Crime Scheme Illumination

Mary relights the joint as another drama unfolds, and wonders how the latest bout of madness will end. This reoccurring theme, with various actors from the underclass taking centre stage, plays like bootleg copies of CSI episodes shot in Garthamlock. The first scene she remembers happened at her sixth birthday party when her hair was still long and blonde like the Barbie doll she carried everywhere.

“I’ll cut your bloody throat!”

“Not if I cut yours first!”

Mary sat hugging her young cousin Theresa as their mums wrestled on the floor trying to kill one another over the usual drunken mix-up of who said what to whom. Totally distraught and howling with despair, her My Little Pony cake disintegrated into a thousand golden crumbs of discomfort, compelling her dad and Uncle Joe to briefly interrupt their own shouting at football on TV.

“Listen to that two, Davie. What are they like?”

“They’ll be alright in a minute. Pass another can
over.”

“Keep it down over there for Christ sake.”

“Mary, get that mess tidied up.”

A few years later, she was playing football with friends on the waste ground next to the local pub when two drunks crashed out the Fire Exit. At first she feared her dad might be involved. He had a bit of a reputation and frequently came home from the pub wearing so-called badges of honour and swollen beetroot hands. On this occasion he stood behind the imaginary ropes as a casual observer, sipping his pint and placing side bets with other cheering punters on the night’s entertainment. Mary kept her head down. Davie might’ve battered her mum Pat in front of her at home but was never keen on his princess seeing violence in the streets. He said that was different.

The sozzled gladiators rolled around the wet, muddy ground grunting and squealing like a couple of pigs she’d seen at the city farm, twice the size but not half as cute. After a short while, the larger of the two rose to his feet and started kicking the other man repeatedly in the face. Once satisfied with that particular line of enquiry he jumped in the air and landed with all his weight on the man’s head. The loser attempted to speak but couldn’t muster enough strength for a single word. The champ pulled a lockback knife from his pocket, leaned over the runner-up and spoke loud enough for all to hear.

“If you ever speak to me or my wife like that again I’ll cut your throat and leave you to drip feed the rats.”

Peering from behind friends, Mary watched him part the man’s cheek with a quick flick of the blade and boaked when a stream of blood flowed into the mud.

One of her fellow footballers called Stricky claimed. “Look, you can see the guy’s face flapping in the breeze.”

But Mary had already turned around to empty the meagre contents of her stomach over the jumpers being used as goalposts.

At fourteen years old, she was baking pancakes in Home Economics when Stricky and a boy from a different housing scheme started arguing over a pot. Both were well known for violence, and alpha male was the position they were really fighting for. Ever since fate brought them together in the one class they’d been trying to enhance their public image at the other’s expense. The last pot was the excuse they’d been itching for. Exploding into action they knocked plates, pots and ingredients flying around the class. Some pupils giggled as Mrs Daley tried to put her petite five foot frame between the boys and got accidentally punched in the face. Panic stricken, she shouted at the pupils to fetch help. But nobody moved an inch as Stricky stopped long enough to warn them.

“If any of you leaves this room I’ll see you after school. That’s a promise.”

No-one had to be told twice. Everyone knew his reputation, and most had seen him in action before. Compared to the consequences of disobeying Stricky, it was easy to ignore Mrs Daley and let her fetch help herself.

While she was away, Stricky rammed home his superiority with a barrage of well-aimed punches that burst Beany’s face open and left him extremely groggy. He pulled what looked like a comb from his pocket, but after he pressed a button the comb instantly doubled in size to reveal a shiny blade. The class gasped before silence fell quicker than a brick from a ground floor window.

He placed the blade on Beany’s Adam’s apple, paused and looked around the class to bask in the attention before settling his gaze. “Should I cut his throat, Mary?”

Mary stood frozen, blood visibly draining from her face as she headed towards fainting. It took two of Beany’s close friends and fellow gang members to break the unfamiliar silence.

“Don’t do it, Stricky.”

“It’s not worth it, Stricky.”

“You’ll get put away, Stricky.”

“You’ve done him already, Stricky.”

“You’re the man, Stricky.”

Seconds later Mrs Daley returned with several colleagues and Stricky whipped the knife back into his pocket. Beany’s face might be bruised and battered but at least it was staying in one piece for the time being. Mary was never so glad to see a load of teachers in her life.

On turning fifteen Mary got herself the present she’d most wanted, a boyfriend. At the beginning of their relationship they would get the occasional carry out and paint the town whatever colour they’d stolen from Halfords that day. But after going out for a few months now they don’t have to walk the streets like nomadic neds anymore. With her dad in Addiewell for assaulting and robbing an Iraqi asylum seeker, her mum’s always glad of some company, not to mention the free booze the kids provide.

