Banged Up

by Jack Dickson

  Jas smiled, ran fingers through sweaty hair. He gripped the extended hand.

  Strong, warm, fingers. Palm slightly damp.

  Not cold. Not dead.

  “The name’s Jas.”

  Hand released. Reluctantly.

  Jas moved aside. Strong shoulders brushed against him. Fresh, living smell slicing through formaldehyde. Soap, mixed with ...?

  The man stopped ahead, blocking out the freezer. Turning. Uncertain.

  Jas smiled. “Want a coffee?”

  The man turned. Molten eyes relieved.

  Jas extended an arm.

  Both men walked into the living room.

  Three coffees later. “I recognised you straight away. Two years ago – that big court case.” Eager. Impressed. “What you did took a lot of guts.” Coffee cup placed on floor. Another inch of arm-hair.

  Jas walked to the window. He was out of practice.

  Peter talked on. “I could never do that – I mean, Jean – my boss – knows, and I’ve told my sister, but I couldn’t tell the whole world. I really admire you.”

  Jas sighed. A star fucker? He clenched his left fist and turned. This was a bad idea.

  One elbow on sofa arm, propping up head. Two shirt buttons undone. Burst of wiry black hair visible. Long, lean thighs, lightly muscled under designer denim.

  Jas looked at the face. His prick pulsed.

  Shining, molten eyes. Thick, dark lashes. Hint of shadow on upper lip. Large mouth.

  Peter smiled, unbuttoned one shirt cuff and rolled up a white sleeve.

  Jas scowled. His prick throbbed unbearably.

  The smile faded. Uncertain again. Searching for a cigarette. Finding it.

  Jas lifted a lighter from the table, held it out.

  Fingers brushing hairy knuckles. A hand on his. Jas seized it, pulling the man to his feet.

  Arm around his shoulders.

  Wet mouth seeking his. Finding it.

  Jas closed his eyes, thrusting tongue against tongue.

  Then groin against groin. Prick against prick.

  Peter moaned, pulled away.

  Jas opened his eyes and stared into liquid chocolate.

  It had been a long time.

  He watched as the man fumbled with shirt buttons, ripping the bottom two. Chest a jet forest. Arms wrenched free from cotton sleeves. Hands moving to belt. Then remembering boots. Glance up. Embarrassed smile. Perching on sofa arm. Clumsy fingers undid Caterpillar laces. The sound of breathing filled the room.

  Jas lit a cigarette and moved to the doorway. Still watching.

  It had been a long time.

  Boots and socks removed. Then jeans. Standing. White Calvins thrown on the heap.

  It had been worth waiting for.

  Peter walked towards him.

  Jas seized tanned shoulders and kissed him again. Coffee-tasting. Sweet-smelling. Oranges?

  A hand on his prick, rubbing through sweaty sweatshirting.

  Jas closed his eyes and groaned, palms on Peter’s bare arse. Smooth, surprisingly hairless, given the knuckles and the arms. He ground hips against naked flesh.

  Mouth moving to his ear. Breathy. Hoarse: “Jas ...”

  Two hours later Peter left.

  On the bed Jas plucked three jet hairs from beneath his foreskin and yawned. Then smiled.

  Back in the saddle. Thigh muscles quivered. He’d missed the feel of another man’s body under his. He glanced at the bedside table.

  Business card. Home number on the back.

  Jas grinned. Maybe a bit of repeat business. In a couple of days.

  He eased himself from damp, rumpled sheets and walked into the shower.

  Warm water this time. And soap. He closed his eyes.

  A view of Peter McLaughlin’s white, hairless arse faded. Replaced by one of a bullet-headed kid driving a blue Ford Escort.

  He reached up and turned down the temperature control.

  Warm to lukewarm to cool to cold to numbness.

  In the distance the telephone rang.

  Jas switched off the shower, stepped out of the cubicle and picked up a towel. He had almost reached the lounge door when his own message ended.

  Three beeps. Male. English accent. Cool: “Mr Anderson? Geoff Robinson from Hadrian Security Solutions returning your call. Regarding ...” Sounds of rustling paper. “... Paul McGhee, the company has no more to add to the original information given to Ms. Mhairi McGhee. The prisoner was released early, on good behaviour, 26th September.” Cooler. “For security reasons, I’m afraid your suggested visits to HMP Barlinnie and Longriggend Remand Institution are out of the question, at the moment.” Pre-rehearsed. “Thank you for calling Hadrian Security Solutions. Good afternoon.” Beep.

