Run Johnboy Run: The Glasgow Chronicles 2 (25 page)

  Silence.

  “Ah cannae bloody believe that.  Honest tae God?” Helen finally said.

  “Cross ma heart and hope tae die,” Gina said, and the baith ae them fell back oan tae their beds and laughed non-stoap fur aboot five minutes solid.

  “We shouldnae be laughing,” Helen said, wance they’d quietened doon.

  “Pat said that the last time she wis oan remand, they’d tae put her in the digger fur her ain protection because three other wummin, two ae them wardresses, noticed their men’s names plastered aw o’er her.  Wan oan each ae her diddies and wan oan the tap ae her right erm.  She’s admitted that she jist aboot shites hersel every time she his tae hiv a shower beside any ae the new arrivals, jist like yersel.”

  “So, how many his she goat and how dis it work?”

  “She says she cannae remember the exact number because she’s been daeing it fur aboot fifteen years noo.  She says that wance she likes them, she gets them tae sign their name oan a piece ae paper and then she takes it alang tae Terry’s, the tattooist in the Gallowgate, and he copies the signature.  She says ye widnae believe the amount ae guys who want tae gie her an autograph efter the first time she’s been wae them.  She says she strings them alang fur as long as she kin, till she cannae get away wae it fur any longer, and then that’s it…up tae Terry’s and another name’s added tae the list.”

  “That’s unbelievable, so it is.  Ah’ve never heard anything so bloody disgusting in aw ma born life,” Helen said, shaking her heid in wonder, before letting oot a disgusted laugh that sent Gina aff again.

  “Aye, Pat says ye kin tell a real gentleman by the way he signs his name, although some ae they judges’ and doctors’ signatures look like squiggly worms and could be anything.”

  “Aw, Gina, Ah cannae remember the last time Ah’ve laughed so much.  Thanks, hen…Ah needed that.”

  Helen heard the doors in the hall landings being opened up wan at a time.  The noise ae opening doors wis getting closer tae cell twenty wan.  Gina stood up.

  “It must be eleven o’clock.  Time tae go fur a wee walk in the yard.  They call it recreation…eleven in the morning and three in the efternoon…fur hauf an hour,” Gina said.

  Helen followed Gina oot intae the yard.  Maist ae the wummin wur walking roond in a big circle, talking twenty tae the dozen tae each other.  Like Helen, they wur aw wearing their ain clothes.  Gina telt her that when ye wur oan remand, ye goat tae wear yer ain clothes, bit if the court sent ye back fur a jail term, they made ye wear a prison uniform.  It looked really strange tae see groups ae wummin, some walking aboot in pinnies, talking tae other wans who wur stumbling roond, done up like mannequins in high heels, bit withoot a bit ae make-up in sight.  The screws wur staunin, scattered aboot in pairs, chewing the cud and watching whit wis gaun oan, clearly getting paid fur daeing nothing.

  “O’er here, Helen.  Ah’ll introduce ye tae the lassies,” Gina said, making a bee-line fur the six shapes, who wur aw ages, sitting bang in the middle ae the walking nightmare, smoking and chattering away as if they wur oan a picnic.  Helen noticed that, apart fae wan ae them, it wis the same lassies that hid been sitting at the table at breakfast time.

  “Ye’re late, Gina, and Ah’ve telt ye before, don’t turn up wae strangers before gieing me time tae cover masel up.  Ah’ve telt ye whit might happen,” Pat said, wae a big friendly grin oan her coupon, looking at Helen.

  “Girls, this is Helen fae the Toonheid.  Helen, this is Big Pat, Patsy, Betty, Sally, Jean and Wee Morag.”

  “Hello.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  “How ur ye daeing, hen?”

  “Ah’m fine noo, thanks tae Gina here,” Helen said, sitting doon and tucking her legs under hersel.

  “So, ye’re oot ae the digger then, Morag?” Gina asked the wan Helen hidnae seen at breakfast.

  “Aye, she turned up at oor cell door wae a big box ae jam rags that wid keep aw the nuns in the toon gaun fur a year and a hauf tae,” Pat, the walking scroll, chipped in before anywan else goat a word in edgeways.  “It’s a pity they wur made fur bloody poodles insteid ae buxom wenches like masel.”

