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TOM GRAHAM
Borstal Slags
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Rollin’, Rollin’, Rollin’
Chapter Three: Mrs Slocombe’s Pussy
Chapter Four: Annie Cartwright, Girl Detective
Chapter Five: Kiddies’ Porridge
Chapter Six: Crime and Punishment
Chapter Seven: Cooking with Gene Hunt
Chapter Eight: Through the Arched Window
Chapter Nine: House of Diamonds
Chapter Eleven: Pork Scratching
Chapter Twelve: Reading Between the Lines
Chapter Thirteen: Office Humour
Chapter Fourteen: Beauty Awakes
Chapter Fifteen: Decisions, Decisions
Chapter Sixteen: Fee Fie Fo Fum
Chapter Seventeen: Donner Speaks
Chapter Eighteen: It All Kicks Off
Chapter Nineteen: Punishment Block
Chapter Twenty: Like Camping but Worse
Chapter Twenty-One: Under Siege
Chapter Twenty-Two: Watch on a Chain
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Face of the Devil
Read on for an exclusive peek, available summer 2013
CHAPTER ONE: ROLLIN’, ROLLIN’, ROLLIN’
‘Guv?’
‘What is it, Tyler?’
‘You’re going to kill us, Guv.’
DCI Gene Hunt was driving as if the devil himself were after them. He floored the pedal, sending the Cortina shrieking through the Manchester evening like a rocket. DI Sam Tyler gripped the dashboard, as Hunt flung the car so recklessly round a bend that its offside wheels lifted off the tarmac. It dropped back heavily onto its suspension, the under-chassis scraping the road and sending out a sudden flare of sparks.
‘I might kill me motor’s springs, Sammy boy, but you and me is safe as houses,’ Gene growled. ‘It’s time you stopped worrying, Tyler, and learnt to trust the Gene Genie.’
The Guv’nor jammed a fag into his gob, taking both hands off the wheel to light it up. He emitted a long, thick, stinking plume of smoke into Sam’s face.
‘Don’t you go worrying your pretty little head, Tyler, I’ll get us there in one piece.’
‘But you’re driving like a maniac, Guv. I don’t know what you’re rushing for.’
‘There’s nowt the matter with rushing. I like rushing. Now shut your cake-hole and look out the window like a good little soldier. Watch the world go by.’
The world was indeed going by, and at a terrifying lick. Sam watched the shopfronts whipping past outside, the names rich with memories of his own childhood: Woolworth’s, Our Price records, Wavy Line. Bathed in the low, golden glow of the setting sun, the last of the evening’s shoppers headed up and down the high street. Sam glimpsed a young mother, no older than twenty, in a bright-red plastic raincoat pushing twins in a buggy. A stooped old woman waited patiently at a zebra crossing, her lined, toothless face peering out from beneath a fake fur hat that looked like a giant powder puff. Hurrying past her went a mustachioed man with collar-length hair and thick sideburns, his beige trousers hugging his crotch so tightly that nothing was left to the imagination.
This is my world now, Sam thought to himself, watching a kid in a Donny Osmond T-shirt slurping on a rainbow-coloured lolly shaped like a rocket ship. This is my world, and these are my people – for better or for worse.
These streets, these shoppers, even the orange glare of the setting sun, all seemed much realer to him than the world he had left behind. Two thousand and six was beginning to recede in his mind – or perhaps he was just less and less inclined to think about it. With effort, he could still recall his workstation at CID with its Posturepedic office chair, its PC terminal, its energy efficient desk lamp, its neatly coiled charging cables for his mobile and BlackBerry. But such memories seemed cold and dead to him. He felt no nostalgia for the world of touch screens and instant messaging – though maybe, from time to time, his thumbs hankered for the feel of a gaming console, his taste buds for the savour of sushi, his lungs for the comfort of a smoke-free pub.
The Cortina roared ahead, its headlights
