walk in. Her face was a cake of make up and her hair a badly cropped mush. I could still see what Martin saw in her, but only just.
She never said a word. She reached into her purse and took out a battered envelope and handed it to me. Then she was gone. I rammed the envelope into my pocket before a guard could see it and, back in my cell, took it out.
I opened it and inside there was a single sheet of typed paper.
‘Hi Riko,
I bet you didn’t expect to hear from me. I’m sorry I had to do what I had to do but things are not quite as they seem. I’ve no doubt that you are planning some sort of revenge on Dupree and I don’t blame you but, if I were you, I would leave it. Dupree is an evil fucker and fourteen years in prison is small change to what he could do to you if he wanted.
When you get out why don’t you have a pint for old times sake. I’ve left one behind the bar of our old haunt. If the pub is gone by the time you get out I’ve asked Stevie to take care of things.
Stay safe.
Martin’
The letter is in the diary next to you.
Look at the time eleven fifty eight and forty seconds. Time to go. While I’m away, read the diary. It might help explain some things. I won’t be long.
See you soon.
Chapter 21
Diary 2008
Dear Reader
Somehow Dear Reader sounds a bit naff but it will do. What follows is a diary — of sorts. I have worked from the digital recordings that I was given. As such the following is a transcription of conversations, monologue and other assorted meanderings. It wasn’t the easiest task I have ever performed and, at times some of the text may take a little license — all in the interest of keeping the whole thing lucid.
I’ve marked it all up in diary fashion, as the recordings frequently referred to the dates. As such it seemed logical to display it in this form.
You are probably reading this and wondering what I am gibbering on about but, hopefully, it will all make sense when you read the ‘diary’.
Enjoy.
Giles Taylor
Gordon Brown
59 Minutes
Tuesday January 1 ^st 2008
I don’t know why I’m using this thing. It has taken me a week just to work out how it operates. It’s a digital recorder and I’ve never used one before but, after fourteen years in prison, the world is a scary place and I need some order in my life.
It’s a tiny object and I’ve already discovered that I can keep it in my top pocket and record conversations without anybody knowing. I’m intending to keep an ‘aural’ record of the next few months — if I can work the bloody thing.
I was given it on Christmas day by the hostel and told it might help if I use it to note down my thoughts. It had been left by a well wisher and, as the new boy, I was trusted to use it and not hock it for drink money. I think the idea is a pile of crap but in a world of iPods, broadband, HD TV and SEO I’m like a polar bear in the Sahara — wrong place and lost.
I have a hangover — my first New Year hangover in nearly a decade and a half. A couple of the lads at the hostel managed to blag a few bottles of Buckfast and a half bottle of Glen’s, and we celebrated the birth of 2008.
I’m stunned at how little I have in the world. That bastard Dupree took everything. He owns my homes; he raided my bank accounts and even emptied my offshore account. When I stepped out of the prison gates I had the clothes I stood in and one hundred and eight quid in my pocket (the money I had on me when I was arrested).
I was given a bed in a hostel near Hammersmith for two weeks. Two weeks that I spent trying to get back on the ladder that I had fallen from — but it would seem that Dupree has ensured that the first rung is so out of sight that I may as well try and climb Mount Everest in a pair of slippers.
I door-stepped those of the gang who were still around and got blanked. I tried those who had retired but was told my name was bad news. I received eight kickings in as many days and the writing was on the wall. London was not for me. I was so skint I had to hold up a local corner store to get enough cash for a ticket back home.
Glasgow was little better. Everyone is drawing me a blank but the kicking ratio has fallen — only three so far.
I’m sitting on the edge of a single bed in a room that sleeps four. My room mates are all out looking for booze. It’s what they do every night. I’m not there yet but a few more weeks and I might take to the slippery slope with gusto.
Rachel’s letter is stuffed into my holdall. I’ve read it so often I can tell you the spacing between letters in millimetres and could, if asked, forge it to the point where a handwriting expert would struggle to tell original from copy.
I’m planning a trip to the pub tomorrow. I’ve no idea if it is still there or if Stevie is to be found. Not that I have a blind clue as to who Stevie is.
My head hurts and I’m off to the front desk for some painkillers.
Chapter 22
Wednesday January 2 ^nd 2008
The trip to the pub was a washout. The Lame Duck is no more. A concrete shell with a faded wooden sign that some local wit has changed to The Lame Fuck. There was no sign of life and no indication of who owns it and how you could contact them. I tried a few of the nearby pubs but it was early and the bar staff were clueless — mostly telling me to come back later when the owner or manager was around.
I took myself up to the West End for a memory trip but I wasn’t in the mood. Everything reminds me of what I used to have. If it wasn’t the New Year break I would have ended up sitting in Victoria Park mixing with the retired, unemployed and scum — sad to say that today I was probably the only one that could lay claim to all three categories. The whole world was out taking the air — trying to shake off the excesses of the New Year and it made me feel crap.
I ate a Kit Kat but I wasn’t in need of the break — my life is one big break. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try the council and find out who used to hold the license at The Lame Duck.
Chapter 23
Friday January 4 th 2008
I spent yesterday in the hostel. It might have been a Thursday, a work day, and the other side of the traditional two day New Year break in Scotland but that didn’t mean that the people I needed to see in the council
