and I want whoever did it caught and fucked right up the ass.’
‘You use the word “fuck” very easily, very comfortably, Andy,’ Littlejohn says. ‘Fuck this, fuck that, fuck it up the ass. But there are other words you have difficulty saying. The word “mutilated”. The word “genitals”. The words “sex organs”, or “penis”, or “vagina”. Do you not feel as comfortable with those words as you do with fuck?’
‘Hey hey hey hey, what’s going on here?’
‘I’m curious about how you come to be working for the Welcome Centre. I think I can safely say that you must be the only member of your generation on the Woodstock Road that’s given up fixing cars for Shian-human mediation and translation services.’
‘Like they said about Elvis, good career move. Aren’t we supposed to be an opportunity culture, finding out wee gaps in the market, squeezing ourselves in, making money?’
‘Yes, but why this opportunity?’
- I learned the language, I wanted to do something with it, Gillespie says in Narha.
- In jail, Littlejohn replied.
- In jail, Gillespie answers.
‘Could we keep this to English, please?’ Roisin Dunbar says. The verbal warriors eyeball each other across the table.
- If Dr Littlejohn’s Narha isn’t up to it, Gillespie says in a very difficult sexual innuendo mode with phallic connotations. He repeats it for Dunbar’s benefit in cold English.
‘Your Narha is beyond reproach,’ Littlejohn says. ‘It’s your English lets you down with the odd significant slip. When you were talking about your children to Sergeant Dunbar, you said, “I always fancied a boy”. Do you?’
‘Jesus God, you think I’m one of these pervs gets off on Shian because they remind them of men, or women, or kids, or something?’
‘You’d be amazed, Mr Gillespie, the lengths paedophiles go to to get to work with children.’
‘You are trying to make me out to be something I’m not, some kind of perverted psycho killer. I work — I worked — with the Shian because I wanted to.’
‘Well, that’s not good enough. Why did you want to?’
‘It’s something I had to do. Something I had to put right. Something I owed them.’
‘What?’
Gillespie looks at the table top.
‘What?’
Gillespie looks at the turning spindles on the tape machine.
‘What did you owe them?’
Gillespie listens to the flat drip of water in the corridor. He won’t tell them. They can keep him here all night, as long as the law lets them hold him without charge, but he won’t tell them about the thing in the Maze. It’s his, all his. They don’t deserve to know it. This is one piece of his life he won’t let them unfold and pass around and snigger over. He sits. The tape winds. The sprinkler drips.
At last Littlejohn speaks.
‘One last thing, Andy.’
‘Don’t you ever fucking call me that. Ever.’
Littlejohn manages a sick smile. ‘If that’s what you want. Let’s go back to the trouble you had talking about the mutilation of the sex organs. Look, you’re squirming in your seat at the mention of it. Why do you find it difficult to talk about?’
‘It makes me sick, what that bastard did to them.’
‘I noticed an odd thing, did you notice it too? The children, they’d been left intact.’
‘Yes,’ Gillespie hisses. ‘I know.’
‘Don’t you think that’s strange?’
‘Yes. It’s strange.’
‘Why is it strange?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Someone comes in, blows their heads up like grenades with five maser shots, then gets out a hunting knife, goes to the bodies of the adults, cuts out the men’s penises and testicles, cuts out the female’s vagina, womb and ovaries, puts them against the wall and incinerates them with the maser, but leaves the kids. Why leave the kids? Why not cut them up, make a perfect job?’
‘Will you shut the fuck up about—’
‘About what?’
‘About fucking mutilations.’
‘Why? Why, Andy? Tell me, what is it you find so hard about
‘You use the word “fuck” very easily, very comfortably, Andy,’ Littlejohn says. ‘Fuck this, fuck that, fuck it up the ass. But there are other words you have difficulty saying. The word “mutilated”. The word “genitals”. The words “sex organs”, or “penis”, or “vagina”. Do you not feel as comfortable with those words as you do with fuck?’
‘Hey hey hey hey, what’s going on here?’
‘I’m curious about how you come to be working for the Welcome Centre. I think I can safely say that you must be the only member of your generation on the Woodstock Road that’s given up fixing cars for Shian-human mediation and translation services.’
‘Like they said about Elvis, good career move. Aren’t we supposed to be an opportunity culture, finding out wee gaps in the market, squeezing ourselves in, making money?’
‘Yes, but why this opportunity?’
- I learned the language, I wanted to do something with it, Gillespie says in Narha.
- In jail, Littlejohn replied.
- In jail, Gillespie answers.
‘Could we keep this to English, please?’ Roisin Dunbar says. The verbal warriors eyeball each other across the table.
- If Dr Littlejohn’s Narha isn’t up to it, Gillespie says in a very difficult sexual innuendo mode with phallic connotations. He repeats it for Dunbar’s benefit in cold English.
‘Your Narha is beyond reproach,’ Littlejohn says. ‘It’s your English lets you down with the odd significant slip. When you were talking about your children to Sergeant Dunbar, you said, “I always fancied a boy”. Do you?’
‘Jesus God, you think I’m one of these pervs gets off on Shian because they remind them of men, or women, or kids, or something?’
‘You’d be amazed, Mr Gillespie, the lengths paedophiles go to to get to work with children.’
‘You are trying to make me out to be something I’m not, some kind of perverted psycho killer. I work — I worked — with the Shian because I wanted to.’
‘Well, that’s not good enough. Why did you want to?’
‘It’s something I had to do. Something I had to put right. Something I owed them.’
‘What?’
Gillespie looks at the table top.
‘What?’
Gillespie looks at the turning spindles on the tape machine.
‘What did you owe them?’
Gillespie listens to the flat drip of water in the corridor. He won’t tell them. They can keep him here all night, as long as the law lets them hold him without charge, but he won’t tell them about the thing in the Maze. It’s his, all his. They don’t deserve to know it. This is one piece of his life he won’t let them unfold and pass around and snigger over. He sits. The tape winds. The sprinkler drips.
At last Littlejohn speaks.
‘One last thing, Andy.’
‘Don’t you ever fucking call me that. Ever.’
Littlejohn manages a sick smile. ‘If that’s what you want. Let’s go back to the trouble you had talking about the mutilation of the sex organs. Look, you’re squirming in your seat at the mention of it. Why do you find it difficult to talk about?’
‘It makes me sick, what that bastard did to them.’
‘I noticed an odd thing, did you notice it too? The children, they’d been left intact.’
‘Yes,’ Gillespie hisses. ‘I know.’
‘Don’t you think that’s strange?’
‘Yes. It’s strange.’
‘Why is it strange?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Someone comes in, blows their heads up like grenades with five maser shots, then gets out a hunting knife, goes to the bodies of the adults, cuts out the men’s penises and testicles, cuts out the female’s vagina, womb and ovaries, puts them against the wall and incinerates them with the maser, but leaves the kids. Why leave the kids? Why not cut them up, make a perfect job?’
‘Will you shut the fuck up about—’
‘About what?’
‘About fucking mutilations.’
‘Why? Why, Andy? Tell me, what is it you find so hard about
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