Run Johnboy Run: The Glasgow Chronicles 2 (15 page)

  “Why did ye no gie me a shout tae join ye, Baby, ya fat basturt?” Patsy whined.

  “Minky’s big brother, Shuggie, telt him that if he ever came near Silent or any ae us again, they’d burn this fucking place doon, roond aboot they ears ae his, wae everything and everybody in it,” Paul said tae Johnboy later.

  Oan the way up tae the dorm that night, Johnboy asked Silent why he’d never come across him in the Toonheid.

  “Naw, Ah’m no fae the same Toonheid as youse aw ur.  Ah’m fae Toonheid oot in Kirkintilloch.”

  The next morning, Johnboy noticed that the ugly fae the Memel Toi made up his ain bed.

Chapter Seventeen

  “Tell me ye’re hivving me oan?” Tom Bryce, the sub-editor growled.

  “That’s whit she said.  She wants a photographer and a journalist up at John Street tae cover some warrant sale demo oan Thursday or she’s no playing,” The Rat confirmed.

  “So ye telt her where tae jump, Ah take it?”

  “Well, no exactly.”

  “Whit dae ye mean, no exactly, exactly?”

  “Ah mean, Ah’m stringing her alang jist noo.  Ah’m developing a working relationship wae her…if ye know whit Ah mean?”

  “Sammy, Ah’ve no goat a bloody clue whit ye’re oan aboot.  Whit dae ye mean ye’re stringing her alang?”

  “It means, everything Ah’ve heard aboot the cow isnae true.  She’s bloody worse…ten times worse.”

  “So, she’s asking us tae consider putting a photo ae her and they hyena pals ae hers intae the paper, as well as daeing a story oan them?” The Sub laughed, shaking his heid in wonder.

  “Naw, naw, they don’t want a story aboot them.”

  “Well, thank Christ fur that.  Ye hid me worried fur a minute there.  So, whit dis she want?”

  “She wants a story aboot warrant sales.”

  “Sammy, tell me ye’re hivving me oan?” he groaned.

  “Nae photo and article means nae info oan the wee innocent boy that goat toasted.”

  “Ur ye trying tae tell me that efter Ah went upstairs and convinced everywan in that meeting that we wur beavering away oan a sensational undercover story that wis gonnae blow the city wide open, we’re goosed because ae some mad wummin up there in the Toonheid.”

  “Tom, believe you me, she’s smart as fuck, that wan, and sly tae boot.  Ye know whit these working class dolls ur like when they get an idea intae their heids.  Aw oot fur themsels, withoot any regard fur others, jist tae get a leg up in the world.”

  “Sammy, don’t bloody lecture me aboot the working class.  Keep in mind, Ah come fae Bishopbriggs masel.  Okay, it wisnae a Corporation hoose, bit Ah wis brought up the hard way and worked ma way up through school tae get where Ah am the day.  Ah don’t hiv a problem wae somewan wanting tae better themsels.  That’s why Ah stood as a Conservative candidate at the last election, tae show people whit they could achieve if they worked hard enough.”

  “Bit Ah thought this wis a Labour paper?”

  “It is.”

  “Oh, right, er, well…”

  “Anyway, Ah hope ye telt her that whit she wants is a total non-starter.  Who the hell is interested in warrant sales, fur Christ’s sake?  They’ve been roond since Adam wis a snapper.  It’s aw part ae oor culture.”

  “She’s no gonnae budge, and withoot her, oor story is a non-story.”

  “At least she’s no hitting us fur dosh.”

  “Well, Ah wis gonnae bring that up.”

  “Whit?”

  “Ah’ll need some mair expenses.”

  “Ye goat forty quid oan Monday.  Whit the hell dae ye need mair expenses fur?”

  “Ah hid tae haun o’er thirty big wans.”

  “Even before ye said ye’d consider her offer?”

  “That’s whit it cost me jist tae get tae sit doon in that flea-infested pit ae hers that she calls hame.”

  “Right, get in touch wae Slipper and tell him that Ah want wan wee unobtrusive photo ae that demo taken fur Friday’s edition.  We kin put it oan page thirty seven beside the Green Fingers section.”

  “Who’ve ye goat tae cover the story then?” The Rat asked him, taking the seat he wisnae offered and sat doon.

  “You!”

  “Me?  Bit Ah’m yer tap investigative journalist, so Ah am.”

  “Aye, well, so this’ll be a doddle fur ye then, won’t it?”

Chapter Eighteen

  “So where the hell ur they then, Helen?” Betty asked fur the umpteenth time.  “Aw the lassies won’t be too happy if this wee ratty wan gies them aw a dizzy efter hivving put oan their best glad-rags.”

