Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas

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.