by Ian Todd
She wondered how her cat, Mr Hopkins wis faring…better than her, nae doubt, she telt hersel, as Cleft Lip’s face suddenly appeared up through the flair at the other end ae the room again.
“Sorry tae interrupt ye, sir, bit Ah thought ye’d like tae know. Upstairs his jist released a statement announcing that Superintendent Bower, the Heid ae Traffic, his been arrested in connection wae that Silver Arrow bloke.”
“Ye’re bloody-well kidding me, so ye ur!” The Chief Inspector exclaimed, looking stunned, as The Sarge let oot a gargled, “Whit?”
“Seemingly they’ve found the racing car, or at least, parts ae it, in a garage he owns somewhere oot in the back ae beyond in Lenzie. This place is in a bloody uproar so it is. Youse ur probably better aff, up here in the dark, insteid ae doon there in amongst the fireworks. The pavement in front ae the building his been taken o’er and we’re under siege fae the T.V. crews, so we ur. Everywan’s demanding Jack Tipple’s heid oan a pole.”
“Everywan?” The Sarge asked.
“The press.”
“Surely they widnae get shot ae the assistant chief constable, fur Christ’s sake! He’s the only sensible wan running this asylum, so he is. If he goes, anarchy will reign, so it will,” The Sarge warned nowan in particular.
Silence.
“Look, let’s aw relax…calm doon a wee bit, eh?” The Chief Inspector soothed unconvincingly, tossing his fag packet across tae Collette again efter The Turnkey hid disappeared. “We’ve goat this place tae oorsels…aw night, if need be. It disnae sound too inviting doon there jist noo, so it disnae,” he said wae a flick ae his manicured haun towards the stairs. “Why don’t ye jist start fae the beginning, Collette, keeping in mind that there ur hard-earned, professional reputations and innocent families’ lives at stake here. Why don’t ye jist start fae where ye feel maist comfortable, eh?”
Where she felt the maist comfortable? She’d never felt comfortable wae her situation…at least, no efter making that first mistake and stupidly falling fur the gab ae a professional snake charmer. She now knew that she hidnae stood a chance and that whit hid befallen her, hid aw been planned well beforehaun by a bunch ae sadistic, perverted basturts. She looked at the serpent through the blue swirling cloud ae tobacco smoke, floating aimlessly roond aboot them. The three huddled dark shadows, magnified high up against the wall opposite them fae the lamp oan the table, took that mind ae hers back tae ‘Dragnet’. She’d always believed that whit she’d been watching wis fur real. That hid been wan ae the reasons why she’d wanted tae become a bizzy in Glesga’s finest in the first place, jist like that da ae hers. She’d always wanted tae be part ae that scene oan the telly. She felt physically sick. She wanted tae jist let go and allow hersel tae burst oot greeting and gie in tae the choking fear that wis starting tae tighten aroond that throat ae hers. She knew fine well that she wis emotionally struggling noo, fighting a losing battle tae keep her composure intact. It wis the accusing eyes ae The Sarge, drilling straight through her that wis upsetting her the maist. She’d awready accepted there wid be nae escape fur her, at least fur the time being, tae get up aff ae the chair that they’d hid her roosting oan fur the past two, or wis it three hours? She’d jist spotted the pair ae hauncuffs that hid been oan her wrists earlier, hinging fae the waistband ae The Sarge’s troosers as she loosened her jaicket tae get mair comfortable. Oh my God. WPC Collette James…her…badge number 3742, wis a bloody prisoner under arrest by her ain colleagues. Whit the hell wis keeping Portoy? Wid he turn up fur the likes ae somewan like her, she wondered again. Hid she jist gone and stupidly made the biggest mistake ae her life, through whit? Jealousy? How could she hiv ended up anchored oan the wrang side ae the desk separating her fae them? That wisnae whit wis supposed tae hiv happened. How the hell hid it come tae this? Wan minute she’d been finishing the night shift and then the next? She shook her heid in disbelief, attempting tae dislodge the creeping doubt before it stuck, taking another look across the scratched, varnished, table top at her nemesis. The disgust being displayed fae the eyes in amongst they crows’ feet, glaring at her, wur still jist as intense and angry as