The Wummin: The Glasgow Chronicles 5 (23 page)

  “Ach, never mind...there’s always another day, eh?” fourteen-year-auld Tony Gucci hid sneered at him.

  “That’s me finished, son,” an auld wummin, dressed fae heid tae toe in black said tae him, walking away fae the confession box towards the exit.

  “Aw, right, cheers, hen,” The Stalker replied, blinking and looking aboot, slightly confused, as he tried tae remember where he wis.

  His eyes followed the auld wummin as she disappeared oot ae the front door ae the chapel tae the sound ae horns honking and buses driving past, oot oan Saracen Street.

  “Er, I haven’t got all day, you know, Paddy,” Father John said, sticking his heid oot ae his side ae the confessional booth.

  “Furgive me father fur Ah hiv sinne…” The Stalker hid jist started saying tae the screen in front ae him, when he wis interrupted.

  “Look, never mind that just now, Paddy.  I believe Superintendent Jackson has had a wee word in your ear?”

  “Er, aboot whit?” The Stalker asked, astonished, and no believing fur wan minute that Father John wid be hitting him fur information.

  “About getting the gen on you know who?”

  “Who?”

  “Taylor...Helen Taylor...The Townhead Tart.”

  “Oh, er, like, whit it is it ye’re efter, Father?”

  “Dirt.”

  “Eh?”

  “You heard.”

  “Ye want dirt?  Whit kind ae dirt?”

  “Intel.”

  “Father, ye’re speaking a different language fae me, so ye ur.  Ah don’t want tae appear as being thick, bit could ye be a bit mair, er, specific, like?”

  “I want everything you’ve got on that shameless hussy,” the lilting, Southern Irish voice rasped, fae behind the screen.

  “Well, Ah kin tell ye right aff the tap ae ma heid, that despite whit other people might’ve led ye tae believe, she hisnae goat aw that much form.  Apart fae a few fines fur no sending her boys tae school when they wur snappers and a few breach ae the peace arrests during warrant sale demos o’er the years, which landed her a stint oan remand, which she wis eventually found not guilty ae, that’s aboot it.”

  “Ach, sure and I know all that, Paddy.  What I want is the intelligence reports...the ones that have been written up about her and her carry-ons, going back the last twenty years.”

  “Ye’re talking tae the wrang man here, Father.  Aw that kind ae shite gets kept under lock and key doon in Central.  Daddy Jackson is yer man if ye want that kind ae stuff, so he is.”

  Silence.

  “Er, ur ye still there, Father?” The Stalker whispered at the screen, no too sure if the priest hid done a runner oan him.

  “I’m still here, Paddy.  Now, listen up, I don’t have all day.  Daddy just can’t stroll in and gain access to that file because he has no reason to.  He would have to sign his name in a register against wanting access to it.  For you, as the local investigating officer and inspector up here in Springburn, it’s different.  No one would question your legitimacy later on if it ever came up, now would they… my son?”

  “Investigating officer?  Fur whit?  She hisnae done anything wrang, as far as Ah kin see?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Paddy!  Make something up…you’re a policeman after all,” the priest hissed.

  “Look, Ah’m no trying tae be funny or awkward here, Father, bit dae ye no think this is aw kinda, er, strange…you being a priest and aw that… if ye know whit Ah mean?”

  “What is?”

  “Y’know, aw this behind closed doors kinda thing.”

  “All what?”

  “Aw this subterfuge or whitever they call it.  You, me, us, whispering in here in the confessional and aw that.”

  “Paddy, everyone whispers in the confessional box.”

  “Well, whit Ah mean is, Ah’m no that sure God wid approve, no that Ah’m hivving a go, mind ye, bit it dis seem a wee bit, er, well, dodgy, if ye know whit Ah mean?”

   “Oh, for Christ almighty, Paddy!  I’m not here to discuss with the likes of you, the rights and wrongs of what is and what is not required.  I’m here on legitimate mother church business, under instruction by a higher authority than you or I.  Now, what I require is the intelligence requested by this Thursday at the latest.  Are you implying that it may not be available?”