  “Ach, ye’ll be awright if ye string hauf a dozen ae them thegither, Pat,” Morag said, tae mair laughter.

  “So, why hiv ye come oan holiday tae sunny Greenock then, Helen?”

  Helen didnae really want tae talk aboot it, bit before long, she’d spilled oot everything that hid happened since Thursday morning up in John Street at the warrant sale.  Hauf way through the story, Pat interrupted her by lifting up her skirt and flashing her bare arse tae everywan.

  “Ye mean, this JP Donnelly?  The manky wee ugly pervo that sits oan the bench in the Central Court, who insists he calls me Mammy while he’s sucking oan a plastic dummy tit and humphing away at me wae his fat spotty arse gaun up and doon like the clappers?” Pat said, showing aff JP Donnelly’s signature fur everywan tae see.

  Although Helen wis horrified at the thought and sight ae JP’s signature, it took her and the lassies at least five minutes tae stoap laughing and fur Helen tae get oan and finish her story.

  “Ye’re a bloody hero, so ye ur, hen.  Ah wish there wur mair like ye.  Ah’ve hid ma whole hoose and everything in it sold fae under me, many a time,” Betty admitted.

  “Aye, so hiv Ah.”

  “And me.”

  “Ye’re like wan ae they political prisoners that they sing aboot in the Irish rebel songs that ma big brother keeps playing, aff ae they Celtic LPs ae his.”

  “Ach, away ye go, Morag,” Helen retorted, embarrassed.

  “Ye bloody-well ur, Helen,” Jean said.  “We’ve aw been through whit you’ve been through, bit we’ve no tried tae staun up tae the basturts, the way you hiv.”

  “The reason ye hivnae, Jean, is because ye cannae.  Look at me.  Look where Ah’ve ended up,” Helen said, tears starting tae well up in her eyes.

  “Well, ye’re a bloody stoating hero tae us…isn’t she, girls?” Pat said, flexing her signatures.

  “Aye.”

  “Too true.”

  “Awright, girls, listen up.  It’s competition time.  Youse hiv aw goat until the morra tae come up wae the words ae a song aboot whit Helen and her pals ur daeing up in the Toonheid,” Pat shouted, o’er Helen’s embarrassed objections.

  “Write a song?  Ah cannae bloody hum, never mind try tae come up wae the words tae wan.”

  “C’mone, ye kin, we aw kin.  Whit dae youse think?  We’ll try and change the first or maybe even the first and second verses ae ‘The Men Ae Dublin’.  Aw ye hiv tae dae is change the words.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea, Pat.  Ah cannae wait till Ah get back tae ma cell,” Wee Morag chimed in, singing the opening line ae the song.

  “Aye, it’s aw right fur yersel, Morag.  That Fenian brother ae yers his obviously goat aw the records.  Whit aboot us blue noses, eh?  Why dae we no pick a song aff ae ‘Follow, Follow,’
ma Willie’s Rangers LPs?  Eh, Pat?  ‘The Sash Ma Faither Wore’ wid be a good wan.”

  “Fur Christ’s sake, The Battle Ae The Boyne wis aboot five hunner years ago.  Ah didnae think we’d start aff world war five, fur fuck’s sake,” Pat scowled at them.

  “Ah think ye should furget it, girls, honest.  Ah’m getting embarrassed, sitting here, jist listening tae youse,” Helen said, red-faced.

  “Why dae we no come up wae a song we aw like?” suggested Sally, who hidnae said a cheep up tae then.

  “Bloody stoating idea, Sally.  Who wid’ve thought ye wur in fur fraud, wae a brain like that, eh?” Jean said, looking roond at everybody.

  “Ah wid hardly say that getting caught fiddling ma boss’s books fur him, in ‘Carpets Fur Cash,’ makes me oot tae be a fraudster.  Ah’ve telt youse aw before, wance he finds me a good lawyer, the charges will be drapped and Ah’ll be back tae ma wee stool in the office, doon oan Queen Street.”