  Jas dried his hair and replayed the message twice.

  He phoned back.

  Engaged tone.

  Jas scowled. If Mhairi was to get her money’s worth, he needed to talk anyone who had known Paul McGhee inside.

  That was proving difficult.

  Next best thing ...?

  Prison officers. Jas lit a cigarette.

  The strike. When had it started? Last month? The month before?

  Terry’s words: Ma Billy’s oan the picket line the morra.’

  Jas walked through to the bedroom and looked at three unfinished reports.

  Three good customers.

  Paul McGhee was more than likely holed up somewhere. There would be other days, other picket lines.

  He pulled on jeans and sat down at the word processor.

  Four

  DAYS PASSED. LIFE WENT ON. October slipped into November. November the fifth.

  In early morning mist Jas jogged across Cumbernauld Road and into Smithycroft Road. Padded Nikes pounded pavement.

  Garthamlock to the north. Springboig to the south.

  In between: Riddrie.

  Not a bad area.

  Residential. Mainly owner-occupied. Couple of presentable bed-sit conversions. Two new housing schemes dotted with Neighbourhood Watch stickers. Small row of shops. Three churches. Circular school and library.

  Not a bad area.

  Low crime rate.

  More criminals per square yard than any other part of Glasgow.

  Jas slowed to a walk and turned right into Navers Lee Avenue. Three rows of new houses. He stared. Beyond, Barlinnie’s A-Hall raised two, finger-shaped chimneys through grey mist. From behind a dirty stone wall.

  Jas lowered his gaze and continued to walk.

  A security camera monitored his progress. Yards from the twenty-six-foot wall, to the right of the visitors’ car park, a small group of men.

  Burly men. Angry men. Hands gloved and clapping.

  Cold men.

  Jas walked nearer.

  He could make out six figures. Pale, bitten faces. He scanned them for Billy MacKinley.

  One man stepped forward and walked towards him. Six feet. Heavy. Padded nylon jacket. Woollen hat pulled down over ears. Clean-shaven.

  Jas stared.

  Terry, but younger. Fatter. Puffy face. Broken veins on cheeks. Frown, then smile. A suede-gloved hand stuck out. Rasping voice: “Well, well! Jas Anderson. How’re ye doin’, pal? Ma faither said ye wanted a word.” Breath condensing in cold air.

  Jas smiled and shook the hand. “Ah didney recognise ye, Billy. Whit happened tae the beard?”

  Laugh. Suede hand over suede chin. “The razor slipped. Noo’, whit kin ah dae fur ye?”

  Jas glanced past the padded jacket. On the picket line a Thermos flask was being passed from gloved hand to gloved hand. He looked back at Billy MacKinley, then reached into jacket pocket. Half bottle of Teachers produced. “Kin ye take a coupla minutes aff?”

  Billy eyed the bottle, then his companions. Nod. “Aye, sure. The shift change’ll be another oor, yet. Ower here.” He led the way into the prison car park.

  Jas followed.

  In front of a row of cars Billy stopped, leant against the bonnet of a red Jeep Cherokee. Augus
t reg.

  Jas eyed it.

  Billy caught the look. “Visitin’ dignitary fae Livingston. Flash bastard! Ah kidney huv afforded wan o’ them oan ma wages” Head shake. “Dinny ken how they dae it.”

  Jas unscrewed the Teachers and drank. The whisky singed his mouth. He passed the bottle to Billy. “Ah’m lookin’ fur some information oan wan o’ yer former customers.”

  Billy took a drink, wiped his mouth, then took another.

  “Whit kin ye tell me aboot Paul McGhee?”

  Billy stared into the distance, bottle cradled in hands. “McGhee ... McGhee – whit Hall?”

  Jas rested a foot on oversized, chrome bullbars. “C. 5' 6", dark hair. In fur possession of ecstasy.”

  Laugh. “Goat him, noo. Gallus wee bastard.” Another drink. “Due oot aboot noo, ah should think.” Head shake. “They’ll no’ be sorry tae see the back o’ Paul, ah reckon. Whit ye wanna ken?”

  Jas explained.

  Thoughtful. Another drink. “Early release? Ye sure?” Bottle extended.

  Jas shook his head.

