Part
32
If there was one thing Dawson Creep couldn’t
stand (but, of course, there wasn’t because
there were many millions of things Dawson Creep couldn’t
stand – if he went on TV’s Room 101 it
would be a telethon running over several nights) it
was violence. More particularly, violence to himself.
He wasn’t too fussed about violence in general,
but for one of the great unwashed to actually lay
a great unwashed hand on him really was beyond all
shades of the pale.
The
spot where Eddie Thomson had playfully smacked him
on the head felt to Dawson as if it were writhing
with commoners’ germs and the stench of the
street as well as throbbing like a bastard. He shuddered
from head to toe like a dog drying off from a dip
in a manky burn as he recalled the vile physical contact
again. Apart from anything else, the horrendous damage
inflicted upon and infecting his hair made him squirm
in revulsion.
Another thing Dawson couldn’t stand was the
police. Unfortunately in this case, two of his least
favourite things had conspired to coincide, so he
was stuck between a thug and a police force. Loathe
as he was to contact the law, Dawson felt it unavoidable
in the circumstances, even though he felt more affronted
than abused. Someone, Eddie to be precise, had to
pay for this horrific assault on his dignity.
If the police couldn’t sort it out and deal
severely with this brute, thought Dawson (for he had
a suspicion they might be less than enthusiastic in
pursuing the matter further) then he might have to
resort to contacting a member of the Morningside Mafia
who he had almost befriended once, during an investigative
piece on organised crime in the city. The incident
simply could not be allowed to pass by unpunished.
He made the call to the Leith police whilst sitting
on the long curved wrought-iron bench at the entrance
to the New Kirkgate centre where he had settled in
order to try and recover himself and his hair. The
bench’s other occupants stared at their new
neighbour apprehensively. The fact that he was bottle-less
and didn’t stink of pish or shit immediately
aroused their suspicions. Apart from the heady toilet
cocktail, a fug of stale Holburn’s mixed with
Carlsberg Special hung in the air and he could sense
several pairs of eyes peering at his mobile phone
as he dialled, including those of Queen Victoria herself,
whose statue seemed insignificant and demeaned now,
dwarfed as it was by the giant sculpture of the narwhal’s
tooth rising majestically from the chewing gum dappled
concourse.
Despite feeling a little reassured by the presence
of the security guard brandishing his superiority
complex in the Boots the Chemist doorway, he nevertheless
felt uneasy enough to remove himself from the scene
and turned briskly into Constitution Street, heading
for the police station.
After coming off the phone to Sgt Sturgeon he looked
over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being
followed and promptly bumped into a solid mass of
flesh and muscle called Big Watty.
TO
BE CONTINUED
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