Bonds and Confederacies

It’s a less polished Pete McGeechy who sits across from them in the interview room, and not just because he’s meeting them on their turf. The fact that it’s not long after four in the morning plays a part. Soon as they found the right DVD in Temple’s house, she had somebody go pick him up. She figured as she was going to be up all night anyway, she might as well make it work for her; guys like that are far less composed when you haul them out of bed in the wee small hours. He really wouldn’t be looking forward to the missus asking him what it was all about, either.

It was quite a collection Temple had amassed, though fortunately she hadn’t needed to cue through any great quantity of other people’s violated intimacies in order to find what she was looking for. Something as crucial as the McGeechy disc was never going to be just lined up on the shelf next to the rest, and nor was there likely to be only the one copy. Tom found one hidden in the ice compartment of the fridge at almost the same time as Spiers located another taped to the underside of a drawer in Temple’s bedside cabinet. No sign of the removable hard drive, but this was plenty for now.

He’s slumped on the other side of the table from Karen and Tom, looking tired, beaten, angry and bewildered, which is pretty much how they want him. The DVD sits between them in a transparent case. McGeechy’s eyes seldom leave it for long.

“So, Peter,” Karen says. “Are you ‘at liberty to reveal’ a wee bit more now? Because it certainly looks like Colin Temple was.”

He closes his bloodshot eyes and sighs deeply, putting both hands to his head, revealing two large sweat-rings under his arms despite his shirt being on him for less than half an hour. Karen keeps herself from smiling as she recognises all the signs. Stick a fork in him: he’s ready.

“When did he hit you with this?” she asks.

“Later than you’d think,” McGeechy says. He laughs bitterly. “I thought we were friends. Not big pals, but still in touch, the odd pint, you know? So I never thought much about it when he offered me the lodge.”

“For free?” Karen asks pointedly.

“Aye. Christ, I knew he’d want a favour back at some point, but I was fine with that. There’s a difference between doing somebody a favour and doing something corrupt. He said the place wasnae booked the now, would be empty anyway. Perfect for a fly wee night away.”

“From the wife,” Tom adds.

McGeechy says nothing, just gives another small sigh, shakes his head a little. It must all look so foolish now. It always does after you’re caught. “This was before he submitted the application.”

“We know.”

“Once he had, in the back of my mind I thought…but no. He even said to me, something along the lines of: “Look, that wee favour with the lodge, I hope you don’t think this is what I’m lookin for back, hope it doesnae put you in an awkward spot,” that kinna thing. I’m like: “No, it’s fine, I’ve declared it, it’s all above board.” Things looked like leaning in the application’s favour anyway. There’s always a few rumbles from folk, sometimes just to remind you they’re there or to let you know that if they back this, they’ll expect your cooperation on something else. That’s politics. But as these things go, it looked like plain sailing.”

“Until another party declared an interest,” Karen suggests.

“Aye,” he confirms grimly, “Johnny Turner. Although I didnae know right away it was Johnny Turner. Folk were getting leaned on in various ways. I won’t name names, but I’m pretty sure money changed hands in some cases. In others the incentive was staying out of the Royal Alexandra. Johnny Turner knows some bad, bad people. Jimmy Meechan’s mob. But then, you know all that.”

“All too well. Were you intimidated personally?”

McGeechy looks involuntarily around himself, like he’s scared of being overheard. That’s a yes before he even speaks. “I’m just a fuckin town planner. I didn’t want my fuckin legs broken.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police?”

“See above.”

“Fair enough.”

“Anyway, it was when word started getting about that the application would be rejected that Colin played his ace. He let me know the footage would be freely copied and passed around if I didnae swing the application back his way. The phrase he used, which I have no difficulty in recollecting, was that ‘half of Renfrewshire is gaunny be wankin themselves or pishin themselves’.”

“Charming. But you’re only one guy. Turner had nobbled a few people on the committee, you just said.”

“That’s what I tried to tell Colin. That was my problem, he told me right back. He knew how these things work. If you make one person desperate enough, they can prevail upon the rest. Obviously the rest were reluctant to cross Johnny Turner, but Colin said he could guarantee Turner would be oot the equation if permission was granted.”

