One Hundred And Twelve Days

by Ian Todd

“Ah made it clear that they didnae hiv any choice. Dae ye want a cup ae tea or something?” he’d asked, trying tae change the subject.

  “So, why did ye no say something tae me yesterday?”

  “Because ye wid’ve tried tae persuade me otherwise. Ah needed tae get oot,” he replied, as if that wis okay.

  “Ah spoke tae that Tony the other day there.”

  “Aye, he mentioned.”

  “Wur ye aware that he telt me that it widnae be wise fur us tae move in thegither until…until efter the trial.”

  Silence.

  “Is that still oan…us being thegither, Ah mean?” she’d asked. “Or hiv ye changed yer mind there as well?”

  “Of course Ah hivnae. Whit made ye ask that? He’s right aboot us no being seen tae be living thegither though. We’ll still hiv tae keep separate addresses.”

  “Bit we don’t hiv tae lead separate lives, dae we?” she’d asked, moving closer tae him, her heart yearning fur his touch.

  “Naw,” he’d croaked, visibly stiffening.

  “Ur you sure you’re awright, Johnboy?”

  “Aye, Ah jist said Ah am,” he’d replied, as she’d suddenly realised whit the hell wis wrang wae him, other than they horrible injuries ae his.

  He wis shy. Oh, my God, she’d wanted tae hug and kiss him so much. This wis the first time in years, in fact, probably their whole life, that they’d found themsels alone thegither, wae nae distractions and nowhere tae hide.

  “Ah love you, Johnboy,” she’d telt him, moving even closer tae him, clasping her hauns gently roond the back ae his neck and looking intae they sky blue eyes ae his, as she felt his body resist being this close tae her.

  She realised that it wid need tae be her tae be the wan tae take the lead.

  “Look, if Ah ask ye tae help me unbutton ma blouse, will you let me help ye wae yer shirt?”

  “Of course,” he’d replied huskily.

  “Where’s the bedroom?” she’d asked, as he fumbled momentarily wae the last ae her buttons and she gently slid his shirt away fae his naked shoulders, exposing the dressings covering the stab wounds a couple ae inches above his left nipple and shoulder.

  “Ye know whit, Senga? Ah hivnae a bloody clue. Through there, somewhere,” he’d replied, smiling, as they’d wrapped their erms roond each other, kissing passionately, as she felt his erection through the front ae his 501s.

  Efter that initial kiss, they’d practically torn the clothes aff ae each other, leaving a trail in their wake across the flair. They’d found the master bedroom at the second go, laughing, efter first opening the cupboard where the central heating tank wis located. She’d been surprised how quickly she’d climaxed, before settling doon tae an even rhythm. He’d been oan tap tae start wae. There hid been very little foreplay. Their passion fur each other hid been too strong and needy. Efter she’d dug her fingers intae the wound oan his back and he’d screamed oot in pain, she’d managed tae push him up and aff her before getting oan tap ae him. Her second orgasm hid been mair powerful than the first and hid caused her tae collapse oan tap ae him. Efter that, she’d leaned forward, her elbows oan either side ae his heid, as he’d thrust intae her, before she again collapsed oan tap ae him, the baith ae them climaxing thegither this time. They’d jist lain there, panting, wae her still oan tap ae him, him still inside her, no saying a word fur a few minutes, the whole ae her body tingling, before she reluctantly slid aff him, pulling the bed sheet o’er them as she went. It hid been the first time since she’d been a wean back in St David’s, that she felt they wur truly thegither in body, mind and soul. She’d need tae make an appointment wae her doctor. They hidnae used protection. It hid been so long since she’d been in the erms ae anywan. She’d need tae go oan the pill. She listened tae his breathing. He’d been through so much. Even noo, she still couldnae get her heid roond the fact that he’d been sentenced tae fourteen years fur a crime he hidnae committed. How hid he survived? Whitever Tony Gucci believed or wis scheming, she wis up fur the fight. She’d allowed Johnboy Taylor tae escape in the past, bit that wisnae gonnae happen this time. This time she’d be ready and wae a bit ae luck and determination, they’d move oan tae a better time and place that didnae include getting caught up in the boiling pot that wis Glesga.

  “Ur ye okay, darling?” she whispered quietly, smiling, gently placing the flat ae her right haun oan his chest, as his eyes fluttered ever so slightly, before focussing.

  “Aye, sorry, Ah must’ve dosed aff,” he apologised. “They said that Ah’d probably be pretty dozy fur a while…so nae change there,” he quickly added, as they baith chuckled.

