Banged Up
Page 30
Asleep, Stevie looked younger, softer. Rage and frustration overcome by exhaustion.
Jas tied his lace.
He had lain awake, holding the man’s relaxed body, listening to the sounds that body made, smelling the fading odour of their sweat and spunk ...
... and pulling part of himself away.
Inside was one thing: outside was something else.
Too many questions he wanted to ask and knew Stevie couldn’t answer ...
... until he questioned himself.
Soft snuffling.
Jas watched the blanket-draped shape shift position.
Hairy arms reached for then gripped the soiled pillow, holding it tightly.
Dragging his eyes away, he looked around the cell. Wallet, keys and watch were in the office safe. Everything else he’d come in with had been traded or used up ...
He dropped to a crouch, reaching under the bed. Two packets of Bensons and Hedges. Fingers tightened. Jas stared at his biker’s jacket, draped over the bottom of the bunk.
... or loaned out. He straightened up, unwrapped cellophane from one of the packets and lit a cigarette, still staring at the heap of battered, well-worn leather. He had other jackets ...
Jas flicked his fourth cigarette end into the piss-pot and listened to another sizzle.
The door swung inwards.
He stepped forward.
White shirt/black tie.
No grey.
The Scottish Prisoner Service officer stared at him, then nodded, backing out onto the walkway.
Jas glanced at Stevie one last time, grabbed a towel and followed the officer out of the cell.
He showered alone.
He ate breakfast alone.
The white shirt/black tied presence of the SPS was visible everywhere. The grey was nowhere.
In reception. Brodie’s SPS counterpart silently returned wallet, keys and watch.
Jas signed for his possessions, ears tuning-in to the sounds of Barlinnie awakening.
His watch told him the time ...
6.45 a.m.
... his brain told him Strathclyde police and the SPA wanted him out of the prison as soon as possible.
For different reasons.
His presence had been a spanner in everyone’s works, from the start ...
... but spanners were tools.
Mhairi’s tool.
Ann’s tool ...
... everyone’s tool, used when it had suited.
Stevie’s tool?
His brain told him it was for the best. His heart told another story. Ushered into the empty visiting area, Jas sat down to wait.
He wondered vaguely where, in the vast labyrinth of the Bar-L’s boiler-rooms and furnaces, Paul McGhee’s remains were located.
He lit a cigarette.
Five cigarettes later, more keys. And radio-crackle.
He glanced up.
Four navy-coloured figures entered the room. Carrying hats.
“James Anderson?”
Jas stood up, nodded. The size of the police escort surprised him.
The appearance of a white shirt and a biker’s jacket behind the serge was a bigger surprise.
Stevie moved from beside the SPS escort and pushed his way forward, struggling out of worn leather. “Hey, Jas-man! Ye forgot yer ...” To the five men. “... geez a coupla minutes, eh?” Eyes flicking between uniforms. Jacket extended in explanation.
Mouth creased into a smile.
Stevie walked towards him: “They had ye oot quick this mornin’, eh?”
He edged back to a wall table.
The uniforms retreated to a far corner.
Between him and them, Stevie. Moving closer, voice lowered. Brown eyes glowing. “Ah saw Mr McLean – the governor? He gave me permission tae come an ...” Wanting to justify? Wanting to ...?
Jas looked away. He didn’t want this.
Throat clearing. “Listen, Jas-man ...” Fumbling for something to say. Falling back on actions.
A grip on his arm:
“... you take care, eh?”
Jas ran a hand roughly over the dark head. “You as well!” Fingers feeling the warmth of Stevie’s hair, the hand withdrawn. “Six months an’ you’ll be oot too.” He perched on a table.
“Aye ...” Stevie perched beside him. “... it’ll go fast, noo – ah’m really lookin’ forward tae seein’ Sam an’ Haley again ...” Frown. “... dunno if ah’ll huv a job to go back tae, though.”
He nodded, grasping for the veneer of easy camaraderie which would make this bearable. Not a skill he’d ever really acquired. Jas stood up. “Aye, well ...”