“What did he mean?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

“Didn’t you want a bit more assurance before you put yourself on a collision course with Johnny Turner?”

“I considered that the lesser of two evils. I’d have taken the broken legs before I let that fuckin video get out.”

“Sure. Can’t envisage it enhancing your political career very much.”

“Not unless you’re Cicciolina,” Tom suggests.

“And I guess your wife wouldnae be too pleased, either.”

“Well, for Christ’s sake, that’s who I was trying to protect. I don’t even like to think what this would do to her.”

“Maybe you should have thought about it a bit more back then,” says Karen.

“Who thinks about stuff like this, for fuck’s sake?” McGeechy volubly protests, more resembling the volcanically indignant boy she remembers. “Christ, have you actually watched the fuckin thing?”

“I did you the courtesy of looking only at as much as was necessary to know we had the right DVD. We’ll only watch more if there’s any information you don’t give us. Such as who was the girl?”

“Who was the…? Christ, don’t you fuckin eejits get it? There was no girl. It was my wife.”

There is a reeling silence for a moment as Karen and Tom take this one in. Fortunately, the more familiarly fired-up McGeechy is determined to fill it.

“Do you think if I was havin it away with somebody, I’d do it five miles up the road in a place belongin tae somebody as lewd and sleazy as Colin fuckin Temple? It was just meant tae be a quiet wee night away at a time we were both feelin a bit snowed-under with the January blues.”

“But if that’s the case, then Temple’s the one who would be liable to prosecution if this video emerged.”

“It was his zero option,” McGeechy says. “You know the situation he was in financially. So basically he was saying that if he ended up fucked, he was fucking us too, so I’d better make sure it never came to that.”

“But if you were the ones who were violated by this,” Karen begins, but does not get any further before McGeechy blusters over her.

“Look, being the victim doesnae save you in politics. Embarrassment is poison, no matter how little it’s your fault. But I couldn’t care less aboot that. It was my wife. She’s a primary-school teacher, for fuck’s sake. School boards are even less forgiving than voters. “Yes, tough break, Mrs McGeechy, not your fault, but…” And Christ, if you knew what the job meant to her. She didn’t do that well in school, didn’t make the most of herself. Ended up with a bad crowd. But by the time I started going out with her, she had become determined to clean up her act. She went to night school and got her Highers, then after we got married six years back, I paid the way so she could give up work and go to teacher-training college. Her job means everything,” he implores. “Do you understand?”

Karen nods, saying nothing for a moment to let the temperature cool. “What’s her name?” she asks softly, having let the silence grow long enough.

“Anna,” he replies, clearing his throat before he speaks, attempting to regain his composure. Despite pulling himself together, and despite the pause Karen granted him, he looks less certain of himself than ever.

“Anna what?”

“McGeechy. She took my name.”

“I meant what was her maiden name? Did she go to our school?”

“She was a couple of years below. You wouldn’t have known her.”

“What was her name anyway?”

“Logue.”

Karen casts her mind back. He’s right. She didn’t know the girl, but she does remember the name. More importantly, she also remembers why. “So what happened next?” she asks. “What did you do?”

“I moved mountains,” he says. “I lobbied, I hustled, I threatened, I sweated blood. Short version: I turned the committee around. Unfortunately, this didnae take long in gettin back to Johnny Turner, who was, it would be fair to say, somewhat disappointed.”

“I’ll bet. What did he do in response?”

“Had me bundled into a car one night and dragged oot to the middle of nowhere for a wee chat. Tea and crumpets, you know the kind of thing,” he says bitterly, his mouth trembling slightly as he speaks. Not a favourite memory. “Prior to that, I had no idea how much pain can be inflicted on parts of the human body withoot leavin a mark. Turner guessed Temple had something on me, some leverage, and he made me tell him what it was. I could tell he understood that Colin’s threat was greater than his, because it affected more than just me. I said if he could guarantee that the video disappeared, I’d make sure the application sank.”

“When exactly was this?” Tom asks.

“Couple of weeks ago. I never heard anythin for a few days and started to get really worried, because I realised there was a big hole in my deal. If he got hold of just one copy of the DVD and released it to the right people, he could have torpedoed the rezoning application in one blow. I’d be fatally compromised as head of the committee, and Colin would be facin prosecution. But I was wrong. Guys like Turner always see a bigger picture. He also saw a bigger flaw.”

