Back Scabby Queen
Chapters (43)
  1. Cover
  2. SCABBY QUEEN
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. SOME PEOPLE
  6. Q Magazine, June 1990
  7. RUTH
  8. Clio Campbell
  9. NEIL
  10. DONALD
  11. Guardian Weekend magazine, August 2010
  12. SAMMI
  13. SIMON
  14. NEIL
  15. Daily Mail, October 2016
  16. HAMZA
  17. XANTHE
  18. DONALD
  19. Q Magazine, September 2007
  20. RUTH
  21. DANNY
  22. SAMMI
  23. NEIL
  24. BBC Radio Scotland, 24 January 2018
  25. DONALD
  26. MALCOLM
  27. SAMMI
  28. Loaded, February 1996
  29. SHIV
  30. IDA
  31. Scotland on Sunday, September 2013
  32. DONALD
  33. HAMZA
  34. SAMMI
  35. ADELE
  36. NEIL
  37. The Pool, February 2018
  38. RUTH
  39. DONALD
  40. EILEEN
  41. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  42. About the Author
  43. About the Publisher

Having illustrated her point, Clio carried on. ‘I mean, this is what we’re really going to get him on. It was rape. He raped this woman when she was nineteen bloody years old – he raped me, Xanthe; also you I think, Fran? Did any of us consent to having sex with a man called Michael Carrington? With a police officer? No, we did not. He got Sammi pregnant, and he fucked off. Back to where? The Home Counties and the expensive-looking Tory wife I saw him with at that Burns Night party? Listen, he clocked me from the stage. I’d thought it was him when I came in, but we were seated at different ends of the hall. I got my pal to take a picture because I didn’t want him to see me just in case there was something dodgy going on – didn’t even realize at the time he was police, did I? I just thought, oh, that’ll be Mark, wonder what the hell happened to him. But then I was announced and got up on the stage and he jumped straight out his bloody seat, I’ll tell you. He avoided my eye during my set, kept his head right down, and then him and the blonde had slipped out while I was getting the guitar unplugged. That’s when I asked the organizer, oh, who was that. Detective Inspector Michael Carrington, says she. The Met. He buys a table every year. He was taken unwell, I think. Unwell my fucking arse. You weren’t there. It was him. If I wasn’t sure when I saw him, I reckon his behaviour confirms it. That’s not an innocent man there, is it? I was a last-minute cover for a friend who’d dropped out. If he’d known I was on the bill, he wouldn’t have bought that fucking table, I’ll tell you that.’

It was funny how separate from it all Sam felt. Inside her the boy kicked and spun, secure in his paternity, and his mother wondered whether Mark had been married at the time he was fucking her and fathering Debbie. How would that wife feel? Would she just write it off as work? Not really him? At what point did the policeman stop? When he put his cock in? Whose was the sperm that had fathered her child? Was that erection, that constant need to get her knickers off, all part of the performance?