Behind Bars:
Part Two
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: A jilted lover takes revenge, with catastrophic consequences not only for Brendan and Graham, but also for Kathleen and Catriona.
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: A jilted lover takes revenge, with catastrophic consequences not only for Brendan and Graham, but also for Kathleen and Catriona.
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Andrew
1
Yes. Yes. Yes. A result. That'll teach the bastard to mess with me.
At first I thought he was okay considering he was an English queer. Even when I discovered that, despite his accent, he was Irish I wasn't too bothered. I thought I'd help him out a bit, show him the ropes. Instead he came on to me. But that was okay. I mean, I wasn't queer or anything like that, I just hadn't met a woman who did anything for me. All the women I knew were either clearly frigid or were sex mad scrubbers, most of them as ugly as sin, and I wasn't interested in touching any of them.
But a man's got to have some release: I'd go mad otherwise with frustration so, as the old saying goes, any port in a storm. Him not being from around here was an advantage: less likely to be any gossip or rumours. After all, I had my reputation to think of and if that was damaged, it could affect my business and all those people I employed, all those families that relied on me, would have suffered. If I lost my position as councillor, how would I have represented all those people who needed me? All those people on whose behalf I work so tirelessly? Oh, I knew none of them were the least bit grateful, I knew they bitched about me behind my back. Of course I did: people have always been ready to attack those who had more than they did, who proved their worth by working hard. It was pure envy on their part.
As I told Brendan on more than one occasion, if someone was prepared to work hard they would reap the benefits, they would be rewarded for their labour, but so many people just wanted handouts, wanted to live cushy lives without making any effort. Most people in Strathdubh just didn't know what hard work was, the same as most places in this once great country. Churchill would be turning in his grave.
People should do what I had to do: pull themselves up by their bootstraps. No-one ever gave me a handout: I had to fight for everything I earned. When I was a kid, I looked up to my parents, admired them, that was until they showed their true colours. I was only ten when the Second World War started, and thought nothing of my father not fighting for his country. I only realised he was a coward when a couple of years later kids in the playground started taunting me, telling me he was a conchie and a coward. I yelled back, telling them he wasn't and that I'd thump anyone who called him yellow. The toughest and biggest bastard in the school stepped up and, looking me in the eyes, said: “Your da's a conchie coward.”
I couldn't back down, otherwise I'd be a coward too, so I fought him. I got a right bloody beating with a broken nose, broken teeth and black eyes, but I refused to back down and the fight only ended when a teacher intervened. Even though I lost, I earned respect with even the boy who had beaten me telling me I was no coward.
When I got home, I had to explain what had happened. I told them I'd do it again, I'd fight anyone who called my da a coward and a conchie.
He shook his head, saying: “Violence isn't the way to go, son. You're not a coward if you walk away, if you refuse to fight. It can take a lot of courage not to fight, to take a path others won't take, often because they're scared to. So son, I am a conscientious objector, but I'm not a coward.”
I couldn't believe my ears as I stared at him, open-mouthed. When I found my voice, I said: “So the lads at school were right. You are a coward. My own father's a coward. He's too scared to go to war and fight, in case he gets killed.” I ran at him, raining blows on his body and face. He was such a coward he let me, didn't try to defend himself, just let his son hit him time and again.
Eventually I ran out of steam and collapsed onto a chair, snot running from my nose and spit leaking from my mouth. “Feel better now?” my da asked.
That was the moment I lost all respect for him. I toughened up, learned how to defend myself and inflict pain when I fought and before long I was the most feared boy in the school. As soon as a I could, I left school and when I was old enough joined the army. I didn't wait to be conscripted like all those other cowards. At first I was in trouble a lot: I refused to take any shit from anyone, no matter how many stripes they had on their arms and such insubordination led to me being locked up regularly. I learned my lesson: choose your battles with authority. And I began to understand that face-to-face confrontation wasn't the only way to win: I learned how to be subtle and cunning when need be. My years in the army taught me all that.
For medical reasons I never got the opportunity to fight in Korea, and that royally pissed me off. My da refused to fight and I was told I was not allowed to. But there was nothing I could do about it and I was lucky to be allowed to stay in the army, even if only as part of the support staff. But the army did teach me a trade. I was trained as a joiner, beginning with making coffins for all those soldiers killed in Korea.
At one camp where I was stationed, one of the officers came on to me. Even though I wasn't queer, there was no doubt he was good looking, and we had some fun together. What do you expect? There were no women about, well, no women worth looking at, never mind shagging. Still, I was always careful: if I'd been caught, I would have been in deep shit. The officer wasn't so careful, but he only had himself to blame when he was found in a compromising position with another soldier. They were both thrown out of the army. I later learned the soldier committed suicide, another bloody coward taking the easy way out. I never heard what happened to the officer, but he was from a wealthy family, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, so I've no doubt he did okay for himself. Probably got a job at a public school where he no doubt fiddled with the kids.
I never went back home after leaving the army, nor did I spend any leave at home. I was disgusted at da being such a coward and I wanted nothing more to do with them: I would make my own way, and I did.
