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against Scotland or my penis, in fact I’m very fond of both of them, but the truth is I have been playing to the religious crowd and I’ve been caught, literally, with my pants down. It’s over, Margaret. I’m finished. I won’t even get
panto
when this shit comes out.”
    “What about forgiveness, those Americans do it all the time. We’ll do a documentary piece, you cry, you say you were abused as a child—”
    “I was not abused as a child!”
    “Oh, come on, play the game.”
    But Fraser was right and Margaret knew it. She also knew that, if she played it smart, there would be cash and prizes for her before he finally sank beneath the surface.
    She’d have him on talk shows, an exclusive with as many tabloids as will pay, maybe even a book.
    When the time came, Margaret could even sell her story to the tabloids, getting yet another bite at Fraser’s big cash cherry. This might go national, yes, why not? If it was a light news day on Monday, as it usually is, then the English tabloids might pick it up.
    Shit, of course they would pick it up, it has everything—naughty sex, religion, TV, and laughing at foreigners, the stuff English newspapers are made of.
    Margaret felt the back of her neck tingle.
    This could be her ticket to London.
    Oh my God.
    Much later, when he lost his sight, Fraser thought how odd it was that Margaret never at any point asked if the allegations against him were true or not.
    Tracy Flood had never slept with Fraser but she wanked him off one Christmas. It was back at the
Evening Times
when he was on the sports desk and she was Big Bruce Patterson’s assistant. She’d been drunk, of course, everyone at the
Evening Times
was drunk all year. The Christmas party just meant they were slightly more drunk with paper hats on. Fraser had put his arm around her in the Press Bar, had called her doll and said that Big Bruce couldn’t find his fucking jacket without her doing it for him.
    He had talked her up in front of the nasty wee damp men of Scottish journalism as they stood in their coven in front of the bar clutching their lagers and whiskies (always two drinks—one for each face). He even stood up for her when Jack Trampas, a ridiculous old buffoon who wore a trilby and wrote a restaurant column in the style of Raymond Chandler, suggested that she was shagging Big Bruce and that’s why she’d become the editor’s assistant.
    She’d been grateful, not grateful enough to blow him or fuck him, but she’d performed a perfectly adequate hand shandy in the back of a mini-cab and the deal seemed fine with Fraser, who had then stumbled off into the night, leaving her to pay her own fare home.
    She held no grudge, this wasn’t personal. It was nothing to do with back then. The only thing she had against Fraser was his success. He was ripe for cutting. That was her job. She filed her copy. She knew it would get page one.
    THE LORD’S LAYER!
Horny Holyman in Sexy Backstage Rites
    Exclusive by Tracy Flood
    TV cleric Fraser Darby has been revealed as a sex-mad pervert by former Scottish Television makeup lady Julie McGrade. Julie, who worked at Scottish Television for five years before leaving last week due to personal problems, says the randy reverend forced his attentions on her and many of the other employees he worked with.
Animal
    “He’s an animal!” said Julie. “He liked me to pleasure him orally before he did his programme. As I was doing it, he liked me to hum Psalm twenty-three, ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd.’ He said it put him in the mood for God. At first I thought he wanted a relationship, but I realize now he was just using me for sex.”
Endowed
    According to Julie, the pervy priest, who is NOT EVEN a real clergyman, is endowed with more than a gift for gab. “When I first saw his manhood, I was afraid. It was so big, but he just laughed and told me the Lord would protect me. He is obviously a very sick man, but I still hope that we can work things out and maybe one day