they’d been the last time she’d looked deep in tae them back in March, the day The Sarge hid gied her her marching orders, in front ae Superintendent Daddy Jackson himsel. She knew that she wis weakening due tae the lack ae sleep. She could feel that heid and spirits ae hers starting tae dip and tumble, despite fighting tae appear calm, refusing tae gie hersel up as some sacrificial lamb under the baleful eyes ae The Chief Inspector, sitting there smoking, no saying a word, watching her, watching them, allowing the two wummin tae take the field. Could she hing oan? Where the hell wis Graham Portoy? According tae everywan, he wis the best. It wis hard tae challenge that wan. There wis hardly a day passed when his name wisnae being cursed silly in the canteen ae Central or Possil. She wis convinced that he wis her only hope, despite the assurances ae some strange superintendent, wae an even stranger accent, who’d appeared oot ae nowhere. Her guardian angel, she’d promised. Hid she jist imagined it? Where wis she? If Portoy refused tae take her oan, she wis convinced that she’d be hung oot tae dry, despite an imaginary guardian angel somewhere in the background. So, where the hell wis he then, and whit wis it that wis so important up at The Royal and roond at The Sheriff Court? She knew fine well that it hid something tae dae wae The Stalker, bit surely aw the chaos, as reported by The Turnkey, wisnae aw doon tae the contents ae a wee poxy pocket notebook belonging tae a corrupt, psychotic inspector? Keep the heid, Collette. Stay focussed, hen. You kin dae it, she kept telling hersel o’er and o’er again, like some mythical mantra, unconvincingly this time…knowing fine well that she wis flagging. Try and breathe evenly. Don’t let these pair ae basturts opposite ye grind ye in tae submission. This is jist them playing oot their pre-planned tactic ae wearing ye doon, she muttered under her breath fur the umpteenth time. Oh ma God, somewan help me…anywan…Duggie, she bawled inside, keeping her face straight, terrified ae whit wis gonnae happen next. Why the hell hid she no jist kept her heid doon and accepted how things wur and always hid been? Why hid she no listened tae her best pal Lesley? Oh my God, whit hid she gone and done? It wis too late, much too late…the damage hid awready been done. The dugs wur aff their leashes and it hid been her that hid set them loose. She glanced aboot the dark room again, feeling their eyes piercing intae the side ae her face. There wis nae escape in sight. She wondered whit she wis supposed tae dae wae her hauns, as she clasped and unclasped they fingers ae hers? Suddenly, oot ae the blue, the poor wee moth that they’d aw been ignoring, seemed tae hiv recognised a fellow traveller, wallowing aboot doon there in Shite Street and decided tae come tae her rescue, briefly gieing her an injection ae much needed hope, efter it hid appeared tae hiv gied up the ghost itsel. It aw happened in the twitch ae an eye. The pair in front ae her suddenly averted they accusing eyes ae theirs away fae hers tae focus oan the life or death dance taking place oan the desk in front ae them. The poor wee thing hid aw ae a sudden drapped like a stane fae under the lampshade, oan tae the scratched and scuffed surface ae the desk. Her two tormentors appeared irritated at the interruption initially, bit then, like her, hid succumbed, transfixed, staring at it, as if frozen in time. Nowan seemed tae breathe. It jist lay there, quietly at first, flat oan its back, its dirty straw-coloured undercarriage fully exposed noo, looking like the cracked palm ae the snake-oil charmer’s haun, who’d wance tried tae flog her da a wee bottle ae snake oil doon at The Barras wan Sunday efternoon when she’d been a wee wean. He’d claimed it wid cure everything fae lumbago tae piles. The wee moth occasionally flicked wan ae its patterned wings or legs every noo and again, reminding them that it wisnae gone jist yet, before it suddenly started struggling tae pick itsel up tae hiv wan last go at trying tae reach Nirvana, in the glow ae the light bulb, above where it lay. She still silently urged it tae get back up efter her composure finally cracked, accepting the inevitable tears, that at last, began tae seep through her false eyelashes and trickle doon they
lightly powder-coated cheeks ae hers.
