When carwash employee Davey Burnet takes the wrong customer’s motor for a ride, he sets off a series of events that leads him and his carwash into Glasgow’s criminal underworld. Will he make it out with his kneecaps intact? And will the unpopular DCI Alison “Ally” McCoist be able to help? Squeaky Clean, the debut novel by Callum McSorley, is a pitch-black crime fiction comedy in the mould of Christopher Brookmyre and Frankie Boyle’s Meanwhile. In this exclusive extract, an early morning customer arrives at the carwash with a service request that will change the lives of everyone involved.

Squeaky Clean
By Callum McSorley
Published by Pushkin Press

He was waiting outside the closed shutter at 7 a.m., a Mr Big type: shirt open down to his freezing nips revealing a heavy gold chain nestled in greying chest hair, fag resting between the sovvy rings on his thick fingers, tailored jeans and pointed black shoes, both expensive and dated, the dress of the middle-aged working class gone wealthy. Behind him, a gunmetal Range Rover, engine idling, exhaust smoke fogging the early morning air. Its vanity plate read: V1P MCG. 

“We’re no open yet,” Sean said, taking the padlock keys out of his pocket as he arrived at the car wash. Sean was the owner, a wiry and shrivelling forty-year-old with skin like tanned cow-hide, who spent most of his time during winter in the office chaining joints and watching Russia Today. In summer, he took a folding chair out front and sunbathed while the boys worked. 

“A know,” the man said. “Sorry fir turnin up so early, pal, it’s just am in a bit ae trouble here.” He took a fast, hard draw on his cigarette. 

Sean snuck a look past the guy’s shoulder. The headlights were blinding but Sean couldn’t make out any damage on the four-by-four’s bumper, and it didn’t look particularly mockit either. “It’s a big motor, it’ll cost ye twenty just fir a wash.” Overpricing was a method Sean often used when he wanted a customer to get to fuck. 

“Actually am lookin fir a valet an aw. The full hing. Seats shampooed and windies polished. The lot.” 

“Ye want the seats cleaned?” 

“Aye, how much will that cost?” 

Sean laughed, a broken-throated, cackling honk. “At seven in the mornin? Fifty quid, easy.” 

The guy sucked the fag down to the filter and tossed it onto the road. “Sure hing, pal.” 

Fucksake. Sean wasn’t one to hide his thoughts from his facial expressions. His hard-living eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, rolled in disgust. “Look, the boays will be in at half past, can ye wait that lang?” 

“Ye goat a kettle in there?” He pointed at the shutter. 

Fuck. “Aye, moan in.” 

The guy’s name was Paul McGuinn and you might have heard of him. At least, that’s what he seemed to think. “Call me Paulo. Am fae Brigton, originally,” he said, meaning that although he didn’t live there any more his roots were still in the east end, meaning he was one of the lads, not some posh cunt like his car might indicate. He was rich the way a footballer was rich, not rich the way a Tory was rich. That’s the impression he wanted to give anyway. “Yersel?” 

“Possilpark.” 

“At least ye didnae say Easterhoose. Fuckin blacknecks!” He laughed and Sean returned a grimace. Up close in the cramped, gyprock office Sean had built at the back of the unit—it had no desk or filing cabinet but did have a couch, television, fridge, kettle, microwave and George Foreman grill—Sean could smell Paulo’s aftershave and a hint of BO underneath. In the harsh light of a bare lightbulb, he could see sweat stains on Paulo’s white shirt, seeping from under his arms and spreading out from the small of his back. Hair gel was slowly being washed down his forehead and onto his red face. “Here, can a smell grass?” 

Of course he could: Sean puffed through five or six joints a shift. The earthy stink of weed had soaked into the couch cushions and the carpet (a patchwork of car mats) and seeped into the plasterboard walls like damp. 

“Mind if ye roll wan up while we wait? Been oan the gear aw night an I could dae wae chillin oot a bit.” He tapped his nose when he said “gear” and winked. 

Sean sighed. “Let us put the kettle oan first.” 

Squeaky Clean by Callum McSorley is published by Pushkin Press, priced £16.99.