Banged Up

by Jack Dickson

  Peter’s fingers pulled the condom tight, smoothing, checking.

  Red pulsed on Jas’s eyelids. Not yet ...

  Fingers stopped.

  Jas opened his eyes, looked at Peter.

  The man’s pupils were huge: part fear, part desire ...

  Jas smiled, seized a hairy wrist. He pulled Peter closer, left hand on neck. Face inches from face.

  Peter’s mouth searched for his.

  Jas drew back, eyes never leaving Peter’s.

  The man’s heartbeat filled the room. Nervous. Swallowing. Husky voice. “Er ...” Eyes averted. “I’ve not done ... er, anal before – can we use ...?”

  A virgin – in two ways. The confession broke the moment. Jas sighed, stood up. He walked into the bathroom and scowled: where was it? At the bottom of a toiletries bag he eventually located a rusty, nearly flat tube of KY. Years old. He walked back to the bedroom.

  By the chair. Peter was still waiting. Still hard.

  Pleased. Jas laughed.

  The man jumped. Naughty-schoolboy face tilted upwards. Blushing.

  Jas sat down on the chair. “Come here.”

  Obedient.

  Jas kissed him roughly, teeth glancing off enamel. Then pushed him away.

  Peter’s tongue probed desperately.

  Jas held the man at arm’s length and looked down.

  Six hard, throbbing inches.

  “Turn roon’.”

  Peter turned, uncertain, glancing over shoulder.

  “Kneel.”

  Peter knelt.

  Light from the other room blazed in Jas’s eyes. He unscrewed the KY, squeezed, then coated condomed prick. He scowled. More layers. Another skin. He paused and ran a hand over Peter’s white, hairless arse.

  A shiver shook soft flesh. Shoulder heaved, lungs inhaling sharply.

  Jas squeezed again, rubbed cold jelly between hot fingers and began to lubricate.

  A groan. Resistance.

  Jas kissed the small of Peter’s back.

  Another groan. Less resistance.

  One then two fingers. Then three.

  Smooth. Slippery. Warm. Jas dropped the tube, removed fingers and gripped Peter’s waist. He stood up and leant forward. Hands under ribs, steadying. Two misses. Too slippery.

  Peter was panting.

  Jas let go, seized his prick and guided the head slowly into Peter.

  A sharp inhale.

  Hands back on waist. One then two inches. Then three. Slick.

  Easy. Then five.

  Peter gasped, moved back against Jas.

  Then six.

  He dug fingers into firm flesh, bracing thumbs against ribs. Jas thrust upwards Seven. A warm, moist vice welcomed him.

  Peter made a low, animal noise.

  Jas pressed his face against the man’s spine, gripped bronze legs. He sat back on the chair and pulled Peter up onto his lap.

  A bare foot braced against his thigh.

  Jas moved hands to under Peter’s armpits, lifting. Supporting. He withdrew, shifted, adjusting to the weight. Then lowered the tanned body. Jas thrust again.

  Controlling.

  Using – and being used.

  Arrows of pleasure pierced his prick.

  Peter’s arms at each side of his head, fingers clutching the back of the chair.

  Jas closed his eyes and scowled. His right arm trembled. Not yet ...

  Two bodies slid into sync.

  Rhythm.

  Purpose.

  Peter limp in his hands. Heavy. Sweat-slippy.

  Moving together. Slow to begin with. Then faster. Red faded into black. The pressure was almost unbearable. Jas pressed teeth against Peter’s skin.

  Now ...

  His brain exploded.

  Later.

  A noise?

  Jas opened his eyes. Mucus and sweat clogged lashes. Too hot. He tried to move. Pins and needles tingled in the fingers of his right hand. On his chest Peter moaned softly. Jas smiled, wrapping arms more tightly around the sleeping figure.

  Peter mumbled.

  Jas brushed lips against damp forehead then glanced at the alarm: 3 a.m. Eyelids fluttered.

  Peter stirred, nestling head under Jas’s chin. A baby. A novice.

  Jas grinned. The grin slipped into a scowl.

  Like chess, The Game was best played with someone known. Intimately.

  Distant ringing. Door bell? His, or a neighbour’s?

  Jas ignored it. Peter ...

  Good body. But no mind-sync – yet. He rubbed semi-numb fingers over a pink nipple. Then tweaked.

