An extract from the black comic novel

SOMETHING WENT BUMP

by Scott Creighton

Kate Morgan watched dolefully as the horizontal Glasgow rain lashed the windows of her second floor office in Hope Street. The clock on her desk told her it was nearly time - a few more minutes and they’d arrive. She took a deep breath and held it a moment. Exhaled slowly. Already she could feel her stomach beginning to churn, her feelings of dread alleviated only marginally with the thought that at least this time she’d be ready for them - she’d prepared.

The preparation wasn’t anything drastic and mostly took the form of re-arranging her office furniture in such a way that one end of her desk was butted hard-up against a wall with a big, metal filing cabinet placed strategically to the open side. This arrangement allowed only the slightest of gaps through which Kate could squeeze her slender frame to reach her chair. Next she ensured that even this small gap was blocked by opening the bottom two drawers of the filing cabinet. It was a barricade of sorts; not perfect but hopefully would offer at least some form of protection.

On her desk she had placed a bottle of Caledonian Spring water, a big box of mansize tissues and some paracetamol. There was also something wrapped in heavy brown paper.

She felt along the underside of her desk to check for the panic button. This was a fairly new security measure within the offices of Faithful and Proctor but one regarded as essential after one of the firm’s lawyers had been attacked and severely injured some six weeks earlier. The poor man had ended up with skin-grafts from his arse and forty stitches to his face, this being the result of a frenzied attack with a cheese-grater. Of course, an early return to work was out of the question, the mental trauma of the incident having done more damage than the physical attack ever did.

A shrill from the phone jolted Kate back to more immediate problems. She lifted the handset and listened.

Jesus - they were here!

‘Yes - send them in Julie. Thanks.’

She placed the handset back in its cradle, sat back in her chair and braced herself. Any moment now.

The wait was excruciating. There were voices and whines, distant and muffled, outside the door, somewhere along the corridor. And then, ever - so - slowly, the office door eased open. Through the crack Kate could see a grubby hand gripping the handle.

‘S’aw right, Miss Morgan, hen. Monty’s oan the leash.’

The door swung ajar.

A monster, for that is the only word to describe the creature, launched itself at Kate, it’s razor teeth glinting, its dark eyes glowing satanic red.

‘MONTY! DOWN BOY! HEEL! HEEL MONTY!’

Kate just sat, frozen to her chair, sure that she’d lost all control of her bodily functions as the beast from hell bounded onto her desk, dragging what can only be described as a human skelf behind it.

‘Am really sorry aboot this, hen,’ the skelf blurted. ‘It’s jist - he gets a wee bit excited when he sees you. Don’t know whit the hell it is.’

Kate could see this quite plainly, the pink lipstick between the dog’s giraffe-like legs testimony to the effect her presence was having on the beast. And then the face-licking started. God - the face-licking. The rancid smell of pedigree bum, barfing all over her. She almost choked and spewed.

So much for all her careful preparations. Sure she’d stopped the brute from getting under and round her desk where it had hitherto enjoyed many minutes tormenting the hell out of her by constantly sniffing at her crotch. But now, instead of preventing the animal getting anywhere near her, she’d only gone and boxed herself into a corner where there was no escaping its frisky affections.

The horror.

And it didn’t end there. Monty’s tiger-like paws were now resting on the young lawyer’s shoulders. Kate knew what was about to come.

‘MONTY!’ the skelf screamed at his doggy, yanking on the chain leash with all his pathetic might. If this was tug-o-war, it was clear who wasn’t winning. ‘MONTY FUCK!’

All manner of crazy thoughts were now flooding Kate’s brain, the effect of which was to render her even more helpless than ever in the face of big Monty. The animal was now working itself on her like a bunny. Kate couldn’t believe it – this had to be a nightmare. The human skelf was now on top of her desk, his arms folded round his doggie’s belly, desperately trying to haul the animal away.

‘Stoap that Monty! That’s no’ nice.’