I got a job with a joinery firm in Strathdubh, working there just long enough to get to know people, then left and set up my own business. I poached both customers and staff from the company I'd been with and added “funeral director” to the list of tasks we could offer. After doing some repairs at the free kirk without charging the minister, he began to recommend me to grieving families. I must have recovered those few pounds and hours a hundredfold since. By canny marketing within a couple of years I was getting so much business the other joinery firm went out of business. Once I had a monopoly, I was able to reduce wages and increase prices. After all, where else were staff and customers going to go?
When I stood for the council, I got elected unopposed. Not surprising really: I had dropped heavy hints that I not only expected all my employees to vote for me, but their relations too, and that if anyone who stood against me was related to any one who worked for me they could expect to lose their jobs. As a lot of people in Strathdubh are related to each other, that was no idle threat.
But nothing's ever perfect: even the Garden of Eden had snakes. The serpent that injected its venom into me didn't kill me, just poisoned my desires. Try as I might I couldn't find any woman worthy of me: they were either beautiful and flighty, or so assertive and masculine they might as well have had pricks. I had always been much happier in male company: you knew where you were with men. They knew which side their bread was buttered and as long as they got their pay packet at the end of the week and had enough left over for the pub, they were happy enough.
There was a story from way back: a landowner near here wanted to make his land more productive and needed the land which lots of families lived on and claimed to work, so he decided to evict them. His only mistake was to wait until all the men were in the hills with their cattle, thinking evicting a few women and children would be easy. What an idiot! None of the constables would use violence against them, so when the women refused to move and began throwing shit from the midden at them they retreated. What a farce. I don't know much about books and writers, but I heard somewhere that Shakespeare once said that hell has no fury like a woman scorned. Give me a good honest man any time.
All men need relief from time to time, and that's always been one of the functions of women, along with cooking and cleaning and looking after the kids. Until I met a woman who didn't make me feel sick, I had to get my relief from other men. Not ideal, particularly in Scotland where sex between men was still a crime, but there were places where it was safe. But as the old saying goes, you don't shit on your own doorstep.
2
Then I met that English, sorry Irish, cunt Brendan. I knew straight away he was queer, it couldn't have been more obvious if he'd had it tattooed on his forehead. As soon as I saw him mincing behind the bar at the hotel and heard that camp whine that passed for a voice, I knew. Why others didn't spot it was beyond me. I'm not stupid, so I knew those two girls he lived with must be dykes. I knew the layout of their cottage and there being only two bedrooms, it was clear what the sleeping arrangements were. Not that it bothered me: they weren't my type. I had to laugh, though, when I heard all the men drooling over them, particularly over the one from Birmingham. I overheard lots of talk about how lucky Brendan was having a girl like that.
I knew Brendan was safe to go with, I knew he wouldn't want anyone else to know he was queer. As long as we were discreet we'd be fine. I didn't fancy him or love him or any crap like that, after all I was just scratching an itch until the right woman came along. But I did get used to him being around and looked forward to meeting him. And he was so accommodating, I could do anything I wanted and he went along with it. Afterwards I just wanted rid of him as soon as possible – until the next time.
He was hard working as well, something I have always admired. I wish my employees worked as hard as he did, in fact if he'd known the first thing about joinery I would have employed him. But he was the least practical person I'd ever come across. I reckon he'd have needed written instructions to change a light bulb. And he was so fucking liberal: he could be taken in by any loser with a hard luck story. I doubt there was a thing we agreed on, except for the sex, and sometimes that was more like a fight than anything else.
Then he told me he didn't want to see me again.
It all took off when I said I thought that waste of space Rob was following us. It ended with him telling me he was fed up of being used by me, said he never wanted to see me again and then he fucked off. Good riddance, I thought, as he drove off. But the thing was I missed him. That just made me angrier. I went back to some of the old haunts, but it wasn't the same: the queers I met were just going through the motions, or perhaps it was me. In a rare moment of weakness I sent him a Christmas present choosing one of our calendars, something impersonal that I also gave to others. That way, he could take the present as me wanting to see him or as an advert for my firm: up to him either way. He never even acknowledged it.
I was getting seriously pissed off with him. I wasn't used to being treated that way.
Then that black bastard appeared, someone Brendan knew from Birmingham apparently. He was the first black I'd seen in Strathdubh and his presence caused a bit of a stir, particularly as we don't normally get tourists in January, at least not after Hogmanay. Any strange face would stand out in the winter, but a nigger especially so. It was typical of Brendan to have an immigrant as a friend, probably got brownie points among his fellow lefties.
Rumours circulated, inevitable when someone strange appears and no-one knows anything about him. And when he began to spend so much of his time at Brendan's home tongues really began wagging. Most people thought he was the boyfriend of one of the girls, particularly as he stopped overnight and after a while gave up his room at the hotel. Some people thought he was Kathleen's boyfriend, others that he was sleeping with the local lass Catriona. One of my workers, Bill, was so incensed he began shouting his mouth off, telling anyone who'd listen what he'd do to the black bastard if he got him alone in a dark alley. Not that there were any dark alleys in Strathdubh. Although he drank too much, Bill was a good worker, but the last thing we needed was some local beating the nigger to a pulp. I didn't have any moral objections to kicking the shit out of them, but I didn't want one of my best workers arrested. So I told him to cool it.
“You're not a nigger lover now, are you boss?” he asked, his lips curled into a sneer.
“Watch it!” I told him. “You know better than that. I tell you what, if you really want to get rid of him, just keep an eye on him for me, and let me know what he gets up to, will you?”
