by Ian Todd
“Ah’m gonnae take that fat fucking blob ae lard oot wan ae these days. You mark ma words oan that,” he’d warned Tony, again sending everywan intae hysterics.
It hid taken them a couple ae hours tae figure oot whit the fuck Wan-bob hid been up tae. Even better, it hid been Pat that hid sussed oot whit the score wis, which hid been good, as it hid taken the sting oot ae his tail wae the new timetable.
“Ah’ve been telling youse knob-ends fur years, bit none ae youse wid bloody well listen,” Pat hid bragged wae his best angel face.
“And whit is that, Pat?” Jake, the first tae bite, hid asked him.
“That Ah’m the genius in this wee team, so Ah am,” he’d replied. “Withoot me, we widnae hiv goat this far,” he’d claimed, tae mair derisory hoots, foolishly trying tae hijack Wan-bob’s title fae they shoulders ae his.
“Look, they’ve replaced the auld lamp post wae a modern wan. It disnae look as good as the last wan, so it disnae,” Tony said, as three sets ae eyes followed his across tae the cross.
“Well, ye should’ve thought ae that before ye set the fucking thing oan fire then, shouldn’t ye,” Jake chided him.
“It wid’ve been made ae caste. The heat wid’ve goat tae it,” Tony mused. “We smashed up the auld wans fae the Rottenrow when we wur snappers and took them roond tae Roger The Dodger’s oan St James Road, the robbing prick.”
“So, where ur they then?” Jake wanted tae know, jist as the nose ae the silver Merc appeared in sight, crawling past the corner ae Govan Road and Water Row, where they wur parked up.
“Noo, listen up youse pair. Ben, you’re oan Papa and Jake’s oan Ruth. Try no and shoot each other while ye’re at it,” Tony reminded them.
“Aye, well, you jist try no tae stall the fucking bike, like ye did in the tunnel back there twice.”
“It’s the weight ae your fat arse that’s the problem. Fuck, Ah’d be gasping if Ah hid you sitting oan ma back, ya fat twat, ye,” Tony said tae laughter fae behind the scarves.
“Uh, oh…the auld prick must be desperate fur that shite ae his. Look,” Simon announced, nodding, as Papa McGregor and Victor Ruth exited the car early and walked between the cars oan tae the far pavement.
“Ah could go wae a wee roll and square sausage masel, so Ah could,” Jake said.
“Whit time is it, Simon?”
“Five past eight.”
“Right, we’ll gie them ten minutes.”
8.05 AM
“That wis Golden Earing wae ‘Radar Love’’ fur Edith McGill, doon there in the Calton, who also didnae receive a Valentine’s Card fae any ae the three guys she’s been seeing behind each others backs the past year. Edith telt me tae tell youse that ye’re aw dumped. She didnae gie me any names, bit said ye’d aw know who youse ur. Anyway, Edith, don’t worry, hen, there’s always next year. Meanwhile, there’s a box ae chocolates winging its way alang The Gallowgate tae ye. Ma name’s Jumping Jake Flasher, and ye’re listening tae Radio Clydeside oan medium wave two-five-wan and ninety-five-point-two FM. Remember, if you or a pal didnae receive a Valentine’s Day Card oan Saturday, then gie us a wee bell oan 041 331 4278, and if Ah call oot you or their name, live oan air, then there might be wee box ae oot ae date Cadbury’s Milk Tray chocolates heidin your way. Right, then, Ah’ll jist haun ye across tae Mr Traffic Jam himsel and find oot whit’s been happening oot there oan the Kingston Bridge this morning.”
“Aye, hellorerr listeners. It’s me, Donald Dingle, again, Britain’s number wan traffic correspondent. Jist a wee update oan the situation oan the Kingston Bridge. The polis hiv informed us that if ye don’t want tae be late getting tae yer work, then avoid The Kingston Bridge. It’s apparently bedlam doon there, so it is. So, youse hiv aw been warned. It’s a dangerous situation and aw cars are requested tae stay well clear ae the bridge if ye’re travelling north and east fae the south side ae the river. If ye don’t hiv tae travel intae the toon this morning, then please stay away. Chemicals equal bad, so don’t risk it. The Kingston Bridge is operating a single lane fur west bound traffic, bit everywan’s warned tae keep their windaes in the car shut. I’ll put ye back tae Jumping Jake Flasher and come back in a wee while and keep youse aw posted oan any updates.
