It was pitch-black under the Calderwell Bridge, just the red tip of Big Johnny’s cigarette, bobbing up and down as he spoke. ‘You see, Brian, people who screw with me end up in the water. If they’re lucky.’ He gave Brian’s ankles a shake. ‘You feeling lucky?’
‘It wasn’t me!’
‘Eh?’ Johnny puffed on his fag, for a bit. ‘What wasn’t you?’
‘Leslie – I didn’t do it!’
There was silence, then the shaking started again in earnest. ‘What about Leslie? What the fuck didn’t you do?’
‘Get. . .’ Change fell out of his pockets, splashing into the dark waters over his head. ‘Get her up the stick!’
‘SHE’S FUCKING PREGNANT?’
‘It wasn’t me!’
‘She’s fourteen!’
‘Please, I didn’t 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 don’t know, it-’
Johnny backhanded him one.
‘I don’t know, I don’t!’ The words tasted of old pennies.
‘Then you find out, understand? You find out who’s been . . . touching my little girl and you tell me, or I swear to God: you’re 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 Docker’s 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 didn’t seemed to care that Brian was only thirteen.
‘Mairi’s 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 didn’t care about the smoking ban either. ‘You did no’ bad there. I’ve known grown men pee themselves when I dangle them.’
Brian managed a sickly smile and reached for his pint.
‘I hear you’ve been selling some stuff.’
Deep drink. Gulp. Nod.
‘Who’re 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 . . . I’ve never sold-’
‘Heroin’s 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-up’s way better.’
‘But-’
‘You’re no’ looking for another swimmin’ lesson, are you Brian?’
‘No! No, it’s fine, I can do it.’
Big Johnny smiled. ‘Knew you’d 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 I’m 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 Brian’s class liked a spliff – but the smack was a different matter. It was too hardcore for Brian’s mates. Too dangerous. Which was why he was wandering round Kingsmeath’s skanky red light district in the middle of the bloody night. It wasn’t 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.
But at least he wasn’t going to get his balls cut off by some pimp. This lot were strictly freelance.
Brian hit pay dirt with the very first girl he tried: a stick-thin figure with hollow cheeks and dark eyes, wearing just enough clothes to stave off hypothermia. She took three wrappers.
Looked like Big Johnny was right – it was a piece of piss after all.
Brian made his way down the street, stopping to chat with the prozzies, blushing when they flirted with him, taking their money.
By quarter to twelve he was down to his last wrapper. Get a shift on and he could just make the Corner Emporium before it shut. Cider, fags, and a packet of rolling papers – been skimming the blow all night, selling people quarter-ounces of hash that weren’t quite up to size. Keeping enough for himself to get nice and high. Not stealing from Big Johnny Simpson, stealing from the customers. Not the same thing.
All he had to do was-
A woman in her early twenties with a mascara-streaked face and torn tights pawed at his sleeve. ‘You got any more?’ Her jacket was dirty up one side, hanging open to reveal a pale stomach, short skirt and low-cut top. She’d been pretty once, but it was a while ago. ‘C’mon, I’m dying here. Maggie says you’ve got!’
Brian gave her a smile. ‘It’s your lucky day.’ He held up the wrapper. ‘Last one.’
She licked her lips, fingers stroking her dead-fish belly, eyes shining. ‘How much?’
Brian told her and she swore.
‘You’re kidding – that’s twice what Dillon charges! It’s-’
‘Take it or leave it.’
‘But it’s been a shite night. . . I’m good for it!’ Wringing her hands, staring at the sparkling tinfoil. ‘I’ll pay you back.’
‘Sorry, love, it’s the rules. The guy I work for. . .’
She opened her coat wide and pulled up her top, showing off her naked breasts.
‘He . . . er. . .’ Brian blinked. Coughed.
‘Come on, you know how it works.’ She fumbled with his flies, groping her way into his underpants with cold fingers.
‘It. . . But. . . Oh!’ All available blood was diverted south.
She smiled at him, showing off a mouth full of fillings. ‘Oh yeah, you like that, don’t you?’ Stroking. ‘You give me the stuff and I’ll see you right. Fine upstanding boy like you. I’ll be gentle. . .’ She sank down to her knees.
Brian grinned all the way home.
A dark-blue BMW was parked outside his house: alloy wheels, spoiler, tinted glass. Nice motor, even with the long scrape down the passenger side. The driver’s door opened and Big Johnny stepped out. ‘Well, if it isn’t my little captain of industry.’
‘Mr Simpson!’ The smile died on Brian’s lips.
‘How’d you get on tonight?’
‘Oh, you know. . .’
‘Got my money?’
‘I . . . erm. . .’ He unbuckled the bum-bag and handed it over. ‘All there, Mr Simpson. Like you said.’
‘Uh-huh. . .’ Big Johnny opened the zip and counted the money inside. ‘You got any gear left?’ He held out his hand.
Oh Christ: he knew about the missing wrapper.
Brian’s mouth went dry. How? How did he know?
Don’t just stand there, gob hanging open like a mong, tell him something. Lie.