‘Geordie?’ No response. He couldn’t remember the shift patterns. Geordie was probably at work. He may have successfully appealed to Teresa. Either way, he wasn’t here. And neither was Bobby Souness. But he came and went. Archie was glad about that. The flat was nowhere near big enough for the four of them when they were all home. Archie and Geordie had been sleeping uncomfortably in the double bed. Top and tailing. Faces may have been at opposite ends but neither valued foot hygiene as a priority. And that still left the bollocks-and-arse interface. Jimmy had taken the bath. He was the smallest, so it made sense. Souness – when he stayed – lay awkwardly on a sideboard. It had the same firmness as the pavements he’d been accustomed to prior to the Great Eastern.
The flat was now empty, but something didn’t feel right. Of the four, Geordie was the tidiest by far, yet the living-room looked like he had vacated it in a hurry.
Ah think he’s been taken, Arch, said Jim Rockford, casually.
‘How?’
Don’t know that, man … but ah think you mean ‘why?’
‘Fuck off!’ Archie was in no mood for a lesson in semantics.
Lighten up, buddy. You need to think clearly. Jim picked up a small card. It had numbers crudely written on it.
Archie searched for a coin. Fumbled with the ones he found. Fucken decimalisation. He still didn’t get it. He dialled the number from the card he’d picked up the previous night. Got a ringing tone. Then a voice. One he didn’t recognise.
‘What?’
‘Ah’m Archie Blunt.’ Archie quivered as he spoke. This was all getting way out of hand.
‘Coviello, can ye do the Fandango?’ said the voice. The words seemed vaguely familiar, but Archie couldn’t place it, or understand why they were being directed at him.
‘Mate … ah don’t have a fucken clue what that means,’ he said, flummoxed.
‘Two men fae Carntyne, went tae mow … went tae mow a meadow,’ the voice sang. Archie wondered if he’d dialled wrongly, getting through to an inmate at Carstairs.
The voice continued: ‘…only they couldnae mow, cos one ae them had nae thumbs … an’ the other yin was a baldy cunt!’ The smug voice let that sink in.
Archie couldn’t focus. The illogical suggestion that a man was unable to properly mow a field because he had no hair was too difficult a chasm to cross.
‘Look, ya cunt … ah’ve got yer pals. You get here within the hour or they’re both fuckin’ gettin’ it, right?’
After blurting some unintelligible rubbish in response to being given the location and being informed – American TV cop show-style – to ‘come alone, or else’, Archie phoned Wullie Wigwam.
‘Look, dinnae panic,’ said Wullie, in a way that only made Archie panic more. ‘We’re holdin’ the aces, here. You just need tae hold your nerve, son.’
‘That’s easy for you tae say.’ Archie raised his voice, but hearing its volume, made an immediate apology.
‘Just calm down and breathe, Archie. We knew this could happen. These cunts’ll no’ mess about. There could be collateral damage. But Chib’s just delivered the final threat. Just one more week an’ then we’re all home free, son.’
‘Fucken collateral damage, Wullie … Geordie McCartney’s my best pal! He disnae deserve tae be caught up in aw this.’
‘An’ he’ll get his cut, for all his trouble. Just like we agreed, remember?’
‘What if these guys that’ve got him rub him out first, though?’
‘For fuck’s sake, son, will ye give it up wi’ the gangster talk? Ah’m fairly sure it wasn’t Ronnie or Reggie Kray that ye just spoke tae.’
There was a long pause, and Wullie knew he had to step into the silent void and fill it with something reassuring.
‘Look … we’ve got somethin’ they want. An’ now they’ve got somethin’ that we want back! Russian Roulette, eh?’
Archie wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. He thought it might’ve been a type of vodka. But he sensed Wullie wasn’t finished, so he kept the question to himself.
‘When have you tae go again?’ asked Wullie.
‘Ah need tae be there within the hour,’ Archie replied.
‘Right, so go … get the script off them, size them up … an’ we’ll take it fae there. When dae ye need tae be back down south for the show?’
‘Ah should’ve left this morning – on the early train. Ah cannae go back there now, though.’
‘So … plan B?’
‘Jimmy’ll go wi’ the boys tae the studio. Because they’re last week’s winners, he’ll no’ need tae be on telly, talkin’ tae Heady.’