  “Naw, Father, Ah wis jist asking fur clarifi…”

  “Good, then I expect to see you at this confession box at the same time on Thursday.  Now, don’t be late...God doesn’t wait for anyone,” the priest warned him.

  The Stalker heard Father John step oot ae the confession box oan the priest’s side ae the screen and his footsteps fading in the distance.

  The Stalker turned his heid and glanced up at the pained expression oan the face ae Jesus, hinging oan the crucifix, nailed tae the wall above his heid.   

  “Aye, you and me baith, pal,” he sighed, staunin up and drawing o’er the curtain. 

Chapter Forty Three

  Helen sighed, took another sip ae her tea and reached fur her fags.  Wance lit up, she crossed her legs so that her right ankle rested oan tap ae her left knee.  She peered closely at her fit, tracing her finger alang the hard-calloused edge ae her heel.  There wur two ae the angry wee bulbous craters, sitting, quite the thing, raring tae hiv a go.  She looked across at the perpetrators, a pair ae red high heels, sitting feigning innocence in the corner ae her kitchen, tucked in behind the door.  Sliding the tip ae the fag between her lips and shutting her left eye tae avoid being blinded by the spiralling blue smoke, she used the side ae baith thumbs tae prise open the thin tin ae Elastoplasts that hid been sitting oan the table beside her.  She peered at the contents, using her index finger tae poke and separate the clump ae plasters, until she spotted whit she wis looking fur.  Nae point in using two when wan wid dae, she thought tae hersel, lifting oot wan ae the two longest wans in the tin.  She swithered whether tae get a needle tae lance the blisters, bit decided that they wurnae big enough tae warrant a full frontal assault.  She remembered her Aunt Jeannie telling her when she wis a wean, limping efter her roond the streets in her new red sandals, that if they wur the size ae sultanas, then ye went fur them, taking nae prisoners oan the way, bit until then, ye jist kept an eye oan them.  In Helen’s case, she didnae need tae keep an eye oan them as the eight and a hauf stone pressing doon oan the pair ae torturers hid telt her they wur alive and kicking as she’d hobbled aboot the streets aw day.  She’d been fair chuffed wae Harry Bertram daeing her hair though.  Aw the lassies hid said she looked like Sophia Loren wae red hair.  Luckily, she’d managed tae get in there quick and get a couple ae nice ootfits fae the clubby straight efter the New Year.  She loved her red Cavalry Twill two-piece.  Jimmy hid said she looked like a cross between a Bombay moneylender and an Airdrie fitba supporter, the cheeky sod, though she could tell he wis well impressed.  Her other purchases hid included a blue dress, two white fake silk blouses, a couple ae pairs ae tights and a pair ae blue patent high heels.  She’d found the red high heels under her daughter Norma’s bed, which Norma hid obviously missed when she’d moved oot in a hurry the previous year.  She’d appreciated Norma no making a song and dance aboot them the previous weekend.  Helen hid caught Norma staring at her feet when her and Helen’s other two daughters, Isabelle and Anne, hid come hame tae gie her and aw the lassies a wee haun, haunin oot leaflets.  Buying the red ootfit tae match the high heels hid seemed like a good idea at the time.  Although it hid been cauld and dreich oot and aboot oan the streets maist days since the New Year, there hid been a wee bit ae a party atmosphere oan the go following the announcements fae the candidates who wur staunin in the by-election.  No matter where ye looked, aw the walls and the windaes ae the empty shoaps wur covered in election posters.  Supporters ae aw shapes and sizes wur oot and aboot, trying tae convince a population ae traditional non-voters like hersel tae vote fur their candidate.  Efter her wee spiel at the launch, it hid been straight doon tae business wae the wans that hid held oan tae become mair involved.  Tasks hid been dished oot tae everywan who wis willing tae lend a haun, although tensions hid started tae brew at an early stage amongst her supporters.