“Which was what?”

“There was no way of knowing how many copies existed, and Colin only needed to hang on to one.”

“And what was the bigger picture?”

“A very dirty one. Turner called me up last Sunday and said he had it all sorted. I asked when I’d be getting my DVDs, which was when he told me I wouldn’t, and why. But he said he could guarantee Colin would be keepin them to himself.”

“How?”

“He put a few things together. Reckoned Colin wouldnae have fitted all that kit just to snare me, and that he wouldnae be using it just for his own amusement. He got someone to do a bit of diggin on the internet and it turns oot Colin’s been floggin this footage to a porn outfit in America.”

“Online feeds?” Tom asks. “Hell of a risk in the global village.”

“No,” McGeechy says. “Voyeur DVDs, sold mail-order, and only shipping within the US, so there was little chance of some bloke in Paisley loggin on to a porn site and seein himself in action.”

“AmberCorp,” says Karen.

“What?”

“He received payments in US dollars from a firm called AmberCorp.”

“Well, I doubt Turner knew that part, but he knew enough to put Colin in jail and see him sued from arsehole to Elderslie. Turner was using this to get him to drop the rezoning application, and to agree to sell the hotel to him—at a pretty fuckin preferential rate, I’d guess. Plus, of course, to keep me onside, Turner said he’d let Colin know that if my DVD ever saw the light of day, then so would everybody else’s.”

“So Turner had already informed Temple he knew all this?” Karen asks.

“Aye. He said he had broken the bad news, and they were meeting in a couple of days so Colin could put pen to paper. Next I heard about either of them, they were both dead.”

§

The DJ’s just put on One Step Beyond, but Noodsy practically has to drag Turbo up to join in. Normally he’d be first out there and going pure mental, but he’s not himself the night. Or more like he is himself, as in himself from a few years back: the old Robbie. He keeps drifting off into a dwam, getting that cold look in his eyes, anger and hate, thon psycho way he used to be all the time. It was the glue that did it, Noodsy knows. Not the glue that put him in hospital, the glue that was put in his bag this afternoon, in front of everybody. That was fucking sick.

Noodsy doesn’t know who done it—he was busy with a wee bit of business of his own during science today—but he knows it wasn’t something that was done for a laugh, which just went too far or got took the wrong way. It was meant to be vicious. Everybody knows Turbo could have died, and you don’t fucking joke about that. Not that way, anyroads. Noodsy can imagine somebody like Kenny Langton mentioning it in a funny way to make light of it and cheer Turbo up, but that’s not what this was about. This was done to make everybody but Turbo laugh, and it was done anonymously.

Normally with pranks like that, half the laugh is in everybody knowing what’s coming, so most of the guys are in on it. Noodsy doesn’t believe that could have been the case today, because there’s no way Kenny would have let it happen if he knew. So some bastard did it purely for spite, but Noodsy can’t work out who. Turbo’s made no shortage of enemies in his time, Noodsy among them, but he’s never been quite the same since Tempo battered him, and that was nearly two years back. You’d think if somebody hated him that much, he’d have done something about it before now, and to his face. Noodsy supposes the person with the best idea who did it is Turbo, but he doesn’t want to ask. Like the glue-sniffing itself, it feels wrong to bring it up, like picking somebody else’s scab.

Turbo perks up a bit once he starts cutting about the dance floor, which is just as well, as Noodsy reckons it’s important that they both get noticed. Turbo’s at his best when you keep him busy, keep him involved in stuff. It’s when he’s idle he’s most in danger of getting thon broody way, and that’s when the old Robbie threatens to make a reappearance. Noodsy puts the tip of his thumb in his mouth and mimes playing a sax, like he does when they’re listening to this song at his hoose. Turbo responds like he hoped, kidding on he’s playing a trumpet. Then they do that thing from the Madness videos where the boy with the sax ducks just as the one with the trumpet swings it round over his heid. Mr Kerr, the geography teacher, clocks them doing it and has a laugh.

Result.