He gave me a mock salute.
I did think about telling Bill what I knew, or rather what I'd worked out: that if the two girls were dykes then it must be Brendan the black was sleeping with. But I decided against it. There's more than one way to skin a cat, and much as some people would find it satisfying to beat him up, in my view it would be even better to use the law against him – and Brendan. I had a plan.
I went to see the local bobby. Initially it proved to be a frustrating conversation. John MacAlister had been stationed in the area for over ten years and, lacking any ambition, was happy to be responsible for an area where crime was almost non-existent. He enjoyed living in the village, got on with most people and would only arrest the rare miscreant if absolutely necessary. The occasional drunk would find himself in the cells overnight to sleep it off and would be released in the morning. John had even been known to take the drunk Lorne sausage sandwich and Irn Bru for breakfast. The last serious arrest he had made was the previous year when he picked up a poacher, but that was only after he'd warned the poacher several times. Even then it took an estate manager to threaten to go above John's head for him to take any action.
His easy going approach suited most people. No-one bothered if a few salmon or the occasional young doe went missing, particularly as the poachers rarely got greedy and would share their gains with local people. And in the summer the tourists loved to see venison and wild salmon on the menu at the hotel. Because people liked John they would often tell him who was doing what and he always knew what was going on. As to his views, he had the good sense to keep his own counsel.
When I went to see him, he was as laid back as usual. He made me a cup of tea and offered me a slice of his wife's lemon drizzle cake. We chewed the fat for a while until I brought the conversation round to the village's most recent incomers.
“Aye,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes, “I saw those two lasses perform at the pub. I thought they were really good, and fancy a Birmingham lass singing the Gaelic. Not sure I like the more political songs, but hey they can really sing and play. I remember when Catriona was just a kid. She's always been talented. And they're both pretty. And that lad Brendan's an asset to us all. Best barman the hotel's ever had, in fact the best barman the village has ever had. I remember one night I was in there and he was serving two customers at the same time as giving a tourist directions to the broch, and he never spilled a drop. And he kept count of how much the two customers owed him. I asked him how he did it. Do you know what he said? He said he didn't know, it was just something he learned working in a couple of busy pubs in Birmingham.”
He stopped talking long enough to take a bite of his cake and swig of tea, so I took the opportunity to ask him what he thought of Graham.
He shrugged his shoulders. “As long as he keeps himself to himself, don't see the problem with him. Never had much contact with blacks, to be honest. I'm not saying I like the blacks, but he seems to behave himself and I reckon he'd be a lot less trouble than the gypsies we sometimes get. Now, they can be troublemakers, but I know how to keep them in order. Might be different if there was a bunch of them, but he seems harmless enough.”
“What if I told you he was queer?”
He laughed. “Bloody hell, what would a queer be doing up here? I mean, it's still a crime here. Are you sure you've got that right?”
I nodded.
“Oh well,” he said, “it turns my stomach just thinking about what they do. But hey as long as they don't interfere with the kiddies and sheep, let them get on with whatever perversions they want. Still. Are you really sure?”
“Yes,” I said. “And he's got a boyfriend up here. It's disgusting, if you ask me.”
“Oh come on, Andy. Are you sure you aren't imagining things? Did you have a dram too many last night?”
I hated being called Andy, but I let it pass. “Take it from me, he's come up here to be with his boyfriend, who's also from Birmingham.”
He laughed. “Now I know you're having me on. There's only one other lad up here from Birmingham.” He was silent for a few moments until the penny dropped. “You mean? Ah shit. And I've drunk out of glasses he's touched. Are you sure? Everyone thinks that Kathleen is his girlfriend.”
“I'm sure. And Kathleen's queer too. Her girlfriend is that local lass.”
“No way! I've known Catriona for so long. No way she's a lezzie.”
“Take it from me she is. But there's nothing we can do about that: it's not a crime to be a lesbian, though in my opinion it should be. But it is a crime to be a queer and stick your prick up someone's arse or let them stick theirs up yours.”
“Well, well,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I wish you hadn't told me. I would really prefer to just let them get on with it, as long as they keep it to themselves. Perhaps a quiet word with them.”
I shook my head. “I don't think we can do that. If we collude with a crime, we can get charged ourselves, and we've both got too much to lose to allow that to happen.” I let that sink in for a minute then continued: “At the very least your bosses in Inverness wouldn't take it too kindly if they knew you'd let a couple of queers get away with buggery.”
He sat up straight and looking me in the eyes said: “And how would they find out? Unless you tell them.”
I laughed. “Of course I wouldn't do anything like that, John. You're a mate. And that's why I'm here now. You know how much people here love to gossip. It won't take that long before word gets around and any gossip is bound to reach Inverness. I mean if I know, others will as well. If they don't know, they soon will. Already one of my workers, Bill, has said he doesn't trust them and he's going to keep an eye on them. And I know Rob is a waster, but he spends so much time with them, and thick as he is even he's likely to see what's going on eventually. I don't think you can ignore it.”
He rubbed his chin again. “Reckon you've got something there. But we can't just go barging in there without any evidence. They could just deny it, and then we'd look like idiots.”
“Look, John, I can't reveal my source. But I know for a fact everyone in that cottage is as bent as a two pound note. I'll do whatever I can to help you. I'm happy to give a statement to the press about how we need to protect people from these perverts and that as the local councillor I fully support the actions of the police. I'll tell the papers you should be congratulated for protecting our children. Not only that, I'll get a motion passed by the council. I can guarantee no-one will vote against it in case people think they're queers too.”