  “Right, Mary Flint and Elaine Hinky, Carlisle and Inverurie Street ur yer responsibility.  Betty and Issie, ye’ve goat aw the closemooths between Carlisle and Morrin Street.  Nan, take Keppochhill Road fae Millarbank Street tae Endricks Street,” Charley Mann hid jist been saying, dishing oot the tasks, when he’d been interrupted.

  “How come Ah’ve goat aw ae Keppochhill Road oan ma lonesome, eh?” Nan hid enquired tae everywan while scowling across at The Three Comrades.

  “Because ye're good, plus the exercise will clearly dae ye good...that’s why,” Charlie hid drawled sarcastically.

  “Where’s aw the men then?  That’s whit Ah want tae know,” Soiled Sally hid asked oot loud tae nowan in particular.

  “Er, ur ye blind or whit, doll?  Who dae ye think's dishing oot the tasks here?  Little Bo Effing Peep?”

  “Ah said men, no some auld toothless geriatric extras fae Dad’s Army.”

  “Oi, Ah take umbrage at that remark, ya heifer, ye,” auld Bob Henderson hid retorted, puffing oot his affronted chest.

  “Here, here, Bob,” John McGuigan hid wheezed, shaking his walking stick at Sally, before letting oot a strangled, spluttering cough.

  “Right, we’re aw supposed tae be working thegither noo.  If ye want a fight, JP and his team ur jist alang the road, stealing oor votes,” Helen hid reminded them, attempting tae get in there early, before The Battle ae The Big Horn erupted.

  “Did that wee baldy gnome jist call me a heifer?” Soiled Sally hid howled wae hurt and indignation.

  “Aye, Ah did.  Whit ur ye gonnae dae aboot it, ya soiled gusset, ye?” Bob hid interjected, using baith erms ae his chair tae help himsel up oan tae his feet, aw set fur a square-go.

  “He might be toothless, bald and ugly as sin, bit he’s a game auld tiger, Ah’ll gie him that,” Sharon Campbell hid quipped tae laughter, breaking the tension.

  “Ah wis running election campaigns when ye wur still a twinkle in the coalman’s eyes, when yer da wis oot tae work, so Ah wis, hen,” Bob hid slung in, getting guffaws fae his pals, Charlie and John.

  “Any mair cheek aff ae The Three Amigos staunin there dishing oot their orders and Ah’m aff hame, so Ah am,” Mary Flint hid threatened, getting a supportive nod fae her pal, Elaine Hinky, who’d been staunin scowling at the men-folk.

  “Comrades, comrades…and that goes fur aw youse comrade-ettes tae,” Charlie hid shouted.  “Keep the peace and the noise doon.  There’s nae need tae be getting aw personal aboot here.  We’re aw supposed tae be oan the same side, so we ur.”

  “Charlie’s right.  We have to work together and respect what each and every one of us has to offer,” Susan hid reminded them, looking at each and everywan ae them.

  “Well, tell the three stooges tae get back under their blankets.  It’s real wummin they’re dealing wae noo,” Sally hid growled, still spoiling fur a fight.

  Things hid finally settled doon...efter a fashion...and Helen hid telt Charlie tae carry oan.  Everywan present hid eventually been gied a street, wae an equal number ae closes, tae put leaflets through the doors.  Within a few seconds, everywan hid been swapping streets tae save them walking up here or there.  Helen hid seen that Charlie wisnae too happy, bit baith her and Susan hid appreciated his resignation in accepting the best-laid plans and aw that.  Naw, whit wis currently bothering Helen wis the skulduggery that wis happening oot oan the streets.  She’d been glad that she’d spoken wae Susan the night before.

  “Look, don’t worry, this is just old campaigning tactics.  If that’s all JP gets up to, then we’ll do just fine, Helen,” Susan hid responded soothingly.

  “Oh, Ah’m no bothered aboot their tactics, Susan.  Whit Ah’m bothered aboot is the reaction fae the lassies.  Issie and Sharon hiv spent the last three days putting up posters, only tae find they've either been ripped aff ae the walls within ten minutes ae gaun up or plastered o’er wae JP’s ugly mug sneering oot at them.  Sharon said they’ve gone through four bags ae flour in two days making up their paste mix.”

