Handstands In The Dark: A True Story of Growing Up and Survival (44 page)

‘It will be OK, Janey.’

‘Fuck you, ya cunt!’ I spat at him. ‘I hope you die! My daughter will never forget this and here I am going to the jail coz yer useless fucking father cannae hide a fucking gun!’

The policeman sitting beside me sniggered. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘And he
is
getting charged with rape as well.’

‘Fuck ye!’ I screamed. ‘Rape? Sandra was never raped! Don’t ye know it is physically impossible to rape her? She shags anyone who asks! Maybe
you
fucked her yerself! She is a fucking, lying whore!’

Dick looked over and said, ‘Don’t get upset, Janey. Sean didnae know aboot the guns.’

‘Fuck ye as well!’ I shouted.

As soon as we got into the Police Office we were led to the bar – the counter – to be formally charged. Sean asked if he could share a cell with me. ‘No!’ the policeman behind the counter told him. ‘It’s no’ the fucking Hilton, ya stupid bastard!’

After the charging procedure I was taken alone into a small white cell about 20 feet square with a bench running alongside one end and a small window that looked into a central observation office. It was the first time I had been on my own since this shit day started. My head was racing.
Wait a minute! They never found the explosives!
I started to go over the backyard in my head, trying to imagine where the explosives could be hidden. I didn’t even know what explosives looked like! It was at this point I realised that the ‘various miscellaneous materials’ Old George had referred to in his taped will were these guns and explosives. My head ran round in circles. Stress was getting to me and I felt sick. I decided to do the breathing technique that helped me when I was running. I sat on the floor and took long deep breaths. I could feel my pulse slowing down. I could feel my heartbeat becoming more regular. This felt better. I did not want to hyper-ventilate in a fucking police cell. I stood up and looked at the bench. I went and stood at the furthest wall, ran forward and slammed both my palms down on the bench then threw my body up into a handstand. I could see everything upside-down. The blood rushed to my head, my breasts hurt a bit. It had been a long time since I had done a handstand. At that exact moment, a detective opened the door. I stayed upside-down.

‘What the fuck are ye doing?’ he asked. ‘Are ye a junkie?’

I threw myself off the wall, off the bench and did a perfect landing on both feet with my hands raised in triumph in the air, like some Olympic champion. ‘How many junkies de you know who can do that, ye fuckwit?’ I laughed.

He lifted his hand up to slap me in the face.

‘You fucking hit me, ya cunt, an’ I will report ye!’ I shouted as loud as I could. His hand stopped in mid-air, as a female detective came to the door. He dropped his hand.

‘He tried to slap me there,’ I pleaded to her. ‘That cannae be right.’

‘Yes and we care deeply,’ she sneered. ‘A woman who has been charged with possession of guns.’

I knew this was not going to be a good day. I was taken to another room to be interviewed. I was worried that they would beat me up badly. I sat at a table as two detectives came in. One was the officer from the back garden who had calmed me down. I smiled at him as he sat beside me.

‘Janey, we have to tape everything for the record – OK?’

‘OK,’ I replied.

The other dark-haired man leaned over the table and stared as he smiled. I felt slightly uncomfortable now; he was staring right at me.

‘Just confirm your name and details then, please,’ he said quietly.

I gave my name and address.

‘How long you been married, Janey?’

‘Fourteen years now.’

‘Why were there guns at the house?’

‘I don’t know. I huv never seen them before, honest.’

I sat with my hands on my lap and started to pick at my nails. This dark-haired man was making me feel very uncomfortable. He would stare and smile and reach over and touch me gently on the hand and then stare at me blankly, without emotion, as I answered.

‘Who owns the house?’ he asked.

‘Well, I don’t know, to be honest,’ I replied. I knew that whoever owned the house owned the guns. That was Scottish law, for sure, so I had to get my head around this.

‘You live in a house and you don’t know who owns it? Who pays the bills for gas and electricity?’

‘I don’t know. I am a woman. If bills are being paid, I don’t question it.’

‘Liar!’ he suddenly shouted, leaping across the table at me. The edge of his hand hit me full force on the side of my head. I had no time to duck. My ears rang with pain.

‘Fuck you, ya big arse!’ I screamed back at him. ‘D’ye like hitting women? Eh? Do ye hit yer wife?’ I rubbed my ear and looked at the tape machine hoping it had caught all that noise on it. But the spools on the tape recorder were not moving at all. My heart started to thump wildly and I tried hard to breathe slowly; I knew now that they were going to beat me up badly. The other detective sat impassively and stared as I cried, holding my ear.

