2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel (27 page)

“You should see his file doon the station. The jacket’s older than Arthur Montford’s. Mostly small-time stuff, to start with. Reset and a few assaults. Then he started doing a bit of debt collection for the late and unlamented Jimmy Meechan.”

“Moving stolen gear and beating folk up for money-lenders,”

Karen says. “That’s what being a crook used to amount to round here. And a cooncil hoose in Braeview was as much lifestyle as it paid for. Never used to be drugs in the town. Just wee hard men. Now there’s organised and regimented wee hard men. Heroin was something you saw on
Panorama
, cocaine in the movies. Closest thing we had to a drug problem when I lived there was solvent abuse.”

“Hard to turn much of a profit from that,” Tom says. “Certainly not one to pay this kind of mortgage. Turner’s business latterly was ostensibly a security firm, covering building sites and the like. More like a protection racket, considering he knew every thief in the county. But mainly he controlled the drugs in the town for Jimmy Meechan Junior. That’s where the real money came from.”

“What about the boys?”

“Boma’s the right-hand man since Joe got sent doon. Joe was done for murdering—”

“Wullie Minto,” Karen interrupts. “I remember the case. Minto worked for Bud Hannigan back then. I was on the drug squad in Glasgow at the time.”

“Aye. A big loss to Johnny. Joe was a lot smarter than Boma, a lot more controlled. Just as violent, but dispassionately so. Clinical. Boma’s far more volatile, and the vibes were that Johnny didnae trust him the same as he’d trusted Joe.”

“And where does Robbie fit in?”

“He doesnae. Definitely not anointed for a role in the family business. He and the other Turners don’t have much to do with each other, especially since the mother died. Bad blood, for sure, but Christ knows what it’s about. That’s family for you, I guess.”

“Noodsy have much to do with them?”

“Off and on, yeah,” Tom tells her. “He did security shifts for the firm, a lot of folk do. It provides a legit cover so they can get a paypacket for other services rendered. Noodsy’s a career thief, and it’s hard to move anything around here without Johnny Turner having something to do with it.”

“What about the Fenwicks? The Turner boys were always having bust-ups with them.”

“I remember there was a Frank Fenwick died of an overdose, be about eight years back. Would that be one of them?”

“The oldest, yeah. There was a Darren and a Harry, and a girl, Eleanor, who was in my class. Bit of a poor soul. Mother was an alcoholic.”

“Aye. Darren Fenwick. That rings a bell. A bampot, but not a player. Fortunately, not all junior hard men turn into master criminals. He moved away, if memory serves. The others I’ve never heard of, so they must have turned out okay.”

“I hope so,” Karen says, remembering the shite Smelly Elly had to put up with, and the more literal shite that had blemished Honkin Harry’s schooldays. She kills the engine. “Okay, let’s go in and pay our respects,” she says.

T
he JJs are getting changed into their PE kits in what looks like being an abnormally short time. Given that the pair of them are sufficiently distractable as to be easily able to waste ten minutes pulling their sleeves into funny shapes or hanging assorted inappropriate items from the jacket-pegs, they’re invariably the last ones to be ready; Christ, sometimes Cook even shows up before they’ve got their trainers tied. But this morning, they are purposefully—if gigglingly—getting changed with an urgency that has got Scot intrigued. It could simply be that it’s gymnastics this morning—never underestimate the attraction of those wall-bars to a pair of spider monkeys—but he doubts it, doubly so when they start urging everyone else to get ready quicker, too. That’s usually a sign that somebody wants to maximise the free time before Cook reluctantly decides he’d better do a wee bit of what he’s paid for. When the teacher does show up, it’s a bit of a give-away that there’s been some serious extra-curricular activity if half the class is still standing about in their Ys.

“Right, check this,” says John-James, reaching into his schoolbag, a vinyl Adidas effort that looks like it’s being held together by the ink from all the mentions scrawled across every tattered inch. He produces an off-white Tupperware box, of roughly the kind Scot had been erroneously informed was social suicide round these parts, and sets it down on the floor. In practice, he’s found that nobody gets slagged for bringing one, but sightings still remain pretty rare at lunchtime. This is because their true disadvantage is that they act as an advertisement to all the gannets and scroungers that you have something in there worth cadging, and they’ll hover around you like wasps at a picnic, chanting their endless mantra: “Gunny gie’s some, eh, gaunny, just a wee bit, come on, don’t be moolsy, just a wee bit, gaunny eh, don’t be a Jew, come on, give us some, you’re a pure starver.”