  “Sally’s been in here six weeks, so far, oan a petition, waiting patiently fur lover-boy tae send oot this amazing lawyer.  Though why ye came tae the decision no tae accept the court’s lawyer is anywan’s guess.  Ye’re well and truly goosed noo, hen.  He’s probably shut up shoap and set up again doon the Barras, under the new name ae ‘Carpets Fur Cash, Ready Tae Swiftly Go At Any Minute Ae The Night Or Day.’  Bookkeeper wanted, apply within,” Patsy said cruelly.

  “Aye, well, laugh aw ye want, girls.  Ye won’t be saying that when ye see me swan oot ae here and intae his fancy white Volvo P eighteen hunner,” Sally said, wae the look ae a believer who wisnae anticipating the nasty shock that even a blind bat could see coming o’er the horizon.

  “How aboot ‘Danny Boy’?”

  “‘Doon Toon’ by Petula Clark?”

  “‘Summer Holiday’ by Cliff?”

  “‘Moon River’?”

  “‘Ah Only Want Tae Be Wae You’ by Dusty Springfield?”

  “Yes!” everywan shouted, and that wis that.  Dusty it wis.

  “Okay, girls, noo remember, each two cell mates counts as wan vote,” Pat said.

  “Whit aboot me then?  Aw youse ur aw jacked up thegither, bit Ah’m in wae Helen.  We cannae get her tae write her ain song.”

  “Well, she kin gie ye a haun then, Gina,” Sally said, following the lassies towards the iron gate and back intae the hall.

Chapter Thirty Five

  Tom Bryce put the phone back oan the cradle, looked aboot tae make sure that nae nosey basturt wis clocking him, then shot his right finger up his left nostril, swiftly curling the fingernail anti-clockwise, before scooping oot a bogey that the smelly wee whelk wummin doon the Barras wid be proud tae display amongst her wares.  He looked doon at the multi-coloured specimen. He wis jist thinking tae himsel that he wid challenge anywan, including a whelk collector, tae say it wisnae a whelk, when a rattle oan his door broke intae his contemplation.

   “Mr Elliot will be up in five minutes, Mr Bryce,” said Hazel, famous fur being the first wan in the building tae hiv ripped aff the ticker tape that contained the news ae President Kennedy being shot in Dallas.  It hid been her first day in the job as secretary tae the newly appointed Tom Bryce, Crime Desk Sub-Editor, and aw the other lassies in the building hid hated her ever since they clocked her photo in the following morning’s Glesga Echo, sitting oan Tom’s lap, haudin up the said ticker tape, wae a big grin splashed across that coupon ae hers.  Some ae the nastier wans hid said she looked as though she’d jist won a ten bob note oan the Ayr Gold Cup, insteid ae hivving jist announced the death ae King Camelot…jealous cows.

  “Aw, thanks, Hazel.  Jist tell him tae come right in when he arrives,” Tom said, sticking the sea urchin oan the underside ae his desk tap.

  He bent o’er tae the left a wee bit, and looked up at the clock through the glass wall in front ae his desk.  It wis hauf past eight oan Saturday morning and hauf two oan Friday night in Dallas.  He could never work oot why the hell the glass oan the tap hauf ae his door wis frosted, seeing as the rest ae the wall oan either side ae it wis clear glass.  It hid been
efter midnight by the time he’d goat hame fae The Chevalier the night before.  Sir Frank Owen’s tasty wee secretary, the wan he wis sure smelled like a bunch ae spring flowers, hid phoned and purred at him tae get that arse ae his doon tae the casino pronto, jist efter ten o’clock.  That hid been the second time in twenty fours hours that he’d been summoned. 

  “Right, where ur we, Tom?” Hamish, the editor hid asked, when he wis shown intae the same room as before. 

  Sir Frank hid been sitting, smoking a big fat cigar oan a big fat comfy looking couch, watching, bit no saying a word.

  “She went and goat hersel slung in the clink.”

  “Aye, Ah heard that.  Bit, whit aboot The Rat?  Where’s he at in aw this?”

  “He says he’s fuc...er…goat a problem wae finishing aff the story while she’s chomping oan porridge o’er in Greenock.”

  “Bit she’s oot next Friday.  Isn’t that right?”

