1
Monday 7th September
East End of Glasgow
The barman came over, wiping his hands on a filthy dish towel.
‘See here, pal, it’s no healthy ye asking all these questions, an I dinnae want any trouble in here. Gaun hame while ye’re still in one piece.’
Jack looked at his watch. Only a few hours left. He didn’t know which ached more: his body or his soul. His knees were still knocking after his last encounter and it didn’t seem he was making any progress here.
He downed the last of his pint.
He felt everyone’s eyes on him as he walked to the door, piercing eyes drilling into his back. An outsider. Unwanted.
But he needed to be a trouble-maker. He was stirring the pond like crazy but nothing was coming to the surface.
The night was cold and the air fresher on the other side of the door. It was a grim neighbourhood. The street lighting struggled to improve the gloom and succeeded only in benefitting the shadows and dark alleys.
He saw a figure about fifty yards away standing in the sickly sodium glow of a lone street-light. Micro-skirt, purple tights, stiletto-heeled ankle boots, hair a peroxide mess. As good as anyone. He set off towards her.
Two shadows unglued themselves from the darkness on either side of the door he had just left. One confronted him, the other behind, blocking any escape. They were close enough for him to smell fresh cigarette and none-too-clean body – overpowered by the pungent aroma of his own fear. A large car drew up alongside and, as if by magic, the boot lid swung up. The man in front of him didn’t move but Jack sensed the guy behind approaching.
The moment he felt himself grabbed from behind he lashed out with his right foot, aiming to crash it down on his attacker’s instep. The connection was good, the crunch satisfying, the howl rewarding and the punch to his kidneys painful.
His muscles spasmed and his resistance collapsed. They lifted up as though he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. He landed head-first in the open car boot. His legs and feet followed. He twisted round, shifted his body weight and crashed his feet into the already closing boot lid, but he was too slow and the lid banged down, extinguishing all light. He smashed his heels into the side of the boot with all his strength.
As a gesture it was great. As a course of action it was futile. And his kidneys objected.
The vehicle moved off and he lost orientation: he could see nothing, didn’t know which way he was facing, he could barely move his arms, and all he could smell was thick, sweet, exhaust fumes. For a moment he feared he might get seasick and throw up all over himself and the boot. He told himself to relax and go with the flow. Maybe he was making progress. He was clearly an irritant to someone. Perhaps he was being taken to the same place as Jenny. Even if he were locked up with her, at least they would be together and could give each other support. Even better, his absence tomorrow morning really would put the shit in the incense.
Eventually the vehicle slowed, bumped over rough ground, and came to a halt. The car rocked as doors opened and closed, occupants got out. When the boot lid swung up they hauled him out with the same lack of ceremony or difficulty as when they’d flung him in. He was in some kind of small park, rough ground that was dark, grassy and bordered by trees. He felt and heard the rumble of a train nearby. He stood awkwardly, moving his arms to ease the muscles and restore circulation. The talkative one spoke.
‘Ye’ve been tell’t, ye bastart piece o shite, an now ye’ll get a kickin.’
In his heart he’d known this was coming; by now he was determined to give an honest account of himself. He had just enough time to transfer his weight to the balls of his feet when a fist the size of a melon slammed into his stomach. What little was in there exploded through his mouth in a technicolor display of tomato skins and diced carrots. He heard a surprised voice primly say something about a dirty wee bugger and a nice clean shirt.
He shook his head to try to clear the remains of his last meal from his mouth. The manoeuvre was still incomplete when a massive shock exploded on his face. His brain swam in an unaccustomed porridge of violence, the blood pounded in his ears, nose and eyes. The guy behind him grabbed his upper arms and held him while the first pummelled him with sledge-hammer blows to the stomach, chest and solar plexus. Jack tried to double up to protect himself but couldn’t move downwards more than a few inches, which was when an uppercut connected with his nose, exploding every blood vessel within range.
They let him sink to the muddy ground only so that they could engage their boots. He tried curling into a ball, but as the blows exploded in his kidneys he jerked open. Most of the kicks to his front landed on his hands and arms, but still a couple spilled over onto his face.
The rain of violence stopped as suddenly as it had started.
‘Tha’s the last warnin ye’ll get. Now fuck off back tae whur ye came from and stop pokin yer nose whur it’s no wanted.’ One last kick in the stomach for emphasis.
‘An clean yersel up. Ye stink.’
He heard them climb back into the vehicle and drive off. He could almost see the cloud of blue diesel smoke.
Tongues of fire crept up his back and licked at his hands and face. But he’d survived. Then the tremors started, the shaking and the pain. He was afraid to move in case he discovered anything serious.
He screwed up what little remained of his courage and uncurled slowly. Thunderbolts shot through his ribs and back. Blood flowed freely from a split lip and mingled with the discharge from his burst nose.
He felt rather than heard the hesitant approach of curious onlookers.
‘Ye aw right, pet?’ Extraordinarily enough, he thought, not altogether, no.
They crouched over him and tentatively laid a hand on his back. At least, he thought, it wasn’t violent. And he was going to need some help to stand upright.
His rescuers, powerfully bathed in the acrid tang of cigarettes, cheap perfume and sweaty armpits, stroked his brow and made gentling noises.
He was grateful for that. But he couldn’t stay all night to enjoy it. Instead, he crawled onto his hands and knees, spat out another gobbet of blood, and muttered through thickening lips, ‘fucking Hong Kong.’