  A low moan.

  Jas licked his lips. The smile returned. Breaking in a novice. The ten brief, intense minutes before The Game had degenerated into fucking lingered in his mind, promise of longer sessions to come.

  More ringing, then banging.

  Fingers pausing mid-rub.

  Definitely his door bell. He waited.

  More banging.

  Jas sighed, easing out from under Peter.

  Annoyed. More mumbling. Then light snore.

  He got out of bed, grabbed combat pants from floor and pulled them on. Then frowned.

  Mhairi – back for a re-match?

  More banging.

  Jas walked to the front door. “Okay, okay. Take it easy wi’ ma paintwork.” Buttoning fly. “Who is it?”

  Not Mhairi. “James Anderson?” Male voice.

  Hand pausing on bolt. “Aye. Who wants tae know?”

  “Police, Mr Anderson. We have a warrant to search these premises.”

  Jas drew back the bolt, opened the door an inch. “Whit ur ye talkin’ aboot? There’s bin some sorta mistake ...”

  The door hit off the wall. Five uniforms pushed past him into the flat.

  He turned. Lethal artexing scraped his shoulder. “Where dae ye think ...?”

  “You are James Anderson?” Voice behind. Cool. Professional.

  Jas spun round.

  Warrant card in one hand. Folded paper in the other.

  He looked at the pale face on the card, read the name DS Michaels. Stewart Street.

  “Let’s go inside, Mr Anderson, eh?”

  Jas took the folded paper, unfolded it. Half-open eyes scanning.

  His name. His address. The words ‘Class A drug’ shimmered on the white paper. “Whit ... ?”

  “Let’s go inside, Mr Anderson.” Unemotional.

  Jas sighed and walked into the other room.

  Six

  JAS STARED.

  In the dimly lit room two uniformed officers were already sifting though books and papers.

  He turned. The other three ...?

  Thin, sandy hair framing a pink face. Cold eyes staring into his. DS Michaels tried to smile. It didn’t work.

  At least he’d tried.

  Shouts from the bedroom. Anger. “What ...?” Then fear. “What’s going on?” Then Peter emerged from bedroom, duvet round waist. Pale, sleep-stained face. Glossy hair sweat-plastered to head. Rubbing eyes. Duvet slipping. Sounds of harsh male laughter from behind. Whistles. Peter clutched the fabric more tightly and staggered past Michaels. He looked at Jas. Confused.

  Amused eyes moving from man-in-combat-pants to man-in-duvet and back again. “And this is?”

  Peter sat down on the sofa and pulled duvet around shoulders. Confusion slipping from the pale face, to be replaced by terror.

  Jas scowled. “Never mind him. Whit’s aw’ this aboot drugs?” He regarded the man facing him.

  DS Michaels. He hadn’t noticed the first name. Mid forties. Not local, from the accent. Tall. Thin. Looked human.

  Another laugh from the bedroom.

  “Your name?” Procedural.

  Jas sighed.

  Brave words from the sofa. “Peter McLaughlin.”

  Heavy footsteps.

  Jas looked past Michaels into the hall.

  Young uniform. Male. 6' plus. Overweight. Flushed face grinning. Waving Mhairi’s bundle of fifties. At Michaels, then Jas. “Wh
ere did the likes o’ you git this?” Leer to Peter.

  Michaels: “Shut up, Bennett!” Fingers clicking. “Give.”

  It was handed over. Another leer.

  Michaels flicked through the bundle. To the uniform: “Carry on.” To Jas: “This yours?”

  “Aye.”

  “Can I ask where you got it?”

  “Ah earned it.”

  Laugh from the bedroom, then: “Or the other guy did!”

  Michaels frowned. “Keep it down in there!” To Jas: “By what means?”

  Jas clenched his right fist. It trembled. “Whit business is it o’ yours?”

  Whisper from sofa. “Er, is it okay if I use the toilet?” To no one in particular and everyone in general.

  Another uniform clutching evidence bag paused mid-search of telephone directory. Female. Sympathetic moon-face. Eyes to Michaels. “Want me to go wi’ him, sir, make sure he disney ... dispose o’ any evidence?”

  Laughing from bedroom. “No’ your type, Eileen, hen. Ye’ll be wasting yer time ...”

  Michaels. Angry: “Shut up!” To the WPC: a smile. Then eyes on duvet-clad figure.

