much less severe than his normal Brylcreemed look. Drysdale considers that he cuts quite a dash in his light grey Moss Bros suit. He was moving out of this ugly hellhole, taking on supervisory responsibilities. The South Side Area Station was calling.
Drysdale noted that the heavy rain has stopped. He takes the car into the city, allowing himself plenty of time. He parks about half a mile away from that huge, pristine, structure; a true temple of law enforcement, that is the South Side Area Station. Drysdale wanted to walk, so that he will come upon the building that would surely be his new home, orientating himself slowly and gradually to his new surroundings.
22
Jimmy and Semo's attempted scare on Clint didn't quite go as planned. As they parked in waiting across the road, Clint was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Jimmy's anger rose as he saw Shelley and Sarah go into the garage shop and disappear into the back shop with Alan Devlin.
— That Devlin cunt . . . Jimmy hissed.
— Hud on the now, Semo smiled,— we'll show that fucker.
Alan Devlin was fucking Sarah across the table, and Shelley was watching them, thinking how uncomfortable it looked compared to how it actually felt when she was in the same position.
Devlin was well into his stride when a loud, repetitive car horn blasted from the forecourt. — Fuck! Marshall! He snarled, aggrieved at having to pull out of a tense Sarah, who tugged her dress down and her knickers on in almost one movement. Devlin janked on his trousers and ran into the front shop. Jimmy and Semo were in the car, with the window wound down. They were waving bags of crisps and some other stock they had taken from the shop while Devlin had been on the job.
— YOUSE UR FUCKIN DEID, YA WEE CUNTS! Alan yelled, charging towards the car, but the boys sped off down the road.
At this point Clint came across the forecourt, licking an icecream cone.
— Whair the fuck've you been? Devlin hissed.
— Ah jist goat a cone . . . fae the van . . . Clint gasped weakly, as Shelley and Sarah giggled in the shop doorway.
— Ah fuckin well telt ye tae keep shoatie! Devlin snapped, and in a swiping movement knocked Clint's cone from his hand onto the oily forecourt.
The younger man's face flushed red and his eyes watered as he registered the chuckles emanating from the girls.
Jimmy and Semo had decided to keep the car and go into town to score more drugs. They had managed to successfully punt the acid to a posse of travellers. The stolen car, a white Nissan Micra, was, by coincidence, exactly the same colour and year as that driven by Allister Farmer, a member of the local police promotion board for the South Side of Edinburgh. The coincidence became a cruel one as Farmer, heading up to the South Side Area Station to conduct some promotion interviews, was overtaken by Jimmy and Semo's car as they sped up into town to head down to Alec Murphy's at Leith.
They ripped past Farmer along St Leonard's Street, Jimmy giving the outraged plain-clothed cop a languid V-sign. As Trevor Drysdale was walking along the pavement, thinking of his responses to the questions that would be asked at the interview, he was unaware that he was passing a huge, murky, oily puddle, which spilled onto the road from a blocked drain. Drysdale had little time to react as a white Nissan Micra sent a sheet of filthy liquid flying over him. In an instant Drysdale's quiff was plastered to his cranium, and one side of light grey suit had turned a wet black.
Drysdale could only look himself up and down. He let out an anguished, primal scream from the depths of his sickened soul: — YA BASTARD! YA FUCKEN BASTARD! as he looked up to see the back of the white Nissan Micra recede up the street.
The police promotional applicant was unaware, however, that there were two white Nissan Micras, and that the offending one had got through the lights at the top of the road. But the second one, containing the innocent Allister Farmer, had stopped at
Drysdale noted that the heavy rain has stopped. He takes the car into the city, allowing himself plenty of time. He parks about half a mile away from that huge, pristine, structure; a true temple of law enforcement, that is the South Side Area Station. Drysdale wanted to walk, so that he will come upon the building that would surely be his new home, orientating himself slowly and gradually to his new surroundings.
22
Jimmy and Semo's attempted scare on Clint didn't quite go as planned. As they parked in waiting across the road, Clint was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Jimmy's anger rose as he saw Shelley and Sarah go into the garage shop and disappear into the back shop with Alan Devlin.
— That Devlin cunt . . . Jimmy hissed.
— Hud on the now, Semo smiled,— we'll show that fucker.
Alan Devlin was fucking Sarah across the table, and Shelley was watching them, thinking how uncomfortable it looked compared to how it actually felt when she was in the same position.
Devlin was well into his stride when a loud, repetitive car horn blasted from the forecourt. — Fuck! Marshall! He snarled, aggrieved at having to pull out of a tense Sarah, who tugged her dress down and her knickers on in almost one movement. Devlin janked on his trousers and ran into the front shop. Jimmy and Semo were in the car, with the window wound down. They were waving bags of crisps and some other stock they had taken from the shop while Devlin had been on the job.
— YOUSE UR FUCKIN DEID, YA WEE CUNTS! Alan yelled, charging towards the car, but the boys sped off down the road.
At this point Clint came across the forecourt, licking an icecream cone.
— Whair the fuck've you been? Devlin hissed.
— Ah jist goat a cone . . . fae the van . . . Clint gasped weakly, as Shelley and Sarah giggled in the shop doorway.
— Ah fuckin well telt ye tae keep shoatie! Devlin snapped, and in a swiping movement knocked Clint's cone from his hand onto the oily forecourt.
The younger man's face flushed red and his eyes watered as he registered the chuckles emanating from the girls.
Jimmy and Semo had decided to keep the car and go into town to score more drugs. They had managed to successfully punt the acid to a posse of travellers. The stolen car, a white Nissan Micra, was, by coincidence, exactly the same colour and year as that driven by Allister Farmer, a member of the local police promotion board for the South Side of Edinburgh. The coincidence became a cruel one as Farmer, heading up to the South Side Area Station to conduct some promotion interviews, was overtaken by Jimmy and Semo's car as they sped up into town to head down to Alec Murphy's at Leith.
They ripped past Farmer along St Leonard's Street, Jimmy giving the outraged plain-clothed cop a languid V-sign. As Trevor Drysdale was walking along the pavement, thinking of his responses to the questions that would be asked at the interview, he was unaware that he was passing a huge, murky, oily puddle, which spilled onto the road from a blocked drain. Drysdale had little time to react as a white Nissan Micra sent a sheet of filthy liquid flying over him. In an instant Drysdale's quiff was plastered to his cranium, and one side of light grey suit had turned a wet black.
Drysdale could only look himself up and down. He let out an anguished, primal scream from the depths of his sickened soul: — YA BASTARD! YA FUCKEN BASTARD! as he looked up to see the back of the white Nissan Micra recede up the street.
The police promotional applicant was unaware, however, that there were two white Nissan Micras, and that the offending one had got through the lights at the top of the road. But the second one, containing the innocent Allister Farmer, had stopped at
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