“C’mone, Collette, fae the beginning, hen. Jist let it go…ye know that’s whit ye want tae dae,” The Snake Charmer hissed quietly, murmuring hypnotically this time, suddenly stretching that haun ae his across the table between her and The Sarge, as if in slow-motion, while the wee moth, sensing the imminent danger, started tae flutter its wings, furiously this time, as he expertly picked up the wee struggling thing by folding its wings backwards between his thumb and forefinger, before discarding it, much the same as he’d done wae her, doon oan tae the worn, broon lino-covered flair between himsel and Detective Sergeant Sally Burke.
“No, wait…” she cried oot, throwing hersel forward in her chair, as the leather sole ae The Sarge’s black patent shoe, quickly crackled it underfoot, snuffing its light oot furever.
“Life,” The Sarge philosophised, sighing, wae another shrug ae they padded, false shoulders ae hers, the hint ae a wee plastic, apologetic smile, appearing at the side ae they lipstick covered lips. “Wan minute ye kin be sitting there chewing the fat…and then the next?” she continued, cocking her right eyebrow and spreading her hauns apart in mock acceptance, her voice left hinging in the air between them, as she stretched her right haun across tae within six inches in front ae the prisoner’s face and snapped her nicotine-stained fingers loudly, smashing whit wis left ae WPC Collette James’s senses in tae a thousand, shattered pieces.
“Fae the beginning…” Collette murmured quietly tae hersel, her spirits at long-last crash-landing, her voice echoing somewhere in the back ae that heid ae hers, aware ae the strange sensation ae falling, while at the same time, drifting back oan tae her chair in slow motion, allowing her thoughts tae drift back tae that day in early June when she’d been informed by Inspector Duggie Dougan that she’d be moving oan again, only this time, away oot tae the back ae beyond, tae a Corporation tip called Yoker.
Chapter Two
“Noo, remember whit we agreed, Sharon,” Soiled Sally hid warned her through gritted teeth, reminding her co-accused ae whit they’d discussed earlier that morning, as the big wooden doors ae Cornton Vale’s Wummin’s Prison clattered shut behind them, followed by the sound ae sliding bolts thudding intae place and the rattle ae jangling keys celebrating the start ae a new dawn.
“Bit...”
“Nae bit, bits, Sharon Campbell…c’mone noo, hen. Let’s get gaun doon that long and winding road. Everywan will be waiting fur us at hame, so they will,” Soiled Sally hid insisted adamantly, fear evident in that voice ae hers, alarmed at the hesitation and defiance suddenly being displayed across the heavily pan-sticked coupon in front ae her.
“Wis that no the words ae some Beatles’ song?”
“Never you mind that. We’ve goat a journey and a hauf in front ae us, so we hiv.”
“Bit…” Sharon repeated, hesitating, looking between Soiled Sally and the scowling, hauf hidden face, peering oot at the pair ae them fae the wee square, mesh-slotted windae that hid been built in tae the middle ae the big wooden door, as she clearly played fur time, weighing up the risks, before a defiant smile spread across that face ae hers, hivving come tae a decision.
“Aw Christ, naw, Sharon, ya bloody selfish whore, ye!” Soiled Sally hid wailed in horror, before aboot turning and launching intae whit could only be described, should anywan hiv witnessed it, as a pathetic attempt by a big panic-stricken heifer ae a wummin, who wis desperate tae put a bit ae mileage between her and the mad basturt she’d jist been liberated oot ae the jail wae, a minute or so earlier.