  “Listen, Betty, we won’t need a photo in the papers tae scare people aff.  They painted faces will dae it fur us.  The last time Ah saw faces like that wis when me and ma Jimmy wur at the shows doon oan Glesga Green, throwing baws at the coconuts sitting oan tap ae the laughing heids.”

  “Aye, maybe somewan should tell them that they should only go oot at night, when it’s dark, looking like that, eh?” Betty cackled.

  “Hoi, Ah heard that crack, ya cheeky basturt, ye, so Ah did,” shouted o’er Marilyn Monroe, who wis staunin beside Jayne Mansfield and Sandra Dee, aw waving their placards aboot ootside number sixty eight John Street.

  Where wur the polis?  It wisnae like them no tae turn up, Helen thought nervously fur the umpteenth time.  Something wisnae quite right, bit she jist couldnae put her finger oan it.  It hid taken some bit ae planning tae get organised fur the demo.  It hid been the news that there wis gonnae be a photographer and a reporter there that hid increased the turnoot and hid swung it in the end.  She’d goat a meeting thegither wae aw the lasses and wae wee Madge, whose sale it wis.  They’d aw agreed unanimously that they’d use the twenty five pounds, four and fourpence fae the money that they’d scammed aff ae Speedy Gonzales tae pay aff Madge’s ootstauning arrears.  Carol Martin hid kept her boy, Bobby, aff school fur the day, ready tae nip doon tae the Sheriff Officers’ offices doon oan Bath Street tae pay aff the arrears at quarter tae ten oan the dot.  It wis noo hauf ten and the sheriff officers wur awready up the stair, alang wae aboot hauf a dozen leeches who’d turned up fur the sale.  Every time anywan heard a car coming up John Street, aw their heids turned, expecting tae see somewan who resembled a giant rat wae a photographer in tow.

Chapter Nineteen

  “Noo, listen up, boys, make sure ye get the Taylor bitch first.  She’s the number wan priority.  Efter that, jist grab anything ye kin lay yer hauns oan,” The Sarge informed them, looking roond the circle.  

  “Ur we lifting them aw?” asked Crisscross.

  “Wance we nab the patron saint ae warrant sales, then it’s a free for aw.  Don’t fuck aboot wae them noo.  Fight violence wae violence.  We need tae show these hags wance and fur aw that we own the streets and the good people ae the Toonheid ur no gonnae put up wae their shite any mair.”

  “Is ten ae us gonnae be enough?” Jobby wondered.

  “Fur Christ’s sake, ye’re no scared ae a bunch ae wee hairy wummin, ur ye?” Skanky Smith laughed, rusty-red wire-hair spilling oot fae under his hat like a burst horsehair mattress.

  Skanky hid been pulled in fae o’er in Possil tae gie the Toonheid boys an extra pair ae hauns.

  “Skanky, whit ye might class as a wummin up there in sunny Possil is probably way, way different fae whit we’re used tae running aboot doon here in the wilds ae the Toonheid.  When we speak aboot them being wummin, it’s because we’ve managed, through diligent forensic research, tae establish that they hivnae forged their birth certificates and that, despite disbelief in some quarters, they ur indeed whit ye wid loosely call wummin.  Some ae they harlots might jist be four feet four high and weigh in roond aboot the twenty stane mark, bit believe you me, some ae them kin pack a punch when they’re rattled,” The Sarge cautioned.

  “Aye, ye’ll need tae use aw yer self-defence training the day, boys,” Big Jim grimly added.  

  “Don’t fuck aboot noo.  Jist hit first and ask questions later.  They wullnae be taking any prisoners and nor will we,” The Sarge reminded them again.

  “Right, Jim, ye’re driving the Black Maria.  Ah’ll take the squad car.  Three ae youse, come wae me and the other five, get intae the back wae Jim.  We need tae get up there and oot as quickly as we kin, before they’ve time tae work oot whit’s happening.  Surprise is the key here,” Colin said, heiding fur the door.

Chapter Twenty

  “Hellorerr, Ah’m here tae pay ma maw’s bill.”

  “Whit’s her name, son?”

  “Madge Morrison.”

  “Address?”

  “Sixty eight John Street, Toonheid.”

  “It says here that Mrs Morrison is seventy three.  Whit age ur ye, son?”

  “Eleven.”

  “So yer maw wis sixty two when she hid ye, wis she?”

  “Aye, it jist shows ye, eh?”

  “Aye, it must be interesting living in a single-end, eh?”