“You're absolutely certain? 100%”.
I nodded.
“But I don't see how you can be so certain.”
“Oh, I am. Can't reveal how without getting someone else in trouble, someone who's been led astray. You know how these queers like to recruit people. I'll even arrange for a photographer to be hiding nearby to shoot you arresting them. That'd look good on your record, wouldn't it?”
“Well, I have been getting some hassle from Inverness, some jobsworth complaining about my arrest record. This would certainly keep them off my back.”
Revenge is so sweet. The coverage in the local press was a joy to behold, complete with pictures of the two queers being led out handcuffed and put into police cars. I don't think they even knew they were being photographed. The two lezzies certainly didn't know the photographer had also got pictures of them, hand in hand on the doorstep looking out at the police cars. Of course, the reporter couldn't actually state they were lesbians, not without proof, otherwise he might be sued. But he could certainly drop hints. Things like “The police found the two men having sex in one of the two bedrooms in the cottage,” and under the photograph of the two lesbians, the caption: “The two women who share the two-bedroom cottage with the two male homosexuals”.
The story was even picked up by the Scotsman and the Glasgow Herald, and one of the English Sunday scandal sheets, the News of the World, ran with the story, portraying me and John as moral crusaders, heroes protecting our community from perverts, contrasting us with the politicians in England who, according to the paper, were encouraging them. The Scotsman just published the fact that a couple had been arrested and, typically, the Herald questioned whether the arrests were necessary. Fucking liberals.
3
It got even better. Not surprisingly, some of the media were particularly interested in Graham, with him being both queer and black, so it didn't take long for an enquiring journalist from one of the tabloids to discover he was also a Catholic priest. That was when the shit really hit the fan. Even some of the fully paid up anything goes liberal squad baulked at that: few people had much sympathy for a Catholic priest caught with his pants down, particularly with another man. Talk about hypocrisy. It could hardly have been worse for him if he'd been discovered fiddling with an altar boy.
The Grand Orange Lodge of Scotland took full advantage, issuing a statement that the case merely confirmed what they had been saying for centuries, that Popery and sodomy were linked. The National Front in its magazine “Spearhead” claimed that the case proved West Indians were promiscuous and sexually incontinent, arguing the priest probably also forced himself on women, children and animals. Nor did he get any sympathy from his fellow queers, few of whom seemed to have any time for the Catholic church.
We had the papers delivered to the council offices every day, including some of the English papers who, after the outing of Graham as a priest, began to take a bit of interest. A lot of them appeared to be confused: for some of them Scotland was a foreign country and they had no idea queer sex was still a crime up here. The Guardian, of course, called for the law to be the same in Scotland as England, but what would you expect from a newspaper that was run by Communist fellow travellers, some of whom were undoubtedly bent themselves.
The arrests caused an uproar locally, with opinion divided. Some people refused to believe it, others felt a bit sorry for them, but a lot of people were disgusted and when they saw John, congratulated him. I knew this because he told me, his face beaming. He also told me something else, which made me feel even better.
“You know the white one, Brendan?” he said.
“Yes. What about him?”
His smile got even wider, if that was possible. “The bastard has an unpaid fine from Birmingham?”
“Fuck me! What for?”
“Possession of cannabis. And it gets better.” He paused, took a swig of his tea and lit a cigarette. “Yes, it gets better. They found the drugs when they searched his flat and arrested him because of his connections with terrorists. They thought he might have been involved in the pub bombings down there. Apparently he attended a meeting at an Irish centre and signed a petition. They weren't able to find anything linking him to the bombings and when they arrested those other Paddies who ended up confessing they let him go. But they still charged him for possession.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh dear. Priceless. Of course, we wouldn't want all that getting out, now would we?” I said, winking.
Of course it got out. Particularly when John tipped off one of his contacts in the press. It was getting ever more amusing: homosexuality, a West Indian queer Catholic priest, people from England flouting our laws, druggies and – the icing on the cake – IRA terrorists. Revenge was certainly proving sweet and Brendan would regret dumping me like he did.
Another couple of layers were about to be added to the cake. Apart from hints they were lesbians, nothing much had been written about the two girls. The press had left them alone and, if anything, most of the locals felt sorry for them, some arguing they must have been led astray, recruited by the proselytising queers. After all, some people said, they were both such good musicians and good looking and one of them was a local lass, so how could she be queer. When others pointed out they must have been sharing a bed, they just shrugged their shoulders, as if to say: so what? It was well known, some of them said, that girls quite often slept together, and it didn't mean anything, it didn't mean they had sex. It was just a girl thing, like sharing clothes and make-up tips. One night in the pub, one man told me they couldn't possibly be lesbians, because dykes were ugly and masculine looking with hair above their lips. Another, waving his pint in the air, said he'd soon sort them out: all they needed was a good man, and he was that man.
Attitudes to the two lasses would soon change. When I received an envelope with a Birmingham postmark, I wondered who could possibly have sent it to me. It certainly couldn't be official, as the address was written in a spidery almost illegible scrawl. After turning it round in my hands for a while, I thought I'd better open it. It contained a misspelled and ungrammatical hand written letter and a photograph. After I'd read the letter and looked at the image, I smiled. I read the letter and looked at the photograph and my smile became even broader. This was going to be good, very good.
