In the Devil's Name Read online

Galbraith straightened up.

  "Ha! For the brightest pupil in the school, your motor skills are somewhat lacking, Dean!" He laughed at this as if he'd just cracked the funniest joke in the history of comedy.

  "Yes I guess so, Sir," said Griff and managed a weak chuckle in return. "I also wanted to give you a big thank you for all you've taught me this year, Mr Galbraith."

  "Thank you, Dean, for being such a good pupil," Galbraith beamed.

  "And give Ms Fabiani one from me."

  Galbraith’s face fell.

  "What was that, Griffiths?" he asked, a tremble in his voice.

  "Give Ms Fabiani a big thank you from me. She's been a real inspiration this year. I was thinking of maybe doing medicine myself when I leave school."

  Galbraith stared at Griff for a full three seconds, trying to figure out if the boy was being genuine or taking the piss. He eventually replied,

  "Yes…I'll, ah, do that, erm…Dean. Thank you."

  "Have a nice summer, Sir. Thanks again."

  Griff sauntered out of the classroom, leaving Galbraith looking after him with a befuddled expression.

  He met Phil outside the school gates. His friend didn't look happy.

  "That old fuckin' wanker Mayfair just gave me a right ear bashing for fuck all. Can't believe that prick. Last day of classes, man... what're you grinning about?"

  Griff told him about Galbraith.

  This brought a huge smile to Phil’s face.

  "Fuckin' topper, mate! What'd the note say?"

  "Pick up some baby oil, a cucumber, some rope and be at mine at nine."

  Phil doubled up.

  "Tremendous! Will Galbraith not recognise your writing though?"

  "Na," Griff replied, "I copied Fabby Fanny’s writing from a reference she wrote me this morning." Forgery was another of Griff’s talents.

  "Clever cunt, aren't you, Rain Man?"

  "You fuckin’ knows it."

  "Okay; we’re going to go buy the beers now. Say each can theoretically costs fifty nine pence when bought singly. We need to buy a case of twenty four. If the case costs, say… sixteen pound fifty pence, how much do we save per can?” He took his calculator from his backpack and entered the numbers. Phil enjoyed testing his friend’s mental gymnastics at random intervals, and knew Griff also enjoyed the challenge.

  “Ten pence a can,” Griff said almost immediately, “if you’re rounding up.”

  “Impressive as ever, my friend. Let’s go get the Mick Jaggers in."

  Griff looked at him blankly.

  "That's lagers, mate," Phil informed him.

  "Oh, right."

  Griff was indeed a clever cunt, Phil thought to himself, but his rhyming slang abilities were pish.

  Chapter 5

  "Bout' time you bufties got here," Sam informed them as Griff and Phil staggered to the top of the hillside, sweat running down their faces and gasping for breath.

  "Fuck... off... ya bastard..." Phil managed, and collapsed onto the grass.

  "This weather's unreal, man. Way too hot for hiking up a hill with a slab of beer," Griff wheezed, setting down the twenty-four cans of lager.

  "This is true, bud. Drinking weather if ever I saw it," Cairnsey said. "Give us a beer over."

  Griff passed cans over to Sam, Cairnsey and Phil, getting one for himself.

  "School's finished, amigos,” he said. “Cheers."

  The four boys toasted the end of their cruel enslavement, drinking long and deep.

  "So sweet..." moaned Phil.

  "And it gets sweeter still," Cairnsey said, passing him a joint. "This stuff's fuckin' magic, mate.

  Me n' Sam's been sitting here for a few hours now, getting smoked up, sun-tanned up..."

  "Aye, alright, ya dick," said Griff, still short for breath after the torturous walk up the hill. Phil drew delicately on the joint Cairnsey had passed him. He savoured the warm feeling in his chest and blew the fragrant smoke gently out through his nose after holding it for a few seconds. He took a sip of beer and lay back on the grass.

  "Oh, yes indeed," he murmured as pleasant rush of the tobacco and hash hit him, making his head swim deliciously.

  "So how was school this afternoon, son?" Sam asked, not prepared to stop tormenting Phil just yet.