8.10 AM
“Right, girls, let’s go,” Barbara Allen shouted through the loudhailer, as the marchers at the front moved forward as wan, waving their Anti-Violence Against Wummin placards.
She turned and led them in-between the stuck traffic, doon West George Street towards the city centre.
“Keep coming, girls. It’s jist a ploy by the polis tae interrupt oor peaceful demonstration, so it is,” she hollered back at them.
“Er, excuse me, hen, bit ye’re gonnae hiv tae call aff yer wee demo, so ye ur,” PC Jackie Hyde announced, coming towards her.
“Ye whit?”
“Aye, there’s a tanker overturned oan the Kingston Bridge, so there is. Aw the traffic’s been diverted,” his partner, PC Rodney Rose added, joining hauns wae his partner tae stoap the wummin’s progress.
“Listen, son, Ah eat wee daft boys like you fur ma breakfast, so Ah dae. If you don’t get oot ae oor road, Ah’m gonnae skelp they heids ae yours wae ma good placard, so Ah am,” Big Jessie McAlpine threatened them.
“Ah thought youse wur aw against violence?” PC Hyde challenged her.
“Only when it’s against wummin. Noo, step aside before it’s too late,” she warned them.
“Ah’m sorry, hen, bit we’ve been gied oor orders. This march is cancelled as ae noo. Come back another day, wance the roads urnae so busy…” PC Rose hid jist said, his erm up, right palm facing the wummin, when the pole ae the placard came crashing doon oan his napper and the wummin coming up behind The Purple Dove stepped o’er his sprawled body.
“Charlie Victor, ur ye receiving? Over. Officer doon oan West George Street. Repeat, officer doon oan West George Street. Over.”
“Charlie Pepper. State yer exact location, please. Repeat, state yer exact location. Over.”
“Er, jist north ae Blythswood Square. Over.”
“Is that towards the city centre?”
“Aye.”
“Okay, Charlie Pepper. An ambulance is oan its way. It should be wae ye in approximately four minutes. Over and oot.”
8.15 AM
Papa McGregor grunted tae himsel, chuffed at his perfect timing, as he slid the folded Glesga Echo fae between the stump ae his missing erm and slung it oan tae the table between the two auld jakeys who wur sitting eating their toast. Tommy hid jist arrived at the windae table wae the two tea plates, each containing two well fired rolls and a slice ae Wallace’s finest square sausage peeking oot fae between them. He hesitated mid-step, ever so slightly, before that arse ae his let rip wae a clap ae thunder.
“Ur ye sure ye’re no a wee bit premature there, Papa?” Victor Ruth asked fae the far end ae the cafe, as the auld couples and workmen sitting at the tables showed their appreciation by either giggling modestly or guffawing, depending oan whit sex they belonged tae.
“Aye, ye won’t be getting much change oot ae they drawers ae yers the day, Papa,” auld Maggie Duff drawled, enhancing the quality ae the merriment in the cafe.
“There ye go, lads. Two big mugs ae the finest stewed tea this side ae the Clyde,” Tommy announced, laying the mugs doon before returning tae behind the coonter tae serve up the next order, as the thundering roar ae the motorbikes ootside startled everywan.
“Is that no fucking bang oot ae order?” Papa growled. “Why kin the basturts no wait in the bloody effing traffic like everywan else, insteid ae trying tae run o’er poor pedestrians oan the pavement?”
“Shit!” Victor Ruth screeched wae fright, diving heid first aff his seat oan tae the flair, quickly scurrying oan his hauns and knees between the legs ae the people sitting nearest tae the two gangsters, as wan ae the gunmen stood wae his feet apart and fired two shots in quick succession at Papa McGregor’s startled expression, efter crashing in through the door.
The first bullet entered his eye socket, obliterating the back ae his skull, sending bloody bone and brain fragments across the auld Whyte and McKay Scotch Whisky framed advert, that wis hinging up oan the wall above his heid, the bullet blasting a hole in the plasterwork efter exiting the back ae his skull. The second bullet entered his gaping shocked mooth, as his tongue and the back ae they molars ae his joined the fragmented latham plaster framework, that wis noo exposed behind the plasterwork ae the wall. Meanwhile, confusion reigned, as Jake McAlpine screamed at people tae get the fuck oot ae his way, as he pursued Victor Ruth, kicking the auld wooden tables and chairs oot ae his way as they wur still being hurriedly vacated by their occupants, sending plates and mugs ae tea flying and crashing in aw directions.