The song ends and some other shite comes on, gets all the trendy crowd up. Noodsy feels butterflies in his belly. It’s an exciting night, one he’s been looking forward to. There’s a buzz about the place. Everybody checking out everybody else. A lot of the lassies are looking really nice, some you really wouldn’t be expecting to, either. Tico and Aldo and K-9 and that lot are kitted out flash, as you’d imagine. They’re dancing with lassies, lucky bastards, trying to make out they’re dead cool about it, but they’ll be having butterflies as well, hoping they can get off with somebody later.

Big Temps was dancing with that lot earlier, but now he’s dancing with Eleanor. She’s a lot different these days. You’d hardly recognise her from what she used to be like, apart from the scowl. In fact, you’d hardly recognise her tonight from what she looked like in class earlier on. There’s some lassies at the disco you can tell only get done up with make-up and that for occasions like this, but others look so comfortable in their glad rags that you can hardly picture them back in their uniforms. Eleanor’s one of the latter. To say she’s cleaned up her act would be the understatement of the year. No more Smelly Elly, no more greasy hair and clothes that never saw the inside of a washing machine.

This transformation has come about, according to Noodsy’s maw, ‘since she became auld enough to look after hersel—because her mammy never did’. Noodsy’s maw has told him a few things he wishes he’d known before, because now he feels a bit guilty about how everybody carried on. Eleanor’s maw’s an alky. Eleanor’s da just walked out on them when she was a baby. That’s how the Fenwicks were always skint. Mrs Eenwick’s ‘a deid loss, poor soul’, Noodsy’s maw says. “There’s been other men aboot the hoose, but maistly neerdowells.”

Eleanor works weekends at the frozen-food place in Nether Carnock, stocking freezers and mopping floors. That’s where Noodsy and his maw saw her recently, and what prompted these wee, belated revelations. “Pulling hersel up by the bootstraps, that lassie,” said his maw.

But not everybody is as charitable or admiring about her as Noodsy’s maw. Folk don’t like to let you live down your past too easily round here, and while Eleanor might look different, there’s plenty of folk still look at her like she’s shite off their shoe. Tempo isn’t up dancing with her because of any romantic shite. See, Eleanor hangs about with a lot of older guys and the rumour is she’s been shagged off some of them. That’s why Tempo’s turning on the charm—he’ll be hoping for a wee bit more than any of Jojo’s pals would let him away with.

Noodsy knows he’s got no chance for a couple of years yet when it comes to that game, but he’s got his sights set on scoring tonight just the same.

§

“Quite the little chatterbox this time around, wasn’t he?” Tom observes dryly as they watch McGeechy make his way out to a waiting unmarked car.

“Obviously a morning person,” Karen replies. “And a sharp one, too. He talked plenty, but on the whole he didn’t tell us anything he knew we couldn’t deduce now that we’re aware of the video and how Colin made it.”

“You think he’s still holding back?”

“I think he’s smart enough to realise there’s nothing to gain but suspicion by withholding information that the polis are going to find out anyway. He was knocked sideways by us turning up with the DVD, but he regrouped. Only really lost it around the subject of his wife.”

“Understandably so.”

“More understandably than you know, Tom.”

“How’s that?”

“He said it himself: guys like Turner always see a bigger picture. If Turner’s shakedown of Temple had all worked out, McGeechy would still be in the same boat. Instead of Colin Temple dangling the DVD over him, it would be Johnny Turner. That’s an even worse prospect if you ask me, because unlike Temple, Turner would have nothing to fear by way of legal comeback if he deployed his ‘zero option’, because he didnae make the recording. Plus, as he also said, there’d never be any way of accounting for all the copies. Until now, all we’ve had are reasons why Turner and Temple might want rid of each other. Now we’ve got somebody whose problems would be solved if he could get rid of both. Somebody who knew they were meeting up and would therefore be conveniently in the same place at the same time.”

“He didn’t know where or when they were meeting, though.”

“No,” Karen corrects. “He never said he knew those things. Big difference.”

“True. So what’s the script with the wife?”

“He lost it when he was talking about her, which was understandable, as you said. But once he calmed down, it struck me that he seemed more rattled than ever.”

“Scared he’d given something away while his emotions had the better of him? But you cooled everything down at that point. Why didn’t you keep the pressure on?”

“I did, in a way. I asked him his wife’s name. And I had to ask several times before he would give me it. Anna Logue.”

