Bitter Water by Gordon Ferris Page A

was quiet for a bit, but then I could see him resolve something in his swaddled head.
    ‘Aye. Doon by the Saltmarket. They were waiting for me. On a bomb site. They had a fire going. An auld oil drum. They asked me if I wanted a warm. I should have said no. I mean it was a
hot night. But we a’ like a fire. Like fucking moths. As it turns oot.’
    ‘What happened?’
    He paused. ‘I thought they were wearing caps. But as I got close they pulled them doon. Balaclavas. They grabbed me. Christ, they were strong buggers! They didnae look it, but airms like
pythons.’
    ‘Then what?’ In truth I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this.
    ‘They roped me like a fuckin’ steer. Like wan o’ they cowboy pictures. I couldnae get up. One of them stuck a dirty rag in my mouth to shut me up. The other went across to the
fire.’
    I steeled myself and became aware that the ward was silent. The other fifteen beds were locked into this story.
    ‘They had a tin on the fire. The wan that lifted it had to use a bit o’ sacking. It was fu’ and steaming.’
    He was no longer looking at me. He was looking into the flames as someone brought a can of boiling . . .
    I swallowed. ‘What was in it? In the can?’
    ‘Tar. Boiling fucking tar. He timmed it ower ma heid and all ower ma face and shoulders and airms and hands. I couldnae shout or greet or anything. Just rolled around while it burned ma
skin off.’
    The ward was squeezed dry with tension. He spoke again, quieter this time. ‘They had a poke. A broon paper poke. He opened the top and timmed it ower me.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Feathers. They turned me ower and ower to make sure I was covered. Then they took the rope off and left me.’
    I felt the ward breathe out. A voice said, ‘Jesus Christ.’ There was a murmur of supporting oaths.
    ‘Are you saying they tarred and feathered you?’
    ‘Aye.’
    A voice cut in from across the ward. ‘Like the fucking Wild West!’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘Did they say why?’
    Gibson was quiet for a while.
    ‘It’s a’ lies, so it is. Naw. I’m no’ saying.’
    He clammed up. I got up to go.
    ‘Hie, pal. There’s wan other thing.’
    ‘What’s that, Mr Gibson?’
    He looked down the bedclothes. He moved his right hand. The bandages went all the way down and swathed his hands.
    ‘They cut ma wee finger.’ He said it with incredulity.
    ‘Cut it?’
    ‘Cut it aff . They cut aff ma pinkie wi’ a cigar cutter. A momento they said.’
    ‘Memento.’
    ‘I just said that.’
    On my way out of the ward I stopped at the Sister’s desk.
    ‘He wouldn’t say why they attacked him. Did he tell you?’
    She looked at me, then looked round her, checking no one was in earshot. ‘He wouldnae say. But I heard one of the polis talking.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘They’d got him for rape a couple of weeks back. In drink, as usual.’
    ‘He got off?’
    ‘Aye. The lassie wouldnae talk. She was in the women’s ward just the other side. In a terrible state.’
    ‘Do you know why she didn’t press charges? Was she scared?’
    The Sister’s face screwed up and I thought she was going to cry. ‘It was his dochter.’
    Sweet Jesus, where were you? You might be watching out for sparrows, but what about wee girls? I shook my head and walked away. Then I remembered something else.
    ‘Gibson said they cut off his finger, his pinkie. With a cigar cutter?’
    ‘Aye. The same as yon bruiser, last week.’
    ‘Docherty! The one who got his arms broken? He never said.’
    ‘He didnae know at first. What with all the pain and the stookie down to his fingers.’
    ‘God almighty!’
    ‘The good Lord had nothing to do with it, I hope, Mr Brodie.’

EIGHT
    I ’d already filed a piece on the great off-licence siege for the Monday edition. Tuesday too was covered; in the absence of any new leads on
Alec Morton, Wullie had bashed out an article on the resurgence of the drug problem. It doesn’t take long for organised crime to spot a gap and fill it. A new supply