chair.
Upstairs, Jimmy and the boys are celebrating. The duty cop at the substation, PC Drysdale, had given them the coveted crime number they required to advance their criminal injuries claim. Drysdale had taken in the young team's fictitious rantings all too eagerly. He had little time for the local yobs, but far less for those fucking travellers who were making life on his patch a complete misery. It would only take one flashpoint incident for something horrendous to go off, then his promotion board chances would be well and truly jeopardised. This sensitive-policing bollocks had its limitations. Drysdale's instincts told him to wade in and bang up some likely-looking crusties. However, he knew the line that Cowan, the head guy on the promotion board, would be taking.
18
The Hibs boys were being less than cooperative with the aliens. — How the fuck should we help youse? Ally Masters asked Tazak.
The alien puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette.— Youse kin dae what yis fuckin well like –
He was interrupted by another voice: — Cause we're daein you a favour, ya fuckin radge! The Earthlings stood shocked at the presence of one of their own kind.
The Hibs boys stared in disbelief. It was Mikey Devlin, Alan Devlin's brother. The cunt that vanished. Now he was back. He was still clad in Nikes!
— Mikey Devlin! Ally Masters said, looking Mikey up and down. — Very . . . eh, eighties gear, ma man. The trainers like. Whaire ye been hidin?
— Hyperspace, eh, Mikey smiled, — n ah've goat a tale tae tell youse cunts thit's a loat mair important thin fuckin labels.
He told the boys the story.
— But how could ye just leave like that? Bri Garratt demanded.
— Turn yir back oan yir mates? Ally asked.
— Turnt ehs back oan Scotland, Denny McEwan sneered.
The parochialism of his old crew was getting on Mikey's tits. — Fuck Scotland, ya daft cunt! Ah've been aw ower the fuckin universe! Seen things youse cunts couldnae fuckin well see in yir wildest dreams!
Denny held his ground. — Fuck it, Mikey. Dinnae come back here n slag off Scotland, that's aw ah'm sayin.
Mikey looked tiredly at Tazak. These cunts were just not getting the message.— Scotland . . . he scoffed, — it's jist a fuckin spec ay dust tae me. Shut the fuck up aboot Scotland. Ah'm back here tae make us the top fuckin crew oan Planet Earth!
19
The weather had broken. It pished rain from the heavens. Trevor Drysdale tried to get a good night's sleep for his promotion board interview the next day. Only the thought of those crusty bastards, drenched in a cold field, gave him the warm satisfaction to lull him into soft dreams. As anxious as he was the next morning, Drysdale had prepared well. Interviews were all about cracking codes, finding the current vogue; one minute liberal rhetoric, the next the hard line. The best professional in any bureaucracy was always the one who could control his or her prejudices and learn the dominant spiel with conviction. How one acted, of course, was totally irrelevant, as long as the espousal was effective. With Cowan, it was the liberal bullshit he wanted, so Drysdale would give him it, in shovel-loads. For Cowan, toeing the line was almost as important as personal tidiness.
20
Clint Phillips has been body-swerving Jimmy and Semo since his hospital discharge and the registration of the crime with PC Drysdale. They meet up with Dunky by the quarry, who tells them that Clint has intimated to them that he does not intend to share out the proceeds from the Criminal Injuries Compensation Board. A very aggrieved Jimmy and Semo decide to put the frighteners on Clint. They will steal a car and drive it at speed at him, across the forecourt in the garage.— Show the cunt wir no fuckin aboot here, Semo said.
21
Trevor Drysdale looks at his reflection in the mirror. He has backcombed and blow-dried his hair. He looks a bit poofy with a quiff, Drysdale thinks, but Cowan would approve of the softer image, which is
Upstairs, Jimmy and the boys are celebrating. The duty cop at the substation, PC Drysdale, had given them the coveted crime number they required to advance their criminal injuries claim. Drysdale had taken in the young team's fictitious rantings all too eagerly. He had little time for the local yobs, but far less for those fucking travellers who were making life on his patch a complete misery. It would only take one flashpoint incident for something horrendous to go off, then his promotion board chances would be well and truly jeopardised. This sensitive-policing bollocks had its limitations. Drysdale's instincts told him to wade in and bang up some likely-looking crusties. However, he knew the line that Cowan, the head guy on the promotion board, would be taking.
18
The Hibs boys were being less than cooperative with the aliens. — How the fuck should we help youse? Ally Masters asked Tazak.
The alien puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette.— Youse kin dae what yis fuckin well like –
He was interrupted by another voice: — Cause we're daein you a favour, ya fuckin radge! The Earthlings stood shocked at the presence of one of their own kind.
The Hibs boys stared in disbelief. It was Mikey Devlin, Alan Devlin's brother. The cunt that vanished. Now he was back. He was still clad in Nikes!
— Mikey Devlin! Ally Masters said, looking Mikey up and down. — Very . . . eh, eighties gear, ma man. The trainers like. Whaire ye been hidin?
— Hyperspace, eh, Mikey smiled, — n ah've goat a tale tae tell youse cunts thit's a loat mair important thin fuckin labels.
He told the boys the story.
— But how could ye just leave like that? Bri Garratt demanded.
— Turn yir back oan yir mates? Ally asked.
— Turnt ehs back oan Scotland, Denny McEwan sneered.
The parochialism of his old crew was getting on Mikey's tits. — Fuck Scotland, ya daft cunt! Ah've been aw ower the fuckin universe! Seen things youse cunts couldnae fuckin well see in yir wildest dreams!
Denny held his ground. — Fuck it, Mikey. Dinnae come back here n slag off Scotland, that's aw ah'm sayin.
Mikey looked tiredly at Tazak. These cunts were just not getting the message.— Scotland . . . he scoffed, — it's jist a fuckin spec ay dust tae me. Shut the fuck up aboot Scotland. Ah'm back here tae make us the top fuckin crew oan Planet Earth!
19
The weather had broken. It pished rain from the heavens. Trevor Drysdale tried to get a good night's sleep for his promotion board interview the next day. Only the thought of those crusty bastards, drenched in a cold field, gave him the warm satisfaction to lull him into soft dreams. As anxious as he was the next morning, Drysdale had prepared well. Interviews were all about cracking codes, finding the current vogue; one minute liberal rhetoric, the next the hard line. The best professional in any bureaucracy was always the one who could control his or her prejudices and learn the dominant spiel with conviction. How one acted, of course, was totally irrelevant, as long as the espousal was effective. With Cowan, it was the liberal bullshit he wanted, so Drysdale would give him it, in shovel-loads. For Cowan, toeing the line was almost as important as personal tidiness.
20
Clint Phillips has been body-swerving Jimmy and Semo since his hospital discharge and the registration of the crime with PC Drysdale. They meet up with Dunky by the quarry, who tells them that Clint has intimated to them that he does not intend to share out the proceeds from the Criminal Injuries Compensation Board. A very aggrieved Jimmy and Semo decide to put the frighteners on Clint. They will steal a car and drive it at speed at him, across the forecourt in the garage.— Show the cunt wir no fuckin aboot here, Semo said.
21
Trevor Drysdale looks at his reflection in the mirror. He has backcombed and blow-dried his hair. He looks a bit poofy with a quiff, Drysdale thinks, but Cowan would approve of the softer image, which is
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