“You know her? Knew her?”

“Knew the name, knew the face. As McGeechy said, she was a couple of years below us, so I was only aware of her because she was the cousin of somebody in my class.”

“Who?”

“James Doon.”

§

“Time we went for a single fish,” Noodsy says.

“I’ve just been two minutes ago,” says Turbo.

“I know, ya daft bastart. I mean it’s time we went.”

Another Madness single has just finished; Baggy Trousers this time. Noodsy made a pest of himself to the DJ until he caved in and played it just to get rid of him. Daft bugger would have no idea that getting a record played was just a fringe benefit. Making a pest of himself was the true point of the exercise. Same as doing that wee routine that made Mr Kerr laugh. It was about getting noticed, about giving the impression they were busy having the time of their lives.

Noodsy has learnt a lot about impressions. He’s learnt the hard way about how the folk in charge only need a wee bit of information in order to make up their minds, and how no amount of contradictory evidence will then change them.

“Aye, awright,” Turbo agrees, though he’s not exactly jumping at the prospect.

He’s been a bit funny about the whole thing. Noodsy reckons it’s mainly to do with the mood he’s in after the glue carry-on, but there’s other stuff as well. He’s definitely not happy about Boma and Joe being involved, even less so that it was Noodsy’s idea to talk to them, but he didn’t see how else they could make it work. There are weird vibes in that house between those brothers, so there are. They give Turbo a right fucking hard time, but that’s why Noodsy thought he’d be happier for the chance to get on the right side of them.

To be fair, he did spring this on Turbo kind of at the last minute, but Noodsy wasn’t sure himself whether he would go through with it. If Boma and Joe hadn’t been home when he went round to Turbo’s bit, Noodsy would have said nothing, probably. Just kept the idea for another time, or forgot about it altogether.

It’s kind of weird, it being Noodsy who’s had to chivvy Turbo along, considering it was Turbo who got Noodsy started on knocking stuff. He remembers that first time at the Paki shop on a Saturday afternoon in Second Year. He was starving, they both were, neither of them due in for their tea for ages. He was always hungry these days. Must be because of growing. Turbo only had enough money for a packet of Polo Mints, while Noodsy never had a bean. Turbo said he’d buy the mints as a distraction while Noodsy knocked some chocolate. He said no at first. He was shiting it about getting caught, but more because of his maw finding out than about the shopkeeper or the polis. Maw was always going on about honesty, how low it was to steal stuff. And Noodsy agreed. But he was branded a thief on his first day at primary school, and he’s been picking up the blame for shite ever since. Nobody ever listened, they all made up their minds. Vee-lan. Bawd igg. James Doon! What are you doing rummaging about in there? So if he was taking the shite for it anyway, he might as well get a free fucking Ritter Sport for his troubles. Honesty had got him fuck-all.

They leave the dinner hall and go up the stairs, then hang about in the corridor for a wee minute to make sure nobody’s coming, before going right outside. The school’s built on a slope, so it’s on three levels, but all the main entrances are in the middle tier, apart from fire exits. The staff aren’t daft enough to be wanting dozens of unsupervised weans stoating about the place on a Friday night, so they’ve locked the big barrier doors that cut across the main inside thoroughfare. This cuts off access to most of the classrooms, including the whole of the top floor. On the mid-level, the staircase down to the dining hall is open, obviously, plus there’s access to the First and Second Year bogs and cloakrooms. You can get to the Third-to-Sixth-Year bogs and social area through the fire doors, but the lights are off and there’s a paper sign taped to the wall saying: “Out of Bounds!”

They’ve been playing these daft games for ages, about knocking stupid stuff from the classrooms. It’s pish-easy, but it’s useless as well, which got Noodsy to thinking there must be some more valuable gear worth libbing from the place. Then, as luck would have it, his RE class got taken to the lecture theatre to watch some minging film about abortion, and that’s when he realised: same as burglars when they tanned your house, the top merchandise to go after was the video. Or, in this case, two videos, and both VHS as well.