“Fooled youse, ya bloody bunch ae haufwit basturts! There’s nae Stepford Wives fae where Ah come fae, ha ha!” Sharon hid hooted at the contorted face in the wee square hole in the door, gieing the two fingered salute wae baith hauns before turning and flashing that knickerless bare arse ae hers at the gates, before running tae catch up wae Soiled Sally, who’d yelped in panic, efter hearing the grating bolts oan the other side ae the big wooden doors being loudly slotted back.
“So, whit’s a Stretford Wife, when she’s at hame crocheting then?” Ann Jackson wanted tae know, bringing her back tae the here and noo.
“Eh?” Sharon asked, startled oot ae her reverie, wondering where the hell she wis, no realising her mind hid wandered back tae ootside the wummin’s nick in Stirling three months earlier.
“Sally wis jist telling us aboot ye staunin there howling like a wummin possessed, gieing her a showing up, ootside the prison gates oan the morning youse wur released, so she wis,” Issie reminded her, as she slapped a big chilled ox tongue doon oan tae the plate sitting oan the table in front ae them.
“Aye, brave as fuck, so she wis. How Ah never hid a heart attack oan that lonely road fae hell, Ah’ll never know,” Soiled Sally scowled. “She widnae hiv been so bloody cocky if they’d quickly nipped oot and goat a grip ae that bare arse ae hers and dragged her fanny back inside. That wid’ve tobered her up, so it wid’ve,” Sally laughed affectionately, leaning across the table tae wipe a wee melting splurge ae glistening margarine aff ae the side ae Sharon’s cheek.
“Well, wan thing’s fur certain. Ah wid’ve been oan ma lonesome if the cloud ae dust that choked me, caused by a big fat arse hightailing it doon that drive tae the bus stoap, wis anything tae go by,” Sharon quipped, as aw the margarine spreaders roond the table cackled amongst themsels.
“Aye, bit whit’s a Stretford wife then?” Ann Jackson persisted, a razor-sharp knife poised in wan haun and a thin sliver ae tongue in the other, hovering above the two upturned Stork-covered slices ae well-fired, plain Mother’s Pride breid oan the table in front ae her.
“It’s Stepford, Ann,” Sharon corrected her. “Any ae youse geniuses want tae hiv a stab at it?” Sharon asked them, pausing, looking roond the table.
Everywan smiled. Despite promises ae being mair organised, the quizzes wur never planned. They aw jist seemed tae stumble intae them. The nearest they’d ever come tae anything remotely organised oan that front hid been when Betty Smith hid turned up wae a quiz book that that glaikit man ae hers, Stan The Man, hid picked up oan his travels, two mornings in a trot, before leaving it at hame oan the third day. Poor Betty hid nose-dived intae the huff ae the month efter naebody hid nominated her tae become the official quizmaster, despite her hints becoming so blatant that Issie McManus hid decided that enough wis enough.
“Betty, hen, there’s nothing mair painful than putting yer best pals in an embarrassing, awkward position, efter spending two days trying tae convince them tae agree tae something that they clearly jist don’t want tae, so there’s no.”
“Ye whit?” Betty hid retorted, aw Joan ae Arc-like, as everywan cringed in horror, praying that Betty wisnae gonnae make a song and dance oot ae it.
“Ye heard me…Bamber,” Issie hid harrumphed, as Betty suddenly changed the subject, turning tae ask everywan if they’d watched that week’s The Good Life, wae Mrs goody-two-shoes hersel, Felicity Kendell, and that boring fart ae a man ae hers, Richard Briers, the night before.
“Ah know,” Ann shouted oot, triumphantly. “She’s wan ae the wives ae that auld randy basturt ae a king, whit wis his name…Henry…aye, Henry. The wan that kept bumping them aw aff efter he couldnae stick them up the duff, the frigging pig.”
