His hand swirls through the icy water, nothing, nothing, nothing . . . hair. He grabs at it, holding firm. Pull her to safety and everything will be all right. Everything will be-
She comes to him, in his little suntrap, smiling that smile she knows he loves. The one that makes his trousers bulge. Danielle grabs his hands and spins him around. Laughing. Ive got some news for you. Great news. She stops twirling and places one of his hands on her belly. Our love has caused a little miracle.
No, no, no. . .
You have to get rid of it! Youre too young, your career. . . Sweat sticks his shirt to his back. Think about the championships, the team!
James? She backs off a couple of steps and stares at him, mouth a thin hard line. We are keeping this baby, and youre going to be the father, understand? A smile lights her face like a burning building. Well be the perfect family. And if not, Ill tell my mother. And shell tell the police.
holding her head beneath the water as she struggles and struggles . . . and then shes gone, hanging lifeless beneath his fingers as that stupid bitch Sarah screams.
He lets Danielle go.
There will always be more where she came from.
8: Maids a Milking
Filling telephone boxes with soft-core pornography wasnt a bad job in the height of summer, but on a freezing Tuesday night in December it was an absolute bastard. Brian reached into his armpit and dragged out the Blu-Tack the only way to keep the damn stuff warm enough to stick ? tore off a blob, pressed it onto the back of a postcard and fixed it above the phone. SEXY SADIE, THE NAUGHTY LADY with a photo of an attractive, big-boobed blonde in thigh-high leather boots, matching basque, and whip. Whoever the girl in the picture was, she was nothing like the old dear who actually answered the accompanying phone number. The real Sexy Sadie looked like Brians nan.
The phone box was already pretty crowded. There was Mr Azizs finest Sexy Sadie, Busty Becky, and Naughty Nikki and the usual collection of doms, subs, trannies, tarts and rent boys. Some had photos, others just the promise of personal visits and unique services. Brian tore them all down, leaving the box clean except for Mr Azizs doddery bunch of kinky pensioners, and Dillon Blacks girls.
Brian might be failing geography, but that didnt mean he was stupid.
Hands jammed deep into his pockets, he nipped across the road, taking his chances with the traffic. The burger joint was busy: hordes of kids eating processed meat and fries, passing around cans of super-strength lager when the staff werent looking.
A couple of them nodded hello as he walked in.
Cameron Williams glanced up from his double cheeseburger, mouth hanging open full of half-chewed mystery meat. Oy, Wanker! Doing the hand gesture as well.
Brian ignored him. Cammy was a dick. But he was a big dick and answering back would just get Brians head kicked in.
So he joined the queue for till number three instead.
He shuffled forwards, staring at the menu like he didnt already know it off by heart. Cheeseburger with onion rings, fries, and a large Irn-Bru same as always. And, as it was bloody freezing outside, one of them deep-fried apple pie things as well.
Bob his mums new bloke slipped him a tenner to get something to eat while they went down the pub. Which was cool. Meant hed have enough left over for a packet of fags and a couple bottles of extra strong cider. Thatd round off the evening nicely.
He ordered his burger, then settled back against the counter to wait. Checking his pockets: still twenty or thirty postcards to go. That would take him all the way down to the railway station, where there was a nice little corner shop that didnt mind selling booze and fags to thirteen-year-olds. The free market economy in action: thats what his English teacher, Mr Kirkhill called stuff like this.
Brian knew all about the free market economy. He was a seasoned practitioner of its darker arts.
The food arrived and he carried it over to an empty table; it was way too cold outside to eat in some piss-smelling shop doorway. He took a big bite of burger and a shadow fell across the table.
A mans voice, deep and gravelly: Anybody sittin here mate?
Brian shrugged and kept on eating, head down. Free country, wasnt it?
The bloke plonked himself on the other side of the table and unwrapped whatever it was hed ordered.
Youre Brian, right? Brian Calder?
Brian shrugged again, still not looking up. Depends, doesnt it.
Thought I recognized you. Were in the same line of work, Brian.
Oh aye? Why did the weirdoes always have to sit next to him?
He crammed in an onion ring, and took a peek at the nut-job: thin, pasty-faced, goatee beard, hooded eyes and wide forehead, hair like one of them teddy boys you saw on the Discovery Channel, and a diamond ear stud. Fingertip-length black leather jacket over broad shoulders, a Hawaiian shirt and sharks tooth necklace. Big Johnny Simpson.
Oh Jesus. . .
Brians cheeseburger tried to choke him. He coughed, spluttered, forced it down. Mr Simpson. He dragged on a smile. Nice to see you. Oh Christ. . . Hows Leslie?
Fuck should I know? Im only her father. Big Johnny took a bite of his not-so-happy meal. Bloody kids: soon as they hit puberty they want nothin to do with their old man. Chew, chew chew.