  Peter shivered, and looked at Jas.

  Jas rubbed his face. “There’s nae drugs here. Christ, let the guy huv a piss!”

  Michaels nodded. Shout: “Toilet been searched?”

  Returning shout: “Aye, sir. Clean.”

  To Peter: “Away you go, son. Leave the door open.”

  Jas watched figure-in-duvet scramble from the room and almost collide with another uniform.

  Sound of light switched on, then urinating.

  The side of the moulded sofa hit his shin. Jas moved back as a hatless uniform tipped the couch forward.

  Four sets of eyes stared at the small, cellophane package which had slipped from between upholstered folds.

  Michaels crouched, picked it up.

  Jas watched a press-seal edge pressed and opened. “That’s no ...”

  “Let me guess – you’ve never seen this before.” Fingertip into white powder. Fingertip licked. A frown.

  He remembered an identical package, dropped hours earlier. One of two? “This is a mistake. Ah don’t do drugs. Tell me where ye goat yer information.” He looked at Michaels.

  “Tell me where you got the £500.” Ten fifties now encased in polythene. Michaels re-sealed the press-seal edge and handed it to a uniform.

  “Ah telt ye, ah earned it.” He sighed. “Ah dae a bit o’ investigative work. Sometimes ah git paid in cash. Ah did the night.”

  Silence. Then sound of toilet flushing.

  Then: “Your client’s name?” Patient. Procedural.

  Work in the private sector also had its procedures. “That’s confidential.” On the periphery of his vision, a small cellophane package now double-encased.

  “Don’t be so quick with your loyalty.” Less patient. “One plus one, Mr Anderson ...” Both evidence bags held out. Eyes from drugs to money. “... equals ...?”

  Jas frowned at the simple equation: possession was one thing – dealing was something else. “This is ma place o’ business as well as ma hame – in this line o’ work, ye get aw’ sorts o’ visitors, but the five hundred wis earned, fair an’ square.”

  Peter appeared.

  Jas met his eyes.

  Frightened.

  Jas shrugged: casual was the best reassurance he knew.

  Michaels, to the officer. “Keep an eye oan them.” He walked from the room.

  Peter stood in the doorway, uncertain. Tufts of dense black chest hair sprouted from behind the duvet. Panic drenched the tanned skin.

  Jas looked away.

  Voice from the bedroom. Michaels: “Anything in here?”

  Mutters of angry disappointment. Then: “Coupla used johnnies, but nothin’ else, sir.”

  “Bag them, and keep looking.”

  Resentful. “Ah’m no’ touchin’ them, sir, no’ even wi’ gloves ...”

  “Don’t show your ignorance, man!” Irritation. “Just bag them, and get them to the lab with the other stuff – oh, and make sure the SOCO boys dust the vodka bottle through there.” Turning.

  Jas stepped forward, stood beside Peter. “Kin he git dressed, noo? He’s goat nothin’ tae dae wi’ ...”

  “Maybe.” Michaels walked past Jas and Peter into the other room. To the WPC. “Take Mr McLaughlin into the bedroom, Eileen. Get his details.”

  “Jas ...?” Worried. At his side, Peter shivered.

  He knew the feeling. From years ago. Court appearances. Witness statements. Private matters aired for public gaze. Jas rubbed a hairy hand through padded fabric. “It’s okay. Don’t worry ...”

  Michaels again. “Now, Mr Anderson ...” As the moon-faced WPC ushered Peter through to the bedroom, DS Michaels closed the lounge door. He re-righted a moulded armchair and sat down.

  Jas stood.

  “James Anderson, I am arresting you for possession of a Class A drug and on suspicion of selling a Class A ...”

  “Ah’m no’ dealin’.” Mhairi’s distraught face floated before his eyes. He wondered vaguely if she knew one of her girls would be going short, tonight.

  Michaels continued the formalities. “Do you understand, Mr Anderson?”

  Jas frowned. “Ah’m no’ dealin’ an’ ah’ve never seen that stuff before the night.” The truth – of sorts.

  Sceptical eyes from his face to pocket. Notebook produced. “Possession of a Class A drug, plus an unusually large amount of cash can only be read a limited number of ways, Mr Anderson.” Cellophane-wrapped fifties fingered. “Give us your client’s name – if he can corroborate the source of this, that’ll be something.” Eyes to Jas.