“Er ...” Fumbling in jeans pocket. A slip of paper extended. “... here.”
Jas took it, read it, then looked at Stevie.
“Gimme a ring, if ya like – that’s ma sister’s number. Dunno where ah’ll be stayin’, but she’ll ken how tae git holda me.”
He took out his wallet. Placing inside a number he knew he’d never call, he withdrew a business card and returned the gesture.
Business card: it seemed appropriate.
Last night they’d done the business ...
... if his instincts were accurate, Jas knew Stevie was – at best – on the first stage of a long journey. Maybe, on the outside, he’d eventually get around to paying men for access to their bodies or seeking out the domination services of women like Mhairi, safe in the knowledge it was just business ...
... their fingers brushed. Jas watched lowered brown eyes take in printed words.
A laugh. “Anderson Investigations, eh? Sounds impressive.”
Jas grinned. “It keeps me aff the streets.”
Grin returned. “An’ gets ye intae the jail!”
He maintained the grin, gazing into Stevie’s eyes. Behind the veneer, a flicker. Jas ignored it, then found himself pulled into a hug:
“Keep in touch, Jas-man! Aw’ the best!” Words against his face.
“Aye – you too!” Every muscle in his body hurt, the pain in his chest worst of all. “Come an’ see me if ye ever need a PI.”
Words against his ear:
“That bastard Dalgliesh’ll rot in hell fur ...”
“Seeya, Stevie!” He rubbed the broad back with a clenched fist, then pushed. “Okay, that’s me ready.” Jas strode towards the serge escort.
He didn’t look back.
Only outside, in icy November air, did he miss the biker’s jacket. But the cold helped in other ways.
Fingers in his hair. Tutting, then: “Ye’ve let it get affy long, Mr Anderson.”
Jas lifted his chin. Clyde FM squawked from a small radio, wedged between a tub of gel and an ancient Brylcreme ad.
Terry draped the worn nylon cover-all around him.
Jas leant back in the barber’s chair. “All the mair fur ye tae cut, eh?”
Hoarse laugh. “Still two-fifty, whether it’s doon tae yer ears or yer arse.”
“Gotta put they prices up, Terry ...”
Buzzing.
“... folk’ll be takin’ advantage of ye!”
Muffled hoarse laugh. His head tilted forward by a gnarled hand. The satisfying pressure of clippers on the back of his neck. “This wan’s on me, Mr Anderson.”
He’d never been so popular ...
... or given as many statements ...
Jas looked down at the dark blond hair snowing gently onto his nylon-covered lap.
... or gone as long without a visit to the barber’s.
For the three-month duration of the police investigation and the trial of Maxwell Fulton OBE, he’d been instructed to avoid contact with anyone who might prejudice the case against the power behind Hadrian Security Solutions ...
A hand flattening his ear.
... Terry was prejudicial, at the best of times – and the world’s worst gossip. Clipper blades followed the contours of his skull.
In Glasgow’s High Court, he’d watched the killed-for Epson PC dragged centre-stage, the contents of it
s hard drive projected onto a 6' x 6' screen. He’d given his testimony, then listened to ex-Officers Brodie, Fowler aka Pepperpot and finally Dalgleish trot out skin-saving platitudes.
It was amazing how fast the grey merged back into black-and-white.
No blue anywhere. Prisoners’ testimony wasn’t deemed reliable ...
Terry moved round to his left side.
... or necessary. Maxwell Fulton’s token five-year suspended sentence was icing on the cake ...
... as was the court case: Hadrian Security Solutions had lost all major contracts as soon as charges had been brought against Fulton. The company was now in financial difficulties ...
... a justice, of sorts.
“Ah’ll tell Billy ye wur askin’ after him, eh Mr Anderson?” Shouted over buzzing.
“Aye, dae that, Terry – he keepin’ okay?”
“Oh, he’s fine, Mr Anderson ... hated no’ workin’ an’ wiz affy glad tae git back on the job – pay rise tae, did ye hear?”