  “It’s an old trick.  They just have to keep going.”

  “And then there’s the carry-oan oan Springburn Road.  Anytime the lassies stoap somewan tae speak tae them, JP’s crowd ur o’er like a shot, slinging in their tuppence worth, asking why anywan wid vote fur somewan who couldnae be arsed voting in the past.  They’re challenging people and pointing oot if they themsels hid decided tae staun, dae they think fur wan minute that a non-voter like me wid get aff her lazy arse tae go oot and vote fur them?  Christine Bailey slapped Haddock Broon oan the coupon fur butting-in when she wis mid-sentence, speaking tae a couple ae potential supporters oan the corner ae Palermo Street.  That wee gnaff, Harry Paterson, started howling like an auld fishwife at passer-byes, oot daeing their shoapping, demanding tae know if they’d witnessed the assault oan Haddock.  That King Bushwhacker wan hid tae separate them by pulling Christine aff ae Haddock, bit no before she hid two haunfuls ae hair clamped between her fingers.”

  “You need to show leadership, Helen.  JP’s people are deliberately baiting us.  You have to ask the women to show restraint before someone gets badly hurt.  How is Haddock?  Is he alright?”

  “Susan, Ah’m sorry, don’t take this the wrang way, hen, bit who gies a monkeys?  If Ah’d been there, Ah wid’ve goat stuck in as well.”

  “Helen, this is very important.  Under no circumstances must you get involved.  No matter how much people love and respect you, voters will shy away in droves if you’re seen to be condoning or inciting violence.  Let’s be honest, there’s enough violence on the streets in Springburn without you adding to it.  You cannot be seen to be involved in a street brawl...in fact, you have to be visibly seen to be above all of this.”

  “Aye, Ah know ye’re right, bit Ah’m telling ye, some ae the lassies ur awready up fur marching doon tae that Journeyman’s Club fur a right battle royale, so they ur.”

  “And your job is to curb that and redirect those energies into a more positive approach.  We still have some time to go, so everyone has to stay calm, irrespective of what is being thrown at us.  What about Charlie, John and Bob?  How are they doing?” 

  “The Three Comrades?  Ach, they’re gaun at it, tit-fur-tat, so they ur...haranguing the opposition up and doon Springburn Road, morning, noon and night.  Gie them their due though, they’re pretty active and mobile fur their age.”

  “You need to reign them in.  People won’t be able to differentiate between your supporters and the opposition, if we’re seen to be as bad as them.”

  “Ah’ve tried talking tae them.  They see this as the nineteen thirties, part two.  Ah shudder tae think whit’s gaun oan in The Journeyman’s Club bar at night, wae them in amongst JP’s crowd.”

  Helen knew Susan wis right.  There wis a danger that everything wid fall aboot their ears unless the lassies showed a bit ae restraint.  The problem wis that Helen could only be in wan place at any wan time.  She’d known maist ae the wummin fur years.  They wur aw up fur it and game fur anything, as any Sheriff officer wid testify tae, bit getting them tae keep their hauns tae themsels when under attack widnae be easy.  She stood up and tested her weight oan her feet, jist as her letterbox clattered.  The plaster seemed tae be helping and jist as she made up her mind tae wear her blue patent shoes that day, a voice shouted alang her lobby.

  “Is there anywan in?  It’s me,” Soiled Sally shouted.

  “Ah’m in the kitchen, Sally.”

  “Right, plap yer cheeks doon oan tae that chair.  Better still, ye better light up while Ah put the teapot oan.  Ye’re no gonnae believe whit Ah’ve goat fur ye,” Sally said, throwing doon The Glesga Echo, before filling the teapot wae water.

  “Right, c’mone, hit me wae it.  Whit’s happened noo?” Helen eventually asked her, hivving skipped through the paper and found nothing.

  Sally lit up a fag and stirred her tea furiously.

  “Ah’m telling ye, Helen, if Ah ever clap eyes oan that wee parasite ever again, Ah swear, Ah’ll bloody-well swing fur him, so Ah will.”