Looking old enough to get served at the local off-license means they can charge a variable tax for supplying drink to the scheme’s weans. This business strategy works so well they can now afford to spend most nights at home with a bottle of Buckfast in one hand and joint in the other.

Tonight they made a killing off some first years from Spam Valley who instinctively wanted more after already drinking too much. But that’s not Mary or Stricky’s problem. As far as they’re concerned it just made it easier to rip them off. Mary’s mum says it’s more convenient for their parents to give the kids money, so they can get peace for the night, than it is to spend quality time with them. What does it matter to them what their kids do with the money?

Mary and Stricky made enough profit from the girls to splash out on a bit of green. They didn’t have enough for a full score bag, but a dealer from school agreed to split one for them in return for a future favour.

Putting those memories aside Mary rolls her eyes, takes a swig from the bottle and tries to block out the scene by watching the second hand jerk its way around her Gran’s old Westclox clock on the otherwise bare mantelpiece.

She knows it’s the drink talking. He won’t actually do it. Nobody does. He’s just acting the hard man, trying to prove something. Maybe he thinks he’s the man of the house now. Only a psycho would cut somebody’s throat over a measly bit of blow. Stricky’s not a psycho. He makes Mary laugh most of the time. He’s the best friend she’s ever had. A soul mate, maybe. They’ve told each other secrets no-one could ever know. She’s pretty sure she loves him, but isn’t really sure what true love is. What she does know is that being Stricky’s bird has boosted her self-esteem and street-cred to previously unimagined heights.

Still, it’s her mum he’s sitting on, pinning her arms to the floor with his knees and holding a knife to her throat, shouting something about stealing it for her thieving locked-up man.

Pat lies on her back sobbing, tears and mascara trickling towards her ears, seeking refuge from the next stream of acrid abuse, air and spit
spewing from Stricky’s mouth. “Please, let me go.
I haven’t touched your bag of grass. I swear on Mary’s life.”

The concoction of drink and drugs appear to have changed the shape of his face. He looks like a wolf slavering over a kill, cheekbones protruded, eyes dark and withdrawn staring through Pat, out of control and in control at the same time, loving every second of it.

“You’re a lying bitch. I saw you eyeing it up earlier.”

With his back to her, Stricky doesn’t notice Mary finish the joint and lift the open-razor from behind the clock. It’s her dad’s blade. His dad’s before that. As far as she’s aware, it’s lain there for years and never been used. Her dad says it’s more of a deterrent.

Carefully opening it Mary admires the pristine blade, catching and reflecting the light from the uncovered bulb hanging from the ceiling. Handcrafted in Germany: Hollow Ground 5/8 Inch.

With heart pumping she caresses the razor, falls in love with the feel of the mahogany handle, and creeps up behind Stricky and places the cold, hard steel against his soft, warm throat.

“How does it feel, Stricky?”

A long pause follows in which Mary feels her nerves receding and confidence growing to the size of an oak. Only the tick…tick…tick of the old clock breaks the silence. Her mind flashes past all those previous incidents again and for the first time gets it. This piece of craftsmanship in her hand is more than just a combination of wood and stainless steel. It’s not a weapon. It’s a work of art, and part of her family heritage. But most of all, it’s the epitome of power. She can feel it usurping her previous self and wishes her dad was free to feast his eyes on the transmutation of his little princess.

Stricky attempts to speak but Mary eases her new friend tighter against his throat, feeling a tingle when his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. She doesn’t want him to talk now. She’s enjoying her moment.

“Put the knife down, Mary,” Stricky demands in a slow methodical manner, attempting to regain some measure of control. “If you don’t put it down now…I’m going to kill Pat…I swear on it.”

“Hush now, Stricky. You’re not going to kill anybody.”

“I’m not warning you again, Mary…put the knife down…or your mum’s getting it.”

“Put the bloody knife down, Mary,” pleads Pat. “Both of you put the knives down and we’ll forget all about it. Eh, what do you say? Come on, stop being silly, CSI’s on in five minutes.”

"As soon as he puts his down I’ll stand away.”

With a nervous smile Stricky presses the tip of the knife into Pat’s cheek, indenting but not breaking the skin. “This is your last chance, Mary. It’s up to you. Do you want me to cut your mum? I think you do. You always said both your parents were an embarrassment and you’d kill them if you had the chance. Well? What do you say to that, sweetheart? Shall I make a start?”

“Please, Stricky. For Christ sake, Mary! Put the bloody knife down.”

“Don’t worry, Mum. He won’t kill you. Dad was right about this being a deterrent.” She eases the blade away from Stricky's throat. “Anyway, there’s no need for this nonsense tonight. I can see that missing bit of green under the telly unit. Stricky, sweetheart, get a joint built for CSI starting. I’ll pour mum a drink.”