Noodsy doesn’t have a video any more. They used to have a Betamax on rental, but it had to go back after his da got laid off again. He’d love to knock one from the school and bring it home, but you can’t see his maw and da believing him if he said he just found it, eh? Naw. Especially when it’s going to be all over the town that the school’s machines got tanned. Kind of hard to get home with one under your arm and not get noticed, too. All of which is why he needed to bring in Boma and Joe. Noodsy reckons he can get the machines out of the building, but he needs somebody to move them after that, move them in more ways than one.

Noodsy leads the way round the back, along the outside wall, until they get to their science classroom, and a window that’s had more traffic through it recently than half the corridors. That’s what Noodsy was busy with this afternoon—while Turbo was farting about with a clamp-stand and some bawsack was planking glue in Turbo’s bag—undoing the window lock at the top, then wedging a wee bit of a broken ruler between the frame and the sill. The windows are meant to be locked when they’re closed, but the teachers and the janny are only liable to check if they notice one still open. That’s why Noodsy’s only opened it enough to get the ruler through and no more. It’s enough, though. The ruler’s still in place and the window’s not locked.

They wait there a wee minute until they see the motor: Joe’s pal Benzy’s Allegro. It pulls up on the back road that goes past the school, just trees and fields along it, and no houses. The headlights flash, then go off altogether.

Right.

They’re both giggling a wee bit as they climb in. Turbo’s looking a lot more into it now, which is not surprising, because it’s some buzz. Better than anything he could’ve hoped for off the glue, that’s for sure. It’s like being nervous and really excited at the same time. His heart’s pounding, his stomach’s burling but he can’t keep the smile off his face. There’s a wee moment of concern as they approach the door, in case it’s been locked from the outside, but it opens no bother. Come to think of it, the only doors Noodsy’s ever seen the staff locking up with keys are the tuck shop and the school offices, in both cases because there’s money sometimes kept there.

It’s right weird walking through the place with nobody about and the lights off. The corridor’s practically pitch dark, with just a wee glimmer of the exterior lighting coming through glass panels in some of the classroom doors. They go upstairs to the top level, and it gets a bit brighter as they approach the gallery. This is the bit that looks down into the big social area. The overhead fluorescents are off down there, but there are two storeys of tall windows to let in the orange glow from the school yard and the car park. The lecture theatre’s at the end of this, after it becomes a closed corridor again. Noodsy and Turbo have been whispering to each other up to this point, but now they have to zip it altogether. They’re getting close to the corridors that are open downstairs, plus there’s only an unlocked fire door separating those from the social area.

They walk on the soft soles of their trainers; it’s definitely not a night for Docs. They’re just about all the way across the gallery bit when somebody makes a moaning noise and Noodsy nearly jumps over the railing. He turns and looks at Turbo, and he can tell he shat it as well. Then they take a careful look over the side at what’s below.

There’s two folk sitting in one of the big window-alcoves, their legs dangling over the brickwork, their top halves merged in the shadows. Noodsy holds his breath, feart any noise will make them look up, but after a second or so he realises he could be playing a mouth organ and they’d still not notice, as they’re too wrapped up in getting off with each other.

It’s Temps and Eleanor. Aye, called that one right. They’re kissing away, and that dirty bastard Tempo’s feeling one of her tits.

Noodsy turns to see Turbo’s expression, so’s they can have a quiet wee laugh, but he looks all serious. Could be jealous, Noodsy supposes. It’s a laugh to be watching, but he knows he’d prefer to be the one doing it. Not that either of them fancies Eleanor, but who wouldn’t want a feel of a nice pair of diddies?

Aw, here we go, check this. Temps’s hand goes down to her thigh for a wee minute, then he tries to slip it under her skirt, but she pushes it away. He plonks it back on her tit instead, then starts kissing her neck. She puts her heid back and Noodsy panics for a second, till he sees that her eyes are closed. Then the hand goes for the legs again, and this time it’s a different story. She even shifts in her seat so she can hitch her skirt up a wee bit, and opens her legs as Tempo’s hand disappears out of sight.