  “Whit parasite wid that be then, hen?”

  “That ugly cretin who turned up at yer launch unannounced...whit’s his name...the reprobate fae The Echo?”

  “Er, McLeod...Bradley McLeod.  Why?  Whit aboot him?”

  “Lying, forked-tongued lying basturt, mair like,” Sally scowled, looking fae the newspaper tae Helen and back tae the newspaper sitting oan the table between them.

  “Whit?  He’s finally goat aff his arse and written something aboot us then?”

  “Aye, well, judge fur yersel.  Page thirty seven,” Sally said, nodding tae the paper.

  Helen picked up The Echo and turned the pages tae the desired page.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Bottom left...underneath aw that shite aboot whit Scottish wummin will be wearing this year.  Dae ye see it...Springburn At War?  They’ve even goat a wee smiling photo ae ye fae the day ae the launch.”

  “Christ, so they hiv,” Helen said in wonder, touching her black and white smiling face oan the page.

  “Aye, well, don’t get too carried away.  Ah’d read the story first before ye go and get it framed fur posterity, so Ah wid.”

Helen looked doon at the article.

   “Noo that aw the candidates hiv declared and thrown their hats intae the ring, the battle fur the heart and soul ae Springburn his begun, writes The Echo’s chief political reporter, Bradley McLeod.  The last ae the candidates attempting tae fill the shoes ae the previous, noo deceased incumbent, Mr Dick Mulholland, Mrs Helen Taylor, declared her intentions tae take the seat at a launch meeting in a near empty hall attended by...”

  “Aye, Ah telt ye, so Ah did,” Sally huffed, sitting back, folding her erms across her chest.

  “Bit there wis mair than eight or nine ae us at the meeting…the lying toad!” Helen cursed.

  “Right, carry oan, hen.  If ye think that’s bad, wait until ye see whit’s fur pudding.”

  “Right, where wis Ah...oh, aye...attended by eight or nine wishful thinkers last Monday efternoon...”

  “Cheeky lying pish-pot!”

  “...Mrs Taylor declared an aw-oot war oan Corporation workers, efter declaring that they wur aw corrupt and hid been fur years.  Mrs Taylor then went oan tae run doon her fellow candidates using expletives that cannae be printed in a quality family newspaper, paying particular attention tae wan ae the maist successful politicians Glesga his seen these past thirty odd years, Mr JP Donnelly, who his fought gallantly oan behauf ae those less fortunate than the rest ae us.  Typically, Mr Donnelly his awready expressed sadness, rather than anger, at Mrs Taylor’s offensive diatribe.  ‘It’s wan thing tae hiv a go at me...Ah’ve been aroond long enough tae take it...bit tae hiv a go at oor hard-working Corporation staff is petty and vindictive.  Ah kin assure aw they hard working people that as long as Ah kin draw breath, Ah’ll be there tae protect them fae opportunistic bullies like Mrs Taylor, so Ah will.  Insteid ae hivving a go at them, Mrs Taylor should be hivving a go at aw they Tories who ur taxing us aw up tae the hilt,’ Mr Donnelly said.  Meanwhile, the Tory candidate, Colonel Spicer Barr-Owen said that whilst he agreed wae Mrs Taylor that a culling exercise wis required fur The Corporation tae become mair efficient, there wur still a few decent people trying tae dae a good job under tough conditions.  He said that a good many ae his estate workers aw hiv family members working fur The Corporation and wid be upset by Mrs Taylor’s unprovoked threats tae their livelihoods.  Tam Barnet, The Corporation’s election supremo, a dedicated employee ae many years past, widnae be drawn oan Mrs Taylor’s assault oan The Corporation’s thousands ae hard-working employees.  However, he did urge candidates tae restrain fae making inflammatory speeches and tae respect the democratic principles that he his applied in his thirty seven years in the job, gaun aw the way back tae the nineteen thirties.  Mrs Taylor wis unavailable fur comment last night before gaun tae print,” Helen read, laying the paper doon oan the table, stunned.