  “Well, aye and naw.  She’s back up in court next Friday, bit there’s nae guarantee that she’ll be let oot…at least, no wae JP Donnelly waiting oan the return match.”

  “So, whit’s his problem then?”

  “He’s up tae his neck in shi...in, in...”

  “Aye, awright, Tom.  We get whit ye’re trying tae say.  So whit’s his beef?”

  “According tae oor sources, JP’s in the back pocket ae The Big Man.”

  “So, whit’s Molloy goat tae dae wae the Taylor wummin?”

  “Nothing, bit JP is the Toonheid middle-man between Molloy and The Irish Brigade.”

  “Aye, and?”

  “Well, she’s stuck in the middle ae the warring factions.”

  “Tom, kin ye speak plain English here?  Ah’ve no goat a clue where this is gaun, never mind where it’s coming fae.  Explain in simple stupid terms tae us simple people.”

  “The Rat asked The Big Man if he could use his influence tae get the Taylor wummin let aff in court next week.  The Big Man refused because, no only his he fell oot wae JP, bit he’s fell oot wae the local sergeant, which means Colin Macgregor,
the local inspector, which in turn means the whole Irish Brigade.  So, if he cannae get her aff, and they Irish cun…er…Paddies want her kept oot ae the way, The Rat will hiv tae wait and see whit happens next Friday.”

  “And ye don’t think she’ll get let aff wae a warning or a fine then?”

  “No fae where Ah’m sitting,” Tom hid replied, staunin in the middle ae the room, up tae his ankles in plush carpet.

  “Anything else?”

  “The Rat his heard that a letter is winging it’s way tae her front door fae The Corporation, telling her tae turn up at two o’clock next Friday efternoon at the hoosing section, tae explain why she’s breaking her tenancy agreement by harassing officials gaun aboot their business.  Failure tae turn up and explain will be taken as cheek, and her and her brood will be evicted oan tae the street forthwith.”

  “Can they do that, Mr Bryce?” Sir Frank hid asked, speaking fae within a cloud ae cigar smoke fur the first time since Tom hid arrived.

  “The Corporation kin dae whit they want.  It’s their hoose she’s lodging in.”

  “Are you implying that the police and The Corporation are working together to suppress a key witness in the possible murder of a young boy, Mr Bryce?”

  “Whit Ah’m saying is that it seems tae be in everywan’s interest tae keep this wummin oot ae circulation…especially fae the likes ae us, Sir Frank.”

  “I see.  I’ll want a conflict of interest story with a hint of corruption in next Sunday’s Sunday Echo, but with no names.  Research similar concerns from the past and slant it towards an unhealthy alliance amongst our public agencies against those less fortunate members of society.  I’m looking for a page three introduction and a double spread on pages four and five, plus an editorial comment which I’ll do myself…in your name, of course, Hamish.”

  “Right, okay, Tom, that’s fine.  We’ll be in touch,” Hamish, his editor hid said, before turning his back tae whisper something in Sir Frank’s lug.

  Tom never heard Miss Tasty approaching till she’d touched his erm and he’d then followed the waft ae her perfume oot the door. 

  Tom thought tae himsel that they were well and truly in Shite Street.  There wis no two doubts aboot it.  He looked aboot the office, wondering whit he wid take wae him oan his last day.

  “Ye wanted tae see me, boss?” The Rat asked, appearing in front ae his desk oot ae naewhere.

  “Fur Christ’s sake, Sammy, his nowan ever telt ye, ye’re supposed tae knock first?” Tom asked, heart pounding, the smell ae meadow flowers being replaced by the waft ae a shitey drain.

  “Sorry.  Ye looked as if ye wur somewhere else.”

  “Ah wis.  Anyway, Ah’ve jist came aff the blower tae Hamish upstairs.  Ye’ll need tae get the Taylor wummin aff next Friday.  That’ll gie ye the Saturday tae put the story thegither and we’ll run wae it first thing oan the Sunday morning in The Sunday Echo.”

  “How am Ah supposed tae dae that then?”

  “Listen, there’s a lot ae bogeymen hinging aboot behind the scenes, jist aboot tae chew ma hee-haws aff o’er the time it’s taking ye tae get that arse ae yers intae gear.  Times up…we’ve a tight schedule, so get oan wae it.”