  Raised eyebrow. Shrug. “Ah, well. Aw’ the mair fur me.” Another drink. Silence.

  “McGhee was released on September 26th, Billy. You an’ the boays were oot by that time, ah take it?” Jas lit a cigarette.

  “Aye, a fortnight intae the strike. McGhee widda bin processed by that shower o’ scabs.” Turning. Laugh. “Ah hope he made their lives hell!”

  Jas followed Billy’s eyes up twenty-six feet of stone wall.

  “The place is goin’ tae the dogs, Jas, ah’ll tell ye that fur nothin’. We ...”

  “McGhee wis giein’ ye trouble?”

  Laugh. “Trouble? They’re aw’ trouble, Jas. You should ken that – ye hid a haun’ in puttin’ a guid few o’ them in there!”

  “Whit kinda trouble?”

  Laugh. “You name it, McGhee had a go at it. Wis intae aw’ the minor rackets.” Head shake. “Jist a kid, tae ...”

  “Dealin’?”

  Shrug. “In fur possession? Buyin’, nae doot. No’ dealin’, that ah ken ...” Pause. Scowl. “... fur aw’ his big talk, he’d be way oota his league.” Pause. “But that disney mean he wisney huvin’ a go at it.” Faint smile. “Maist o’ the young wans jist want tae dae their time an’ git oot.” Another drink. Few last drops emptied into mouth. “No’ McGhee. Ah canny unnerstaun’ him gettin’ early release, Jas.” Laugh. “Unless they jist wanted rid o’ him.”

  Maybe Hadrian were running a tighter prison by throwing the shite back out onto the street.

  Billy bent down and placed the empty Teachers bottle in front of the Cherokee’s left wheel. He stood up, eyes back on the wall. “Whit’s this tae you, onyway?”

  “Ah’m workin’ fur his sister. Fur some reason she’s worried aboot him. Did ye hear onythin’ – onywan he couldda palled up wi’ inside, onythin’ that might huv made him move on tae pastures new when he goat oot?”

  “Ah kidney tell ye. Tae be honest, my heart’s no’ bin in the joab this past year.” He turned. “Christ knows whit’s goin’ on in that place noo’.” Slow head-shake. “Hadrian fuckin’ Security Solutions – deliverin’ wages an’ parcels, til a coupla months ago.” Low voice. “Whit dae they ken aboot runnin’ prisons? Ye canny cut costs ony mair – no’ withoot takin’ stupid risks.”

  “Ony luck wi’ negotiations?”

  Angry. “The Scottish Office’ll no’ even sit doon at the table wi’ us.” Eyes on the picket line. “We’re proabably wastin’ oor time here – as well as riskin’ oor jobs – but we’ve goat tae dae somethin’.” Pause. Eyes back on the wall. “Fifteen years o’ ma life ah gied tae Barlinnie.” Eyes to Jas. “We didney want tae strike, but what else kin ye dae? Mair officers or less ...” Laugh. “... customers. That’s aw’ we want. That place is gettin’ oota haun’. We tried tae warn them, they idiots through in Edinburgh, but they widney listen.” Sigh. Suede fist pounded against suede palm. “Oan their ain heids be it, noo’ ... but it’s the poor bastards in the cells ah feel sorry fur.” Silence.

  Jas ground out cigarette on tarmac, then fished out a card. He handed it to Billy. “If ye remember onythin’ else aboot Paul McGhee, gie me a ring – okay?”

  Billy took the card, looked at it.

  “There’s a bottla Teachers in it fur ye.”

  Billy laughed. “Sure, Jas. Nae problem.” Suede hand to pocket. Behind, the sound of a door closing.

  Billy turned. Shouting. “Here’s wan o’ the dirty scabs noo ...”

  To Jas. “See ye again ...”

  Jas walked back onto the road, then stopped.

  Billy had rejoined the other five men.

  Six angry faces.

  Six angry voices. Chanting.

  Jas watched as a slight figure made its way from the prison’s main door into the car park. Alone. Suit and tie. Receding blond hair. Towards the red Cherokee.

  The chanting increased.

  The man ignored it.

  The beep of car alarm deactivated.

  The man climbed into the Cherokee. Started the engine. Moved forward.

  The sound of breaking glass, then hissing.

  Chanting became laughing.

  Engine switched off. Jeep door opened. Irritated face emerging, bending to examine wheel and damaged tyre.

