Banged Up

by Jack Dickson

  “Admitted 18th August, 1997 ... blah blah blah ... released 6 am, September 26th, 1998.” Pause. “There’s an addition, stating that he was fit and well at the last medical. No social work report.” Soft laugh. “Seems Mr McGhee wasn’t very interested in rehab. No attendance at classes. He requested, and got, a single cell ...”

  Jas rubbed his face with one hand. “Hmm ...”

  “What do you mean?” Pause. “Oh, a cell to himself, given Barlinnie’s overcrowding problems?”

  “Aye.”

  “Not really. Maybe he earned it. You know how things work inside.”

  He knew. “Go on.”

  Pause. “Now, where was ... ah yes. No further offences noted. Kept his nose clean. Something of a model prisoner, from what it says here.”

  Gallus wee bastard.

  “Released on good behaviour, accordingly.” Pause. “Look, is this helping?”

  Jas wrapped the telephone cord around his right hand.

  “You still there?”

  Jas unwound the cord from his hand. “Anything else? Known associates?”

  “McGhee was in for possession ...”

  “He wis a smack dealer.”

  “Ah ...” Thoughtful. “Well, there’s nothing on his prison record to indicate anything of that nature.” Pause. “What are you getting at?”

  “No’ me. His sister canny understand why he husney bin in touch, says it isney like him.”

  Low laugh. “Regardless of what his record says, McGhee probably made good connection inside. You know what it’s like. Minnows grow overnight.” Sigh. “Your Mr McGhee could be setting up the deal of the century as we speak. Tell his sister not to worry. He’ll turn up – probably the next time there’s a raid.” Pause. “Want me to give you a ring if we come across him?”

  “Ah’ve done aw’ ah’m dain’ oan the case, but can ah gie his sister yer name? She’d appreciate a friendly contact.”

  Impatient. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a lot on at the moment.”

  Jas grinned. “Business still boomin’?”

  Softer. “You’re well out of it, Jas. The work I can handle.” Cagey sigh. “The closer you get to the top of the greasy pole, the more slippery it gets.”

  Part of him still envied her, nonetheless. “Thanks fur the information. Gie me a ring if ye hear onythin’.” Jas gave his number and severed the connection and another link with the past.

  He walked into the bedroom to finish Mhairi’s report. His considered opinion? Based on all available information?

  Paul McGhee had been released early from Barlinnie, on good behaviour – unlikely as that seemed – and was probably off of his face somewhere, enjoying his freedom.

  Jas typed the final sentence, pressed P and waited.

  The door bell rang.

  He glanced at his watch: almost nine. He frowned. Time to give Mhairi the news.

  She didn’t take it well.

  In the other room Jas handed Mhairi the report.

  She read it twice, then looked up. Hard eyes. Soft voice. “So much fur Anderson Investigations, Big Man! Ye didney git much.”

  Jas sat opposite and lit a cigarette. “There wisney much tae get. Ah telt ye, the street’s yer best bet.”

  Eyes back on the report, scanning. Then stopping. “Whit’s this at the end?”

  Jas exhaled, then quoted. “90 per cent of missing persons disappear through choice, Mhairi.”

  Silence, them: “Did ye no’ talk tae the other guys Paul wis inside wi’? Mebbe they couldda telt ye if he’d said onythin’?”

  Jas stood up. “No’ possible.” He looked at the small figure. “Ah did aw’ ah kid. The ainly way tae git ony mair information wid be tae go inside Barlinnie, an’ the security company’s widney let me dae that, with wi’ the strike an’ everythin’ – okay?”

  Head down. “Ah suppose so ...” Silence.

  Jas walked into the kitchen, washed two glasses then lifted the Absolut bottle. He returned to the other room.

  Mhairi was folding the report into a small rectangle.

  “Ye’ll join me, ah take it?” Jas filled two glasses, handed one to Mhairi.

  She took it. Grinned.

  He laughed. “Ye’ll no’ be smilin’ when ye see ma bill!” He nursed the vodka.

  Mhairi emptied her glass and held it out.

  He refilled it.

  She sipped. “Ye wur polis fur twelve years. Where dae you think he is, Big Man?”

  Jas looked away. “Ah dinny ken him, so ah canny really say. But fae past experience, ah think he’s holed up somewhere with some wuman and half a kilo o’ eccy. Remember, Mhairi – the boay did seven months. He’ll huv missed his ...” He smiled. “... hame comforts. In his position, ah doubt gettin’ in touch wi’ ma sister wid be high up the list o’ ma priorities!” He drained his glass.