There was only one thing for it. Kate grabbed the brown package from her desk, quickly unwrapped it and rammed the contents, a big juicy bone, into Monty’s salivating mouth. Fortunately for Kate, the animal’s hunger instinct took over as it leapt from the desk, dragging the skelf with it, and took the meal into a corner of the office.

As Kate calmed herself, she eyed the Great Dane and wondered if there was anything in law about animals sexually assaulting humans. She’d look it up later. For the moment her attentions turned to the skelf who was scraping himself from the carpet. ‘Aye,’ he began, dusting himself down. ‘Monty likes you awright, Miss Morgan. That’s a good bone ye gave ‘im there. Hope it’s no’ yer lunch?’

Kate glared at him. The man’s stupid, toothless grin would have been quite hilarious if Kate had only been in the mood to observe it. She was far from it. ‘Mr Peacock, it’s almost five o’clock. I’ve had an extremely busy day and you are over an hour late.’

The skelf checked that his darling Monty was okay before turning to Kate. He spoke fast and earnestly. ‘Y’know hen. Ah’ve goat tae apologise fur that, a really huv. But y’know - it wisnae ma fault a wis late. It wis the filth. The polis.’

‘The police?’

‘Fuckin tellin’ yae - sorry, swore there. Try an’ no’ dae it again. Aye it wis the polis hen. A mean, there a wis right - comin’ in here this efternin tae huv this wee blether an’ am cruisin’ doon the big super-slab mindin’ ma ain business – no’ a care in the world. Me an’ Monty th’gither - jist cruisin’. Anywyes, this big polis motor - wannae them big fuck-off four-wheel jeep jobs - pulls up alangside us. A thinks - okay, it’s the pigs, nae bother. Am no’ speedin’ or nothin; jist keepin’ it cool an’ gawn tae see the Tom Sawyer.’ He leaned low across her desk, locked his eyes onto hers. ‘You’ll never believe whit happened next?’

Kate rolled her eyes as if to say, ‘Do I really care?’

‘Big polis bastard - I mean officer - rolls doon his windae, looks right at the coupon here an’ calls me a WANKER! Can yae believe that, Miss Morgan? Called me a wanker!’

Kate pursed her lips, considered the scenario a moment or two. Course she could fucking well believe it! She stared at him impassively, said quietly. ‘A police officer said that to you?’

‘Well aye - as good as.’

‘As good as?’

‘Okay - well he didnae actually say it - it wis his haun that wis daein’ all the talkin’ if yae know whit am sayin’ here, hen?’

Kate knew exactly what he was alluding to but remained silent, her eyes insisting that he explain more fully. The skelf duly obliged by jerking a fist back and forth a number of times, offering Kate the universal gesture of someone known to be a prefect in the school of wankery.

‘So, Mr Peacock. A police officer made an obscene gesture towards you. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Damn right the bastard did. So me – well a wis jist a wee bit pissed aff, as you would, know? So a rolls doon the motor windae and gi’es that big bastard the middle finger, don’t ah. Stuck it right oot the fuckin’ windae so he could get a right good decko at it, know? Anywyes - next thing, bloody sirens, flashing lights, the business. Polis pulls us intae the side and afore yae know it, there a am, spread o’er the front of ma motor like there’s some serious buggery aboot tae happen. Tell yae - Monty was goin’ fuckin’ loopy!’

‘And did you ask the officer why he made the offensive gesture?’

‘Did a ask the officer - damn right a did hen! Know whit the bastard says? Know whit he says?’

Kate shrugs her shoulders. ‘Surprise me.’

‘Right fly man so he wis. Says he’d been signallin’ wi’ his haun fur me tae put oan ma seatbelt. Can yae believe that? Seat belt fuck!’

Kate studied the balding, bag of bones opposite her. The toothless grin, the saggy, blood-shot eyes, the nicotine tan. She looked at him long and hard and then, like divine intervention, it came to her. The empirical evidence she’d been seeking all her life to prove God’s existence was sitting right here, a metre in front of her. She had never believed in God’s existence so here was God providing His very own retribution for ever having had the audacity to doubt in the form of a wee scrote from Sighthall. Why else would she be on the receiving end of such a warped punishment were it not to demonstrate a higher power at work?