Noodsy nearly hurdles the barrier again when Turbo taps him on the shoulder. He looks even more serious, pissed off in fact. Then Noodsy remembers: he’ll not want to keep Boma and Joe waiting. Plus, the quicker they’re back on the dance floor, the tighter their alibi. Noodsy reluctantly pulls himself away from the spectacle and follows Turbo to the lecture theatre. It’s safe to turn on the lights because there are no windows in here. When he does, he sees that they’re a video short. There’s one that sits on a trolley, underneath a portable telly, and the whole shebang is away somewhere. It’ll be in one of the classrooms, but they’ve no time to start searching. It would take all fucking night. The other video’s there, but. It’s a big, heavy bastard of a thing, and not exactly state-of-the-art. Right enough, he can remember it sitting there since First Year, probably the first video he ever watched anything on, so it must have been an early model. Still works fine, but, and that’s the main issue. It’ll be less of a pay-out, just tanning the one machine, but on the plus side, it takes the both of them to carry this fucking thing, so maybe coming back for the other one would have been a risk too far.

It takes them no time to get back to the science block, because their eyes are more used to the dark, plus there was no waiting around spying on Temps and Eleanor. They could still hear them as they passed, right enough, loads of slurping and heavy breathing. Lucky bastard, getting to feel her fanny and everything. Bet Temps wouldn’t have gone near it a couple of years back, but.

They go back into their science class, where Joe and Boma are already waiting at the window.

“It’s just the wan,” Turbo says as they approach. “The other yin wasnae there.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Boma grunts, looking all angry.

“Better than nothin,” says Joe, leaning in over the worktop. “Gie us it oot.”

“Hing on,” Noodsy says, and lowers his side of the video to the floor so that Turbo has to do the same.

“Whit ye daein?” Turbo and Joe both ask.

“Money first,” says Noodsy. He’s heard Turbo talk enough about his brothers to know if they don’t get paid before they hand over the goods, then they’ll never see a penny.

“We’ve got to flog it first,” says Joe.

“Aye, and you’ll get a sight more than you’re payin me, so cough up or this stays where it is.”

“Watch your mooth or I’ll come in there an leather ye, ya wee cunt,” warns Boma.

“Shut up, Boma,” says Joe. “Naw, fair dos,” he tells Noodsy. “Here’s twenty.” He holds up two tenners.

“It was fifty for the pair. Hauf ay fifty’s twenty-five.”

“Cannae fault your arithmetic, son, but twenty’s all you’re gettin. Take it or leave it.”

Noodsy takes it, handing a tenner to Turbo, then they pass out the video. It’s better than nothing, but a tenner still seems a shite return for his grand plan.

They watch Boma and Joe run towards the fence, Benzy getting out the car to help. Turbo climbs on to the worktop, readying to climb out the window, but Noodsy stays where he is.

“You comin, well?” Turbo asks.

“I want to see if there’s anythin else worth havin afore we go—”

“Aye, right enough.” Turbo nods. “Need to be quick, but.”

“I know. We’ll just check the science base upstairs. Bound to be somethin worth floggin in there, eh?”

“Fuck knows, but seein we’re here…”

Noodsy doesn’t have a scoob what they could expect to find in there, to be honest, but he thought of it because it’s nearby and it’s where all the gear for experiments is kept. He’s always wanted a snoop round it, and he’ll never have a better chance.

When they get upstairs, they find it’s really just a glorified cupboard: mostly shelves, drawers and cabinets but with a double sink built into the worktop down one side. The shelves are pure stowed, jars of chemicals and boxes of stuff. There’s potassium in paraffin. He remembers that was quite exciting back in First Year, seeing it stoat about when it got dropped into water and then exploding at the end, but there’s nothing leaps out at him as worth knocking. Well, the van de Graaff generator would be a pish laugh to have in the house, but he doesn’t think he could fit it down his jooks for taking home unnoticed after the disco.

Turbo’s opened a cupboard and found a wee scalpel set with spare blades in wee foil packs. He sticks it in his back pocket.

“Whit ye daein wi that?”

“Worth carryin aboot in case ye ever get jumped. That would fuckin show them: kweesh, kweesh, kweesh, ” he says, doing a wee stabbing motion with his hand.

“Aye, an if ye fall doon on it, ye’ll cut your arse open. Put it back.”

“Fuck off. It’s mines noo.”