Jas nodded. His own business had been on hold for the past twelve weeks. DI McLeod had promised compensation from the Lord Advocate’s office would be forthcoming.
A justice, of sorts ...
... but he wouldn’t hold his breath. Buzzing then pressure against his right ear. Then words:
“Ah wiz sorry tae hear aboot that lassie’s brother. Mr Anderson. Terrible thing tae happen.”
More justice was at present in progress ...
His scalp shimmered under the efficient clippers.
... the trial of Ian Dalgleish.
When the police had dropped murder charges, allegedly due to insufficient evidence, Mhairi had picked up the gauntlet.
A private prosecution.
He wondered how much justice was costing her. He marvelled at her need for their sort of justice. Leaning back in his chair, he stared into Terry’s mid-section.
Every prisoner present on Barlinnie’s roof, four months ago, had been summonsed. In the wake of his own statement to the court, Graham Bell. David Hamilton, Neil Johnstone and other men he didn’t know gave corresponding low, solemn testimony to the words they’d heard from Ian Dalgleish’s own lips ...
No buzzing. “Sure ye want it all aff, Mr Anderson? Affy severe.”
... Jas had left the court room before one man he knew only too well was due to give his. “Aye, Terry ...” Fists tightened around the arms of the barber’s chair. “... ah want it aw’ aff.”
“Okay, it’s your heid!”
Buzzing.
The jury had already been out four days, on McGhee vs Dalgleish. Four mornings in a row he’d gone down to the High Court, sat in the witness room beside a sullen Mhairi. Chainsmoking Embassy Regal. Drinking watery coffee-machine coffee and weighing up possibilities.
The clippers tracked from the front of his head to the back.
Again.
Again.
And again.
Four days had been enough ...
“... ah’d lock ’im up an’ throw away the key, Mr Anderson!”
To give them their due, the police and Strathclyde’s Chief Pathologist’s office had cooperated fully with Mhairi’s legal team.
Remnants of charred flesh found in the furnace of Barlinnie’s boiler room had been identified as Paul McGhee’s left ear-lobe – initially on the basis of the distinctive tourmaline ear-stud soldered to blackened gristle. DNA had done the rest.
An ear and some ashes: not a lot to bury.
There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Paul McGhee had been unlawfully killed in HM Prison Barlinnie ...
... by person or persons unknown. Jas shifted position.
The roof-top confession had, predictably, been disallowed. Equally predictably, the confession with which Dalgleish had plea-bargained with Strathclyde police was also disallowed.
Mhairi ...
... a junkie whose only witnesses were classically unreliable. A junkie fighting for justice, for someone the court knew only as another junkie.
Terry removed the clipper-guard. Pressure on the back of his neck, mirroring pressure in his head ... in the dark place where he wanted it to stay.
“Think the lassie’ll win, Mr Anderson?” No buzzing.
“It could go eether way, Terry.” He closed his eyes. A soft brush flicked hair from his face. He flinched.
No ‘conspiracy to rape’ charges had been brought against Ian Dalgleish. Rape was difficult to prove ...
... but he had testified, along with three other inmates, to excessive brutality at the proxy hands of the ex-Hadrian officer, and sexual assault: every little helped.
Then he’d watched Neil Johnstone and Black Bill recount their own relationships with the dead McGhee. The latter spoke of Mhairi’s brother with a strange sort of affection. The former said as little as possible.
Jas wondered if Mhairi’s solicitor had deemed this the best course of action.
He’d watched the faces of the jury.
Eight men and seven women.
Mhairi had wanted an all-female jury: Scottish women were harder, less prone to sentimentality.
Jas had stared at the faces of eight men, watched their sympathy evaporate as the defence had raised the issue of homosexuality, with its implication of consent.
The prosecution objected strongly.
The judge ruled orientation irrelevant, ordered the jury to disregard the question.
But the seed of unreliability had been planted in the minds of eight insecure men. It grew enough to throw photographic evidence of his and others’ injuries into shade.
Clever barristers won every time. Tinny words crashed in on his thoughts. Jas opened his eyes.
Terry was fiddling with the volume control of the ancient radio ...
