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666 Great Junction Street

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.




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