  The source of a small, clingfilm-wrapped package swam in his head. He clenched his left fist.

  Nod to the bedroom. “Your ... friend’s?”

  Jas frowned. His mind cleared. “Where did ye get yer information?”

  Michaels stared at him. “That’s not your business, Mr Anderson.” Two cellophane packages replaced on the moulded sofa. “Do a little dealing on the side, to augment the income from your other business?”

  “No! Ah ...”

  “So tell me who gave you the £500.” Notebook flicked shut. Nod to the bedroom. “Or maybe I should talk to your friend ...”

  “Mhairi McGhee.” Jas closed his eyes: his problem. Peter’s fear-streaked face filled his mind.

  Pleased. “That’s better ...” Sounds of notebook re-opening. “... address?”

  Jas eased eyelids ajar. “Ah don’t huv it.”

  Michaels didn’t look convinced.

  It didn’t sound convincing.

  Radio fished from pocket. Switched on. Michael turned away.

  Low voice. “Can you do a PNC check on a ... Mhairi McGhee?” Jas rubbed his face. “Ah really huv nae idea whit her address is – she moves around a lot.” It sounded lamer by the minute. Pause. Crackles.

  Michaels listened. To the radio: “Thanks.” Turning back. Less convinced than ever. “So Mhairi McGhee was here last night?”

  “Aye, but ...”

  “And she gave you the £500?”

  “Aye, but let me finish ...”

  “Are you aware Ms McGhee has a string of convictions for drug misuse as long as your arm?”

  Jas rubbed at his shoulder.

  “You do a lot of business with junkies, Anderson?”

  Jas scowled. “She’s clean, noo.”

  Surprise. “You know her well?”

  He followed the implication. “Aye, but ...”

  Michaels talked through him. “You admit to an association with a known user; a quantity of a Class A drug has been found in your possession, plus five hundred pounds in cash ...”

  “Maist o’ ma clients pay cash – it’s that kinda business!” Michaels talked on. “We can do this the easy way, Anderson, or we can take Mr er McLaughlin into custody and ...”

  “No!” He rubbed his face. Mhairi – fuckin’ Mhairi!

 
The door opened. Overweight uniform clutching evidence bags in one hand. Behind, sounds of patient female then low, confused male voice.

  Michaels turned. Annoyed. “What is it, Bennett?”

  Scowl. “That’s us done, sir.” Staring at Jas. Nostrils wrinkling. “Fun’ this in the other wan’s jaicket.” Small, smoked-glass bottle produced from pocket.

  Fingers clicking, then hand out-stretched.

  Bennett placed the bottle in Michaels’ palm.

  Michaels unscrewed the top, sniffed, then moved back. Amyl nitrite fumes filled the room.

  Michaels replaced the top.

  Jas leant against the wall. “Poppers ur legal, when ah last looked!”

  Michaels ignored him, gave the bottle back. “Bag it. How’s Eileen doing with Mr McLaughlin?”

  Harsh laugh. “He’s greetin’ like a wee lassie, noo, sir!” Disgust. “Be wantin’ his mammy next.”

  “Whit’s goin’ oan through there?” Rage pulsed in temples. Jas pushed past them into the hall.

  A pair of strong arms gripped his, pulling him back. Stiff serge dragged on bare skin.

  Cool voice. “Let him go, Bennett!”

  Arms reluctantly disengaged.

  Jas walked through to the bedroom, scanned.

  Harsh overhead light. Wardrobe door open. Clothes covered the floor. Mattress askew, pillows slipless. The duvet’s cover had been removed. Several ragged slashes decorated the duvet itself.

  In front of the word processor a uniform was going through diskettes. Two others were smoking at the window. In a corner, on the ancient chair, Peter sat, head in hands. White Calvins, Paul Smith jacket around shoulders. Moonface was writing in a notebook.

  Cool voice behind. “Get those cigarettes out!”

  Jas picked up a pair of black jeans from the mess and moved towards Peter.

  The man looked up. Eyes swimming. Out of his depth.

  Jas handed him the jeans. Smiled. “Aw’ right?”

  Peter nodded, looked away.

  Jas turned to Michaels, right fist clenched. “He wisney here when Mhairi came roon’. He kens nothin’ – kin ye no’ see that? Let him go hame.”