  Harsh laugh. “Ye cheeky bastard! Okay, okay! Ah take yer point.” Frown. “But ye dinny ken Paul. Him an’ me ur ... close.”

  Jas stood up. “Ah never kent ye had ony family, apart fae Chrissie. Ye never talk aboot them.” He walked to the window.

  Soft voice. “Jist cos ah dinny run aff at the mooth, Big Man, disney mean ah don’t care. There’s six years between Paul an’ me. When we wur fostered oot, ah looked efter him ...”

  “Long time ago, Mhairi. The boay’s goat a life o’ his ain. Let him git oan wi’ it. He’ll git in touch when he’s ready.” Jas turned and watched Mhairi pour more vodka.

  “Ye dinny unnerstaun’.” Glass to mouth. “We wur close ... really close.

  He stared. “Whit dae ye mean?”

  Mhairi looked up. Embarrassed. “Ah’ve goat a ... a feelin’ aboot Paul.”

  Jas laughed. “Ye want a crystal ball, then – no’ a PI!”

  Hurt, drunken eyes. “Ah’m serious.”

  He shook his head. “Ah canny act oan feelin’s, Mhairi. Kin ye no’ be mair specific?”

  Angry. Standing. “Naw, ah canny!”

  He sighed. “Sit doon, Mhairi.”

  Stare, then bottle to glass.

  Jas lit a cigarette. Exhaled.

  Resolute. “Ah want ye tae keep lookin’, Big Man.”

  “Sorry, Mhairi. Ah’ve done aw’ ah can.”

  Suddenly angry. “Ma money no’ guid enough fur ye?”

  He shook his head. “Ah’d be wastin’ it an’ ma time. There’s no’ enough tae go on.”

  She swayed, then sat down. Wheedling. “Dae it fur me, Big Man. Fur auld time’s sake?”

  Old times ...

  He ground out the cigarette. Even this brief exposure was bringing the years back. “Ye’ve goat ma report. Ah did whit ye wanted. As far as ah kin see, fur whitever reason, yer brither disney want tae git in touch wi’ you, at the moment.”

  Silence. Liquid pouring. “No’ Paul – he widney dae that.”

  Jas watched her drink. He was wasting his time.

  Mhairi was mumbling into vodka.

  Jas walked over and sat beside her. “If ye want tae take it further, git another guy tae look intae it fur ye, ah kin gie ye a coupla numbers.” He glanced at his watch: half-ten. Peter at eleven. Jas smiled.

  Mhairi looked up. Scowled. “It’s aw’ a big joke tae you, isn’t? Christ, ye’ve changed, Jas Anderson! Ye used tae care aboot things. Ma wee brither’s Christ knows where an’ aw’ ye kin dae is smile!”

  Jas shrugged. “We’re no’ talkin’ innocent runaways here. Paul’s a big boay, fae whit ah’ve heard. He kin luck efter himsel’ ...”

  Tears.

  Jas sighed.

  Mhairi fumbled for a handkerchief. A three-inch cellophane bag fell from her pocket. She dabbed her eyes.

  Jas picked up the package: a couple of hundreds’ worth, at today’s prices. He handed it to her. “Ah see the methadone programme’s last week’s news ...”

  “Fur ma lassies, no’ me!” She snatched the packet and replaced it in pocket. Then wiped her nose.

  He looked at the tear-stained cheek
s. “Come oan. Paul’ll turn up. Look: ah’ve left ma number wi’ a coupla folk. Maybe ...”

  “Forget it! How much dae ah owe ye?” On her feet. Swaying. Hand thrust into pocket. Angry.

  “Call it five hundred.”

  Notes torn from a large bundle and thrown on the floor.

  Jas looked from the green fifties to Mhairi.

  Her face was flushed. Upset. Very upset.

  He lifted the Absolut bottle. “Wan fur the road?”

  “No’ wi’ you!” She turned. Left leg buckling. Heel caught in hem of skirt.

  Jas moved forward. Too slowly.

  Mhairi crumpled, head glancing off door-frame. “Ah, ya fucker!” Nails scraping for a hold.

  Jas gripped her arm.

  She shook him off, staggered to her feet. “Lea’ me alain! Ah’m aw’ right!” Mhairi made her way towards the front door.

  He grabbed her arm again. “Come on – ye canny go hame like that!”

  Injured dignity. “Ah kin manage!”

  “Suit yersel’” He opened the door.

  She left, wordlessly.

  Jas closed the door and scowled. Another satisfied customer.