1
Yes. Yes. Yes. A result. That'll teach the bastard to mess with me.
At first I thought he was okay considering he was an English queer. Even when I discovered that, despite his accent, he was Irish I wasn't too bothered. I thought I'd help him out a bit, show him the ropes. Instead he came on to me. But that was okay. I mean, I wasn't queer or anything like that, I just hadn't met a woman who did anything for me. All the women I knew were either clearly frigid or were sex mad scrubbers, most of them as ugly as sin, and I wasn't interested in touching any of them.
But a man's got to have some release: I'd go mad otherwise with frustration so, as the old saying goes, any port in a storm. Him not being from around here was an advantage: less likely to be any gossip or rumours. After all, I had my reputation to think of and if that was damaged, it could affect my business and all those people I employed, all those families that relied on me, would have suffered. If I lost my position as councillor, how would I have represented all those people who needed me? All those people on whose behalf I work so tirelessly? Oh, I knew none of them were the least bit grateful, I knew they bitched about me behind my back. Of course I did: people have always been ready to attack those who had more than they did, who proved their worth by working hard. It was pure envy on their part.
As I told Brendan on more than one occasion, if someone was prepared to work hard they would reap the benefits, they would be rewarded for their labour, but so many people just wanted handouts, wanted to live cushy lives without making any effort. Most people in Strathdubh just didn't know what hard work was, the same as most places in this once great country. Churchill would be turning in his grave.
People should do what I had to do: pull themselves up by their bootstraps. No-one ever gave me a handout: I had to fight for everything I earned. When I was a kid, I looked up to my parents, admired them, that was until they showed their true colours. I was only ten when the Second World War started, and thought nothing of my father not fighting for his country. I only realised he was a coward when a couple of years later kids in the playground started taunting me, telling me he was a conchie and a coward. I yelled back, telling them he wasn't and that I'd thump anyone who called him yellow. The toughest and biggest bastard in the school stepped up and, looking me in the eyes, said: “Your da's a conchie coward.”
I couldn't back down, otherwise I'd be a coward too, so I fought him. I got a right bloody beating with a broken nose, broken teeth and black eyes, but I refused to back down and the fight only ended when a teacher intervened. Even though I lost, I earned respect with even the boy who had beaten me telling me I was no coward.
When I got home, I had to explain what had happened. I told them I'd do it again, I'd fight anyone who called my da a coward and a conchie.
He shook his head, saying: “Violence isn't the way to go, son. You're not a coward if you walk away, if you refuse to fight. It can take a lot of courage not to fight, to take a path others won't take, often because they're scared to. So son, I am a conscientious objector, but I'm not a coward.”
I couldn't believe my ears as I stared at him, open-mouthed. When I found my voice, I said: “So the lads at school were right. You are a coward. My own father's a coward. He's too scared to go to war and fight, in case he gets killed.” I ran at him, raining blows on his body and face. He was such a coward he let me, didn't try to defend himself, just let his son hit him time and again.
Eventually I ran out of steam and collapsed onto a chair, snot running from my nose and spit leaking from my mouth. “Feel better now?” my da asked.
That was the moment I lost all respect for him. I toughened up, learned how to defend myself and inflict pain when I fought and before long I was the most feared boy in the school. As soon as a I could, I left school and when I was old enough joined the army. I didn't wait to be conscripted like all those other cowards. At first I was in trouble a lot: I refused to take any shit from anyone, no matter how many stripes they had on their arms and such insubordination led to me being locked up regularly. I learned my lesson: choose your battles with authority. And I began to understand that face-to-face confrontation wasn't the only way to win: I learned how to be subtle and cunning when need be. My years in the army taught me all that.
For medical reasons I never got the opportunity to fight in Korea, and that royally pissed me off. My da refused to fight and I was told I was not allowed to. But there was nothing I could do about it and I was lucky to be allowed to stay in the army, even if only as part of the support staff. But the army did teach me a trade. I was trained as a joiner, beginning with making coffins for all those soldiers killed in Korea.
At one camp where I was stationed, one of the officers came on to me. Even though I wasn't queer, there was no doubt he was good looking, and we had some fun together. What do you expect? There were no women about, well, no women worth looking at, never mind shagging. Still, I was always careful: if I'd been caught, I would have been in deep shit. The officer wasn't so careful, but he only had himself to blame when he was found in a compromising position with another soldier. They were both thrown out of the army. I later learned the soldier committed suicide, another bloody coward taking the easy way out. I never heard what happened to the officer, but he was from a wealthy family, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, so I've no doubt he did okay for himself. Probably got a job at a public school where he no doubt fiddled with the kids.
I never went back home after leaving the army, nor did I spend any leave at home. I was disgusted at da being such a coward and I wanted nothing more to do with them: I would make my own way, and I did.
I got a job with a joinery firm in Strathdubh, working there just long enough to get to know people, then left and set up my own business. I poached both customers and staff from the company I'd been with and added “funeral director” to the list of tasks we could offer. After doing some repairs at the free kirk without charging the minister, he began to recommend me to grieving families. I must have recovered those few pounds and hours a hundredfold since. By canny marketing within a couple of years I was getting so much business the other joinery firm went out of business. Once I had a monopoly, I was able to reduce wages and increase prices. After all, where else were staff and customers going to go?