  "That old prick Mayfair gave me a right dressing down after class. My pen ran out, and the bastard just went nuts. Wouldn't let me speak or fuck all. Just made a right dick of me in front of the whole class, then decided some further abusive shite was in order before I could go."

  "Ah, fuck him in the ear, Phil," Cairnsey advised sagely. "School's finished now, so you'll not have to hear his pish ever again. And anyway, you know fine well he’s just a sad old prick that can’t handle the fact you didn’t turn out like James.”

  Phil had been dismayed when he'd found out that Sean Mayfair was to be his teacher for higher maths. His older brother James had been a pupil at the school, and Mayfair had been his maths teacher on the rare occasion James attended classes. He’d been what some referred to as a problem child, but what others less concerned with political correctness simply referred to as a bad wee cunt. Mayfair had one day caught him smoking heroin in the school toilets and James had tried to stab him with a craft knife stolen from the art department. Sean Mayfair, who had spent ten years in the army and was a large and muscular man, had easily overpowered the skinny fifteen year old and ‘subdued’ him till the police came. James, who already had a school disciplinary file several pages thick, had been arrested and expelled.

  Phil’s elder brother had almost destroyed his family because of what child psychologists had called his learning difficulties. Phil knew though, that James had never had any difficulties learning how to steal, bully, hot wire a car, cook up a shot of junk or generally cause misery to all those around him. Although five years his junior, Phil had learned through long painful experience that his elder brother was just a bad wee cunt, and lived in constant fear of him.

  A few weeks after he had tried to stab Sean Mayfair in the school toilets, James had walked casually into Phil’s room one morning, held him down on the floor and crushed a lit cigarette out on his neck. His reasoning for this was that he'd had a hangover, and Phil, who’d been only ten years old at the time, had been playing his stereo too loudly. Phil had screamed and begged him to stop. Such was his distress that he had wet his jeans with fear and pain. This had enraged his big brother further, and he had proceeded to lay into Phil with a golf club. Had in fact come close to killing him, and probably would have if their father hadn’t heard his younger son’s screams and violently intervened.

  That was the last time Phil had seen his brother. Standing over him, face twisted with a grotesque expression somewhere between blind rage and wild excitement, flailing away with that nine iron.

  When he’d got out of the hospital some time later, his brother was gone. He hadn’t asked his parents what had happened, and they hadn’t volunteered an explanation. His father had just simply told him that his brother had left home, and that they probably wouldn’t be seeing him around anymore. That was just fine and dandy with Phil. Best day of his life, and he’d been in traction.

  Unfortunately for Phil, when they looked at him, Sean Mayfair and quite a few other people in the town saw only Jim Densmore’s wee brother, who'll turn out just like him, just you wait and see. No matter how well Phil did, to some people he'd be tainted forever; doomed to walk in his brother’s bad wee cunt shadow.

  Phil was no boy scout though. He smoked weed and drank beer, popped an acid on occasion, same as the rest of his friends, but there was a difference between him and his elder sibling. He was careful, and never let his standard teenage revelry get out of control, because he knew that if he did, then that would be it for him. There would be no second chance for Jim Densmore’s wee brother.

  For all these reasons, Phil wouldn’t piss on his long lost sibling were he to come across him ablaze in the street.

  "Well, Phil," Sam said, "Me an
d Cairnsey's come up with a bit of an idea that'll cheer you up."

  "Oh, aye? What's on your mind?" asked Phil.

  "Trip night."

  Phil sat up, interested.

  "Do tell."

  "Got a phone call last night from some guy asking if we wanted any trips," Cairnsey said. "Said he knew Barnsey."

  "You know him?" asked Griff.

  "Naw, man. Said his name was Ozay. All he said was that Barnsey'd told him he knew some boys down the coast who were into good trips and had given him my number."

  "Sounds a bit shady, Cairnsey,“ Phil said. “Some stranger just calls you up and wants to sort some tabs for you?"

  "Not exactly a stranger. He asked if the Moroccan hash Barnsey was punting was any good. Said he thought Barnsey was full of shit sometimes."

  "He got that right," Griff said.

  "That's what I said," Sam concurred.

