‘Aye. Suppose no’. Ah mean if, they’re happy … an’ there’s a constant supply ae bread an’ stuff, then why venture further than the edges ae George Square?’
‘That’s their bit. Where they’re familiar wi’,’ Geordie mused. ‘They’re maybe shitin’ it to go further … in case they cannae find the way back.’
‘Aye. That must be it, Johnny Morris.’
‘Fuck sake, dinnae give me that, ya tube. Ah wis just tryin’ tae humour ye! They’re fucken pigeons, for fuck sake. They eat an’ they shite on folk, an’ most ae them hobble about cos their feet are aw fucked fae gettin’ them jammed in places that they shouldnae be in.’ Geordie laughed. He nudged Archie. ‘For fuck’s sake mate, if yer gonnae pick a metaphor for yer life, dinnae pick a stupid doo fae Glesga.’
‘Is that a wee Robin?’ Archie pointed across the square.
‘Naw … that’s just a sparra wi’ a chest wound.’
Archie laughed too. He stood up. ‘Look, ah’ll see ye later,’ he said.
‘Ye’ll be fine, mate. Yer only one decision away fae a totally different life, remember that.’
‘Holy fuck, Geordie. You get that message out ae a Christmas cracker or somethin’?’
They laughed again. They stood. They shook manly hands. An embrace was only for funerals and a bad loss on the horses.
‘Ye gonnae be aw’right?’
‘Aye. Ah’m away tae see ma da.’
They parted, intending to head in different directions, although Geordie McCartney waited until his friend had disappeared out of the vast civic space commonly known as Glasgow’s living room.
It was a five-mile walk back to Shettleston from the city centre. It was generally flat, but the weather was still stiflingly hot. The city hadn’t experienced rainfall for more than forty days. He slipped off the new jacket then undid the new tie and dropped it in a bin. And he walked. He walked towards the Royal Infirmary, where he’d had to identify his ma’s body after her heart attack. Archie had been at work when it happened. By the time he’d got back to the Parkhead depot, she was dead. His gaffer, Blakey – normally an arsehole of the highest order, just like the character from the TV sitcom he was nicknamed after – was surprisingly tender when telling him the news, displaying a level of compassion few of the men in his charge suspected he possessed.
Archie then walked past the Provan’s Lordship; the first house in Glasgow, evidence of the medieval origins of the dear green place. Onto John Knox Street, named, many were convinced, as a constant reminder to the Catholics of their overthrow by the Presbyterians. He strolled down the slight incline towards the vast, dirty-grey stone bulk of the former Great Eastern Hotel, where many of Glasgow’s scourged found temporary shelter. Archie glanced up at the summit of the Necropolis. It was one of his favourite places in the city; a peaceful, tranquil place of contemplation, glowing in the blistering midday sunshine. Birds were still singing, an ice-cream van’s horn sounded. A song played from a transistor radio: ‘Silly Love Songs’ by Wings. A sonic frippery for young hearts, running free. It sounded close by; a young couple lying on a tartan blanket just over the high wall, perhaps. Hiding from the rest of the city. Imagining they were somewhere else. It was hard to be downcast for too long.
He started towards the gates but spotted a restless pack of free-roaming Alsatians fighting over a large bone. Some poor cunt’s arm, probably. He smiled ruefully, veering away from the Necropolis, fearing that his own bones might become the next target for the hungrier dogs at the back. He headed instead towards the comparative safety of Duke Street, where he weighed his options. Rather than wait on an overdue bus and face the inevitable interrogation from a former colleague: How’s it goin’, Archie? Ye still drawin’ the wage, Archie? When’s the disciplinary hearin’, Archie? Archie Blunt continued his way on foot, head down. Although his dad wouldn’t be expecting a visit, Archie wanted to see him.
The street bustled with activity. Women and washing hung out of the windows high above the street. Boisterous kids, who should’ve been in school, threw balls at the kerbs between peep-peeping traffic. A sudden trail of buses eventually overtook him, taunting him. He bumped into a few old acquaintances asking after his father, and life for the majority progressed unperturbed.
