— GHB, mate. Sodium gamma-Hydroxybutyrate, a designer drug with anaesthetic properties. The sex offender’s game. Dinnae worry, ah stifle a wee chuckle, — you’re no getting rattled. Or even hurt. I’m just removing you from the game.
— What…? His eyes are closing, his neck heavy as his heid faws forward. He grips the rests oan the chair.
And the cunt looks at the hosepipe, which ah pick up by the nozzle and fling ower the ceiling beam. I’m making a noose at the end ay it. His weary eyes trace back tae where it comes in fae the gairdin, via the windae. Dib dib dab, ya polis bastard. Boy’s spangled now, just aboot able tae show a slab ay fear through the confusion in his glazed eyes.
— Disgraced alco cop suicide, ah explain tae the cunt. — I never liked the fuckin polis, mate. I thought it was just back hame, in Scotland, and that American cops would be different. But naw. I hate all polis. Everywhere.
Eh tries tae stand, but faws oot the chair, tumbling oantae the rug. Ah bend ower him and slap his chops. Nowt. The cunt is out for the count. Ah wipe the gun clean n pit it back in the drawer. I get the noose aroond his neck and pull him back up on the chair; thankfully, he’s no that heavy, aboot five-eight, 150 pounds, a welterweight, would be ma guess. The makeshift rope, gaun over the beam and oot through the windae, is attached tae the hose reel, which is bolted oantae the garage wall. I’d staked it out earlier. It should make a strong enough wrench.
I open the windae and step ootside. Ah go tae the reel n start winding it in. Looking inside ah kin see the cunt starting tae revive, his mooth flapping n his eyes doolally under heavy lids he struggles tae keep open. I’m yanking the fucker tae his feet, as his tired airms reach up, groping at the rope, trying tae loosen it. The daft cunt falls nicely intae ma trap by getting oan the chair, tae try and get some slack on the rope that’s throttling him, but that’s exactly where I want um! Fucker jist gets one shot tae try and pull the noose off before I furiously wrench it up, baith hands on the handle, tae take the slack and tighten it again, forcing the dopey polis bastard oantae his toes.
— Ye dinnae fuck aboot wi me n what’s mine, mate, ah say as ah climb back in and blooter the chair oot fae under his taes. The cunt’s swinging there, eyes popping oot, tongue hingin oot his heid, n ah’m gled ay the croakin sounds as ah’ve heard mair than enough words fae a snide copper mooth. Then a tearing, screeching noise, but comin fae ootside, n ah look tae the hose wheel, starting tae fuckin buckle under the weight.
I step back ower tae the windae and slam the cunt tight, tae take the strain offay the reel. Then ah’m back tae this Hammy the fuckin hamster cunt; watching his spazzy eyes bulge as he gropes and splutters, swinging and kicking away, but fair play tae the cunt, he’s still pittin up a fight.
Hurry up and die, ya fuckin polis bastard!
Ootside ah sees the hose wheel’s bending, so ah tries tae push the windae frame’s edge even tighter against the rope tae jam it in, n tae relieve the pressure oan it. But then, as ah’m concentrating oan shuttin the windae, there’s a creaking and snapping noise fae behind ays. Ah turns tae a huge fuckin crash fae above and the whole fuckin ceiling caves in! The fuckin beam’s broken in two, and this cop cunt’s oan his hands n knees covered in dust and plaster, scrambling across the flair tae his desk, trying tae pill the noose oaffay his neck. Aw fours, jist like that fuckin hamster! There’s no wey I’m gaunny get there before him so ah grab the hose and pull it wi baith hands, tryin tae reel this cunt in like a fish, but thaire’s too much slack oan the fuckin rope. He’s goat tae his feet n eh’s reaching across the desk, fastening one hand oantae the edge ay it, n the other’s gaun tae the drawer where I put the gun back… Ah’ve goat tension oan the hose now n ah’m tryin tae pull him back… but ya cunt, eh’s goat the fuckin drawer open…
Ah lits go ay the hose, so the cunt faws forward acroass the desk, but his hand’s in the drawer! Ah’m no gaunny git there quick enough, n thaire’s nae time tae open the windae so ah dives right through the fucker, shatterin the gless, landin oantae the gress, and I’m oan my feet and fuckin offski, cursing this gammy leg Renton gied ays, as I bombs ower the fuckin yard.
Ah hears a rasping cry and a shot ring oot and ricochet, hitting against the fuckin garage or one ay the other outbuildings. Ah gits roond the corner and thaire’s a second shot; thankfully the fucker sounds further away, no that ah’m stallin tae find oot. This place is isolated up here in the woodland hills, which means it’s good for what ah planned tae dae, but nae use when it aw goes fuckin tits-up and you’re the cunt hunted by a bam wi a fuckin shooter!
The motor’s parked on a dirt track windin up the bank, by an overhanging bush. It seems like there’s nae pursuit, but ah jump in and get the fuck away, no easin oaf the gas till ah git doon the slip road n oantae the freeway. At first ah worry that this fucker is gaunny grass me right up, but if he does, Mel’s tape comes oot, and anywey, it’s that cunt’s word against mine.
Ah’m cruisin along the freeway, breathin nice and easy, but cursin my bad luck. Fuckin woodworm! Ye think yuv planned for everything, stakin the place oot since fuckin Christmas! Now aw ah’ve done is made a dangerous enemy even mair motivated tae take ays doon.
But lookin oan the bright side, ah’ve just gied masel even mair encouragement tae fuck that cunt right up. It’s him or me now. N it’s no fuckin well gaunny be me, tell ye that for nowt.
Ah haul in ma breath. Nice n slow. Breathe…
That’s the fuckin game. Suddenly ah feel masel shakin wi laughter. Thinkin aboot that cunt’s pus when eh wis gittin throttled by that noose: it wis a fuckin treat! Goat tae enjoy what ye dae: ye dinnae enjoy it, dinnae fuckin dae it.
In the rear-view mirror, the sun’s in the background, fawin ower that range ay hills. It’s no been such bad day, at least weatherwise. Ye cannae really feel shite for long in this climate.
14
SICK BOY – ALL THAI’D UP
I emerge from the building site at Tottenham Court Road, and a skyward glance shows darkening clouds bunching together. There’s a sharp chill in the air, as I dig oot my phones from the inside pocket of my Hugo Boss leather jacket. All messages to be disregarded, except the one from Ben:
Just got here, will get them in.
I’ve been steadfastly avoiding Edinburgh, but it hasn’t been avoiding me! I’m ruing that festive day I put the MDMA powder in that self-indulgent, weakling sex case’s drink. I couldn’t have envisaged that my playful alchemy would have meant fucking months of fielding correspondence from a heartbroken Carlotta and the weaselly brothel-keeper Syme.
There is fuck all I can do to bring their boy back from Thailand. Pompous Presbo shit with his fucking round-the-world plane ticket and his career break. It’s something I have to do, said the prick in his last ludicrous email, before going completely offline. Leaving his missus and son distraught, punishing them for his nefarious misdeeds! What a cunt! I fight through the blocked-off roads into Soho. The IRA or ISIS never created anything like as much chaos and demoralisation in London as the neoliberal planet-rapists with their corporate vanity construction projects. Sure enough, a steady rain is beginning to fall in cold splatters.
My son has asked me to meet him for a drink in a public house of zero repute, a bland haunt of office workers and tourists. It dawns on me that I’ve spent practically no time with him recently. I’m feeling guilty, as I enter a busy bar. He’s already gotten a seat in a corner, where two pints of Stella fizz on a wooden table. We are close to an imitation fire with a low grate. A pleasing smell of polish fills the air.