‘Janey,’ the dark-haired man spoke. ‘Just tell us everything and you can go home, eh?’

‘I don’t fucking know anything and that belt to my head has just given me real mental problems. Now I am in shock, so I cannae speak.’ I didn’t care if they kicked me to death now, the pair of bastards.
I am not being scared by anyone any more
, I thought to myself. They got me up from the table and led me to the other side of the room, where all the guns and stuff they had recovered from Toad Hall was lying on the floor. I noticed for the first time that two of the handguns were very old and ornate; they had pearl inlaid handles and fancy-looking metalwork on them.

‘When did you last see that gun?’ one of them asked as he saw my interest in the weapon.

‘In a fucking Dick Turpin film. You
are
joking, eh? Can that actually fire bullets? It looks like something Rabbie Burns carried when he was a customs official. Fuck, it must be ancient.’

‘Look, you,’ the dark-haired detective said, grabbing me roughly by the arm and spinning me round to look at him. ‘I am fed up with your fucking behaviour. Do you know your husband at all?’

‘Aye, I know him,’ I snapped back. ‘I have known him since he was 16. I know he never raped Sandra. I know this because he helped me cope with a rape I had suffered. I know he would not touch that mad cow and I know anything you say will probably be shite to get at me because I married a Storrie!’

‘Your lovely wonderful husband – that quiet man, as you think he is – has been fucking other women. Did ye know that, eh? We huv been watching him for a while. What do you think of that, eh?’ He smirked at me.

‘I could not give a fuck if he was shagging your wife!’ I shouted into his face. ‘I huv other issues to worry aboot here – like all these guns and stuff! My man fucking other women is the last thing I care aboot! I am worried aboot the fact he let me and my daughter live in a hoose wi’ guns in it, mate!’

The detective grabbed me and threw me roughly back into my seat. ‘You think you are a fucking smart one, eh?’ Then he stormed out of the room. I was led back into the small cell and left alone with my thoughts. I wondered how long it would be before Mr Bovey got here. I had not been offered the phone call I was legally obliged to be offered. I started to bang on my cell door and scream, ‘I’m entitled to a phone call! I’ve seen it in the movies! I saw it on
The Sweeney
!’

The door opened and – as if by magic – Mr Bovey was standing there in front of me. He waved away the desk sergeant and came into my cell. I rushed to him and hugged him, I was so happy to see the wee Lithuanian man dressed, as usual, in stiff pinstripes and starched collar, holding a cane and bowler hat.

‘Mr Bovey, how is Ashley? Did you see her?’

‘Yes, I chatted to Miss Storrie on the phone,’ he answered in his clipped, fast-talking tone. ‘She did call me, you know. She is fine and staying with Aunty Betty. She is clearly worried. You know nothing of these weapons and I will try to get you released. There is no reason to keep you here other than spite. Forensics are looking at the weapons to see when they were last fired and they have ascertained that Sean did not rape Sandra, although he did have to go through the forensics for that just half an hour ago, poor boy.’

‘Poor boy, my arse, Mr Bovey! I hate him for putting me in this position. He must have known the stuff was there and yet he let Ashley and me live there. That is fucking unforgivable.’

‘Janey, he was brought up living like that, so it was not unusual for him or dangerous. Don’t give him a hard time; he is a good boy and a decent father.’ He stared at me with his hard, glassy blue eyes. ‘Look, the main thing is, let me sort this out. You stay tight and don’t talk about anything.’ He straightened his shirt and jacket as he stood up.

‘They slapped me, ye know.’

‘Bastadds!’ he said, his Lithuanian accent coming out as he swore. ‘I will arrange for food to be brought in.’ With that, he left, his cane tapping on the floor as he went.

I sat and waited for what seemed like hours.

Eventually, a policeman came in and told me I was to be taken to an overnight cell.

Overnight? Why? Had Mr Bovey not sorted it out?

I felt my heart sink as I was taken to a wide, square room with a metal toilet and flat bed with one stinking cover. I felt exhausted and scared. There was an eyehole on the door and I needed to go to the toilet but was scared in case someone started watching me. I worried how Ashley was coping without us. She would be very worried if we had had to leave her overnight with someone. She would know that meant real trouble. I did not want her going to school tomorrow and having to explain that her parents were in prison for hiding guns in their house. I lay on the hard bed and refused to pull the skanky cover over me at any time. It got very cold and I lay there thinking about how the hell I had ended up in London Road Police Office.