  He pulled off sweatshirt and walked through to the bedroom. Outside in Cumbernauld Road a final firework fizzled into oblivion.

  Five

  TONGUE TRACED A LINE between his nipples. Jas opened his eyes and grabbed a handful of Peter’s hair.

  Low laugh.

  Fingers caressed his stomach. Jas rolled from side onto back and pulled Peter to him. A soft leg thrown across his, prick rubbing thigh-bone, dragging. Velvet skin sticking to silk skin. Wet mouth moving on neck.

  His prick twitched. Still hard. Jas buried face in soft, black hair, breathing in the man’s smell. Fresh sweat, salt and faint oranges.

  Hairy knuckles stroking chest, jet against dark blond. Then slowing. Coming to rest.

  His prick twitched again. Jas seized bony wrists and pushed Peter onto his back.

  Mild annoyance. Sleepy. “Hey! I was just dozing off!”

  Jas pinned wrists to the bed. Elbows locked, legs straddling legs, balls resting on tanned stomach. He stared down.

  A man’s body ...

  ... a boy’s face. Saliva-encrusted lips parted. A scar of dried spunk at the corner of mouth. Skin pale with exertion beneath tan. Peter groaned and thrust upwards.

  Jas closed his eyes, holding two wrists with left hand.

  The sex had been good, but ...

  The thoughts came before he could stop them. Jas tightened his grip and opened his eyes.

  Yelp. “What ...?”

  Jas loosened his grip. “Nothin’.” Prick brushed navel.

  Staring. More awake now. “What is it?”

  Jas sighed.

  A different time. A different place.

  He let go wrists and covered the brown body with his own. Strong arms around him. Groin pushing against him. Rocking.

  Rhythm. Purpose.

  Jas pulled away. Mouth dry. “Ah need a drink. Want wan?” He stepped from the bed, kicked a Budweiser can and walked through to the hall.

  In the freezer, two bottles of mineral water: a present from Peter. Frozen solid: he’d not counted on the sex taking so long. Jas took them, closed the fridge door and walked through to the kitchen. He sat two bottles on the draining board and lifted a glass.

  Footsteps. Then voice from the other room. “Thought you didn’t drink much?”

  Jas filled the glass from the tap, drank, refilled it and walked back to the other room.

  Peter waved the Absolut bottle accusingly. It was almost empty.

  Jas shrugged. “Fur a client’s benefit.” He held out the glass.

  Peter eyed it, then Jas. “Any lager left?”

  “Ye finished it.” He sat down on the sofa.

  Peter took the glass, drank, passed it to Jas then crouched beside the moulded sofa. He searched pockets of a Paul Smith jacket and produced cigarettes.

  Jas watched as the man took two from the packet, lit them then handed one to him. His eyes moved down Peter’s naked body. Strong shoulders. A dark band of thick hair sweeping from collar bone down over chest. Pink nipples hardly visible. Hair less dense over stomach, then broadening into a V below navel. Four flaccid inches lying amidst wiry, black curls.

  What he could do with that ...

  Peter met his gaze, blushed and looked away.

  Prick throbbed.

  Peter inhaled, sat down on the floor. “So who was your client?”

  “Just a client.” Jas rubbed his face, grateful for small-talk. The thoughts refused to go away.

  Intrigued. “Something interesting?” Turning.

  Jas grinned. “Oh, aye! Ah’ve bin asked by a wee guy wi’ a foreign accent tae find a Maltese Falcon.”

  Eyes widening. “You’re kidding! I thought you only did missing persons work.” Brow furrowing. Thoughtful. “What sort of bird’s a Maltese falcon, anyway? Is it a hunting bird?”

  Jas traced the nape of Peter’s neck. Finger slicked with sweat. His brain dripped with possibilities. “It’s the stuff that dreams ur made of.”

  Quizzical.

  “Ah’m showin’ ma age!” Jas laughed. “Another private investigator said that – wan in a book. Phillip Marlowe?”

  Blank look.

  He regretted the reference, even though it took his mind off the thoughts. “Chandler – Hammett?”

  Eyes wide. “Katy Hamnet?” Impressed. “You’re doing work for her?”

  He laughed.

  Hurt. Understanding. “You’re teasing me!” Another blush.

  Not as much as he’d like to. Jas ruffled jet hair, pulled the man back against his legs.

  Peter nestled between iron thighs.

  They smoked.

  The head of his cock pushed against the back of a bristly neck. Jas drained the glass, leant over and placed it on the floor. The thoughts made him harder than ever. He took a chance. “Peter?”

