Filth (13 page)

– 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.

– What was that Ray?

– Models, Ray goes, – what’s aw this models shite?

– Aw, that’s what the local screws call the laddies they send him. Usually young pretty boys, early twenties . . . like this one here. I swivel and point at Ocky, who’s now just a quivering wreck. No such a smart cunt now. – Ah’d say that you were an identikit model, I tell him. – See, the boys that get pit oan The Beast’s wing are usually rapists rather than stoat-the-baws. They git a wee bit too carried away and cannae hear the word ‘No’ fae a lassie. Well, they git plenty ay opportunity tae practise that word wi The Beast; they can try oot aw the permutations ay pitch, tone and volume, but see The Beast? Well, he’s goat that selective deefness n aw. N fact he’s goat it bad.

Ray smiles at the young tube. – Bet ye eh enjoys the resistance. Likes tae see the boys struggle.

– Six fit four ay solid muscle. Hung like a fuckin hoarse. Legendary. Always splits thum the first time; even they wee Calton Hill rent boys they feed him, and these boys are used tae takin loads ay hard meat.

– Phoa! Makes ma eyes water tae think aboot it! Ray gasps.

– But the wardens indulge The Beast tae fuck like. They’ve goat a selection ay wigs, dresses n make up so that he can dress the models up as he likes. He gies them their names: usually French sounding ones: Juliette, Justine, Celestine, Monique an aw ay that. They reckon eh gits them fi the go-go’s at the Bermuda Triangle in Tollcross. This yin here though, ah pucker ma lips at Ocky, – he’d be a Christine.

– How’s that? Ray goes, letting his mouth go moronically loose, and I realise that I am too, as we’re enjoying the twisted but undeniable sexuality which is part and parcel of the complete dominance over another human being. This is one of the things which makes poliswork such a satisfying career.

– Blonde hair, I say, slowly and softly.

– Aw aye, Ray picks up, – ah heard aboot that. When he gits a blonde he always calls them Christine. They say it wis tae dae wi his wife. They tell ays that ehs much mair possessive towards blondes.

– It’s fuckin oot ay order really, but that’s the system, eh?

– This is the perennial problem wi the system Robbo. A dustbin for society, for everything it cannae or willnae deal wi. Thing is but, ye’d find oot a lot aboot yersel n that situ, like. Banged up wi The Beast. Phew!

– Ah cannae imagine a worse fate.

– Might find oot things aboot yirsel ye’d rather no find oot, Ray notes sombrely. Ocky’s done, we’ve broken him. We just need to rub his face in it a little bit more before reassembling him with several modifications in the psychic specification, in order that he does our bidding.

– Well one thing’s certain: ye dae a stint n thaire wi that monster, ye come oot a changed man, I smile.

– That’s if ye come oot at aw. They tell ays ehs chalked up a couple ay suicides over the years.

– Aye, and another young laddie went and hung ehsel eftir a few months oan the ootside. That experience changes a cunt. Defo, I snap at the terrified tube, who springs back from future hell to present hell.

– Maybe the guy would’ve done it anyway; a spastic, a fuckin common criminal. Whaes tae say?

– The Beast though man, daein time wi that would tip the fuckin scales. No think so Ocky? Help! Help! they shout at the wardens, those poor models. No that it does any good.

– So ah’ve heard Robbo, Ray grins.

The wee cunt sits there shivering. He’s ours. He always has been.

– They tell me that he’s HIV now. Dae they isolate the cunt though? I ask rhetorically.

– Dae they fuck, Ray replies.

– Effectively then, it’s a death sentence for any cunt in that cell wi him.

– Effectively, aye. That’s what it boils doon tae, Ray shrugs.