After a short detour to Tennyson Drive, he rejoined the route. At the traffic lights in Duke Street he passed Coia’s café, where he took his dad in the early days of his illness. It always seemed to anchor the old man. Something about being amid the tenement blocks again, as opposed to the new, soulless brick structures that were gradually replacing them. Archie made the final turn. The sheltered housing was totally out of character with the East End. Archie thought it resembled a slice of Battenberg cake; different colours of beige brick and pastel-pink painted blockwork. The complex looked like a toddler had designed it. Substantial, muscular Victorian buildings, which had stood for a hundred years, were being bulldozed daily to be replaced by these characterless lumps with their tiny windows, their flat roofs and their incongruous, overgrown front gardens.
As he approached, Archie walked slowly. His da wouldn’t care about him being late. Might not even recognise him anyway. Archie thought it might even be better if today was one of those days.
‘Aw’right son?’ Stanley’s greeting was a mix of happiness at seeing his son and surprise because he hadn’t expected to ‘What are you doin’ here? Wait, was ah meant tae know ye were comin’? Did ah invite ye round?’
‘It’s OK, da. Ah’m fine. Just thought ah’d nip in on the way past.’
Relieved, Stanley stepped to one side and Archie walked into the tiny hall. It was brutally hot inside the small flat. Eggs could’ve been fried on the bonnets of cars and the softened tarmac was pockmarked by newly made footsteps, yet the flat’s heating timer hadn’t been adjusted to compensate. Before closing the front door, Stanley looked out, and up and down the street, as if checking Archie wasn’t being followed.
‘Nice tae see ye,’ said Stanley. This was one of the good days, Archie discovered.
‘Aye.’ Archie removed his jacket. ‘Da, ye need tae open the windows or somethin’.’
‘Ah’m worried ah forget tae shut them, an’ the wee yobs that hang about the shops break in.’
‘Ah’ll shut them before ah go. Where’s the thermostat thing?’
‘Ah cannae remember, son. It’s fine … ah like it warm.’
‘Warm’s one thing, but it’s like the bloody Costa Brava in here. There’s a flamin’ heatwave goin’ on outside. Ye’ve nae need tae have the heatin’ on.’
‘Whit’s that ye’ve got there?’ asked Stanley, trying to change the subject.
‘Ah brought some records … just picked ’em up fae the house. Thought we could maybe listen tae them, if ye like,’ said Archie.
He headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on, then watched as Stanley flicked through the LPs. He seemed to remember all of them. The Everly Brothers, Nat King Cole, Buddy Holly, Bing Crosby … and Old Blue Eyes. It was like seeing a group of long-lost friends being reunited.
‘Did ye bring somethin’ tae play them on?’ asked Stanley.
‘Naw, sorry.’
‘Ach, never mind … we’ll just imagine what they sound like, eh?’ Archie could tell his father was gently mocking him. It was a good sign. Stanley had a wicked sense of humour and one of Archie’s initial fears was that it would be lost forever.
‘An’ everybody thinks ah’m the one without a full bag ae marbles tae.’
‘Aye, sorry da. Ah’ll bring it next time. Just had a load on ma mind, y’know?’
‘Just as well ah’ve got a record player then, eh?’
God bless Carol. She’d brought hers over last week. Stanley recovered it from a cupboard that, two weeks previously, he’d been convinced Archie’s mum was living in. He plugged it in, lifted the lid, removed a disc from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable before lifting the arm across to the second song of the LP – all with the care of a palaeonto
logist dusting down a priceless fossil.
‘The summer wind came blowin’ in from across the sea…’ There were fewer things in life as emotionally calming as Sinatra’s distinctive voice. It should be an NHS-prescribed alternative to Valium, both men agreed.
‘Right then, let’s hear it. S’up wi’ ye?’ Stanley’s paternal instincts had sensed his son was troubled. He sat down in his old armchair, the one thing that had travelled the across the East End with him, and indicated with a casual sweep of a wrinkled left hand that Archie should sit too. Archie sat, sighed deeply and looked down as if he was about to cry.
‘Christ sake, son … what’s happened? Tell me!’ Stanley was mentally assessing who might’ve died, and whether he’d even remember who they were once told.
‘Ah lost ma job, da. Ah’m sorry.’ Archie was less worried for himself than he was concerned about the effect it would have on the man who got him employed at the Corporation in the first place. He’d already decided to tell his father only if it was clear the information would mean something to him. It wouldn’t have been fair on the old man otherwise.