  "Anyway, he seemed sound," Cairnsey continued, "Ended up we were talking away for a good while about the fitba, tunes, Barnsey, gear and everything. Guy was well cool."

  "So what's the story with the trips then?" Phil asked. "Did he give you a price?"

  "Three bucks a tab," Cairnsey said and grinned.

  "Three bucks? What kind of acid do you get for three quid a pop?"

  "Dude said they're fuckin' mental. Said he'd do them for three this time but he knows we'll be back for more, then he'll charge the normal rate of ten."

  "Doesn’t sound too bad," Phil agreed.

  "I'm up for that, man," said Griff.

  "Minted. He said I was to give him a phone later and we'll meet him up at Bennane Head tomorrow night. You boys doing anything?"

  "Not me, mate," said Phil.

  "Cool with that," agreed Griff

  "Excellent," confirmed Sam. "Should be a good night, lads. One last fry up before the exams."

  "How come we're meeting at Bennane?" asked Griff. The cliffs were a ten minute drive outside of town.

  "He said he's dropping off some other gear in Colmonell and he's not got the time to come away down here," Cairnsey informed him.

  "Fair do's. He's the man selling acid for three quid a go."

  "So we're agreed then? Trip night?"

  "Fine by me," said Phil

  "No bother," from Sam.

  "Oh, aye," Griff finished.

  "Minted. I'll drive us up there. Me n' Sam were talking about taking the tents up with some munchies, the stereo and a few beers. Get a fire going, make a night of it you know?"

  "Sounds brilliant. A fine plan," Griff complimented.

  "What did you say this guy’s name was, Cairnsey?" asked Phil.

  "Ozay,” he said. “Guess he's Turkish or something."

  Chapter 6

  Samuel Jethro Anderson arrived home a few hours later.

  After struggling to get his key in the lock for a few minutes, he eventually managed to open the front door and unsteadily navigate his way through the hall and into the kitchen where he found his mum preparing tacos for dinner.

  "That's what AH'M talkin' about!" he announced.

  His mother looked up.

  "Alright, son. Good last day of school was it?"

  "Yes indeed, mother dearest. T'was filled with splendour at every turn, and now I've come home to you, and you're making tacos, which is splendouresserer still."

  "Have you been drinking, Samuel?" his mother asked, one eyebrow arched in suspicion.

  "Oh, Mother. You shame me with these allegations," he exclaimed in outrage. When he’d had a few drinks, Sam tended to speak like a high born English gentleman from the eighteenth century.

  Maria Anderson came around the kitchen table and embraced her son.

  "I'm proud of you, Sam," she said, "You've done your six years at high school and you've done them well. And that's a lot better than some of the boys your age have done. You deserve a drink."

  Sam hugged his mum back, and was embarrassingly close to letting a drunken tear spill from his eye.

  What a woman, he thought.

  "Cheers, maw," He said, reverting back to his native accent.

  "Now sit yourself down and have your tea. Thought you might like a few tacos to celebrate."

  "A few? I could eat a scabby horse in a folded over mattress right now. Luckily, there's at least eight tacos with my name on them."

  Sam eagerly sat down at the table and nearly fell off his seat.

  "Woah! Steady as she goes cap'n!" he laughed.

  His mum put down in front of him the three ceramic bowls Sam always used when eating tacos. One full of finely diced onions, one with grated mature cheddar, and one with shredded lettuce. She then placed a plate with four heated corn shells on the table, and handed Sam the saucepan of seasoned minced beef, hot from the stove. Sam used a soup spoon to fill the bottom of the shells with a generous portion of the aromatic, sizzling beef, then topped the mince with onions, cheese and lettuce in that order. Always in that order. It would be the height of madness to do it otherwise.

  He sat there swaying slightly, just happily looking down at the meal for a few seconds, savouring the moment with his mouth watering in anticipation. Finally, he could wait no more and picked up a shell, careful not to let too much filling spill from the side, (tacos being virtually impossible to eat without making a mess, especially when the one consuming them is less than sober) and took a huge crunching bite from the side. Of course, some of the hot mince dripped down his shirt leaving a reddish brown trail when he took the taco away from his mouth, but he was past caring. He had a plateful of fine Mexican scran and that was all that mattered in the universe to him at that moment.