‘Ye sure about that?’
‘Aye. Ah know this programme back tae front.’
‘So … we’re cool then. Nae worries, pal.’ Wullie Wigwam might’ve been calm, but he was sitting on the first week’s winnings. Once again, Archie concerned himself about the level of trust he had placed in Wullie Dunne; Glaswegian bookie, security chief and loan shark. The phone line went dead. And Archie Blunt shivered.
‘The Kelvin Hall, driver.’
Archie’s mood was deteriorating, like the weather’s gradual shift from windswept drizzle to angry downpour. He put off calling the police station. That could only be a last resort.
‘Ah had that Brian Connolly off the Sweet in here last week. Nice guy.’ The driver was trying to lighten the mood, although, he sensed a tip probably wasn’t on the cards.
‘Hmm.’
The rest of the journey to the city’s West End was conducted in silence. The driver found the tension unsettling. He mulled over asking what his passenger was doing for Hogmanay. The words formed in his mouth, but he kept it zipped. The rain escalated as the cab drove the last mile along Argyle Street. They went beyond the Kelvin Hall’s porte-cochère. Archie spied a shady figure at the precise location he was told to be.
‘Ower there, pal.’ Archie directed the driver towards him … or her.
The taxi stopped suddenly. Archie passed some dross through the slot. He didn’t count it. Just hoped it was enough. The rear door of the taxi was yanked open. Archie attempted to project hardness, but tripped on the loose, torn fabric of the rear seat. He tumbled out. His head bounced off the kerb. Pain ratcheted up through a potentially broken nose. The door shut, and the cab pulled away, u-turning sharply eastwards. Archie looked up from the gutter, seeing stars. His jaw slackened in disbelief.
‘Susie … Susie fucken Mackintosh … is that you?’
‘Get up, ya fucken twat.’
‘Susie?’
‘Don’t fucken Susie me, ya bastart. Get up now, or ah’ll fucken panel ye.’
Archie was totally confused by the whole turn of events. When they worked at the depot, their personal interactions could’ve been counted on the fingers of one hand; and now, Bobby Souness’s. Where others were attracted like moths to a flame, Archie was always a bit scared of Susie. There was no comfort in realising his instincts had been right. His brain overtook his nose in aching like it had just been told the theory of relativity in Latin.
‘Move it. Round the corner.’ Susie grabbed Archie’s left upper arm. She was a slim woman, but her grip was substantial. Hard-faced; a cow … easy to see it now. To see beyond the tits and the mascara. Why were men such myopic arseholes? So easily manipulated.
Archie had no choice but to follow, mumbling pained questions that received no acknowledgement. They reached the entry to a dark, narrow close at the rear of the Kelvin Hall. It led to one of the few remaining tenements left in the area overlooking the River Kelvin. Most of its previous neighbours had been demolished to make way for the new Clydeside Expressway. Consequently, few people now lived in the area. It looked exactly as it was: the sad and broken detritus that was an inevitable consequence in a city that now appeared to value vehicles and infrastructure more than people and communities.
Archie and Susie moved swiftly now, she propelling him through the ground floor of the close entry, through the back court, past the rodent-
infested middens and into the redundant railway arches behind. Only one arch was occupied. Susie Mackintosh pushed Archie Blunt towards it. He opened the rusting corrugated door. A man was inside. Heavyset, bearded. Sitting at a desk with a small lamp on it. Drinking tea from a mug. Reading from a newspaper that had Archie Blunt’s smiling picture on its front page.
‘Jesus, Suze … did you dae that tae him?’
‘Naw. The plank fell out the fucken taxi. Stuck one right smack on the kerb!’ Susie’s stern face creased, and both laughed uncontrollably at Archie.
Archie wiped the blood on his sleeve. The flow had stemmed, but he was sure the crusting dam forming inside his nostrils could burst at any minute.
‘So … you’re Mister Susie, then?’ said Archie. This was a conundrum. Was he pleased that his life wasn’t being threatened by brutal fire-raisers on the Vince Hillcock payroll? Or dismayed that this Mackintosh family opportunism was just a coincidental starter before the inevitable main course?
‘Naw … naw, please. Nae fucken more. Ah dinnae fucken know anythin’ … ah’m fucken tellin’ ye. Ya bastart!’