  “Aye, ye’ve nae idea whit Ah hiv tae put up wae, Missus.”

  “So, how much dis she owe?”

  “Twenty five pound, four and fourpence and Ah’ve goat it aw here,” Bobby said, trying tae haun it o’er.

  “Aye, well, ye jist take a seat o’er there, son, and somewan will be oot tae take the money aff ae ye in a minute.”

  “Bit, ma maw says Ah hiv tae pay it before ten o’clock.”

  “Aye, Ah’m sure she did.”

  “Ah’ve goat the money, so who dae Ah haun it o’er tae?”

  “Jist grab a seat and somewan will be wae ye in a minute.”

Chapter Twenty One

  “Hellorerr, hen, Ah’ve goat an appointment wae Sir Frank Owen.”

  “Kin Ah hiv yer name, sir?”

  “Tom Bryce.  Ah’m wan ae the sub editors fae The Glesga Echo.”

  “Wan moment, sir.  If ye’d like tae take a seat, Ah’ll jist find oot if he’s available,” the wee slinky receptionist purred, picking up the phone wae they slinky fingers ae hers. 

  Tom wis nervous.  He’d never met Sir Frank Owen before…the owner ae The Glesga Echo and a legend in his ain time.  Depending oan who ye asked, determined whit answer ye goat back.  Some said he wis a right basturt, while others stated that he wis worse than a right basturt.  Tom hid jist arrived hame when Ingrid hid taken the call.  He hidnae hid time tae come tae the phone as he’d been sitting relaxing oan the cludgie, setting aboot scooping oot the dirt fae under they fingernails ae his using the thick bit ae nail that he’d peeled aff ae his thumb wae his teeth two seconds earlier.  It hid been ideal fur the job.  It wis pointed at each end and hid a nice wee curve oan it that hid allowed him tae scoop the dirt oot back tae the quick.  He’d heard the phone in the distance.  It hid rang fur aboot five rings and jist when he’d been aboot tae snib whit he wis daeing in the bud, he’d heard her pick it up.  He’d strained tae hear whit she wis saying.

  “Ah kin jist go and get him the noo, sir.  Well, he’s sitting oan the cludgie, bit Ah’m sure he’ll be fine tae come tae the phone if ye’ll only gie him a minute.  Aye, okay, Ah’ll tell him when he re-appears.  Thank ye fur calling, sir.  Aye, and the same tae yersel, sir.  Ah will.  Bye, sir.”

  It couldnae hiv been anywan important or she’d hiv shouted up tae him, Tom hid thought tae himsel, gieing his pouting arsehole another wee squeeze, while taking a stab at the dirt under his left pinkie nail wae his bit ae curved thumbnail.

  He walked across tae the plush couch and sat doon before looking aboot.  The reception wis quite plush…no ‘fancy hoose’ plush, bit ‘casino’ plush, as ye’d expect it tae be. He’d never darkened the door ae a casino before.  He’d walked past The Chevalier lots ae times, bit hid never felt the urge tae find oot whit went oan behind the uniformed doorman and the glass fronted doors.  He couldnae afford tae oan whit he wis taking hame.

  “Mr Bryce?”

  “Aye?”

  “Please follow me,” the wee sister ae Miss Slinky, who wis still perched behind the reception desk said, as he followed her up the stairs, hivving a wee check ae that Penny Dainty-chewing arse ae hers as she mounted the stairs wan at a time. 

  At a door at the tap, she turned, smiled and asked him jist tae go right in.

  “Tom, Tom, glad to meet you at last,” Sir Frank Owen called oot, avoiding the haun that hid been proffered oot tae him.  “Take a seat, please.”

  “Ah’m sorry if Ah’m a wee bit late, Sir Frank.  Ah goat caught up,” he said, noting the presence ae the paper’s editor, Hamish McGovern.

  Hamish wis sitting silently, no acknowledging his entrance, oan a wee two-seater sofa in the seating circle.

  “Yes, so your dear wife said.”

  “Oh, no, it’s no wae whit ye’re thinking, sir, it wis wae the traffic,” he blurted oot, feeling they cheeks ae his burning.

  “Yes, well, you’re here now.”

  “Aye, well, here Ah am, eh?”

  “Right, please tell me what’s being going on up in the Townhead.  Don’t leave anything out,” Sir Frank said pleasantly, sitting doon and crossing they pin-stripe-suited legs ae his.

  “Er, the Toonheid, sir?”

  “You know...the young street urchin that managed to get himself cremated in a pigeon dovecot?”

  “Oh, that?  Well, there isnae much tae tell ye, sir,” he replied, running through the events ae the past few weeks, as hid been relayed tae him by The Rat.

