Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas

8: Maids a Milking

Filling telephone boxes with soft-core pornography wasn’t a bad job in the height of summer, but on a freezing Tuesday night in December it was an absolute bastard. Brian reached into his armpit and dragged out the Blu-Tack – the only way to keep the damn stuff warm enough to stick ? tore off a blob, pressed it onto the back of a postcard and fixed it above the phone. ‘SEXY SADIE, THE NAUGHTY LADY’ with a photo of an attractive, big-boobed blonde in thigh-high leather boots, matching basque, and whip. Whoever the girl in the picture was, she was nothing like the old dear who actually answered the accompanying phone number. The real Sexy Sadie looked like Brian’s nan.

The phone box was already pretty crowded. There was Mr Aziz’s finest – Sexy Sadie, Busty Becky, and Naughty Nikki – and the usual collection of doms, subs, trannies, tarts and rent boys. Some had photos, others just the promise of personal visits and ‘unique services’. Brian tore them all down, leaving the box clean except for Mr Aziz’s doddery bunch of kinky pensioners, and Dillon Black’s girls.

Brian might be failing geography, but that didn’t mean he was stupid.

Hands jammed deep into his pockets, he nipped across the road, taking his chances with the traffic. The burger joint was busy: hordes of kids eating processed meat and fries, passing around cans of super-strength lager when the staff weren’t looking.

A couple of them nodded hello as he walked in.

Cameron Williams glanced up from his double cheeseburger, mouth hanging open – full of half-chewed mystery meat. ‘Oy, Wanker!’ Doing the hand gesture as well.

Brian ignored him. Cammy was a dick. But he was a big dick and answering back would just get Brian’s head kicked in.

So he joined the queue for till number three instead.

He shuffled forwards, staring at the menu like he didn’t already know it off by heart. Cheeseburger with onion rings, fries, and a large Irn-Bru – same as always. And, as it was bloody freezing outside, one of them deep-fried apple pie things as well.

Bob – his mum’s new bloke – slipped him a tenner to get something to eat while they went down the pub. Which was cool. Meant he’d have enough left over for a packet of fags and a couple bottles of extra strong cider. That’d round off the evening nicely.

He ordered his burger, then settled back against the counter to wait. Checking his pockets: still twenty or thirty postcards to go. That would take him all the way down to the railway station, where there was a nice little corner shop that didn’t mind selling booze and fags to thirteen-year-olds. The free market economy in action: that’s what his English teacher, Mr Kirkhill called stuff like this.

Brian knew all about the free market economy. He was a seasoned practitioner of its darker arts.

The food arrived and he carried it over to an empty table; it was way too cold outside to eat in some piss-smelling shop doorway. He took a big bite of burger and a shadow fell across the table.

A man’s voice, deep and gravelly: ‘Anybody sittin’ here mate?’

Brian shrugged and kept on eating, head down. Free country, wasn’t it?

The bloke plonked himself on the other side of the table and unwrapped whatever it was he’d ordered.

‘You’re Brian, right? Brian Calder?’

Brian shrugged again, still not looking up. ‘Depends, doesn’t it.’

‘Thought I recognized you. We’re in the same line of work, Brian.’

‘Oh aye?’ Why did the weirdoes always have to sit next to him?

He crammed in an onion ring, and took a peek at the nut-job: thin, pasty-faced, goatee beard, hooded eyes and wide forehead, hair like one of them teddy boys you saw on the Discovery Channel, and a diamond ear stud. Fingertip-length black leather jacket over broad shoulders, a Hawaiian shirt and shark’s tooth necklace. Big Johnny Simpson.

Oh Jesus. . .

Brian’s cheeseburger tried to choke him. He coughed, spluttered, forced it down. ‘Mr Simpson.’ He dragged on a smile. ‘Nice to see you.’ Oh Christ. . . ‘How’s Leslie?’

‘Fuck should I know? I’m only her father.’ Big Johnny took a bite of his not-so-happy meal. ‘Bloody kids: soon as they hit puberty they want nothin’ to do with their old man.’ Chew, chew chew.

‘Right. Right.’ Oh God. . .

Big Johnny polished off the burger, fries, and a large Diet Coke, then settled back in his plastic seat and stared at him. ‘You finished?’

Brian glanced down at his food – virtually untouched, the melted cheese all leathery-looking, the onion rings pale and greasy. ‘Not really hungry.’ Not any more.