  “Jist take yer time, Johnboy. We’ve goat aw the time in the world noo,” she whispered, trying tae stifle her pent-up emotion, as he turned roond tae face her, fingering the plaster oan his shoulder, before wincing.

  “Ah think the road will still be a wee bit rocky fur a while yet, Senga. Ah’m no stupid. The main thing is, don’t start hivving run-ins wae Tony. Confronting him is like waving a red rag tae a bull, so it is. He’ll jist react the only way he knows, like no taking any prisoners, so why waste energy fighting him? Leave that end tae me. The trial will be here soon enough. He’ll be aboot a lot…they aw will. You jist focus oan getting oan wae things meantime. It’s understandable that they’ll want tae be wae me. We’re pals. We’ve aw run aboot wae each other fur a long time noo. Ye’ve jist goat tae be patient…and ye hiv tae trust me. Things might no appear as ye want them tae be, bit we’re here, thegither.”

  “The main thing fur me…us, is that you’re oot ae the jail. Ye survived, despite the odds. Ah wis always fearful that Ah wis gonnae receive a phone call fae somewan like Fanny Flaw tae tell me that ye wur deid, knifed in the back, by some other prisoner. When Ah heard you’d been stabbed, Ah nearly died wae fright. Don’t ever dae that tae me again,” she chided him playfully, smiling. “Ah want away fae here, tae start somewhere fresh…the baith ae us, bit, only if you want that as well.”

  “Let’s get this trial oot ae the way, Senga. There’s time enough tae look at that,” he replied, as she fought tae keep the disappointment aff her face, until he lifted up his erm and drew her closer tae him, as she felt him stirring again. “See you and that perfume? Drives me bloody nuts, so it dis.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  “It’s Pearl, Mr McPhail,” Floret, The Morayshire News’s secretary whispered, efter furtively popping that heid ae hers roond the door, looking warily aboot, as if somewan, a man possibly, might be aboot tae jump oot fae behind a stack ae auld, back-issue newspapers and attack her.

  “So?”

  “So, she’s wanting to see you…chust now…this exact moment in time, sir.”

  “Tell her I’m busy, Floret. Look,” he grumbled, swishing that striped shirt sleeve ae his, whose cuffs wur being held up by whit looked like a pair ae stretchable metal watch straps above baith elbows.

  Floret dutifully glanced aboot the musty office at the stacks ae yellowing bundles ae past editions ae the newspaper that hid taken o’er the flair space and shelving in the nineteenth century office like some strange monolithic growth.

  “Er, she’s got bags with her,” Floret whispered in warning, still warily looking aboot, anticipating a hunk attack anytime soon.

  “Bags? What kind of bags?”

  “Travel bags, sir.”

  “Travel bags?”

  “Suitcases.”

  “Now, why in the world would Pearl want to bring suitcases to a meeting with me? Show her in, Floret…minus the suitcases,” he grumbled, as the cracked, green, tinted foreheid shade, that he’d pushed up fae the bridge ae that nose ae his tae above his grey bushy eyebrows slowly started tae make its way southwards.

  “You’ve chust…” Floret wis jist saying, as Pearl breezed past her intae the office before she could finish her sentence. “…To go in, Pearl, dear.”

  “Pearl! Take a seat,” The Editor greeted her fae behind the big, dark heavy wooden desk, laden wae auld editions, before
being distracted, grumbling away tae himsel, as he searched fur his pipe and Swan Vesta matches underneath a July nineteen sixty-two edition ae the paper, whose headline proclaimed that a full cattle truck ae sheep hid managed tae escape aff the back ae it oan tae the High Street, causing mayhem and carnage, in the form ae a traffic jam that took the local bobby’s hauf the morning tae clear. “Aha!” he exclaimed triumphantly, picking up the pipe and matches, admiring them.

  “Mr McPhail? Look, Ah’m sorry, bit Ah’ve goat a bus tae catch in exactly twenty-three minutes, so if Ah kin jist cut tae the chase and get oan wae whit Ah’ve come tae inform ye, it’ll save me a bit ae time,” Pearl said breathlessly, staunin there wae her erms folded, wondering where she wis supposed tae sit, feeling hersel getting aw flustered.

  “A bus? What bus, Pearl? More importantly, what’s the story, eh?” he asked, winking, his face and shoulders suddenly disappearing as if by magic behind a big cloud ae smoke, as she watched his erm and haun swishing a lighted match oot ae the left haun side ae it.

