by Jack Dickson
He frowned: he had to ask. “Whit wis a meant tae find in that freezer?”
Eyes alight. “Ye looked? Wiz it like ah thought?” Eyes to the unconscious form. “Ah knew that bastard wiz as bent as fuck! Ah ...”
“Who’s bent, Stevie?” Words with a multitude of meanings fought in his brain. Jas stared at Stevie’s scarred, naked body, remembering an hour earlier ...
... Dalgleish’s implication and the reaction that implication had generated.
Amber eyes flicking to his. “There wur drugs in that freezer – right?”
Jas nodded. It wasn’t a lie. “... an’ a body.”
Colour drained from the angular face.
“Paul McGhee’s dead, Stevie – did you kill him?”
Horror. “Me? Whit ye – me?” Stunned silence, punctuated by rapid, shallow breathing.
Jas scowled. He was stupid to doubt Stevie: most of the man’s violence – whatever the cause – was directed inwards, at himself.
“Wee Paul’s deid?” Disbelief. “But why would ...?”
“Ah’ve nae proof o’ who killed him, or why, but ah ken who fuckin’ covered it up!”
Confusion on the pale face.
Jas talked – about the understanding between Ian Dalgleish and Paul McGhee ... about devils you knew and could work with ... about PCs and Hadrian and a company’s desperate attempts to be seen to be in charge ...
... but not about a Gorbals custody sergeant who had covered-up a green probationer’s stupid mistake. He stopped talking, stared.
Understanding condensed on the angular face.
Jas watched the expression change, the rage return:
“The fuckin’ ...!” Stevie lunged past him.
Preventing a second attack, Jas released Dalgleish’s head and grabbed bare shoulders.
The head lolled back against bare brick. Damp, deeper scarlet briefs saved the skull from more damage.
Spittle flew from Stevie’s lips onto ashen skin. “It wiz him!”
Jas stepped between his cell-mate and the prostrate form. “Whit wiz him?”
“He kent ye wur askin’ questions aboot wee Paul ...” Stevie’s eyes blazed. “... he let those guys in here! He organised yer rape – he’s goat mair tae lose than onywan if ony bodies ur fun’ aroon’ here!”
Jas stared.
... keep yer nose oota whit disney concern ye ...
Something twisted in his guts.
“Lemme finish the bastard aff! Lemme ...!”
“No!” The word came from somewhere other than his guts. He pushed Stevie back, turned.
Two ex-polis.
One fence.
Two sides ...
... a chess player who knew how to use his knights. And sacrifice his pawns for greater victories.
Jas glanced at the half-open door into darkness, then down at the semi-conscious form of Officer Dalgleish. The sound of Stevie’s breathing throbbed in his ears, over low moans from the floor. He nudged Dalgleish with the toe of a boot.
A groan ...
... and rattling.
Crouching, he slipped a hand into the right-hand pocket of badly fitting grey trousers.
Metal.
Over lolling protests, Jas removed a large set of keys. Staring at the slumped, helpless man, he found himself laughing. “Will ah open a coupla cell doors, Mr Dalgleish – see whit creeps oot?” Last night’s powerlessness scythed through his mind..
Stevie moved closer.
Reason cut through. “Ye don’t touch him, right?” He kicked Dalgleish again. “Naebody touches him ...” Eyes flicked over shoulder, met brown, smouldering embers. Power carried certain ... responsibilities.
Slow nod. “If ye say so, Jas-man.”
He threw the keys into the air, caught them one-handed.
A spluttering flicker. Then darkness.
The black cleared his mind.
Hadrian handled security inside Barlinnie. Beyond Hadrian’s walls was a different matter.
In the gloom, piss and warm blood singed his nostrils. Jas hauled the man to his feet.
Dalgleish was heavy in semi-stupor.
Jas slapped the squat face once. Then twice. “Ah trusted you.” Low words:
“Ah didney ken onythin’ aboot any ... rape. They were ainly meant tae rough ye up. Ye were rockin’ the boat ...” Fear, badly hidden.
Voice from behind. “Fuck him over, Jas-man – or gie him tae the poz guys in F-Hall!”