  “Tom, we’ve mair chance ae springing Rudolph Hess oot ae Spandau than we hiv ae getting that Taylor wan oot ae the clutches ae JP Donnelly and they Irish dicks.  She’s awready knocked back a court brief.  Ye only get wan bite ae that cherry, and she spat it oot.   Ah’m telling ye, we might want tae look somewhere else fur a bit ae dirt.”

  “Whit dae ye mean?”

  “Sling her tae the wolves.  Let them hiv their wee bit ae fun wae her.  Ah’ve jist heard aboot massive kickback shenanigans gaun oan roond aboot the new motorway project o’er by the airport.”

  “Sammy, Sammy, ye’re no listening tae me.  This his naff aw tae dae wae me, you, or that bloody Jerry pilot they’ve goat locked up, kidding oan he’s the deputy fucking fuehrer in Spandau.  It’s oot ae oor hauns noo.  The gloves ur aff.  The big boys ur back in the game.  The bets ur probably being laid doon as we speak,” Tom hissed, lowering his voice and looking aboot tae make sure that there wisnae any other person in the room apart fae him and The Rat.

  “How dae ye mean?” The Rat asked back in a whisper, looking aboot in the same directions as his boss hid jist done two seconds earlier.

  “The big boys hiv taken o’er the show noo.  Ah’ve been doon tae The Chevalier twice, the last time being last night, speaking tae Golden Baws himsel.”

  “Ye mean…?”

  “Aye…Hamish wis there baith times as well.  They baith looked smug as fuck and wur clearly enjoying themsels…the wankers.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, then there’s nae bother then.  Aw the paper needs tae dae is tae get a fancy brief who’ll tie JP up in knots.  She’ll get oot, Ah’ll get ma story and then we kin move oan tae the motorway madness.”

  “Sammy, Ah wis telt ye wur the best in the business.  Some stupid dafty telt me that if ye wanted a job well-done, wae nae questions asked, tae get The Rat.  He’ll never let ye doon, that wan.  Noo, whit stupid basturt wis it that telt me that porky, eh?”

  “Whit?  Whit did Ah say?”

  “Sammy, son, did Ah no jist tell ye that the control is oot ae oor hauns noo?  Hamish jist telt me tae sort it oot.  We’ve goat a week, wae nae comeback or a whiff that the paper is involved in hivving a deliberate go at The Irish Brigade. That means we cannae employ a brief.  There’s tae be nae trail leading back here.  The party line is that we’re jist reporting oan a public interest story, no deliberately setting it up tae hiv a go at anywan in particular.  Unfortunately fur me, aw Ah’ve goat gaun fur us, is whit’s staunin here in front ae me.”

  “That’s bloody bang oot ae order, so it is.  How kin they pricks play wae people’s lives like that, eh?  There’s real people involved here.  Dae they no think we’ve goat feelings?”

  “The only thing that’ll be getting felt is oor two arses when they kick us oot ae the front door, a week oan Monday, unless we, you, kin sort oot the mess ye’ve goat us intae.  Ah knew this wid come back and bite me in the goolies.”

  “Ah knew Ah should’ve taken that job wae The Daily Record.”

  “If we don’t get this sorted oot, ye’ll be lucky tae get a job writing aboot Mrs Broon’s over-ripe tomato plants, in the newsflash section ae The Sunday Post.”

  “Ah’ll need dosh and a shot ae the newsroom’s car.”

  “Ye’ll get the usual expenses.”

  “Ah’ll need tae get in tae see her.  Kin ye arrange it?”

  “Ah’ll speak tae Hamish.”

  “Okay, try and make it fur this weekend.  Ah’ll need tae go and find a man who disnae want tae be found.”

  “It’ll aw need tae come oot ae yer research expense account, which is taxable, by the way, so don’t get caught dipping yer fingers fur any personal pleasure.  Ye kin add fifteen percent oan tap, bit nae mair.  That’s no me speaking, bit Hamish,” Tom said, eyeing up the wiry wee rodent sitting in front ae him, who wid noo determine whether he still hid a job in a week’s time or no.

  “Fine,” The Rat squeaked, as he stood up and scurried across tae the door.