When I stood for the council, I got elected unopposed. Not surprising really: I had dropped heavy hints that I not only expected all my employees to vote for me, but their relations too, and that if anyone who stood against me was related to any one who worked for me they could expect to lose their jobs. As a lot of people in Strathdubh are related to each other, that was no idle threat.
But nothing's ever perfect: even the Garden of Eden had snakes. The serpent that injected its venom into me didn't kill me, just poisoned my desires. Try as I might I couldn't find any woman worthy of me: they were either beautiful and flighty, or so assertive and masculine they might as well have had pricks. I had always been much happier in male company: you knew where you were with men. They knew which side their bread was buttered and as long as they got their pay packet at the end of the week and had enough left over for the pub, they were happy enough.
There was a story from way back: a landowner near here wanted to make his land more productive and needed the land which lots of families lived on and claimed to work, so he decided to evict them. His only mistake was to wait until all the men were in the hills with their cattle, thinking evicting a few women and children would be easy. What an idiot! None of the constables would use violence against them, so when the women refused to move and began throwing shit from the midden at them they retreated. What a farce. I don't know much about books and writers, but I heard somewhere that Shakespeare once said that hell has no fury like a woman scorned. Give me a good honest man any time.
All men need relief from time to time, and that's always been one of the functions of women, along with cooking and cleaning and looking after the kids. Until I met a woman who didn't make me feel sick, I had to get my relief from other men. Not ideal, particularly in Scotland where sex between men was still a crime, but there were places where it was safe. But as the old saying goes, you don't shit on your own doorstep.
2
Then I met that English, sorry Irish, cunt Brendan. I knew straight away he was queer, it couldn't have been more obvious if he'd had it tattooed on his forehead. As soon as I saw him mincing behind the bar at the hotel and heard that camp whine that passed for a voice, I knew. Why others didn't spot it was beyond me. I'm not stupid, so I knew those two girls he lived with must be dykes. I knew the layout of their cottage and there being only two bedrooms, it was clear what the sleeping arrangements were. Not that it bothered me: they weren't my type. I had to laugh, though, when I heard all the men drooling over them, particularly over the one from Birmingham. I overheard lots of talk about how lucky Brendan was having a girl like that.
I knew Brendan was safe to go with, I knew he wouldn't want anyone else to know he was queer. As long as we were discreet we'd be fine. I didn't fancy him or love him or any crap like that, after all I was just scratching an itch until the right woman came along. But I did get used to him being around and looked forward to meeting him. And he was so accommodating, I could do anything I wanted and he went along with it. Afterwards I just wanted rid of him as soon as possible – until the next time.
He was hard working as well, something I have always admired. I wish my employees worked as hard as he did, in fact if he'd known the first thing about joinery I would have employed him. But he was the least practical person I'd ever come across. I reckon he'd have needed written instructions to change a light bulb. And he was so fucking liberal: he could be taken in by any loser with a hard luck story. I doubt there was a thing we agreed on, except for the sex, and sometimes that was more like a fight than anything else.
Then he told me he didn't want to see me again.
It all took off when I said I thought that waste of space Rob was following us. It ended with him telling me he was fed up of being used by me, said he never wanted to see me again and then he fucked off. Good riddance, I thought, as he drove off. But the thing was I missed him. That just made me angrier. I went back to some of the old haunts, but it wasn't the same: the queers I met were just going through the motions, or perhaps it was me. In a rare moment of weakness I sent him a Christmas present choosing one of our calendars, something impersonal that I also gave to others. That way, he could take the present as me wanting to see him or as an advert for my firm: up to him either way. He never even acknowledged it.
I was getting seriously pissed off with him. I wasn't used to being treated that way.
Then that black bastard appeared, someone Brendan knew from Birmingham apparently. He was the first black I'd seen in Strathdubh and his presence caused a bit of a stir, particularly as we don't normally get tourists in January, at least not after Hogmanay. Any strange face would stand out in the winter, but a nigger especially so. It was typical of Brendan to have an immigrant as a friend, probably got brownie points among his fellow lefties.
Rumours circulated, inevitable when someone strange appears and no-one knows anything about him. And when he began to spend so much of his time at Brendan's home tongues really began wagging. Most people thought he was the boyfriend of one of the girls, particularly as he stopped overnight and after a while gave up his room at the hotel. Some people thought he was Kathleen's boyfriend, others that he was sleeping with the local lass Catriona. One of my workers, Bill, was so incensed he began shouting his mouth off, telling anyone who'd listen what he'd do to the black bastard if he got him alone in a dark alley. Not that there were any dark alleys in Strathdubh. Although he drank too much, Bill was a good worker, but the last thing we needed was some local beating the nigger to a pulp. I didn't have any moral objections to kicking the shit out of them, but I didn't want one of my best workers arrested. So I told him to cool it.
“You're not a nigger lover now, are you boss?” he asked, his lips curled into a sneer.
“Watch it!” I told him. “You know better than that. I tell you what, if you really want to get rid of him, just keep an eye on him for me, and let me know what he gets up to, will you?”
He gave me a mock salute.