  More laughing from the picket line.

  Jas smiled, saluted Billy and walked back onto Smithycroft Road.

  The green screen was beginning to strobe. Jas got up from the word processor and walked to the bedroom window. In the distance he could see the spasmodic blossoming of fireworks down at Glasgow Green.

  Remember, remember ...

  He looked at his watch: just before eight p.m. Mhairi was due in an hour. A face from the past.

  Jas smiled. Peter was due at eleven. Face for the future?

  He walked back to the screen, sat down and ran the cursor up two pages.

  From all main hospitals and mortuaries? Nothing.

  From known associates, according to Mhairi? Nothing.

  From Hadrian Security Solutions? Nothing.

  From a former prison officer? Something?

  Jas sighed. More to do with disillusionment and bitterness than an awol drugs dealer.

  A firework exploded in the street below.

  The sum total of ten days’ work. Paul McGhee had left Barlinnie at 6 am on the morning of September 26th. He had not been seen since.

  Jas rubbed his face, stood up and walked through to the other room. He switched on a lamp. One avenue unexplored.

  One last resort. Jas lifted the telephone receiver and punched in the number for D division, London Road. When it was answered he gave an extension number.

  Soft purring, then soft voice: “DI McLeod.”

  “Whit’s it like tae be in charge, then – the power gone tae yer head yet?”

  Ann McLeod, formally DS McLeod. His partner four years ago. Still his friend?

  Soft laugh. “How’s life in the private sector?”

  “Ah get by. Look, Ann: ah’m after information.”

  Sigh. “So what’s new? I only ever hear from you when you want something.”

  Jas closed his eyes. “Ye goat promotion the last time ye helped me ...”

  Angry. “And you nearly got yourself killed!”

  Jas opened his eyes. “Don’t nag me. Whit kin ye tell me aboot Paul McGhee?”

  Pause. “The name means nothing. Has he got form?”

  “Eighteen months for possession. Served three-quarters. Early release 26th September. His he bin up tae onythin’ since?”

  “Ah.” Another pause. “Is this a professional or personal inquiry?”

  Jas scowled. “Nothin’ tae dae wi’ me this time – a client’s brother.”

  “Substance involved?”

  “E.”

  “First offence?”

  “First time he wis caught.”

  “Mmm.” Pause. “Unusual to get a custodial for first-time possession, even with th
e crackdown on recreational drugs. What do you want to know?” Another pause.

  “Could ye check his record? He’s disappeared – or so his sister tells me. Mebbe your lot huv him.”

  “No problem. Hold on.”

  Jas held on. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then Ann:

  “Here we go. Wherever he is, he’s not in custody – Strathclyde or any other Scottish division. He’s not reported in to his probation officer either, I presume?”

  Mhairi hadn’t said one way or the other. “Probably no’.”

  “They usually let it get to three-four missed appointments before we get notified, and even then it’ll be left to some ...” Pause. “... private investigator to enforce an unenforcable warrant.”

  Jas smiled wryly: he turned down warrant work every time.

  “Want me to check down south?”

  “Aye.”

  “Give me a minute ...” Silence, then tapping. Then: “Good news. No mention of him anywhere ...” Laugh. “Or maybe it’s not good news.” Silence.

  Jas stared at the telephone.

  “Well? Is it?”

  “No’ really. I’ve goat a feelin’ McGhee’s sister wid prefer the idea o’ him in custody tae not knowin’ where he is.”

  “Oh ... like that, is it? Well, I’m sorry I can’t help ...”

  Jas closed his eyes. “Mebbe ye can.”

  Surprise. “I don’t really see ...”

  “Access his prison record.” Jas opened his eyes.

  Wary. “You know I can’t do that.”

  He laughed. “Come oan, Ann. It’s me yer talkin’ tae, no’ some civil liberties group. Ye dae it aw’ the time. Ah did it ...”

  Soft voice. “I’m a DI, now ...”

  “Aw’ the mair reason. Comes wi’ the territory.”

  Silence. Then: “What’s his prison record got to do with anything. anyway?”

  “Standard missin’ persons procedure. Last known address ...”

  Reluctant. “Okay. Just this once.” More tapping. Silence. Then: “Right. Here we go ... McGhee, P. Male. Date of birth 18/6/81 ... that him?”

  “Sounds like it.”