Jas shivered and thought of his own possible fate. Fist tightened around a handful of grey. “Wid ye like that, Dalgleish?”
The fear flowed freely now.
Behind, Stevie fed on it ...
... six blocks of abused men would gorge themselves on it, given the chance.
“Fur pity’s sake, man ...” Babbling. “... onythin’ ye want – jist name it. Onythin’!”
Jas shook Dalgleish. “Ye really wanna ken whit ah want? Ye really need tae ask?”
A tremble swept the body in his grip. The response felt rather than seen.
Jas pulled the quivering Dalgleish-shape closer. His voice was low. “Did Neil Johnstone kill Paul McGhee, cos he thought his cunt wis grassin’ tae you?”
Dalgleish coughed, shook his head. Denial or an attempt to clear it? Behind:
“You’re deid, ya fucker!”
“Shut it, Stevie!” Jas scowled.
At his feet, Dalgleish coughed again. The man was losing consciousness.
Another cover-up pushed itself to the front of his brain, distracting the primal need for mindless revenge. “But he wis wrang – cos your only interest in McGhee wis a fuckin’ computer.” Jas leant down, slapped the lolling face. “Whit’s on the hard drive o’ that PC?”
Nothing.
He slapped again, harder.
Choking sounds. “Copies o’ letters fae Maxwell Fulton tae the Scottish Office ...”
“Whit else?” Letters could be explained away, faked, denied.
Bloody snot dripped onto trembling lips. “Records o’ transactions. Statements o’ the payments ...”
Jas gripped grey shoulders.
A cough. “Maxwell Fulton bought the prison contracts ...”
Bingo! Bribery was a prosecutable offence; financial details couldn’t be argued with. “Ken whit ah want noo, Dalgleish?”
Snuffling.
Jas released the shoulders. “Ah want this wee speech tae huv a bigger audience!”
Dalgleish slumped against him. More coughing. “Get me tae a doctor! Please ...”
He frowned.
“Who cares aboot PCs?” Disappointment behind. “Ye’re wasting yer time, Jas-man. Fuck him over – fur whit he did tae you an’ all the other poor bastards ...”
Dalgleish’s breath on his face.
Power was nothing ...
... without control. Jas sank to a crouch, slung Dalgleish over his left shoulder and stood up.
“Ye’re mad – where ya gonny take him? In case ye huvney noticed, there’s a riot goin’ oan oot there. Ye’ll be in solitary afore ye can tell ’em onythin’!
Jas focused on sceptical brown eyes. He’d forgotten where he was ...
... what he was. The word of a prisoner against the word of a screw.
The keys were heavy in his hands ...
... then sudden lightness. “Oi!”
The back of the biker’s jacket and his passport to the control room disappeared out of the cell and merged into blackness.
“Stevie!”
No response ... no sound ...
... then metal on metal ... metal in metal ... and low voices.
He had to get Dalgleish out. Alive. Jas scowled: at the end of every corridor, CCTV cameras. With or without keys, if he could get the man down three flights of stairs and ...
Twenty-Three
MOVEMENT WAS DIFFICULT ENOUGH. He sloughed the semi-conscious form from his shoulders and pushed.
Dalgleish stumbled.
Jas grabbed a wrist, twisted.
&nb
sp; A yell of surprise.
He wrenched the grey-clad arm further up the grey-clad back.
A hiss of pain from between grey-sounding lips.
Somewhere ahead, laughter. “Hey, boays?” A shout to no-one in particular and everyone in general. “Guess whit the Jas-man’s got oot here?”
The sentence resounded against rows of locked doors.
In front, Dalgleish flinched.
Jas paused.
This wasn’t about tit for tat.
This wasn’t about settling old scores and grudges.
He pushed the trembling body forward, quickened his pace.
Ahead, the scraping of metal on metal, keys gripped in fingers unused to control, keys in locks. Another key ...
... unlocking another cell. His own fingers tightened around Dalgleish’s wrist.
Tightened, and raised.
A scream split the dark.
Jas felt bone shift. Dislocated, not broken. But painful nonetheless. Enough to keep the man conscious – for both their sakes.