  “Whit’s the story? Ah’ll tell ye whit the story is. Tap Crime Reporter Dies Ae Boredom In The Line Ae Duty…that’s the story, Mr McPhail,” she harrumphed, haudin oot her hauns in front ae the editor, fingers curved in heidline fashion mode, as his face slowly reappeared back intae view like something oot ae an Outer Limits programme trailer.

  “Oh, Pearl…”

  “Naw, don’t ‘Oh, Pearl’ me, Mr McPhail. Ah fell fur that the last time. Ah’m sick ae aw this. Ah warned ye that if ma talents wurnae acknowledged and recognised, then Ah’d be shooting the craw, so Ah did. That wis two months ago and noo look whit ye’ve gone and done,” her eyes blazed under that shock ae red curly hair. “Ye’re time’s up, so it is.”

  “Why?” he asked innocently.

  “Ah’m still here, writing the same auld shite aboot Farmer Barber’s prize bull or Mrs Grumble’s cherry tart that she forces oan the readers every time she feels the local populace deserves last century’s finest recipe…again.”

  “So?”

  “So, whit happened tae ma sick sheep-shagger, eh?”

  “Oh, Pearl…”

  “Don’t ‘Oh, Pearl’ me, Mr McPhail. That’s twice Ah’ve exposed that manky auld bestial bugger and twice the paper hisnae run wae it.”

  “Yes, well…”

  “And that Reverend Hughes wan? The wan who’s goat a penchant fur humping anything wae a pulse? Three spinsters in their fifties hiv been put up the stick in the past six months and he’s still oot there wooing the drawers aff ae that pair ae poor widows, Miss Wisely and Miss Notchet. Surely, that kind ae behaviour isnae instilling Christian confidence amongst the younger members ae the congregation,” she challenged. “Everywan’s talking aboot it…apart fae us, that is.”

  “Ah, Reverend Hughes? Played rugger for Scotland, so he did. Scored a good few tries with thirteen caps in his time.”

  “Well, he clearly hisnae stoapped trying. And that Sheriff Molesty wan? Another dirty auld bast…”

  “Look, Pearl. I’ve told you repeatedly, this is a family newspaper, dear. People don’t want to be put off their breakfast on a Friday by sordid sex stories involving pillars of the community.”

  “They bloody well dae!” She snorted, plapping that wee arse ae hers doon oan tae a stack ae newspapers. “If they wur gied hauf the bloody chance tae find oot whit wis really gaun oan aboot here in Gotham City.”

  “Pearl, Pearl. Have you and Angus been having words again?”

  “Eh?”

  “He’s a farmer, Pearl…a son of the soil. Farming lads about here won’t tolerate feisty women who talk back.”

  “Whit the hell’s Angus goat tae dae wae anything?” she exclaimed, thrown slightly aff tack, no sure if she’d heard right.

  “A little sparrow informed me that you’d both had a falling out after he agreed to be a judge at the Miss Sexy Farmette Competition at the Miltonduff Gala back in August.”

  “Ah don’t bloody well believe this,” Pearl muttered in frustration, looking heavenwards beyond the dripping, broon nicotine stained patch oan the ceiling above his heid, before jumping up aff her newspaper stack and stomping across the office, yanking open the frosted glass door. “Floret, hiv you been gossiping aboot me and that sexist son ae yours again?”

  “Oh, er…”

  “Fur your information, Mr McPhail, it wis me that dumped that big, thick, plank ae wood. Noo,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Floret his informed me that no only is ma latest expose no getting oan the front page, bit it isnae even getting intae the paper. Wid that be right?”

  “I’ve told you. Exposing Lord Macbeth for being the supposed father of a scullery maid out in Forres Castle, isn’t what people want to read about over their porridge, Pearl. You should know that…you’ve been here in Elgin long enough. We don’t publish that kind of tittle-tattle.”

  “That tittle-tattle as you call it, is his third wan.”

  “What is?”

  “Snapper.”

  “Snapper?”

  “You know whit Ah’m oan aboot.”

  “Oh, a bairn? Well, scurrilous accusations could get the paper into hot water these days. Look at those hippie types with Oz.”

  “Eh?”

  “They went to prison for undermining the morals of the country. And rightly so,” he pontificated, scraping the inside ae his pipe bowl wae a spike fae the penknife that he came across in pursuit ae his matches a few minutes earlier.