Archie looked to his left. These tortured wails were coming from a side room in the darkness of the vaults.
A crack, and then: ‘AAAAAAAHHHHH! … ya fucken cunt, ye! Stop. STOP!’ Familiar screams, but not those of Geordie McCartney. Not unless they’d cauterised his vocal cords first.
‘It’s like this,’ said Mackintosh. ‘There’s nae big trip here. It’s aw about the money, plain an’ simple.’ He slurped from a mug. Archie noticed a tiny kettle. PG Tips, appropriate for a fucking chimp like him. ‘So, the baldy boy … he’s been dippin’ my missus.’
‘What’s that got tae do with me?’
‘Well, he’s got tae pay!’
‘An’ what about her? Ye gonnae skelp her about a bit too?’ asked Archie. ‘Or is she part ae the scam?’ Bravado had overtaken him. It was this parallel life he’d been living since those boiling days of summer. He didn’t recognise himself anymore.
‘You a gallus cunt, pal? You want tae take me on here?’ Mackintosh stood. Trying to make himself seem bigger.
Susie lit another cigarette. Archie noted that their menace seemed fragile. Amateurs. Just like him. It didn’t prompt any alternative options for him, but it did make him confident that no lives were in danger from these opportunists. Everyone was on the make. Blackmail was the only game in town. It was like a cheap soap-opera script gone awry.
‘Ah don’t know what ye mean by “the money”?’ said Archie.
‘You’re on the fucken telly, pal. An’ the front page ae the Sun. You’re a celebrity. Rakin’ it in, eh? Ah want the winnings … or else?’
Archie surprised himself by pondering aloud, ‘Or else what?’
‘You’re gonnae pay me five grand, or Yul fucken Brynner’s out on his arse at the Corporation … an’ the wee gadgie loses more fingers.’
Susie stood suddenly. ‘Five grand? We agreed on ten, Benny!’
‘For Christ sake, Susie … ah told ye no’ tae use my real name!’
‘What? He fucken knows us! Ah worked wi’ him on the buses.’
A domestic argument seemed imminent. The tuppence ha’penny scams directed at dopes like McCartney and all those other desperate middle-aged men with frigid wives just about covered the rent. But since Susie had been fired from The Balgarth for cheating the punters, things had been tougher. This was a potential retirement fund; a nest egg. Unfortunately, they hadn’t thought it through properly.
‘Ten grand is just bein’ fucken greedy, hen,’ said Benny. ‘We wrote a list, remember … telly, fridge, a week at Blackpool, somethin’ for the boys … the bookies.’
‘You didnae have tae suck a pile ae stinkin’ boabys, though did ye?’ She turned to Archie, taking control. ‘It’s ten grand. An’ ye’ve got a week tae get it!’
Some deductions could be made from this. That Susie Mackintosh was a Glasgow Corporation piranha. That Geordie McCartney wasn’t the only mark led penis-first into Susie and Benny’s honey trap. And that they – like everyone else in this freezing cold, brick-vaulted chamber – were totally and completely out of their depth.
‘What about Souness?’ asked Archie. He cared far less what happened to him, but since he’d been lifted from Archie’s flat, a strange form of collective responsibility enveloped him.
‘Who? The thumbs? He’s just extra security. If ye don’t dae whit ah’m gonnae tell ye tae dae, he’s headin’ fur the deep water in a bag wi’ nothin’ but a tonne ae bricks for company.’ Benny took his right hand and inverted the thumb, like a Roman emperor at the Colosseum.
‘Fuck sake.’ Archie sighed. He had enough problems without having to deal with these comedians.
‘Aye, fuck sake,’ echoed Benny. Believing he held all the aces.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! Jesus fucken Christ, man.’ The sudden terrifying noise from the other room visibly jolted both men. Susie Mackintosh hid it better.
‘Right. Whit’s yer plan, then?’ Archie was up the Clyde without a paddle-steamer; bent police and gangsters to the left of him, sexobsessed light entertainers to the right. Stuck here in the middle with Mr and Mrs Mackintosh.
‘The money, the fi— … the ten grand in used bank notes, In a suitcase. In a left-luggage locker at Central Station, by next Sunday … or the wee yin’ll be deid before the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special.’