  Turning. Elbows resting on Jas’s thighs. Curious.

  Foreskin stretching further. He scowled. Not now. Not yet ...

  The expression misinterpreted. Peter’s eyes lowered. Uncertain.

  Jas stroked the glossy head. Words deserted him. Leigh had instinctively known.

  Long silence. Then another spoke for him. Throat clearing. “Er ... back through in the bedroom – when you ... er, held my wrists ...” Words floorwards.

  He followed the flush of embarrassment as it spread from the lowered face to neck and shoulders. Balls tingled. He waited.

  “I ... er – I kind of liked it!” The rush of consonants and vowels tumbled over each other. “Being ... restrained like that, and told what to do, makes me ...”

  The head of his fully hard cock pushed against the lowered forehead. His mouth was a twisted line of longing.

  Peter moved back onto heels. “You think I’m weird, don’t you?” Awkward. A hint of self-loathing. Hands returning to own thighs.

  Jas almost laughed. “No ...” His voice was low.

  Glossy black head slowly raised.

  “... ah think we’ve got a lot in common.” Jas stared into a scarlet face. Huge brown eyes dominated his vision. A knot of anticipation tightened in his guts. Jas stood up.

  Peter remained on knees.

  “It’s a game ...” Jas stared down. “... jist a game.” Words came easily now, but did little justice to the thoughts. “But if the game’s gonny work, ah need tae ken more aboot whit ye want tae get oota it ...” He pulled the man to his feet. “... an’ you need tae ken whit ah want fae whit we dae – if we dae onythin’.”

  Peter’s head was bent.

  Jas tipped the tanned face upwards. Mouth moved towards another quivering fullness. Peter’s breath singed lips. The kiss was slow and gentle.

  Arms instinctively moved in the direction of Jas’s waist.

  He gripped the wrists, pinning them against the man’s well-muscled thighs.

  Peter moaned. The kiss
changed in pitch, deepening.

  Jas felt the alteration in every muscle.

  Power.

  Control.

  Forcing the arms gently backwards, he held Peter’s wrists behind the man’s broad back.

  Peter gasped into his mouth.

  Three feet below, another hardness poked at Jas’s thigh.

  Not now.

  Not yet ...

  He broke the kiss slowly. “Okay?”

  Peter was breathing heavily now. A whisper. “Oh Jas ...”

  Still holding the wrists, he pulled the man against his body and listened to a list of fantasies, thought but never uttered.

  Fifteen minutes later, his own requirements were whispered into a pink ear.

  Ten minutes after that. Jas grabbed the Paul Smith jacket from the floor and led Peter back to the bedroom.

  In the corner, an ancient chair. He walked towards it and sat down. The leather was cold beneath sweating thighs. Jas looked at Peter. “Come here.”

  The man moved forward, stopped in front of him. Head lowered, waiting. Expectant.

  Jas let him wait. The man’s discomfort hung in the air. Jas’s balls clenched and unclenched.

  Two minutes.

  Four.

  He knew it felt like a lifetime to the novice in front of him. Jas stared between bronzed thighs, waiting for the first sign. When Peter’s cock began to droop: “Look at me.”

  Head raised. The man’s shaft flexed. Eyes hidden beneath thick lashes.

  “Ah’m gonny take ye, Peter ...”

  Six inches of pale flesh was pushing upwards and outwards.

  “... ah’m gonny take ye, an’ ah’m gonny use ye ...”

  Six pale inches quivered.

  “... cos that’s white ye’re for, Peter.”

  A sharp intake of breath parallel with another twitch of the stiffening, pale length.

  Jas laughed. “Ye’re a fuck-boay, Peter – whit ur ye?”

  Words low, almost inaudible.

  A bolt of desire shot through his own shaft. Jas laughed again. “Ah didney hear ye, Peter – whit wis that?”

  “I’m a ... fuck-boy ...” The words moaned. The six inches quivered, fully erect at the final two syllables.

  “Louder ...”

  “I’m a fuck-boy!”

  Jas chuckled, eyes moving from the most uncomfortable erection he knew Peter had ever had to the flushed, sweating face. “Aye, that’s right – ye’re fur other men tae use, when they feel like it – an’ ah feel like it noo!” He thrust the jacket at Peter. “Ye ken whit tae dae.” Closing his eyes, he leant back on the chair, thighs apart. Rustling, then tearing. Then hands. Shaking hands. On his prick. Then moist rubber encasing dryness. A second skin. Jas groaned.