Dalgleish was whimpering now, staggering.
Jas pushed on.
Behind, the whispered spread of information.
Pupils expanding in the gloom, he stared ahead at the outline of stairs which led to landings above and below.
The noise behind grew in strength. Stevie worked quickly and efficiently, opening doors, opening more than doors.
Jas shoved the bulky body hard against the metal railing and turned. And watched.
Movement in the dark. Furtive. Like rats scurrying from traps, unexpectedly free. Random, disoriented ...
B-Hall flooded with light.
... but not disorganised. Jas frowned down the walkway.
Stevie stood at the opposite end, fist clamped around the main security light switch.
His cell-mate’s eyes glowed copper. Jas heaved Dalgleish upright, spun him round.
The man’s face was a mask of blood and bruises.
He glared into pinpricked pupils. “Stay with it ...” His voice was hardly audible.
Head lowered. Muttering. “Ma wrist ... ma fuckin’ wrist – ye’ve broken ma ...”
“... don’t pass oot oan me ...” Voice lower still.
Muttering into formless mumbles.
Jas wedged an index finger between two displaced bones.
“Okay!” Screamed more than said.
Whirring above his head. Jas looked up.
A red, electronic eye slowly swept the area.
He pushed his burden closer to the CCTV camera’s blinking lens and held him there. Over the man’s shaking shoulder, floors below, he could see more denim swarming from behind open cell doors ...
This wasn’t about tit for tat.
This was about corruption, cover-ups and drug deals.
... out for blood was an understatement. And getting to the control room by that route was now out of the question.
“Please ...” Ragged whisper.
Jas lowered his face.
“... please – they’ll kill me.”
“Why did ye cover up the death o’ a prisoner? Why did ye no’ report Paul McGhee’s murder? Easier to keep his body here than risk fuckin’ up Hadrian’s precious public image?”
“... you an’ me, we can work somethin’ oot if ...”
“Oh, we’re gonny work somethin’ oot ...” Jas clenched his fists.
If he couldn’t get to the control room, the control room could come to him. He gripped piss-soaked hair, hauling the broad face back. “... but first, we gotta make sure yer mates get yer guid side!” He held the head directly in front of the red eye. “Aye?”
A howled assent.
He waited for the electronically controlled gate to open.
Around them, the noise of more cells unlocking, the sound of more voices.
And waited. He watched the group of semi-denimed men inching along the walkway towards them, then flicked his gaze back to the red eye. A shiver of irritation grew to a throb in his fists. Jas frowned.
Remaining here wasn’t an option: Hadrian weren’t about to open gates when a riot was in progress.
Down was no longer an option, for similar reasons.
Jas looked up, stared at a small metal door then scanned the walkways. Eyes zeroed in on a pair of broad shoulders in a familiar biker’s jacket. “Geez the fuckin’ keys, Stevie!” The shout only just audible over the growing sounds of cell-destruction.
Head cocked. Stevie followed his gaze to the door on the landing above. Metal hurled through the air.
Jas caught the keys. The sound of pounding footsteps. Then a breathless voice at his side:
“C’mon, then.”
Jas shook his head at Stevie. “This is between me ...” A flick of his fingers.
A low moan, this time.
“... an’ him!” Keys wrenched from his fingers. Jas made a grab for them.
Adrenalin gave his cell-mate speed. Half way up the metal stairs, Stevie turned. “C’mon, Jas-man!” Stevie quickly unlocked the small door, then tossed the bunch of keys into the air.
They landed in the middle of the suicide net.
From each side of the walkway, a denimed figure threw itself onto reinforced nylon mesh and struggled towards the prize. Behind, low angry words:
“Bastard – ye’re gonny fuckin’ pay fur ... c’mere, ya ...”
Jas heaved Dalgleish upright, hauled him away from the approaching mob and towards the stairs.
Barlinnie Standard Time had suddenly sprouted wings. Everything was moving too fast ...
... and not fast enough.
In five seconds they were on the upper landing.
In what seemed like hours, they were through the door, and back into blackness.
Jas pushed Dalgleish towards Stevie’s urgent voice.
Less dark.
But icy coldness.