  “So, what do you think then?  Is there any truth in the rumours?”

  “Ah think there’s a story that we kin get some mileage oot ae, bit Ah cannae see the local polis intentionally trying tae dae away wae a bunch ae wee toe-rags, despite the break-ins they’ve been committing aw o’er the place,” Tom said, wondering whit the fuck wis gaun oan.

  “Hmm...”

  “Don’t get me wrang, sir, bit why wid somewan like yersel be sitting here asking me aboot this kind ae stuff?” he asked, gulping.

  “And where are the mothers of this little group of innocents in all of this?  What about the one that seems to be the leader?  What’s her game then?” Sir Frank asked, ignoring Tom’s question.

  “According tae Sammy Elliot, she’s the wan that kin get us access tae people who could verify and corroborate the rumours ae whit his been supposedly happening between the local pavement pounders and the gang ae wee toe-rags who’re at the centre ae oor investigation.”

  “And the problem?”

  “The problem is, er, she demanded free publicity tae highlight her warrant sales campaign.  Ah’ve...er, tried no tae let her gie us a using by slinging a few wee crumbs her way, if ye know whit Ah mean?”

  He heard the door behind him open. He knew it wis Slinky Arse as he caught a wee whiff ae her perfume.  He wis jist conjuring up the picture ae that Penny Dainty arse-wiggle in that heid ae his, when Sir Frank goat up and walked o’er tae a desk and returned tae shatter Tom’s peace by throwing doon a copy ae The Evening Times and The Evening Citizen oan tae the coffee table.

  “Thank you, Venice,” Sir Frank said politely, as Slinky Arse haunded him an early edition ae the next morning’s Glesga Echo. 

  Sir Frank slowly started tae thumb through it, wan page at a time.  Tom, fur the first time in his working life, hidnae seen the evening papers ae the opposition before he’d left fur hame earlier that evening.  It wis a golden rule that he’d never broken, until that night.  He glanced doon at the screaming heidlines lying there oan the coffee table.  Even though he wis reading them upside doon, he still managed tae get the message loud and clear.

“Battle Ae John Street,” screamed The Evening Citizen.

“Warrant Sale Riot,” The Evening Times subtly proclaimed.

  He felt a wee twitch, as his sphincter muscle expanded like a well-worn elastic band.  He could tell that Sir Frank still hid a wee bit tae go before he reached the Green Finger section.  He glanced o’er at Hamish, bit couldnae make any eye contact.  He didnae smoke, bit could’ve been daeing wae a drag ae a Capstan full strength as he felt the sweat dribble doon between the cheeks ae his arse, waiting, watching.

  “I don’t want to sound confused, but did you not just say that we had a photographer and a journalist on John Street today, Hamish?”

  “Er, Ah think ye’ll find whit ye’re looking fur oan page thirty seven, jist at the side ae the Green Fingers section, sir,” The sub heard himsel say before Hamish could reply.

   Fuck, fuckity fuck, he howled tae himsel.  He knew whit Sir Frank wis gonnae find. When Slipper hid come back wae his photos, Tom hidnae even looked at them.

  “Whit hiv ye goat?” he’d asked.

  “A bus and a van that collided up oan the High Street, Fraser’s new lingerie department make-o’er and the warrant sale wummin up in John Street.”

  “Right, we’ll use the three ae them,” he’d said withoot looking up.

  “Ah’ve goat some crackers ae the warrant sale that wid look good, especially the shots Ah took efter the local militia arrived.”

  “Hiv ye goat any wae the wummin loitering aboot ootside the closemooth?”

  “Aye.”

  “That’s the wan we’ll go wae.”

  “Ur ye sure?” Slipper hid asked, looking and sounding surprised.

  “That’s the wan,” he’d said wae finality.

  “Aha!” Sir Frank said, peering doon at the article oan page thirty seven, before reading oot loud.  “A group of women protested outside a tenement closemouth at sixty eight John Street, Townhead, earlier yesterday during the sale of the household furniture of Mrs Madge Morrison.  Mrs Morrison, aged seventy three, owed Glasgow Corporation’s housing department twenty five pounds, four shillings and fourpence in rent arrears.  Demonstrators said that Mrs Morrison, who suffers from rheumatoid arthritis, fell into debt after having to dry out her house as a result of a burst pipe last winter.  Mrs Helen Taylor, another Corporation tenant and near neighbour, said that Mrs Morrison had no close relatives to help her out and that the fault lay with The Corporation, who had refused to take any responsibility for the damage caused by the burst pipe.  A Corporation spokesman said they could not comment on the matter.  Mrs Taylor said that she, along with other local tenants had been protesting against warrant sales in the area for a number of years now and that The Corporation had not seen the last of them.  It is believed that further demonstrations are planned over the coming weeks and months.  ‘We’ll be back’ promised Mrs Taylor.  I see there’s a photograph as well,” Sir Frank said, peering at the wee photo ae a group ae smiling wummin.