  “It widnae be anything tae dae wae the fact that the auld randy basturt owns the paper, wid it?” she sneered accusingly.

  “Pearl! How could you insinuate that? Everyone knows The Morayshire News has editorial independence and won’t be influenced by anyone, including the owner.”

  “That randy auld goat snaked his haun up ma skirt within two minutes ae me being sent up there tae report oan that big, marauding, highland bull ae his, that hid been running rampant, the day efter Ah joined this rag,” she reminded him, back tae perching oan her yellowing paper stack.

  “Look, we’ll put you in charge of the town council committee page. How does that sound? I’m sure the cut and thrust of the political scene along in the Town Council chamber will get your investigative juices flowing.”

  “That sounds as much fun as sitting here listening tae aw the shite that ye’re trying tae palm me aff wae ye, so it dis. A bunch ae auld codgers debating fur maist ae the month as tae where tae put the flower pots in the High Street or whether the water pump in the fountain should be turned aff in the spring jist in case there’s a drought in the summer, isnae ma idea ae political journalism, so it isnae. And that auld boss ae mine’s thought she hid the crappiest job in the world? So, here’s ma notice, less ma holiday entitlements. Ah’m aff tae seek oot a real newspaper that’ll recognise they journalistic talents ae mine fur whit they’re truly worth before it’s too late,” she declared defiantly, staunin up, before skimming the broon envelope fae between they fingers ae hers across the desk at him, as he jist managed tae duck oot ae its whizzing trajectory.

  “Off? Off where?”

  “Back hame tae get a real journalist’s job,” she sneered.

  “But you can’t just walk out and…”

  “You jist watch me, Perry White. Ah’ve hid enough ae this shite.”

  “You won’t get a reference from Lord Macbeth, Pearl,” he warned her, looking o’er the rim ae they glasses ae his, while squinting aboot fur his pipe and Swan Vestas that he thought he held in his hauns a second or two ago.

  “You jist tell that randy auld cock that Ah said he kin stick his reference up his arse where it belongs,” she spat at him, aboot turning and stomping oot the office, as Floret nearly tripped o’er a pile ae stacked newspapers, as she scurried back tae her rickety auld desk.

  “Oh Pearl, what will I tell Angus?” Angus’s mother wailed, clearly in shock.

  “You jist mind and tell that son ae yours that he needs tae change they drawers ae his and take a bath mair than w
ance a fortnight.”

  And wae that, Pearl Campbell ended her three-year apprenticeship wae The Morayshire News, the Highland’s premier award-winning newspaper, before picking up her suitcases and disappearing oot in tae the bustling High Street ae Elgin, tae find fame as a real journalist back in the toon.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  “Snap!” Dave McGovern gleefully shouted, leaning across and picking up the pile ae cards.

  “How kin ye sit there ignoring the reality ae oor situation?” The Stalker wanted tae know, slumped oan his chair across oan the other side ae the room efter underlining Acts 3:19 in his wee red Gideon’s bible.

  “Because there ain’t a thing we kin dae aboot it. That’s why, Paddy. It’s in the hauns ae the lawyers noo,” Shane Priestly replied, as his partner in crime opposite him started shuffling the sticky cards, before dishing them oot.

  “Ah’m innocent.”

  “We’re aw innocent, Paddy,” McGovern reminded him.

  “Ah’m hoping fur a reduction in the charges…tae manslaughter,” Teddy Bare informed them. “That brief ae mine says there’s nae chance ae them pinning a murder rap oan me efter whit me and that wee boy ae mine hiv hid tae put up wae.”

  “And that’s good, is it?” The Stalker scoffed sarcastically.

  “Three years is better than life any day ae the week as you’ll soon find oot, Paddy.”

  “If ye manage tae survive.”

  “Whit’s that supposed tae mean?” Teddy Bare demanded tae know, as the other two joined him in looking across at the converted inspector.

  “Fur Christ’s sake, look aboot youse. Five minutes or five years, whit’s the difference? We’re aw gonnae die in here, so we ur. Hiv ye seen the way the screws come up tae that windae and jist stare in at us? We’re deid men walking, so we ur.”

  “Hiv youse pair any idea whit he’s prattling oan aboot?” Teddy asked the two sergeants.

  “Ah’m oan aboot you…us. That shite in that bowl ae soup wis jist a wee taste ae whit’s in store fur us, so it is.”

  “Is that meant tae be funny, Paddy?”