They won’t be cadging the contents of this one, however. John-James pulls the lid off and reveals a browny-green, slimy mass that upon first glimpse resembles a freshly laid country pancake. Then part of it moves, and Scot notices that holes have been poked raggedly through the lid.

“Whit the fuck’s that?” asks Franky Naylor.

The JJs just stand there giggling, letting the box itself answer the question. Every head turns to look, some leaning forward where they sit, others standing or getting up and walking closer. Then something jumps, and so does everybody in the room.

“It’s full ay frogs,” Jai Burns points out. “Yeh, and some folk would say that boy’s thick.”

“Fuck’s sake, John-James,” Scot says, “your mammy’s good tae you. Nails here’s just got Spam rolls for his packed lunch.”

Nails pure decks himself at this.

“Now, now,” says Dom, putting on a stern voice. “If you’re going to be eating in class, I hope you’ve got enough for everyone.”

“I think we do have enough for everyone,” laughs John-Jo, and it looks like he might be right. There must be eight or nine of the slimy wee bastards in that box, though it’s hard to tell because they’re crawling all over each other.

“What the fuck did you bring them in here for?” asks Pete, as ever making it sound more of an accusation than an enquiry, like they know he’s fatally allergic to them or something.

“We’re gaunny sell them,” says John-James. “Anybody that wants wan for a pet.”

“Or anybody that’s forgot their pieces,” says Nails, struggling to say it through his laughter. He’s fair taken with the frog-eating theme, but that’s Nails for you—laugh at a door shutting.

“How much?” asks Sammy Devlin.

The JJs look at each other. It’s obvious they’ve not thought as far as this part.

“Eh, ten bob each,” John-James suggests.

“Fifty pee?” Sammy recoils. “Get tae fuck. Talkin aboot a fuckin frog here, no a greyhound.”

“Ten, well,” barters John-Jo, the 80 per cent reduction failing to elicit so much as a batted eyelid from his business partner. Scot thinks it’s short odds he picked the new price simply because it was the next coin down.

“Heh, there’s an idea,” says Richie.

“What?”

“Greyhounds. Let’s race them.”

“Callus.”

“Magic.”

“Mental.”

“We can bet as well,” says Richie.

“Aye,” says Scot. “I’m puttin ten bob on the green wan.”

“They’re all fuckin green, ya stupit cunt,” Jai informs him.

Scot and Nails exchange a look and Nails starts decking himself again.

“Dom, away and keep the edgy,” Jai orders.

“Aw, fuck off, man, I want tae see this.”

“Just dae it, right?” Jai insists.

Dom knows not to push his luck, and heads around the partition that masks the changing room’s interior from the door.

The JJs start lifting frogs and placing them in a line next to the door leading to the showers.

“Shite, I think this wan’s deid,” John-Jo reports, cupping his palms together. He then turns and throws ‘it’ at Richie, but there turns out to be nothing in his hands.

“Fuckin bastart, ye,” says Richie, laughing.

There may not have been a dead frog, but the ones on the floor aren’t exactly bursting with life.

“They’re no movin,” Jai points out.

“That’s because naebody’s said ‘Marks, get set, go’ yet,” says Scot.

“Naw, they’re waitin for the wee rabbit hingmy tae go by,” Richie suggests.

“They’re sleepy,” John-James informs them knowledgeably. “It’s March, man. They’re just oot ay hibernation.”

“Does that mean we can buy wan next year on HP over the winter and pay the balance when the bastart wakes up?” Sammy asks.

Dom comes back from the door and sits at his place on the bench.

“Thought you were keepin the edgy,” Jai says.

“Noodsy’s daein it for 1S3. Says he’ll gie us a chap on the wall.”

Scot wonders if it’s worth cautioning that whatever Noodsy is up to, he usually gets caught, but he can envisage being ordered on to edgy duty himself as a result, and so opts to keep it zipped.

“Gie them a wee dunt,” Richie suggests, but doesn’t look too keen to touch any of them himself.

The JJs crouch down and have a poke at various of the frogs. Most barely respond, but one suddenly leaps about a third of the length of the changing room, prompting laughter and cheers. This success encourages the JJs to keep poking until they get a couple more to take the high road away from their irritating attentions. Scot often has the same inclination, usually by about half-three in the afternoon.