* * *

Eventually, morning came and a large policeman escorted me out to a big grey bus parked at the back of the Police Office. I sat quietly all the way to the Sheriff’s Court in Glasgow city centre. I was led into the court cells beneath the main building. This was one more step nearer prison and I was scared as shit. They took me into a cell which looked exactly like the sheriff’s jail in a cowboy movie: three brick walls with bars floor-to-ceiling at the front. Four other women were already sitting on the benches inside, watching me as I came in. I kept my head high and tried to look confident.

‘Storrie, here’s tobacco and matches,’ the warder said, holding out a plastic pouch with a pack of matches.

‘I don’t smo–’ I could feel someone’s fingernails suddenly dig hard into my back. ‘OK, I smoke – give them to me.’ I held out my hand to take the pouch.

The warder left.

‘Fuck off. I got the fags,’ I said, turning to face my nail queen. ‘Here, take them.’

The young girl’s hard eyes creased into a smile, blue eye shadow smeared high up to her eyebrows. Her dyed blonde hair was pulled up into a big high pony-tail that stretched her skin tight, as if she had had a facelift. She snapped the pouch quickly into the tight elastic waistband of her black velvet leggings.

‘Whit huv ye done?’ she asked. ‘Why ye here?’

‘Nothing,’ I told her coldly. ‘Fuck off. Ye got yer fags, ye don’t need to know my life story, do ye?’ I sat confused in the corner and looked around at the other girls in there with me. One looked about 30 years old, clearly an addict. Her eyes were red-rimmed, with black circles scooped out beneath, her pupils dilated, her body shaking as she sat alone in the corner.

‘You OK?’ I asked gently and sat beside her.

‘Am I fuck? I need ma medication an’ the cunts won’t give me it,’ she mumbled. As she drew her legs up to her chin, a strong, suffocating stench of urine and sperm came belting off her and hit me straight in the face. I turned away to hold my breath and try to stem a retch that threatened to overwhelm me.
I need to get out of here
, was all I could think. The other women sat swapping backgrounds and sneered at me as I made small talk with the smelly addict.

‘Janey Storrie!’ a policeman holding a clipboard shouted in my general direction.

‘Yes!’ I stood up quickly, my heart thumping loud. Was this me finally going upstairs to court to plead not guilty? Or was I going straight to prison on remand?

‘Possession of 11 handguns, 14 shotguns, one automatic rifle, 376 rounds of ammunition and an electric stun gun … Is that you?’ he asked. As he spoke, his fat chin wobbled. ‘Is that you, eh?’

‘Aye, that’s me – Janey Storrie,’ I answered.

I looked around. All the women just gawped at me.

‘Fucksake!’ one of them said. ‘An’ she sat there like Mrs Posh Arse!’

‘You’re free to go,’ the policeman said as he pulled out a big bunch of keys and started to unlock the door. My heart jumped into my mouth. I felt vomit and bile rise up my throat as I stood there and almost leapt to the door.

‘How the fuck is she free to go?’ the red-eyed addict complained. ‘I only hud three jellies and some coke! I didnae huv any fucking guns an’ I’m still stuck in here. That’s shite!’

I ran to Mr Bovey, who stood at the end of the big oak ‘bar’ under the court. The place was a whirl of activity: policemen and policewomen and detectives and white-wigged, black-cloaked court officials all dashing around. I was so glad to be leaving, I held onto Mr Bovey’s arm tight, terrified I might be taken back again.

‘All of you are free,’ he told me. ‘They dare not prosecute.’

Sean came walking towards me, wrapped his arms around me and kissed my hair. He smelled of damp greasy pies and tobacco smoke.

‘We can go home,’ he whispered. ‘I am so sorry, Janey.’

We were driven back to Toad Hall in a taxi. Ashley was waiting there with Patsy Paton and Young George.

‘Mummy, are you OK … Daddy!’ She ran to him and kissed him as he knelt down to let her hug him.

I tried to answer all the questions that tumbled out of her wee mouth, but it was too much for me. ‘Baby, I need to have a bath. As soon as I get out, I will tell you everything … And you’re OK, eh?’ I hugged her tight as I spoke. ‘Tell me you’re OK? Did Whisky the cat miss me?’