‘Look, ye need tae listen, son. There’s nae prize money for the show. It’s just about the opportunities that come fae it. Where ah’m ah gonnae get ten grand, eh?’
‘Ah don’t fucken know, dae ah? That’s what you need tae work out. Aw ah care about is the dosh.’
Archie needed to get back to Wullie Wigwam. He’d know what to do. He was the type of gadgie who could have got off the Titanic by persuading some poor cunt to carve him a lifeboat out of fragments of the iceberg.
‘An’ one final thing. You go tae the polis an’ both ae them are gettin’ it, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Don’t get fucken fly, ya cunt. There’s other ways ah could’ve gone here.’
Benny Mackintosh ushered Archie towards the side door. He pushed it open. Through the gloom, Archie saw a bearded man hanging upside down from a meat hook by feet tied together with heavy rope. Bobby Souness. He was naked. Four large, angry red blotches pockmarked his dirty, pale skin; three on his torso and one on his thigh. A young man stood to the left-hand side holding a bag of American baseballs. He casually lobbed one to another man, who rattled it straight at the hanging man. It hit him right in the balls.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH! FUCKEN BAST— AAAAAAAHHHHHH!’
‘See that, Da? Ah’m gettin’ fucken good at this daft game. Have Scotland no’ got a national baseball team?’
‘Fuck sake,’ said Benny. ‘Dealin’ with fucken morons, here! Now he knows who you are tae!’
‘Sorry, Da!’ said the pitcher.
‘Jesus Christ!’ sighed Benny.
He pulled Archie back into the main shed. With the heavy door closed, Bobby Souness’s screams became muted whimpers.
‘Where’s Geordie?’ said Archie.
‘Never you mind that, pal!’ Archie turned to Susie.
‘So, yer dain’ it, right?’ asked Benny.
‘Look, there’s nae need for all that surely,’ said Archie, nodding backwards.
‘Just a bit ae harmless fun for the boys. Yer dain’ it?’
‘Aye.’ What else was there to say at this point? Archie needed to be somewhere else. ‘Aye. Right.’
Archie got up and left. Geordie McCartney would be tied to a heating pipe at Susie and Benny’s place, no doubt. He was sure their imagination would’ve stretched no further. He headed for an emergency meeting with The Wigwam. The rest of his mounting considerations would have to wait. At least the angular stair-rod rain had abated, and the sun was back out to play.
32
December 1976 – Friday
‘Where’s the big yin? That Manky cunt?’
Chib Charnley was annoyed. His loyalty to his boss was being sorely tested. He was being forced to trail around a city he didn’t know well and disliked more. His hip felt like it was making a play to burst out of its socket. And worst of all, he was being expected to shepherd six short-attention-span idiots – and a kilted ex-con – around the edges of their own individual social parameters. He fixed things, collected debts and occasionally threatened a battering or two. It had been a while since he’d administered one, but in doing this impromptu head count, he now desperately wanted to hand out six simultaneously.
‘Fuck knows. Haven’t seen him since the start ae the week. Marvin’s a free spirit; he does what he likes. He’s maybe got a burd,’ said Sledge.
‘What, in the space ae two days?’ said Chib.
‘Fuck sake, grandad. Lighten up, eh?’
Neither the boys nor Jimmy could remember the last time they’d seen Marvin. He’d been at the studio for the first show. Dobber had seen him heading outside with the young girl who brought trays of food to the green room. But he didn’t reappear after the recording, or when they’d all been preparing to leave. Chib questioned them further, but all he received in response was apathetic shrugs. Chib imagined taking all six of these disrespectful gadgies out with one rotational swing of his cane.
‘Switch that fucken telly off, an’ listen tae me,’ he ordered.
‘Gonnae just gie’s a wee minute,’ asked Sledge. ‘These guys are fucken brilliant. Let us watch it, eh?’
Chib Charnley breathed deeply. The tiny television set with the flickering picture showed a middle-aged man in a grey suit with a sheaf of papers, struggling to keep pace with eight youngsters all dressed like the Guy on Bonfire Night. The four in the front row were seated, the four behind standing. A potent mix of attitude and boredom. Their hair was outrageous, their language was atrocious. It was a live television interview and it was teatime. Chib focused and listened. Not much shocked him, but this did.
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