‘And were you wearing a seatbelt, Mr Peacock?’ she asked at length.

‘Seatbelt? Are ye daft, hen? Wee Monty there chewed them all tae fuck yonks ago! A tell yae whit though - ah’ll be suing them. Ah’ll be suing their arses fur this. There’s nae way am letting them aff wi’ this wan. Nae chance.’

Kate sighed. And then realised she’d just done so and caught herself wondering why she’d just sighed. She was damn well fed up with this, no doubt about that - but it was more than that. Seven years of hard graft at Saint Andrews and this is where it had landed her - horny Great Danes and horseshit for brains. Where was the Atticus Finch of her youthful ambition? Where were the Boo Radleys of the script in her mind? Where were the down-trodden, those pilloried by society only to be rescued at the last gasp by - by a junior lawyer who missed her daddy. Where had it all gone wrong?

Where, oh where?

Kate opened a file on her desk, retrieved a letter from it. ‘I received your letter last month in which you state that you have uncovered new evidence that would prove that your son did not assault Mahmood Khan. Can you elaborate on this?’

The skelf returned a vacant look.

‘Can you explain to me what this ‘new evidence’ is?’ Kate explained.

The Skelf sat upright from his hitherto slouched posture. ‘S’obvious, innit. That Khan feller - claims tae be wannae them asylum seekers. Him! An asylum seeker - mer like a bloody New Seeker that wan. Tell yae - if he’s an asylum seeker then am Osama bin fucking Laden! Should be loaked in an asylum, that’s whit we’re talkin’ aboot here. Know why?’ He was sitting back now, a look on his face as smug as Poirot.

‘I guess you’re about to enlighten me,’ Kate said.

‘Fact is, Miss Morgan, ma son Drew was protecting the innocent children of oor scheme fae a paedophile. That’s whit we’re talkin’ aboot here. Interferes wi’ weans, that wan does. Even his ain family admitted it in front of witnesses that he’s a paedophile. There yae go.’

Kate didn’t respond immediately. She counted to ten. Then to twenty. She turned her head to the file of the scrote’s banged up son - Drew Peacock. God was not only sticking the knife into her but was now getting in with the boot as well. If at first you don’t succeed, in with the boot and then with the heid!

‘Mr Peacock, ‘ Kate began in as calm a voice as she could muster. ‘Your son seriously injured a young Kurdish refugee, a twenty-nine year old husband and father of two, an asylum seeker Mr Peacock. A man so in complete fear for his life that he would rather be anywhere else on Earth than in the land of his birth. He came to Scotland, to your scheme in Sighthall. He believed he would be safe here; thought he could trust the good natured, generous Scots. His only crime – if it could be called that - was that he could not speak very good English although, I have to say, I do have my suspicions that he probably spoke the language better than you.’

The skelf was completely lost. ‘Whit’s the English goat tae dae wi’ the price of fish?’

‘When you asked Mr Khan and his family if he was a paedophile, they only misunderstood what you were asking because Mr Khan is, in fact, a paediatrician.’

The skelf was wearing his glaikit look again. ‘Right - so yer agreein’ wi’ me then? He should be banged up?’

Make him go away! Make him go away, Kate screamed into herself.

Thankfully her phone rang. It must have been urgent because she’d asked Julie to field all calls unless so. ‘A moment, please,’ she said to the skelf and lifted the handset.

Kate listened for some time. In all the time she listened, not a word crossed her lips. After a while she stood up. And then a hand came to her mouth. She gasped.

‘You awright, hen?’

It was a fair enough question given that he had just watched Kate go through three changes of colour in as many minutes. But then the handset slipped from her grip, crashed to her desk. The skelf jerked back in his seat. He looked at Kate as her body began rocking, heaving. Her other arm clutched at her stomach, trying to contain her wrenching body. She could do nothing to stop it, the almighty eruption in her stomach, the spasms, convulsions in her throat.

Orange stuff came gushing from her mouth like a geyser, through her fingers, spraying everything in sight, including the skelf.

‘Sorry - I have to goooooooo. . .’