  "Good Lord! Such flavour! Such cuisine! Mother, I'd get down on my knee right now and propose to you for making this heavenly spread if I didn't think dad might not like the idea much," he said between chews.

  "Just how many drinks have you had, ya wee steamer?" Maria Anderson asked her son with a smile as she sat down opposite him and began assembling her own tacos. "You’re talking a lot of pish."

  "Just a few aperitifs with my associates after classes, Mother dear. We retired to the men’s club for a brandy and a good cigar over some light banter about the ghastly business with Densmore and Mayfair."

  "Phil still getting bother from that old fart?" his mother asked. She knew Phil well as he had been Sam’s closest friend since primary school.

  "Quite so, mater. Jolly bad show indeed, what."

  "And how's Joshua? Staying out of trouble is he?"

  "Oh, mother. That business last week was nothing but a trifle. Ol' Cairnsey merely gave that bounder Jannets a cuff on the ear and sent him on his way, the cad."

  "Really?" asked Maria doubtfully. "Your dad told me he was speaking to Cairnsey's brother Grant at work, and the way he heard it, ol' Cairnsey kicked the cad about like an empty shell suit."

  "Really, mother. T'was a trifle I say," Sam said with a dismissive wave of the hand, and continued to devour the tacos with gusto.

  (One week earlier)

  Cairnsey kissed his girlfriend Alice goodnight at her front door for a while, then turned into the rain to walk home.

  "I'll see you tomorrow, stud," she called after him saucily.

  "Minted, my little minx. See you in registration."

  Cairnsey set off at a leisurely pace with his hood down and his head held high. The rain came down in a windless, steady mist that was almost warm and no heavier than a haze, but which would still penetrate all but the most heavy duty waterproof clothing. Cairnsey loved to walk in these soft showers that always seemed to come to the south west coast of Scotland just before a rare spell of hot weather engulfed the area, almost as if nature was preparing the town for the dry times to come. It'd happened every year they’d had a good summer since Cairnsey could remember, and he'd refused Alice's offer of an umbrella. She'd thought he was mental, and had told him so with a smile.

  "True," he'd replied with a wistful nod. "I don't know why I like it and I know I'll probably get pleur
isy, but this weather's the business."

  Because he'd brought a bottle of wine to Alice's place, he'd left his car at home and was now pleased to be walking home in the rain, enjoying the whispery sound of it on the air.

  He ambled along now, taking his time and enjoying the moment. Smiling slightly even. He'd been going out with Alice for a few weeks now and was pleased with their progress. Tonight they'd gone physically further than before; the musky scent on his fingers and the pleasant, chaffed feeling in his loins was a big part of his good mood. Afterwards they'd just lain at peace with the world and everything in it, feeling a warm, tingling contentment, sharing a cigarette.

  Cairnsey stopped to light another smoke, shielding the lighter’s flame from the rain with a cupped hand, then walked on.

  Yes, it's a fine thing to have a fine woman, he thought to himself and grinned foolishly.

  There was someone walking up the street on the other side of the road. The figure, dressed in a white tracksuit and baseball cap, looked quite tall and walked with a swaying, shoulder driven swagger.

  Cairnsey saw the figure look his way then start across the road towards him, striding forward more purposely. He kept walking.

  "Here, mate. Got any smokes on ye?"

  Cairnsey turned at the sound of the nasal voice and recognised the figure at once.

  It was Eddie Jannets, an old associate of Phil’s brother James. Jannets was known in the village as a ‘bad one’, having been in trouble with the police several times for various misdemeanours. It was also common knowledge that the twenty one year old was a hopeless junkie.

  "Sorry bud, last one," Cairnsey said, indicating his cigarette.

  Cairnsey knew what was going to happen next. He'd been through it a few times before and experience had taught him to show no signs of fear to people like Jannets. Fear was what they fed on.

  The older youth took a step towards Cairnsey, trying to intimidate him with his superior height. He had a good four inches on him.

  "Don't geez yer shite wee man," he sneered. "Let's check yer pockets then if that's yer last wan," He moved forward another step, hands reaching for Cairnsey’s jacket.