“Mammydaddy! Mammydaddy! Mammydaddy!” Victor Ruth, the Govan hard-man, the same hard man that hid gied the orders tae waste Peter Paterson and Snappy Johnston, screamed in terror, as the tap ae his heid thumped against the wall at the far end ae the café tae the right ae the lavvy door, while the café’s patrons continued tae scream in terror, fighting wae each other tae get as close tae the coonter oan wan side and the fake pine wallpaper ae the wall oan the other.
“Right, ya basturt, ye. Gerrup!” Jake shouted at him, efter flipping the table he wis crouching under oan tae its side.
“Oh God! Mammydaddy! Please, sir, it wisnae me, honest!” Ruth howled in terror.
“Ah said, get fucking up, ya basturt, ye!”
“Ah don’t want tae die Mr…honest!”
“Right, that’s it,” Jake growled, bending o’er and taking a firm grip ae Ruth’s thick, unkempt hair, before physical dragging him screaming in fear back alang the strewn flair towards where Ben wis staunin, taking everything in. “Gie’s a haun here.”
Between the two ae them, in a flurry ae kicks and hits wae the butts ae the guns aboot the heid and body, they goat Victor Ruth up oan his feet, hauf lounging, screaming in fear, trying tae cling oan tae the slippery surface ae the worn Formica topped coonter, pishing and shiting himsel, opposite his boss’s lifeless body, that wis noo sitting, sprawled, wae its heid bent backwards under the bloody mess oan the wall.
“That’s better,” Jake panted, quickly looking aboot, before firing point blank intae Victor Ruth’s face, the force ae the bullet slamming the body against the side ae the coonter, while the back ae his heid sent the heavy till sitting oan tap ae it flying o’er the edge, scattering coins and notes everywhere, before he crumpled doon oan tae the flair beneath them.
“Hiv ye no furgoatten something?” Ben asked him sarcastically.
“Naw, you dae that while Ah grab these,” Jake replied, brushing past Ben, tae pick up Papa’s two untouched rolls and sausage, as his partner bent o’er and shot Victor Ruth through his right temple wae a .38 bullet.
“Whit the fuck kept youse?” Simon shouted, hivving awready wheeled the motorbike roond tae face the direction they’d come fae.
“Here ye go, don’t furget this,” Jake shouted tae Ben, quickly haunin o’er wan ae the rolls tae him, as he leapt oan tae the back ae the bike, using the serrated fit peg at the back wheel behind Simon as a springboard, a millisecond before baith bikes roared aff in the opposite direction fae each other, sending pedestrians scattering in their wake.
8.20 AM
“Calling aw cars and foot patrols in the vicinity ae Govan Cross. There’s been a report ae a shooting in or near The West Café. Repeat. A shooting in or near The West Café oan Govan Road. Over.”
“Victor Blue, are ye receiving? Over.”
“Victor Blue receiving, Tam.”
“Masel and PC Malone ur jist making oor way oan foot up Greenhaugh Road towards Govan Road,” Sergeant Tam McBride panted intae his radio. “We should be there in under a minute. Over.”
“That’s fine, Tam. Could ye let us know the situation wance ye arrive? Over.”
8.25 AM
“Christ, look!” Slipper, The Glesga Echo’s crime photographer shouted o’er the sound ae the car horns, as the other milling hacks and TV crews aw spun roond.
Jist crossing Jocelyn Square, before the city mortuary, Wan-bob Broon and Charlie Hastie wur casually strolling towards the front steps ae The High Court, accompanied by two big bizzies. Between each pair ae walkers, whit looked tae be polis jaickets wur hinging, smothering the hauncuffs that wur attached tae the wrists.
“Morning, boys,” Wan-bob hailed everywan, sounding unusually jolly, as Charlie scowled at the faces behind the clicking ae the cameras.
“Mr Broon, how dae ye feel aboot yer trial starting the day?”
“Nice day fur it,” Wan-Bob replied.
“Hiv ye been oot oan bail, Mr Broon?”
“Where hiv ye come fae, Mr Broon?”
“Wur ye caught up in this traffic jam?”
“Move aside, please,” Sergeant Skulk ordered, pushing the reporters aside, as he steered a path through the throng wae his free erm.