This belated burst of progress concentrates interest upon the contenders. Scot wasn’t serious about betting on the outcome, but folk are starting to support individual frogs, cheering whenever their chosen amphibian takes another leap in the right direction.

“I think that wan there’s gaunny come steamin through late,” says Jai, pointing to one of the stubbornly inert creatures at the shower-door end of the room. “He’s just pacin himsel.”

This is unusually witty for Jai, whose rare stabs at humour usually centre on threats or descriptions of violence.

“Is it true you can blow them up if you stick a straw up their arses?” Sammy asks during a lull in the action.

This makes Scot sincerely hope Sammy hits the tuck shop hard enough at morning interval to leave him with less than ten pence to spare.

“Aye,” John-Jo says. “We heard Tommy Higgins did that once.”

“That’s right,” John-James confirms. “Then he threw a penknife at it and it burst. Fuckin sin, so it was.”

“He’s a pure bastart,” his cousin rounds off.

“Ha-llo,” Dom cheers, as one of the miniature athletes makes a particularly impressive jump. It’s more sideways than forwards, landing just underneath the bench next to Pete, but it’s only a foot from the partition, which has been denoted as the finish line.

Seeing his own choice overtaken, Richie overcomes his squeamishness and kneels down to give it a tentative prod. It hops not once, but twice in a row (“Gaun yersel, wee man, you’re away noo”) to reclaim pole position.

“Right, no more touching,” Dom insists. “Let’s see which frog crosses the finish line itself.”

Everybody gathers round, forming a semicircle behind the two leading contestants, calling encouragement. Everybody, that is, except Jai, who’s still standing over the frog he’s tipping to ‘break late’.

“Gaun, wee man.”

“You’ve got him noo.”

“Don’t bottle it.”

“Come on, you cannae lose tae that wee green poof.”

“Hurry up, Freddo, or Tommy Higgins is gaunny get ye.”

Somebody starts singing the music from
Chariots of Fire
.

“Gaun, Kermit. It’s yours. That bastart’s legs have gone.”

Something whizzes overhead. Then there is a slapping sound against the outer wall.

“Zat the edgy?” somebody asks, but it’s not.

Scot looks around in time to see the frog just as it falls, leaving a grey-green splatter against the brickwork. They all turn to look at Jai, who has thrown it, as hard as he could by the look of the results.

“See,” he says. “Tellt yous it would break later.”

“You’re a sick cunt,” Richie says, shaking his head. He’s not laughing.

“And you owe us two bob,” adds John-James.

“Fuck off,” Jai tells him.

“I’m serious,” says John-James. “Same as the shops: you break it, you pay for it.”

Jai pushes him roughly against the benches and goes back to sit down next to his gear. Everybody knows this should be the end of it, but there’s still a silent tension in the air in case John-James is angry (and suicidal) enough to take it further. The silence turns out to be jammy, because through it they hear a door squeak and Cook’s voice as he enters the dressing room next door.

“Fuck, get the frogs,” says John-Jo in a panic. Everybody starts scrambling about the floor frantically, aware of the shite they’ll all be facing if Cook walks in and sees all these wee green fuckers skiting about the place. Even Jai gets involved, although his first priority is binning the evidence of his recent wee frogicide.

“The fuck happened tae the edgy?” John-James asks Dom accusingly.

“Fuck knows,” Dom says, but Scot is fairly certain the answer will involve the Noodsy Magic touch.

Jai was right about one thing: it seems the previously inactive frogs were indeed pacing themselves, conserving their energy for hopping about like their lives depended on it just at the point when everybody needed them to sit at peace.

“Well seein the bastarts are full ay fuckin beans noo,” Richie observes.

Cook comes in just as John-James is fitting the lid back on his Tupperware.

“Lunchtime already, is it?” he asks. “Well maybe I’ll just have a wee share of what’s in there myself.”

“Wouldnae recommend it, sir,” Richie says. “Didnae look very appetising.”

“What was it?”

“Frog’s legs, sir.”

“Aye, very good. Right, out you come.”

Cook holds open the door and they start piling out, Jai unusually first, possibly motivated by getting away before Cook notices the stain on the wall. John-James checks Cook can’t see him behind the partition and quickly wheechs open the Tupperware again. Cook’s looking at Scot, so he has to get going and therefore doesn’t see what happens next, but Scot would put a tenner on it involving John-James stashing a frog somewhere among Jai’s belongings.