‘Jesus, Archie … it’s just a job, son. An’ ah don’t mean any disrespect here, but it’s a bloody bus conductor, yer no’ exactly a brain surgeon.’
Archie thought this harsh, but he knew his dad didn’t mean it to sound that way. He decided to believe that his dad was suggesting that a better door was opening, and that they shouldn’t focus on the one that had just closed.
‘So what ye got planned then?’ The question took Archie by surprise. Did his dad mean for the afternoon? For the remainder of the week? For the rest of his life?
‘Ah dunno, da. Might try an’ get away for a bit?’
‘A bit of what?’ It was a genuine question.
‘A bit ae a break fae here, ah suppose. Ah couldnae do anythin’ while the hearin’ was comin’ up.’
‘Have ye got money?’
‘Naw.’
‘No’ be gettin’ very far then, will ye?’
‘Ah’m thinkin’ ae applyin’ tae go on Bullseye,’ Archie joked.
‘Aye, good move, son. The one thing Shettleston folk cannae live without is a bloody speed boat.’ Archie laughed.
The LP finished. The old man got up. ‘Look son, the job … dinnae worry about it. Ye’ll get another yin, wait an’ see if ye don’t,’ he said.
Stanley walked through to the kitchen, ostensibly to get the biscuits. But mainly to hide his disappointment from his son. A fifty-two-year-old, recently dismissed by Glasgow City Corporation for misconduct wasn’t getting another job any time soon. Not a proper one, at least. Both men knew it, but career optimists couldn’t afford to dwell on negativity for too long.
‘Aye, da. Yer probably right.’
‘Ye’ve still got yer turns at The Barnabas?’ called Stanley from the other room.
‘True.’
‘So, that’s good, naw?’
‘Aye. It is, da. Decent punters at the club. Good tips an’ that.’
‘Ye should dae a tape ae yer songs. Send it tae thon Heady Hendricks fella.’
Archie laughed at the thought.
‘The shite that’s on that show week after week…’
Archie stopped laughing.
‘…Dancin’ dugs, daft magicians, ugly wee brats shoved up on stage by their desperate ma’s an’ da’s.’
Archie got up and followed his father’s voice.
‘…Ye’d surely stand a better shot than aw ae them, eh?’
Archie was standing in the kitchen doorway. His dad was down on his knees, the lowest kitchen drawer fully opened in front of him, its contents scattered all around.
‘Da, what are ye lookin’ for?’
‘Ah don’t know, son. Ah cannae remember.’
Archie left his dad’s place after making him supper. It was almost 9 p.m. but Stanley’s escalating disorientation had affected his lifelong rhythms. He no longer had his tea at four in the afternoon like most people his age. They had shared a tin of spam and Archie had peeled some potatoes for chips. Afterwards, he’d waited until the oil in the pan had cooled then flushed it down the toilet, just in case. It had indeed been a good day for them. Stanley had been coherent, funny and content. Archie had been persuaded that losing the job on the buses could turn out to be the pivotal incident his life had been waiting for. There was scant evidence to support his theory, but he wrapped himself in it, nonetheless.
He turned at the bottom of the street and waved, his dad – still visible in the clear midsummer’s night – reciprocating from the tiny ground floor window. Archie was off to The Marquis, for a pint before last orders – to celebrate becoming newly free of the shackles of paid employment, and to dream once more of exciting possibilities.
TWO
That Was The Week That Was
10
July 1976
In the months following Big Jamesie Campbell’s week-long Balgarth sojourn, he had returned only sporadically. There was no real pattern to his visits. Gail’s nightly observations offered little clarity. So, she’d taken the bull by the horns and approached the driver of a car who she’d witnessed dropping off a woman each evening for a fortnight.
‘Aye, ma missus works in there,’ he’d said. ‘If yer after a shift, ah’ll get her tae ask.’ He’d swiftly followed this with: ‘You scratch ma back, an ah’ll dae yours, ye know what ah mean?’
She’d toyed with the notion of having sex with this repulsive character; she certainly couldn’t pay him what he was requesting for the introduction, which had been his first suggestion. Gail sensed that neither he nor his wife would have any clout with the owners. Something about him persuaded her that he wouldn’t even make the request.