Noodsy doesn’t argue. He just hopes Boma doesn’t ever get hold of the thing. He opens a couple of drawers, finds nothing but Bunsen burners in one and some daft wee trolleys in another. He’s heard Scot Connolly talk about them, thinks it’s something they use in O Grade physics. Then he notices that a big black leather thing on a nearby worktop isn’t a box, as he had assumed, but a covered cage. He pulls the drape away and sees that it’s the school guinea pig, Bubbles, or whatever its name is. He remembers Coleman had it in their class once, but can’t remember why. He was too busy watching the thing to pay attention to what she was sayin. He’d really wanted a wee shot of it, but it was only one of the lassies that got to touch it.

He opens the cage.

“Whit ye daein?” Turbo asks.

“I just want to haud it a wee minute.”

“Ye daft? Come on. There’s fuck all in here. Let’s go.”

“Let me just clap it a wee bit,” Noodsy says, reaching his hand in through the gap as the guinea pig scurries into the far corner of the cage.

Then the wee bastard lunges forward and sinks its teeth into Noodsy’s index finger.

“Aaaaayaaaa, bastart,” he shouts, and pulls his hand back, but the wee fucker’s still attached.

“Fuck’s sake, be quiet,” Turbo urges.

It’s fucking agony. Noodsy’s shaking his hand, but Bubbles won’t let go. He grabs hold of the thing and tries to pull it, but that’s even sorer and lets him know how hard the vicious wee shite is biting down. Then in a fit of either inspiration or desperation, he sticks his hand in the sink and turns on the tap. This causes the wee bastard to let go, then skite about on the porcelain because it can’t get a grip with its feet. There’s blood dripping from his finger.

“Christ. Need tae get this wrapped with somethin.”

“I fuckin tellt ye tae lea it alane,” Turbo says, not exactly bowling him over with sympathy.

“There must be plasters or something in here,” Noodsy says, still running the tap with his injured finger under it.

“Take this the noo,” says Turbo, and hands him a big roll of kitchen paper. “I’ll keep lookin.”

Noodsy rips off a length and wraps it round his finger. Bubbles is huddled up in the corner furthest from the running water.

“Need to get that back in the cage,” Noodsy says.

“Aye, right. I’m no fuckin touchin it.”

“Cannae leave it, but. It’ll no be able tae eat.”

“Has it no eaten enough?”

“Very fuckin funny.”

“Oot the way,” Turbo says. He nudges Noodsy aside and puts a big biology textbook into the sink, forming a ramp. “He can make his ain way back. We better go.”

“I still need a plaster,” Noodsy says, opening another door. This one takes a bit of a yank, and it turns out it’s because it’s actually a big fridge. “Eeuuh,” he says.

“Whit?”

Noodsy opens the door further so Turbo can see in. There’s a set of lungs and a windpipe sitting in a tray, for a demonstration you get in Second Year. Noodsy can’t recall if they were from a cow or a sheep, but he does remember he nearly spewed his ring from the smell. He shuts the fridge and tries another drawer, where, thank fuck, there’s a big packet of Elastoplasts. He bins the kitchen paper and sorts himself out with a couple of plasters. All the while Turbo’s standing there with thon blank look on his coupon, like he’s back in Robbie mode. Then his face becomes determined as he opens the door and lifts the tray out of the fridge.

“Whit the fuck ye daein?” Noodsy asks, but Turbo doesn’t answer.

He walks out the door; no, runs is more like it. Noodsy goes after him, but he’s slow because he’s still trying to sort out the plasters. He heads along the main upstairs corridor, back the way they came earlier. Turbo’s got a head start, so Noodsy’s just got through the swing doors in time to see him tipping the lungs out over the side of the gallery. Turbo doesn’t look; just immediately starts walking back towards Noodsy as shouts, screams and then the sound of somebody puking come from below. Turbo’s face is horrible, his expression worse than anything the old Robbie ever showed: a storm of anger and hatred, but something scared and confused as well. He barges past, through the swing doors, starting to run. They both know they have to get back out and into the disco again sharpish.

Noodsy doesn’t speak until they’re on the stairs, far enough for nobody else to hear. “Whit the fuck was that for?” he asks.

“It was for the fuckin glue in ma bag, that’s whit it was fuckin for.”

“The glue in…? But it couldnae have been Tempo. He’s no in oor science class.”

Then Turbo says it, just as Noodsy works it out. “Naw, but that fuckin slut is.”