I did think about telling Bill what I knew, or rather what I'd worked out: that if the two girls were dykes then it must be Brendan the black was sleeping with. But I decided against it. There's more than one way to skin a cat, and much as some people would find it satisfying to beat him up, in my view it would be even better to use the law against him – and Brendan. I had a plan.
I went to see the local bobby. Initially it proved to be a frustrating conversation. John MacAlister had been stationed in the area for over ten years and, lacking any ambition, was happy to be responsible for an area where crime was almost non-existent. He enjoyed living in the village, got on with most people and would only arrest the rare miscreant if absolutely necessary. The occasional drunk would find himself in the cells overnight to sleep it off and would be released in the morning. John had even been known to take the drunk Lorne sausage sandwich and Irn Bru for breakfast. The last serious arrest he had made was the previous year when he picked up a poacher, but that was only after he'd warned the poacher several times. Even then it took an estate manager to threaten to go above John's head for him to take any action.
His easy going approach suited most people. No-one bothered if a few salmon or the occasional young doe went missing, particularly as the poachers rarely got greedy and would share their gains with local people. And in the summer the tourists loved to see venison and wild salmon on the menu at the hotel. Because people liked John they would often tell him who was doing what and he always knew what was going on. As to his views, he had the good sense to keep his own counsel.
When I went to see him, he was as laid back as usual. He made me a cup of tea and offered me a slice of his wife's lemon drizzle cake. We chewed the fat for a while until I brought the conversation round to the village's most recent incomers.
“Aye,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes, “I saw those two lasses perform at the pub. I thought they were really good, and fancy a Birmingham lass singing the Gaelic. Not sure I like the more political songs, but hey they can really sing and play. I remember when Catriona was just a kid. She's always been talented. And they're both pretty. And that lad Brendan's an asset to us all. Best barman the hotel's ever had, in fact the best barman the village has ever had. I remember one night I was in there and he was serving two customers at the same time as giving a tourist directions to the broch, and he never spilled a drop. And he kept count of how much the two customers owed him. I asked him how he did it. Do you know what he said? He said he didn't know, it was just something he learned working in a couple of busy pubs in Birmingham.”
He stopped talking long enough to take a bite of his cake and swig of tea, so I took the opportunity to ask him what he thought of Graham.
He shrugged his shoulders. “As long as he keeps himself to himself, don't see the problem with him. Never had much contact with blacks, to be honest. I'm not saying I like the blacks, but he seems to behave himself and I reckon he'd be a lot less trouble than the gypsies we sometimes get. Now, they can be troublemakers, but I know how to keep them in order. Might be different if there was a bunch of them, but he seems harmless enough.”
“What if I told you he was queer?”
He laughed. “Bloody hell, what would a queer be doing up here? I mean, it's still a crime here. Are you sure you've got that right?”
I nodded.
“Oh well,” he said, “it turns my stomach just thinking about what they do. But hey as long as they don't interfere with the kiddies and sheep, let them get on with whatever perversions they want. Still. Are you really sure?”
“Yes,” I said. “And he's got a boyfriend up here. It's disgusting, if you ask me.”
“Oh come on, Andy. Are you sure you aren't imagining things? Did you have a dram too many last night?”
I hated being called Andy, but I let it pass. “Take it from me, he's come up here to be with his boyfriend, who's also from Birmingham.”
He laughed. “Now I know you're having me on. There's only one other lad up here from Birmingham.” He was silent for a few moments until the penny dropped. “You mean? Ah shit. And I've drunk out of glasses he's touched. Are you sure? Everyone thinks that Kathleen is his girlfriend.”
“I'm sure. And Kathleen's queer too. Her girlfriend is that local lass.”
“No way! I've known Catriona for so long. No way she's a lezzie.”
“Take it from me she is. But there's nothing we can do about that: it's not a crime to be a lesbian, though in my opinion it should be. But it is a crime to be a queer and stick your prick up someone's arse or let them stick theirs up yours.”
“Well, well,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I wish you hadn't told me. I would really prefer to just let them get on with it, as long as they keep it to themselves. Perhaps a quiet word with them.”
I shook my head. “I don't think we can do that. If we collude with a crime, we can get charged ourselves, and we've both got too much to lose to allow that to happen.” I let that sink in for a minute then continued: “At the very least your bosses in Inverness wouldn't take it too kindly if they knew you'd let a couple of queers get away with buggery.”
He sat up straight and looking me in the eyes said: “And how would they find out? Unless you tell them.”
I laughed. “Of course I wouldn't do anything like that, John. You're a mate. And that's why I'm here now. You know how much people here love to gossip. It won't take that long before word gets around and any gossip is bound to reach Inverness. I mean if I know, others will as well. If they don't know, they soon will. Already one of my workers, Bill, has said he doesn't trust them and he's going to keep an eye on them. And I know Rob is a waster, but he spends so much time with them, and thick as he is even he's likely to see what's going on eventually. I don't think you can ignore it.”
He rubbed his chin again. “Reckon you've got something there. But we can't just go barging in there without any evidence. They could just deny it, and then we'd look like idiots.”
“Look, John, I can't reveal my source. But I know for a fact everyone in that cottage is as bent as a two pound note. I'll do whatever I can to help you. I'm happy to give a statement to the press about how we need to protect people from these perverts and that as the local councillor I fully support the actions of the police. I'll tell the papers you should be congratulated for protecting our children. Not only that, I'll get a motion passed by the council. I can guarantee no-one will vote against it in case people think they're queers too.”