– I know that it sounds grim, but that’s only the one choice but, eh Ocky? Thir’s ways and means, I kid you not, my sweet, sweet friend, I say softly, cupping the terrorised cunt’s face in my hands. – I know your whole life’s been flashing in front ay ye, but aw that’s just the worst-case scenario. Anyway, I twist the spastic’s heid so that he’s facing Ray Lennox who’s smiling like a department store Santa Claus. – Uncle Ray here’ll tell ye what ye have tae dae tae stey oot ay The Beast’s vile clutches. Think ay him as your knight in shining armour.

Ray winks at him, then snaps his fingers and starts singing, – I feel a song comin on . . .

Ah feel the horn comin on. Stephanie Donaldson. Stephfanny Donaldson. – I, in the meantime, shall go and check oan that wee drug-dealing slut ay a girlfriend ay yours Ocky. Honestly, the company you keep. Mind you, it’ll no be the first time that posh fanny’s dragged a good man down. Huv tae watch whaire ye pit that dick. Thir’s eywis strings, I wink, departing to the bedroom.

When I’m back through, she’s up and dressed and sitting on the bed.

– Well, well little miss, have we had time to think about our position? I ask. Ah’ll show the wee fuck a few positions awright. Startin oaf wi fuckin doggy-style.

– Please don’t tell anyone . . . I don’t want my father to know. He mustn’t know, she’s begging.

– I’ll have to charge you with possession and intent to supply. Of course, as a minor, it’s likely that you won’t receive a custodial sentence, but you will have to appear in court. What school do you go to?

– John Gilzean’s . . . she bleats piteously.

– Well, I’m sure that such a reputable school will take disciplinary action. I will, of course be forced to inform them, and also your parents. Ecstasy is a very dangerous drug.

– Please don’t tell my father . . . please . . . he’s a barrister. It would be terrible for us . . .

Donaldson. Of course! – Your father isn’t Conrad Donaldson, is he? I can feel my spirits lifting and I’m sure that my cock has never been as big in my pants before.

– Yes, she says, her eyes lighting up hopefully.

Oh ya fucker! Mister Fuckin Smug Cunt himself! Bingo! His offspring right here on Bruce Robertson’s plate! A small world, a small city. God bless Edina, Scotia’s darling seat! I clear my throat; lust and the prospect of revenge had furred it over. – Listen doll, I’m going tell him. As of now, I’m going to tell him. Whether or not I actually end up doing so is entirely up to you, but as of now, I am.

– Please . . . I’ll do anything . . . don’t tell him! she squeaks.

– Well, I’ll tell you how it’s going to be. You listening to me? Because I’ll say this once. Okay?

She looks up and nods slowly at me. I can’t see much of Donaldson in her. I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad.

– You suck my cock and we’re square. And you suck it good. Okay?

She’s looking at the floor. Her shoulders are shaking.

– Okay, nae deal. Stephanie Donaldson, you are charged with possession of a controlled substance, with intent to supply. You have the right to . . .

– No! No! Please!

I’m smiling down at the posh wee fucker. – Come on baby. End this nightmare. End it all wi a wee suck, I say softly. – Your wee scumbag boyfriend, dinnae tell me you huvnae done the biz wi him. One cock’s much the same as another. A few minutes ay your sweet wee heid and the nightmare is over. You walk oot ay here. We’re square. See if you dinnae fuckin play ball? The school and Daddy hear all about it.

A mining family. Ha! I come from a lot dirtier, filthier places than doon a fuckin pit, as this wee tart’s aboot tae find oot.

– Alright . . . she says, making the contract. A verbal agreement will do nicely. It might not be worth the paper it’s written on but you cannae very well take a blow-job back once it’s been given.

– Good girl. Fair exchange is no robbery. Why involve the state doll? Why cause all the nasty paperwork? I smile as I unzip. It flies oot like a fuckin jack-in-the-box. – Suck me baby . . . I whisper, – Suck Robbo here real good.

She’s looking at it then looking at me with large pleading eyes, but I’m holding the bag of Es in my other hand. – I’ll be roond that posh school. Suck. I’ll be sure Daddy Conrad Q.C. gets to know the whole story. Suck.