The euphoria of the press conference had faded fast. Cul-de-sacs were all that remained. Faked requests for an interview went unanswered by Campbell’s office. Even an attempt to identify the police chief she’d seen warmly congratulating Big Jamesie led only to some detailed questions about her and why she was asking. It looked as though she may have ruffled some feathers. But that was all. Her roadmap still led nowhere.
It had been her original ambition during her time at Edinburgh University to write fiction. So, with no progress in her investigation, Gail decided to refocus her attention on the draft of the novel she was writing. During the lighter nights, her typewriter tapped away until darkness descended. Shifting her preoccupations to something imaginary for a moment, and away from the sinister reality she was sure she was close to uncovering, gave her some unexpected relief.
One morning, Mrs Hubbard from upstairs rapped on the floor; usually a sign that she’d fallen or dropped something important that she couldn’t reach. But on this occasion, it was merely to ask if Gail might pick up her pension for her. Her daughter was on holiday and she didn’t feel up to venturing out in the intense Glaswegian heat. Gail was happy to do so, as Mrs Hubbard always paid her for such messages. Gail was embarrassed at taking payment, but the kind old woman insisted, perhaps sensing how much the young, emaciated woman needed the extra revenue.
The traffic seemed unusually heavy given it was Glasgow Fair Fortnight. Gail had to wait several minutes before anyone would let her out into the traffic. Finally, she pulled out, gears crunching awkwardly. She was running out of typing paper and had decided to head over to the south side of the river, to a small place that sold it more cheaply than anywhere else. Since Mrs Hubbard was paying for her trip, she wouldn’t lose anything on the longer journey. Plus, she could do with a change in scenery.
The traffic thinned out as the Mini climbed the Cathkin Braes en route towards the lovely country roads surrounding Eaglesham. Higher above the city, the air really was clearer. She wondered why she didn’t venture out here more often. It was a lovely drive, and the car’s radio still worked, although the broken window-winder was a pain during this exceptional spell of weather.
She accelerated over the humps in the road, feeling that excitement in the pit of her sto
mach as the wheels almost left the tarmac. Gail imagined a different life; one full of friends retained from university, or even school. A steady job that offered enough money to live comfortably. To go out socialising and not suffer the paralysing anxiety of meeting new people. Had genetics made her the joyless person she now was? If so, it was unfair she’d taken after her dead uncle. Perhaps the addiction that had gripped her these past two years – the obsession with discovering why he’d died, and revealing the wider picture his death was part of – was just a way of not facing who she really was. A convenient life-raft where otherwise there would be none. But with so little movement in her investigation, and the novel now progressing well, maybe she should make that her purpose.
A car flashed full-beam lights in her rear-view mirror. It took her by surprise, even in this strong sunlight. She slowed, assuming the driver might be alerting her to a problem with her defective exhaust pipe. For the last fortnight, she’d resorted to tying it up with part of a washing line to prevent it dragging on the road.
She pulled in to the edge of the narrow road, intending to let the helpful driver pass, before getting out to inspect the rear of her car. But the driver of the other car also stopped. Gail looked in the mirror. Although perhaps thirty yards behind her she could see it was a man. He wore black sunglasses and had short black hair. She waited for him to get out to see if he could assist her. But he sat there, motionless, with the engine still running. Gail opened her door carefully, mindful that a car coming over the hill in the other direction wouldn’t have much time to adjust. She looked down at her exhaust. It was as it had been when she left. She looked up. The driver put on the full beam again and held her in it. Despite the sunshine, the brightness of the lights alarmed her. This man wasn’t alerting her to a fault on her car.
She was suddenly frightened. She got back inside the car, turned the key, and trying to pull away, stalled the engine. Watching the mirror constantly, she saw the man kept his lights trained on her, but didn’t advance. Her hands and feet working in uncoordinated panic, Gail eventually made the hesitant Mini move forwards. The car behind her moved forwards too. She was shaking now. Visions of her uncle out for a morning walk across the heath. Being followed on foot by a man, or men, just like this one. How naïve had she been to have assumed all those pointed questions about Big Jamesie Campbell would go unnoticed.
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