Right. Right. Oh God. . .
Big Johnny polished off the burger, fries, and a large Diet Coke, then settled back in his plastic seat and stared at him. You finished?
Big Johnny polished off the burger, fries, and a large Diet Coke, then settled back in his plastic seat and stared at him. You finished?
Brian glanced down at his food virtually untouched, the melted cheese all leathery-looking, the onion rings pale and greasy. Not really hungry. Not any more.
Good. Big Johnny stood, towering over the table. Shite: he was huge. Come on, you and me are goin to take a little walk.
Brians newly dropped balls tried to claw their way back into his body.
Oh fuck. . .
Half past eight and the city lights made sparkling reflections in the Kings River. Brian had a perfect view of them, because Big Johnny was dangling him head down over the water. A truck rumbled by on the bridge above, pigeons cooed on the metal support beams. Brian clenched his arsehole tight shut. Dont cry. Dont puke. Dont beg for Mummy. . . Shed be pissed by now anyway.
It was pitch-black under the Calderwell Bridge, just the red tip of Big Johnnys cigarette, bobbing up and down as he spoke. You see, Brian, people who screw with me end up in the water. If theyre lucky. He gave Brians ankles a shake. You feeling lucky?
It wasnt me!
Eh? Johnny puffed on his fag, for a bit. What wasnt you?
Leslie I didnt do it!
There was silence, then the shaking started again in earnest. What about Leslie? What the fuck didnt you do?
Get. . . Change fell out of his pockets, splashing into the dark waters over his head. Get her up the stick!
SHES FUCKING PREGNANT?
It wasnt me!
Shes fourteen!
Please, I didnt do it! Brian closed his eyes this was it, he was going to die.
Bastard. Big Johnny let go.
Brian fell, screamed. THUMP flat on his back, the footpath slamming the air from his lungs. Mummy. . . He lay there, spread-eagled, gripping the cold, dirty concrete.
Johnny grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him upright. Who was it?
I dont know, it-
Johnny backhanded him one.
I dont know, I dont! The words tasted of old pennies.
Then you find out, understand? You find out whos been . . . touching my little girl and you tell me, or I swear to God: youre going for a fucking swim next time!
Brian nodded, tears spilling down his face, top lip wet with snot.
Johnny took a couple of steps away, dragging on his cigarette like he was punishing it. You know what? I need a drink. You need a drink? He flicked the dying gasp of his cigarette out into the cold, dark river. Course you do.
The Dockers Arms was a shit-hole pub down by the Logansferry harbour: stained wallpaper, cracked and sticky linoleum, vinyl upholstery held together with silver tape. A CD player belted out hits by Jimmy Shand and His Band accordion music to drink heavily by. The choice was Export or Lager. None of your fancy real ales, pilsners or alcopops here. Big Johnny got them each a pint of Export and a double whisky. The wrinkled old lady behind the bar didnt seemed to care that Brian was only thirteen.
Mairis Wedding crackled out of the speakers as Big Johnny led the way to a table in the corner. He sat and watched Brian gulp down the whisky. Pulled out a packet of fags and lit one looked like the old lady didnt care about the smoking ban either. You did no bad there. Ive known grown men pee themselves when I dangle them.
Brian managed a sickly smile and reached for his pint.
I hear youve been selling some stuff.
Deep drink. Gulp. Nod.
Whore you selling for? Dillon?
Nah. Brian shook his head, the whisky burned in his half-empty stomach. I . . . I get some blow off this bloke I know from Blackwall Hill, he gets it from someone in Dundee.
Not any more. Big Johnny dug a rolled-up carrier-bag out of his leather jacket and dumped it on the table. Now you work for me.
Brian opened the bag and peered inside. A couple of ounces of blow and about two dozen silver paper wrappers. I . . . Ive never sold-
Heroins like anything else: you hand it over, they give you the money. No problem. Like sellin tins of beans, or washing-up liquid. Only the mark-ups way better.
But-
Youre no looking for another swimmin lesson, are you Brian?
No! No, its fine, I can do it.
Big Johnny smiled. Knew youd see it my way. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small leather bum-bag. You put the money in here. All of the money. You get your commission when I get the cash. If you ever help yourself we go back to the bridge, only this time Im taking a claw hammer with me. Understand?
Brian nodded.
Good. Now finish your drink and get to work.
The blow was easy enough to get rid of half the kids in Brians class liked a spliff but the smack was a different matter. It was too hardcore for Brians mates. Too dangerous. Which was why he was wandering round Kingsmeaths skanky red light district in the middle of the bloody night. It wasnt a patch on the upmarket tolerance zone over in Logansferry. Here the hoors were unregulated, unprotected, and probably infectious. Milking the punters for all they were worth.