“... scenes of chaos outside the High Court in Glasgow, earlier today, as a verdict of Not Guilty was returned in the almost-unprecedented private prosecution of Ian Dalgleish, recently employed by the controversial Hadrian Security Solutions.”
The thumping in his ears obliterated the rest of the report. Jas ripped the nylon cover-all from around his neck and stood up. His guts pulsed.
No ...
An ancient, lined face stared at him.
No ...
Frown. “Ah’m sorry. Mr Anderson – it’s fuckin’ crime that lassie’s brother wiz ...”
“Seeya later, Terry ...” He thrust a hand into his pocket, pulled out a five-pound note and left it on his empty chair.
Surprise. “Mr Anderson – haud oan fur yer change!”
Jas grabbed his Levi jacket and walked from the barbers’ shop.
His own disappointment surprised him more.
No change ...
Nothing changed ...
... nothing anyone did ever changed anything. He should have taken illegal advice and thrown Dalgleish off Barlinnie’s roof, when he’d had the chance.
Pulling the collar of the jacket up round his ears, he walked through watery March sunshine towards home.
Home ...
Jas lit a cigarette.
The telephone rang.
He reached over, wrenched the plug from its socket. Staring at the TV, he allowed more information to wash over him.
Some good ...
Our Westminster correspondent reported three resignations within the Scottish Office, in the light of the Hadrian Cash-for-Contracts scandal, but no names. At Prime Minister’s Question Time, the Leader of the Opposition called for a thorough investigation into the feasibility of turning the running of more prisons over to private hands.
... mostly bad.
The stately walls of the House of Commons faded, replaced by mock-Grecian columns.
‘Chaos’ was an understatement. The pavement outside Glasgow’s High Court was a heaving, jostling mass of discontent.
Jas watched a microphone forced into a small rodent-face. Denied the padding of the Puffa jacket, David Hamilton looked smaller and even younger in cheap suit and tie. As Hamster fumbled his way through ina
rticulate dissatisfaction with the outcome of the trial, Jas’s eyes strayed over the background crowd.
He recognised Mhairi’s barrister, who looked embarrassed, and a middle-aged woman who looked confused.
A faceless voice-over identified her as Mrs McGhee, estranged mother of the deceased. It also informed viewers Ian Dalgleish had left earlier by a rear door.
Mhairi herself was nowhere in sight.
He aimed the remote and fired. Watching the screen snap into black, he thought about eating, then decided against it.
No appetite.
He thought about ringing Peter, who’d called at least eight times each week, since his release.
No appetite ...
The second HIV test was still two weeks away.
... for anything.
Buzzing.
Jas sighed. No longer merely identified as James Anderson, care of Stewart Street Police, he’d talked to four journalists already ...
More buzzing.
... and didn’t particularly feel like talking to any more. He aimed the remote, fired again and turned up the volume: they’d get bored before he did.
Pounding replaced buzzing. A harsh voice over the weather forecaster’s polished feminine tones:
“Jas? Come oan – lemme in!”
He dragged himself up from the too-soft sofa.
More pounding.
In the hall, pink artexing ripped his arm the way it always did. He half-smiled: nothing changed ...
... including Mhairi’s penchant for spontaneity. A frown covered the smile: maybe tonight they both needed company. He wrenched security-bolts back and opened the door.
“Ah see yer Feng Shui’s still away tae fuck.” She stared at the freezer then barged past into the lounge. “Whit time is it, Big Man?” He closed the door, glanced at his watch. “Nearly seven ...” He made his way back through to the lounge. “... look, ah ken things didn’t work oot fur us in court, but ...”
“Wiz talkin’ tae a mate o’ yours, the day.” Skinny arms clutching themselves for heat. “Fuck, it’s like Siberia in here!”
He looked at her.
“Steven – Stevie somethin’ ...” She grabbed the Levi from the sofa, threw it at him. “Come on: we’re goin’ oot fur a meal – ma treat.”
He caught the jacket and wanted to ask.
But didn’t.
Jas stared at Mhairi.