‘Good.’ Big Johnny stood, towering over the table. Shite: he was huge. ‘Come on, you and me are goin’ to take a little walk.’

Brian’s newly dropped balls tried to claw their way back into his body.

Oh fuck. . .

Half past eight and the city lights made sparkling reflections in the Kings River. Brian had a perfect view of them, because Big Johnny was dangling him – head down – over the water. A truck rumbled by on the bridge above, pigeons cooed on the metal support beams. Brian clenched his arsehole tight shut. Don’t cry. Don’t puke. Don’t beg for Mummy. . . She’d be pissed by now anyway.

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.

The blow – give him the skimmed blow!

‘I got some hash left!’ Brian handed it over. ‘Everything else is sold.’

‘I see.’ Johnny examined the small lump of dark brown resin. Probably weighing it up against the amount of cash in the bag. Trying to tell if Brian was screwing with him. Planning another trip to the Calderwell Bridge.

‘I . . . I also found out who Leslie’s been seeing.’

‘Oh yeah?’ The voice was low, dangerous. Like a Rottweiler. ‘Who?’

‘Erm. . .’ BLAME SOMEONE: ANYONE! ‘Cammy!’ Yeah, Cammy would do – smart thinking. The guy was a total dick anyway, he deserved a visit from Big Johnny Simpson.

‘Cammy?’

‘Cameron Williams – he’s a fourth year at Kingsmeath Secondary.’

Johnny nodded. Stuck the lump of cannabis in the bum-bag. ‘Get in the car.’

Back under the Calderwell Bridge: half past one in the morning.

Snow fell from the dark-orange sky, disappearing as it hit the swirling black water.

Don’t. Look. Down.

Brian grabbed the rust-flecked support girder with cold trembling hands. The sound of muffled sobbing came from the lump on the footpath below – Cammy, hands tied behind his back, gag in his mouth, a bag over his head, jeans soaked through where he’d pissed himself.

Big Johnny glanced up at Brian. ‘Loop the rope over the lumpy bit.’

Brian did what he was told, chucked the other end onto the concrete path, then shinned back to safety. Well . . . you know, not counting the homicidal madman.

By the time he’d got down, Big Johnny was hauling on the rope, dangling Cammy out over the water – within arm’s reach.

They’d picked him up on Patterson Street – staggering home on his own, out of his face on supermarket vodka. It hadn’t been hard to bundle him into the back of the car. Tie him up. Stuff an old rag in his mouth. Keep him from screaming.

Brian shifted from foot to foot, stomach lurching, heart thumping, blood fizzing in his ears.

It’d be OK. Nothing to worry about. Right?

Big Johnny was just going to scare Cammy: like he’d scared Brian. That was all this was, just a bit of terror to teach the bastard a lesson.

Even if it wasn’t his lesson to learn.

‘Clunk,’ and Big Johnny was back at the car boot. He pulled out a plastic bag from that big DIY superstore on the south side of the city and tossed it over to Brian. There was a set of decorators’ coveralls inside, the kind the police wore on the telly when they dug up some serial killer’s basement.

Johnny dug out another pair of coveralls and clambered into them. ‘Put it on.’

Was harder than it looked, but he managed. Then it was blue plastic bags over their shoes. And a pair of latex gloves.

That’s when Big Johnny produced the knife.

Cammy just hung there and cried.

Johnny grabbed him and sliced through the fourteen-year-old’s clothes, cutting them away – even the piss-soaked trousers and pants. He dumped the rags in a bin-bag, leaving Cammy stark-bollock naked, shivering, covered with goose pimples. Sobbing behind the gag.

Big Johnny made one last trip to the boot of his car and came back with a baseball bat. ‘You know what a pinata is, you piece of shit? No?’ Pause. ‘How about you, Brian?’

Brian knew, but the words wouldn’t come out – just this weird squeaking noise.

Big Johnny was scaring Cammy, that’s all: just scaring him.

‘No?’ Johnny sighed. ‘What the hell they teachin’ you lot in school? A pinata is something you hit and hit and hit until the insides come out. Like this. . .’

It took fifteen minutes.

And Brian stood there, mouth open, trying not to be sick.

Say something: tell Johnny that it was all a lie. Cammy didn’t touch his daughter. It was all just a wee white lie to stop him asking about the missing wrapper of heroin.

But he didn’t say a word.

Because he had a pretty good idea what Big Johnny would do if he found out Brian had lied to him. And stolen from him.

And he’d rather feel guilty than dead.