The filth wasted no time throwing me down the stairs. Sorry, I slipped of course.
London had a thing for punching me on the head, probably imagined it would be harder to spot the injuries. He had a fair punch too, knuckles like the pattern on Charlie Brown’s jumper, and plenty of energy. I prayed he’d tire himself out, bust a hand. But this was Robocop. He’d stop when he was told.
I spat blood, but I’d been worked over before. After a dozen or so blows a numbness settles in. I watched the punches coming and relaxed into them, he couldn’t dent me. I imagined myself as Ali on the ropes to Foreman; I could take the punishment. What was the worst that could happen? He’d kill me. Well, I’d no fear of death, that’s for sure. I thought, ‘Bring it on — give me your worst.’
‘You’re gonna need a mop and bucket in here soon,’ I said.
‘Shut your lairy little hole.’
‘Will you do it yourself? Can see you in a set of Marigold gloves. Have you got a tabard too?’
He stood back from me, panting. He showed his bottom teeth. London had borrowed this look from Lenny McLean, the Guv’nor, but he was no bare-knuckle fighter. A few good jabs would put him to bed. He looked like every filth I’d ever known, could only handle a fight with the odds stacked in his favour. It’s the old story all over. Weak fucks join up because they know it’s their best chance of getting on a winning side.
A green light flashed above the door and London straightened his back.
‘That you off then?’ I said.
He pulled back his arm, a fist hovered in the air.
I smiled at him. I felt the blood squelching. I’d lost some teeth. But I felt no sense of defeat, and he saw this. I’d taken the best he had to offer and I still smiled.
London lowered his fist, saw I wasn’t worth the energy.
‘You’re fukhin’ mental, d’you know that?’ he said.
‘Whatever — the green light’s flashing. Time to get the kettle on for the DCs.’
He looked at me like I was seriously tapped.
‘Proper mental, that’s what you are.’
My smile sat in place as I threw back my head and roared with laughter. Quite a victory, it felt good. Bring on round two.
For an hour they left me to my own devices. Then brought in a bucket of water and a scrubbing brush.
‘Clean this shit up,’ a lad in uniform told me, must have been twenty tops, hair still parted with his mother’s spit.
I walked to the bucket and kicked it over. ‘Bite me.’
Uniform didn’t know what to do. Walked out, leaving the bucket behind him.
Inside a minute two gut-huge inspectors appeared. They took an arm each and dragged me out the door.
Together they said, ‘Walk.’
They took me to another cell. Table and chairs, camera in the corner.
‘Sit.’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ I knew they were the real deal. I also knew I’d already been through the worst. From here on in, we got down to the meat and potatoes.
‘Gus Dury,’ said the heavier of the two, Markies shirt, Farah trousers and a Freddie Mercury tache.
‘That’s what they call me.’
‘Lose the fucking attitude.’
I leaned forward, said, ‘Lose the fucking tone, you’ve nothing on me. Whereas I’ve a delightful tale of police brutality to splash over the papers tomorrow.’
They both laughed. Looked at each other, I expected back slapping.
‘Who’d print anything from a piss-wet old soak like you, Dury?’
The second doughnut-muncher stood up. He looked about five-eight in his comfortable Clarks shoes that squeaked on every step. ‘We have a stack of witnesses to your resisting arrest, Mr Dury. I’d recommend you cooperate, it’s to your advantage.’
‘Christ almighty. Spare me the good cop bad cop routine, eh?’
Silence. Then: ‘Cigarette?’ said Clarks shoes.
‘Silk Cut?’
‘I’m cutting back.’
‘Have you no real fags?’
The pack went down. I picked out a tab, the cop lit me up.
‘Like a breath of fresh air,’ I said.
‘That’s how I’m hoping this, shall we say advice, will greet you, Mr Dury.’
‘Come again?’
‘Stay away from Mr Zalinskas.’
‘Am I hearing right?’
The cop with the tache leaned forward, banged on the table. ‘I’m warning you, you’ll take this-’
‘Is that what you say to your men friends? You charmer.’
He had to be held back after that, it was like Hill Street Blues all over.
‘Mr Dury, I’d take my partner’s advice.’
‘Partner, so that’s how it is. Tell me this, I’ve always wondered, is it better to give than to receive?’
Moustache got out his seat again, managed to land a slap on my face. ‘You cheeky pup, I’ll hang you the fuck out to dry, do you hear me?’
‘Reg, Reg… control yourself.’
‘Och, I’m fucking through with this.’
‘Reg…’
He headed for the door. ‘Dury, I swear to Christ, you’ll be in the Forth if I hear your name in the same breath as Benny Zalinskas’ again.’
He left.
‘Excitable chap your partner.’
‘I wouldn’t treat his advice so glibly. Mr Zalinskas is a very influential person in this city.’
‘With both criminals and the police, I see.’
‘Mr Dury, please…’
‘Please? Fuck off. What’s he got on you? Some pictures of you two fags in flagrante delicto?’
A shake of the head. ‘I can see you’re going to cause us some trouble, Mr Dury. I’m very sorry to hear that.’
‘Oh, I bet you are.’
‘I’m prepared to ignore your actions on this occasion. Put them down to, shall we say, misplaced chutzpah.’
I laughed.
‘But, I can assure you, if we have cause to speak again, you will regret it — most assuredly you will.’