“You're absolutely certain? 100%”.
I nodded.
“But I don't see how you can be so certain.”
“Oh, I am. Can't reveal how without getting someone else in trouble, someone who's been led astray. You know how these queers like to recruit people. I'll even arrange for a photographer to be hiding nearby to shoot you arresting them. That'd look good on your record, wouldn't it?”
“Well, I have been getting some hassle from Inverness, some jobsworth complaining about my arrest record. This would certainly keep them off my back.”
Revenge is so sweet. The coverage in the local press was a joy to behold, complete with pictures of the two queers being led out handcuffed and put into police cars. I don't think they even knew they were being photographed. The two lezzies certainly didn't know the photographer had also got pictures of them, hand in hand on the doorstep looking out at the police cars. Of course, the reporter couldn't actually state they were lesbians, not without proof, otherwise he might be sued. But he could certainly drop hints. Things like “The police found the two men having sex in one of the two bedrooms in the cottage,” and under the photograph of the two lesbians, the caption: “The two women who share the two-bedroom cottage with the two male homosexuals”.
The story was even picked up by the Scotsman and the Glasgow Herald, and one of the English Sunday scandal sheets, the News of the World, ran with the story, portraying me and John as moral crusaders, heroes protecting our community from perverts, contrasting us with the politicians in England who, according to the paper, were encouraging them. The Scotsman just published the fact that a couple had been arrested and, typically, the Herald questioned whether the arrests were necessary. Fucking liberals.
3
It got even better. Not surprisingly, some of the media were particularly interested in Graham, with him being both queer and black, so it didn't take long for an enquiring journalist from one of the tabloids to discover he was also a Catholic priest. That was when the shit really hit the fan. Even some of the fully paid up anything goes liberal squad baulked at that: few people had much sympathy for a Catholic priest caught with his pants down, particularly with another man. Talk about hypocrisy. It could hardly have been worse for him if he'd been discovered fiddling with an altar boy.
The Grand Orange Lodge of Scotland took full advantage, issuing a statement that the case merely confirmed what they had been saying for centuries, that Popery and sodomy were linked. The National Front in its magazine “Spearhead” claimed that the case proved West Indians were promiscuous and sexually incontinent, arguing the priest probably also forced himself on women, children and animals. Nor did he get any sympathy from his fellow queers, few of whom seemed to have any time for the Catholic church.
We had the papers delivered to the council offices every day, including some of the English papers who, after the outing of Graham as a priest, began to take a bit of interest. A lot of them appeared to be confused: for some of them Scotland was a foreign country and they had no idea queer sex was still a crime up here. The Guardian, of course, called for the law to be the same in Scotland as England, but what would you expect from a newspaper that was run by Communist fellow travellers, some of whom were undoubtedly bent themselves.
The arrests caused an uproar locally, with opinion divided. Some people refused to believe it, others felt a bit sorry for them, but a lot of people were disgusted and when they saw John, congratulated him. I knew this because he told me, his face beaming. He also told me something else, which made me feel even better.
“You know the white one, Brendan?” he said.
“Yes. What about him?”
His smile got even wider, if that was possible. “The bastard has an unpaid fine from Birmingham?”
“Fuck me! What for?”
“Possession of cannabis. And it gets better.” He paused, took a swig of his tea and lit a cigarette. “Yes, it gets better. They found the drugs when they searched his flat and arrested him because of his connections with terrorists. They thought he might have been involved in the pub bombings down there. Apparently he attended a meeting at an Irish centre and signed a petition. They weren't able to find anything linking him to the bombings and when they arrested those other Paddies who ended up confessing they let him go. But they still charged him for possession.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh dear. Priceless. Of course, we wouldn't want all that getting out, now would we?” I said, winking.
Of course it got out. Particularly when John tipped off one of his contacts in the press. It was getting ever more amusing: homosexuality, a West Indian queer Catholic priest, people from England flouting our laws, druggies and – the icing on the cake – IRA terrorists. Revenge was certainly proving sweet and Brendan would regret dumping me like he did.
Another couple of layers were about to be added to the cake. Apart from hints they were lesbians, nothing much had been written about the two girls. The press had left them alone and, if anything, most of the locals felt sorry for them, some arguing they must have been led astray, recruited by the proselytising queers. After all, some people said, they were both such good musicians and good looking and one of them was a local lass, so how could she be queer. When others pointed out they must have been sharing a bed, they just shrugged their shoulders, as if to say: so what? It was well known, some of them said, that girls quite often slept together, and it didn't mean anything, it didn't mean they had sex. It was just a girl thing, like sharing clothes and make-up tips. One night in the pub, one man told me they couldn't possibly be lesbians, because dykes were ugly and masculine looking with hair above their lips. Another, waving his pint in the air, said he'd soon sort them out: all they needed was a good man, and he was that man.
Attitudes to the two lasses would soon change. When I received an envelope with a Birmingham postmark, I wondered who could possibly have sent it to me. It certainly couldn't be official, as the address was written in a spidery almost illegible scrawl. After turning it round in my hands for a while, I thought I'd better open it. It contained a misspelled and ungrammatical hand written letter and a photograph. After I'd read the letter and looked at the image, I smiled. I read the letter and looked at the photograph and my smile became even broader. This was going to be good, very good.
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.