And near-silence. From the roof of B-Hall, Jas gazed up at the November sky, then flicked his eyes to the glittering sparkles which outlined Riddrie.
“Great view, eh?” Stevie crouched at his side, biker’s jacket zipped against night frost.
Sub-zero air erected every hair on his bare chest. Jas glanced to where Ian Dalgleish crouched, silently nursing an injured wrist. “This wan’s better.”
The man had shrunk in stature. The uniform seemed to hang on him, something he could no longer fill.
A low laugh from Stevie.
He watched huddled Hadrian grey try to blend in with roof slate-grey ...
... and succeed all too easily.
Jas frowned: visibility was all. The police – or the army – would take control soon.
After pushing Dalgleish through the small skylight in Barlinnie’s roof, he’d wedged it shut. A dead Dalgleish was no good to him ...
... but this needed visibility. He glanced at Stevie. “Got a light?”
Curious smile. “Funny time fur a fag, Jas-man.” Hands patting the biker’s jacket, nonetheless. Pause. Something located, withdrawn. Fingers extended.
Jas took the complimentary matchbook.
Stevie was still fumbling. A laugh. “Nae ciggies ...” Something else withdrawn. “... unless ye wanna smoke this?”
He stared at the unopened, unread Rule Book Officer Brodie had ceremoniously given him, on his first day.
It seemed appropriate. Jas aimed a foot at the Dalgleish-shape.
Gasp of panic, then howl of pain as one good and one not-so-good wrist tried to snatch purchase on frosted slate tiles.
Stevie caught Dalgleish by the collar, hauled him back up the sloping roof.
Staring into the night, Jas searched for the snake of blue-white lights which should be making its way from Blackhill Police station.
Nothing.
He waited, shivering.
More nothing.
Jas frowned along Smithycroft Road, towards the patch of unlit ground which was Barlinnie’s car park.
Nothing ...
He narrowed his eyes: would Hadr
ian be stupid enough to try to handle the riot themselves?
... then a red glow. Looked like a brazier.
The SPA’s unofficial picket-line.
Drawing cold night air into his lungs, Jas yelled.
His voice evaporated into darkness.
He shouted again.
Another voice joined his.
Jas struck a match, igniting the first page of Hadrian’s rulebook.
The cheap paper caught easily, burned brightly. He hurled the flaming booklet from singeing fingers, watched it fall inside Barlinnie’s walls like a shooting star.
His wish was silent. Jas glanced from Stevie’s impassive features to the distant, glowing brazier. His skin glowed in unison as the low temperature seeped through into his bones, stemming the warming effect of adrenalin.
Nothing.
More nothing.
Wind whipped around his shoulders. From below, in B-Hall, distant rumbles.
Then through the night, low shouting. Voices audible ... distant voices:
“Whit’s goin’ on up there? Whit ye ...?”
“Get the polis!” Jas cupped freezing hands around his mouth. “Ah’ve got a hostage up here an’ ah wanna talk tae the polis!” Reached down, he grabbed a shoulder, pulling the slumped figure to his feet.
The man was heavy.
Jas propped him up, felt Stevie do likewise.
Shouted words drifted through the night, followed by the weak beam of a torch. “Go back inside, son, ye ...”
“Don’t ye believe me, pal?” Jas gripped Dalgleish’s arm.
A howl of agony. “Dae as he sez!” The baritone trembled.
“Jist phone the polis, pal ...” Something occurred to him. “... an’ ask fur DI McLeod. London Road!”
Silence. Thoughtful silence.
Jas pulled his gaze from Dalgleish to Stevie. “Get back tae yer cell – this is nothin’ tae dae wi’ you!”
Scowl. To a heap of Hadrian-grey and back again.
Jas mirrored the expression. “Want yer sentence increased? Cos that’s whit’ll happen if you – or onywan else – lays a finger oan him!” Jas wondered if common sense stood any chance against Stevie’s palpable hatred of the third man on the roof.
The scowl flickered.
“Do it!” Stevie’s eyes bored into his.
Jas held the stare, then watched the back of a leather jacket move over the roof as Stevie clambered reluctantly back towards the small skylight.
