Pause. “Well, it’s powder, it should—”
“Oh for God’s sake. If it was bloody powder it’d be dissolved in all this crap! It’ll be wrapped in polythene. And parcel tape. Like in the movies.” A kilo of heroin for their very own.
“OK, so it’ll sink. You just have to feel about for it.”
“You fucking ‘feel about for it’! Jump down here and see how you like it!”
“Come on, Duncan, pwease?” She was bringing out the big guns now — the fake lisp. Silly cow. It hurt to admit it, but she was probably right — he might as well look while he was down here. Wasn’t as if he was going to get any mankier than he already was.
Grumbling and swearing, he groped about in the lukewarm liquid. Trying not to think about what was bobbing about his throat. Thank God he was six foot tall — four inches shorter and his mouth and nose would be submerged. The scum layer was warm, steaming gently all around him, further down it got colder — between the putrid froth and the knee-deep sludge at the bottom of the tank. That was slightly warm too, saturating his nylon tracksuit and socks, filling his trainers.
Milne cursed again. A kilo of heroin would sink. And that meant he’d have to duck under the surface to get it. Not that he hadn’t already been there, having fallen head-first through the inspection hatch. But stilclass="underline" fuck this shite.
Gritting his teeth he waded forward, feeling for the parcel in the sludge with his feet. Nothing. “It’s not—” was as far as he got before Josie hissed, “Shut up! Someone’s coming!”
He froze.
Thin light swept past the access hatch, caught in the steam rising from the rotting sewage, and then voices: “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” A man. Angry. Very, very angry.
“I... I was looking for someone.” Josie trying her “little girl” voice again. Only this time there were no takers.
“You think I don’t know what you are? Eh? Think I’m stupid?”
“I don’t think you’re—”
“We’ve had ENOUGH! Whores and drug addicts coming round here all hours!”
“But—”
“ENOUGH!”
“You know what: fuck you granddad—” A muffled “thunk” and the sound of something hitting the ground: something undernourished and three months shy of her nineteenth birthday. “Thunk.” “Thunk.” “Thunk.”
“Enough...” And then it went quiet for a bit. And then there was some crying. And then some grunting. And then scraping, like someone was being dragged — the stars were blotted out again. Milne backed away quietly until he was against the far wall of the septic tank.
“Click” and a beam of cold white light leapt through the access hatch, making the milky-brown liquid glow. More grunting and then an almighty splash as the something was unceremoniously dumped in, making a tidal wave of human waste. Milne closed his mouth and his eyes and prayed for the best.
When it was over he wiped his face, and stared at the thing floating face-up in front of him.
Some fumbling and a curse and then the torch was hurled in after her, bouncing off Josie’s cheek and spinning away into the scum. It stayed lit, sinking through the layers of liquid, glowing like a firefly. Flickering. Then dying. Leaving the tank in darkness once more.
The sound of heavy lifting came from above and slowly the patch of stars disappeared. “Clunk!” And they were gone. Milne and Josie were entombed.
Two days was a long time to spend trapped in a septic tank. Especially when the shakes started to set in. Coming down from a heroin buzz to the depths of cold turkey — making him sweat and shiver, even though the liquid waste was just warm enough to steam. To start with he’d held Josie close, like a child would its teddy bear, but then she started to smell worse than the sewage and he’d been forced to push her to the far side of the tank. Wedging her under the inlet valve so she stayed beneath the surface.
Now it was just smells and darkness. He knew it was two days because the watch he’d taken from Josie’s dead wrist glowed in the dark. Two days shivering and sweating. Feeling terrible. Scratching at the holes in his arms, unable to stop, even though he knew they’d get infected. Didn’t matter now anyway. He was dead.
He’d spent hours trying to get the tank’s thick concrete lid to move, but it was too heavy and too high above his head. He was well and truly trapped.
Two days without a hit and the hallucinations were in full swing, following him in and out of consciousness as he floated on the surface with the frothy scum. Where it was warmest. Trying to stay beneath the ventilation pipe, hoping enough air would be drawn down by the internal/external temperature difference to keep him from suffocation as he slowly died of dehydration.
Drifting on a sea of warm shite and cold turkey...
Within eighteen months of meeting Duncan “Manky” Milne, Josie has gone from a plump happy teenager to a straggly scarecrow with sunken eyes and track marks down both arms. Red and angry like hornet stings around the crook of her elbow.
And Duncan hasn’t fared much better — his boyish good looks are gone, now he’s just skin and bone with a drug habit. And it’s all about where the next fix is coming from. Which is why they’re standing at the bar of the Dunstane Arms on George Street, trying to scrape together enough change for two pints of cider. An apéritif before they head down the docks to see if anyone wants to rent Josie for a quick blowjob.
Of course, in the old days they both tried it, but no one wants to screw Manky Milne for cash any more. So these days he’s her Pimp Daddy. Even if he can only come up with enough cash for a pint and a half. Being a gentleman, Milne lets her take the pint — after all, she’ll be the one doing all the work tonight — and they settle back into a booth, out of sight of the barman who’s been giving them the evil eye since they slouched in five minutes ago, looking like shite.
And that’s when they hear about Neil McRitchie.
Two blokes standing by the bandit — poking the buttons, making the wheels spin, the light flash, and the music ding — laughing about how Neil McRitchie just got this big consignment in from Amsterdam: a kilo of uncut heroin. How Grampian Police decide to raid his house, but McRitchie flushes the whole parcel down the toilet before they break down the door. A kilo of smack, right down the drain. And then they drag him off to the station.
Milne sits back in his seat, face creased in thought, trying to get his drug-addled mind to work. Neil McRitchie... A small-time dealer on the south side of the city — Kincorth, Nigg and Altens. Milne’s bought from him before: blow, smack, and a bit of speed. Always from the guy’s house.
A smile creeps on to Milne’s dirty face. McRitchie’s house is on the back road between Nigg and Charlestown, the end cottage in a row of four. Not so far off the beaten track that you can’t walk there, but far enough to need private drainage. And private drainage means a septic tank.
The police won’t have a bloody clue. They’ll think it’s gone for good, but McRitchie’s kilo of heroin isn’t wheeching its way out to the North Sea — it’s bobbing about in a vat of shite, buried at the bottom of the garden. That’s one good thing about being the son of a plumber: Milne knows his drainage. And that’s when the plan—
He’s hiding behind the Christmas tree, cowering down behind the sharp, dry needles, trying not to breathe, because he knows they’ll fall and spatter against the bare floorboards. And then his father will find him. A scream from the corridor and a thump — his mother hitting the floor, then a thud — his father hitting her. Other kids want Giga Pets and Furbies for Christmas. He wants his father to die. Six years old and all he wants—