– You cannae come in . . .
– SHUT THE FUCK UP! Ray screams in his face, causing him to recoil. Lennox’s puffed himself up and he’s standing right over Ocky who’s aw cowed and bent. – You fuckin well speak when you are spoken to or I’ll fuckin well have you right now! Get it!
This wretched wee cunt looks at him, trying to summon up a bit of defiance.
– I ASKED DO YOU FUCKIN GET IT! Ray roars, and Ocky buckles a little bit more.
– Aye . . . cool it man, ah’ve no done nowt . . . he whimpers.
– You’re in serious bother mate, Ray says, closing the door and shaking his head in disgust.
– Cool it Ray, I say, putting a protective arm around Ocky’s shoulder. – Stay here a minute. Where’s the bedroom? I whisper.
– It’s . . . he looks sideways, – . . . but thir’s somebody in thair . . .
– It’s awright, I tell him with a matey grin. I open the bedroom door, and the lassie’s sitting up in the bed with her t-shirt on. I go in, shutting the door behind me.
– What’s this? she asks. – Who are you?
– Police, I say, whipping out my ID – Do not attempt to leave this room. Do you understand? What is your name?
– I don’t have to say anything to you . . .
She’s a wee honey. Still got those fetching freckles. – Make it easy on yourself hen, I advise, then with urgency ask, – How old are you?
– Sixteen, she says, lying.
– Any ID? I look towards a shoulder bag on the bedside locker.
Her cool’s blown. Her eyes are like the satellite dishes on Tom Stronach’s ootside wall. – Fifteen . . . but I’ll be sixteen in September, she says hastily. Too hastily. Too quick to admit it. I wonder why she doesnae want me in that bag.
– Your boyfriend’s broken the law if he’s had intercourse with you. Has he? I ask, moving closer to get a wee scan of those titties under that T. Not large, but certainly firm enough. Yo ho ho and a barrel full of fun.
She moves back against the headboard a little and pulls the duvet up over her chest. The colour fairly drains from her face though, as I reach over and grab the bag, pouring its contents out on to the bed. This unearths a small plastic bag with what is obviously Ecstasy tablets in them.
– I . . . I didn’t . . . she’s stammering. She’s lost it now.
– D.S. Lennox! I shout, and Ray comes through. I hold the bag of pills up to him. – Looks like MDMA tablets to me. Note that they were found on this girl’s person. At least six hundred milligrams. Please also note that this girl is under the legal age of consent.
– Check, Ray says, exiting.
– You stay here, I say pocketing the pills. – You’re in very serious trouble. What did you say your name was?
– Stephanie . . . she says sheepishly, hugging her knees up into her chest and letting her chin rest on them. Her hair tumbles forward. She pulls one side back and secures it behind her ear.
– Stephanie what?
– Stephanie Donaldson . . .
– Well Stephanie Donaldson, I’ll leave you to think about how silly you’ve been. You’re going to have to give us a wee bit of co-operation here my girl.
A whole fuckin loat ay co-operation. Stephanie Donaldson. Hmmm.
She sits stiffly up in the bed and I go through to see how Ray’s doing. He’s got Ocky in the front room.
– Judges are coming doon hard as fuck on stoat-the-baw, Ray’s telling him.
– I thoat she wis sixteen. She telt me she wis, Ocky protests, then smiles at me, an all-lads-together smile.
I give him a hangman’s smile in return. I run my finger across my throat and make a crackling, slavering sound. – Sorry mate, but as Ray here says, this isnae the time tae be done for stoat; no now, no wi aw that paedophile stuff in the papers. It’s fair goat the magistrates oan the warpath, aw that palaver. Stoat man, thir daein time for it right now. Only aboot a year or so, which means six months. Nae real bother tae you. Mind you, this is posh fanny, so add oan a year. Which makes it a whole year inside.
He’s no looking too happy.
Ray chips in, – Aw aye, Ocky here could handle twelve months inside, eftir aw, every cunt loves a stoat-the-baw. A wee bit ay tackle pits oan some make-up, aw the red-blooded males in Saughton understand the score. A standing prick hath no conscience, Ray smiles, a cold, ghostly grin. – They always ask aboot the ride, the other boys inside. What was she like? Did she have big tits? Schoolie’s uniform? Lennox laughs, a dry cackle. He pulls a bogey down from his beak and examines it to see if any posh has got caught up in the mucus. Satisfied that it’s clean, he rolls it between the forefinger and the thumb, wringing out the moisture, and flicks it on to Ocky’s carpet. He stares at Ocky for a bit and shakes his heid. – Six months for a ride though, doesnae really bear thinkin aboot, eh no? Hope it wis a good one mate. Be yir last for a while.
– No necessarily, I chip in. – Cause, aye, they aw love a stoat-the-baw. Problem is, that thir’s a thin dividin line between a stoat-the-baw and a nonce. Ye tend tae get a loat ay fishermen’s tales oan the inside, only wi stoat, the size goes doon the wey instead ay up the wey, I spraff, in a pally, trade-secret sharing way as I push my palms together.
– Thing is, Ray says, – see if somebody fae the polis was tae tell a screw like Ronnie McArthur, a strict freemason and staunch family man, that the lassie was eleven . . . or ten . . . or even eight . . .
– Ah know what you’re gaunny say Ray: the poor cunt’s life wouldnae be worth livin. He’d be taken to The Beast’s wing in Saughton. But ah dunno any polisman, any professional in policework who would stoop that low, I tell him, widening my eyes and extending my palms and looking around.
– For the greater good though Bruce, Ray agrees, advancing his proposition, – suppose that this stoat-the-baw had access to certain information and had the potential to help the police with a major investigation but refused to do so . . . you and Ronnie McArthur are pretty tight, aren’t ye Robbo?
– In the craft, aye, I nod, switching my glance to Ocky. This cunt is shiteing it. I let the fucker stew and have a wee scan for potential knock-off. This cunt though: fuck all worth chorrin.
– C’moan boys . . . he pleads.
– Ye see Ocky, thir’s this guy inside, on The Beast’s wing. Thir’s loads ay beasts oan the wing, but only one in the whole ay the Scottish prison system that they call The Beast. Follow? Ray explains.
The cunt looks shat up. It’s like he’s watching an action replay of his life with only the shite bits left in. A bit like watching The Tom Stronach Story on video, should anyone be daft enough to commit the commercial and aesthetic suicide which producing such a film would involve.
– He’s no the felly ye want tae share a cell wi man. But Ronnie would be forced tae make that happen if it wis put aroond that the lassie thair was eight years auld or something.
– For yir ain protection likes, Ray says.
– Some protection, I laugh, – The Beast is fuckin mental. No way should that cunt should be in the jail. But that’s the fuckin prison system fir ye eh? They did have the cunt in Carstairs for a bit. He escaped though.
– That was a fuckin big joke that eh? Ray coughs out another dry, humourless cackle, then rubs that hooter again. He’s been on the sniff awright, and no just that one wee hit outside there. Just as long as he’s no haudin oot on auld Robbo here, his mentor.
– You’re tellin me. The good thing though, thir wis a few fields between him n the toon. So the local livestock took the brunt ay The Beast’s frustration. They had tae put four cows doon eftir he’d finished wi them. Big-time OT for the vets. Peter Savage fi Strathclyde telt ays that in aw his years oan the force he’d never seen anything like it. The thing is, they’ve goat The Beast back in the mainstream prison system. The only wey that they can keep the cunt quiet is by pittin a new model in his cell every few weeks.
I look doon at this silly wee fuck. There’s a faint noise coming from his throat. He’s trying tae say something. Ray coughs and makes a wee comment which ah dinnae catch.