’s message.
Jas picked up a plastic folder from the floor and emptied its contents onto the sofa. Jean Thompson. Office in the Merchant City.
As the machine was rewinding the phone rang again.
Jas sorted through the pile of documentation until he found IBS’s address and phone-number.
After five rings the ansaphone picked up. Faint music in the background. Then his voice. Then a laugh: “Whit’s aw’ this ‘Anderson Investigations’ shite?” Another laugh.
He laid Jean Thompson’s card on the sofa and stared past it.
“Listen, man. Ah ken it’s bin a while. Mebbe ye’ll no’ want tae see me. But ah never goat tae explain proper ...”
Jas reached over and picked up the receiver. “Mhairi.”
Forced laugh. “Ah, ye’re there, Big Man.” Words in a rush. “Look, Kin ah come roon’?”
Mhairi McGhee.
“How did ye git ma number?” Jas clenched his right fist. Nails hovered an inch from palm.
Harsh laugh. “McGhee Investigations, Big Man! Ah called yer auld number, then Directory Inquiries. Tell them ah wis yer sister, that yer mother wis dyin’.” Worried. “She’s no’, is she?”
“No’ as far as ah ken, Mhairi.” He unclenched his fist.
Relaxing. “Well? Kin ah come roon’? Ye wur never wan tae haud a grudge, Big Man. Let me explain, at least ...”
“That’s aw’ in the past, Mhairi. Ye did whit ye hud tae.” Jas closed his eyes. The beating she had facilitated, or his lover’s knife: which was more responsible for the damaged tendons in his right arm? “Ah’m busy, Mhairi. Mebbe ah’ll catch ye later ...”
Insistent. “Ah really need tae see ye, Jas. It’s aboot wee Paul.”
Jas opened his eyes. “Paul who?”
Impatient. “Ye ken Paul, Jas. Ma supplier. He drove ye tae London, that summer, when ye went tae see aboot ...” – hesitation – “... tae see yer brother.”
Jas stared at the grey telephone. Vague memories of a blue Escort, Fila tee-shirt, banana sandwiches and a kid barely old enough to be driving legally. “Ah
never kent his name, Mhairi. Whit’s he done?”
“Gone awol, Big Man.” Low voice.
“Git yersel’ another supplier, Mhairi. There’s plenty aroon’.”
No response.
“You still there?”
Soft voice. “Ah’m worried aboot him.”
“It’s no’ like you tae care who ye buy yer gear aff.”
Wheedling. “Let me come roon’, Big Man.”
Jas fingered the phone’s coiled flex. Two years ago Mhairi had been there for him – up to a point. She’d probably saved his life, after almost causing his death. “Ma shoulder’s awfy hard, these days.”
Laugh. “It’s no’ sympathy ah’m wantin’, Big Man.”
“Whit then?”
Soft voice. “Let me come roon’, eh?”
He tucked the receiver between chin and shoulder and began to reload documentation into the plastic folder. “Ah’ve work tae dae, Mhairi, ah don’t ken when ah’ll be finished ...”
Eager. “Make it fur whenever ye want, Jas.”
He looked at his watch. It read three fifty-five p.m. “It’ll huv tae be efter eleven.”
“Sure, sure, Big Man. That’s great.”
He replaced the plastic folder on the sofa. “Ah’ll see ye then, Mhairi ...”
“Haud oan – where ur ye?”
He laughed. “Whit happened tae McGhee Investigations?”
Embarrassed. “BT widney gie me yer address.”
He supplied it.
Surprise. “Ye’ve no’ moved far, then?”
Jas frowned. “Far enough, Mhairi. Ah’ll see ye efter eleven.” He replaced the receiver then stood up. Lifting the plastic folder, Jas walked through to the bedroom, collected his jacket and left.