  “Aye, as ye kin see, that’s the early morning edition which will go oot the night fur the local pubs,” The Sub volunteered lamely.

  “So, while our two main rivals have screaming headlines depicting a riot, we’re going with a nice little photograph of a group of badly made-up women on page thirty seven?”

  “Aye, well, Ah did say that this wis the early edition.  Obviously, there’s still time tae upgrade the story fur the morra morning, sir.”

  “So, where are the women now, Hamish?” Sir Frank asked The Editor.

  “They’re aw in the jail, Ah believe, Sir Frank.”

  “Including this Taylor one?”

  “Aye, as far as Ah know.”

  “Tom, Hamish informs me that you don’t think that there’s a real story behind what happened to this boy.  Would that be correct?”

  “Er, aye, Sir Frank.”

  “So, if I was to inform you that a key player, a close stakeholder, who stood to lose everything, who shall remain anonymous, had approached me to back off on this arson story involving his officers, what would your advice be?” Sir Frank asked him pleasantly, as The Sub felt that elastic sphincter band ae his snap. 

  “If Ah’m honest, it wid ring alarms bells that there wis maybe something gaun oan, efter aw,” he croaked, trying desperately no tae shite himsel while sitting oan Sir Frank’s nice red velvet-covered chair. 

  He knew his job wis oan the line.

  “Yes, that’s what I was thinking.  What do you think, Hamish?”

  “There could very well be a cover-up oan the go, although he did say the reason wis tae gie them a bit mair time tae investigate whether there wis any rogue elements taking the law intae their ain hauns.  It makes sense...oan the face ae it.”

  “Hmm…it seems to me that there just might be more to this than what we have been led to believe.  Do you think that it’s worth exploring further by trying to find out what’s going on…in the public interest, of course,” Sir Frank said, turning tae The Sub.  “How far along are we on this story and who else suspects that there’s perhaps more to this than meets the eye?”

  “As Ah said tae Hamish earlier the day, sir, we think the maws ae the boys involved, and in particular this Taylor wan, are the key tae this.  We don’t think anywan else his picked up oan the conspiracy angle other than masel,” he said, managing tae slip in the wee ‘Ah’m indispensable’ morsel at the end.

  “Does it not strike you as a little bit of a coincidence, at this particular moment in time, that the one person who could maybe lift the lid on this, has suddenly been arrested and put out of harm’s way by our friends in the local constabulary? Hamish?”

  “If Ah wis the suspicious type, Ah’d probably smell a rat in there somewhere,” Hamish said, smiling, as he looked o’er at Tom.

  “So, what happens next?” Sir Frank asked Hamish.

  “They’ll appear up in court in the morning and probably get jailed or fined fur assaulting the polis and causing a riot.”

  “Is there anything we can do in the meantime?”

  “No really,” Hamish The Editor said, looking at his wristwatch. “Ah don’t think we should be seen tae be getting involved.  We widnae want tae expose any interest we might hiv tae that Irish Brigade doon in Central.  Ah agree we need tae follow through and keep wan step aheid ae the competition.  Ah also think at some stage in the future she might require some legal advice and protection though.  If Sean Smith thinks the cat’s oot ae the bag, they’ll no let this stoap here.”

  “And we’ve definitely got this Taylor woman on side, Tom?” Sir Frank asked.

  “Aye, she’s a bit demanding, bit we’ve goat an agreement…in principle,” The Sub replied, feeling his sphincter settling back intae place, still intact, bit wae minor stretch marks.

  “Right, if she’s ours, we’ll need to ensure we protect our investment without the competition being alerted.  Let’s hope she’s capable of defending herself, although we may have to intervene surreptitiously, depending on what happens at court tomorrow morning.  I’ll leave that part in your capable hands, Tom.  Don’t let me down, now.  Let’s run with the pack on this one, but make sure we’re out in front.  Keep me informed through Hamish…alright?” Sir Frank said, picking up the copy ae The Evening Times fae the coffee table.

  The door opened jist as Tom reached it.  Miss Dainty Bar Arse let him pass in front ae her this time as she escorted him doon the stairs tae the door that led oot oan tae Buchanan Street.