“Shakespeare. That’s who we’re talking aboot. Ah cannae remember that first name ae hers noo, bit it’s definitely Mrs Shakespeare something,” Betty declared knowingly.
“Juliet…married some Tally wan called Romeo…that’s who ye’re looking fur.”
“Hmm, somehow Ah don’t think so.”
“She said wives, Betty. How many wives did this Shakespeare wan hiv, eh? And who’s he, anyway? Ah’ve never heard ae him...hiv any ae youse?” Issie asked the faces roond the table.
“He wis a poet like that Pam Ayers wan.”
“Ah quite like her, so Ah dae.”
“The Stepford Wives is a book by some clever wummin called…called…whitever,” Sharon said, jumping in before the conversation ended up
across in Partick. “Anyhow, Ah read it when Ah wis in the clink. Ah goat it fae Geraldine Baker, who’d jist been sentenced tae seven days in jail efter chaining hersel tae the front door ae The Central District Court doon in the Saltmarket efter scudding a polisman wae her shoe. She’d been slung in tae ma cell, fur her sins. A right nice wee thing is Geraldine as youse aw know…and brainy? Christ, ye wid’ve thought she’d invented wummin’s lib by the way she spoke aboot this and that wae authority. Jist like us…hates men wae a vengeance, so she dis. Anyway, she wis awready two-thirds ae the way through reading it by the time she arrived oan the scene and she jist left it wae me, efter her and her two other co-accused pals goat liberated. The only thing she’d said aboot it wis that Ah should read it.
‘Ah think ye’d appreciate it, seeing as whit ye’re intae yersel, Sharon,’ she’d come oot wae, nodding at the book that wis peeking oot fae under that cement brick-filled pillow ae mine.
Anyway, Ah wisnae too sure whit tae dae wae her book at first, because Ah didnae think her tastes and mine wid be the same…her being a flighty young thing and aw that and me hivving read only two books since Ah left school back in nineteen canteen.”
“Aye, and wan ae them being her clubby book,” Betty said tae laughter.
“And the other being her Embassy Gift Catalogue,” Soiled Sally added.
“Ah’d jist finished reading Dance Ae The Happy Shades, the book ae short stories that Helen hid gied me tae encourage me tae get back intae reading, jist before she died, so Ah wis up fur something. Efter staring at the cover sitting oan tap ae the empty mattress across fae me, picking it up and hivving a wee thumb through the pages every noo and again, Ah eventually jist bit the bullet and dived in. The fact that they hidnae replaced Geraldine wae a new cellmate meant Ah wis left that first week efter her liberation and the following weekend oan ma lonesome. Wae nowan tae talk tae, Ah’d jist walked in efter recreation wan night and before Ah knew whit wis happening, Ah’d picked the thing up and goat tore right in. So, The Stepford Wives is this weird story aboot this wummin who moves tae a nice wee place called Stepford wae that handsome hunk ae a man and wee wean ae hers. It’s no a draughty, damp, rat-infested shithoose ae a place like aboot here, so it’s no,” Sharon said wae a wave ae her flour-covered haun and a nod towards the door. “The place is aw clean and lovely, wae nice green tidy lawns. Think ae Lenzie and ye’ll get ma drift…where aw the wummin wander aboot being nice tae everywan…including tae their men, wid ye believe?” Sharon added fur good measure, smiling, deliberately letting that last pronouncement hing in the air, tae snorts ae laughter and disbelief oan the faces roond the table. “And before ye ask, aye, there definitely wis an element ae science fiction slung in there, so there wis. Anyway, underneath aw this loveliness and plentiful bounty stashed away in they deep kitchen cupboards ae hers, something didnae quite add up. It’s hard fur this lassie, Joanna, who’s a fancy photographer in her ain right, by the way, tae put that perfectly manicured fingernail ae hers oan exactly whit it is that’s bothering her aboot the place.”