The jostling hacks tripped o’er themsels, shouting questions, as the big double doors at the tap ae the steps loomed up in front ae them.
“Slipper, c’mere…come closer,” Charlie hissed tae the wee photographer, as he leaned away fae his escort.
“Aye, Charlie?”
“You tell these roaches that if they write any nonsense aboot us, then heid’s will be fucking rolling, so they will.”
8.26 AM
“Okay, everywan. That wis Johnny Cash wae ‘Wan Piece At A Time,’ which didnae cost him a dime, the thieving toe-rag. So, who didnae receive a Valentine’s card this year? Aye, Ah’m talking aboot aw youse oot there, so Ah mur. We’re no getting many calls fae the guys this morning, so it must’ve been a good year fur the boys in the Valentine card stakes, which is mair than Ah kin say fur Angela Fordyce, up there in Acrehill Street, Blackhill. Angela, whose boyfriend works in the local scrap-yard, said she didnae get a card this year, bit she couldnae gie a toss, because her boyfriend gied her a big love bite oan the side ae that neck ae hers oan Saturday night and she says that that’s worth mair than a crappy wee card, any day ae the week, so it is. Well, who am Ah tae argue wae that, eh? Ma name’s Jumping Jake Flasher, and ye’re listening tae Radio Clydeside oan medium wave two-five-wan and ninety-five-point-two FM. There’s a classy box ae oot ae date chocolates winging its way alang the Garngad towards Blackhill fur wee Angela, fur her and her boyfriend tae celebrate, efter he gied Angela a big love-bite insteid ae a card. Who said that romance is dead, eh? Remember, if you or a pal didnae receive a Valentine’s Day card oan Saturday, then gie us a wee bell oan 041 331 4278, and if Ah call oot your or their name, live oan air, then there might be wee box ae oot ae date Cadbury’s Milk Tray chocolates heidin your way. Right then. Ah’ll jist haun ye across tae Mr Traffic Jam himsel and find oot whit’s happening wae the traffic situation her in the toon.”
“Aye, hellorerr everywan. It’s me, Donald Dingle again, the world’s worst harbinger ae bad news. In a nutshell, it’s total chaos oot there, so it is. Aw traffic within a five-mile radius ae the toon centre his ground tae a halt, so it his. The polis hiv informed us that it’s a dangerous situation and that aw cars are requested tae stay well clear ae the Kingston Bridge if ye’re travelling north and east fae the west. Also, the underground is really busy noo, so avoid if ye kin. Ah’ll put ye back tae Jumping Jake Flasher and come back in a wee while and keep youse aw posted oan any updates.
8.27 AM
“Victor Blue. Victor Blue, ur ye receiving. Over?”
“Victoria Blue receiving. Go ahead, Tam. Over.”
“There’s two bodies in the café. Baith males. Wan looks tae be still breathing. We need an ambulance urgently. Repeat. Ambulance required urgently. Suspects, male. Believed tae be oan two motorbikes wae pillions oan the back. Wan bike, make unknown, black wae red markings, last seen heiding up Helen Street in the direction ae Paisley Road West, although Ah suspect it’s the Clyde Tunnel they’re heidin fur. The other bike, make unknown, green wae purple marking, heided
south towards Tradeston and the Gorbals. Over.”
“Okay, Tam, goat it. Ambulance should be wae ye shortly. We’ll alert Acting Inspector Tiny McCall and Sergeant Buster McQueen fae the south’s murder squad. Ye widnae hiv an ID oan the victims, by any chance? Over.”
“Wan’s definitely Papa McGregor. The other, who looks tae be still breathing, unidentified at this stage. Over.”
Silence.
“Did you jist ID the fatality as Papa McGregor, Tam? Over,” the radio crackled.
“How many wan ermed auld basturts dae you know who regularly turn up at The West Café every morning roond aboot eight o’clock? Over.”
“Fuck!”
“We’re securing the area and taking statements fae eye-witnesses. There’s a lot ae bystanders milling aboot alang here. We need reinforcements tae stoap contamination ae the crime scene. Over.”
8.28 AM
“Calling aw mobile units. This is Victor Blue. Fatal shooting jist took place aroond eight fifteen AM… approximately eight minutes ago, across at The West Café oan Govan Road. Four male suspects believed to be oan two motorbikes. Wan’s heidin in the direction ae Paisley Road West or the Clyde Tunnel. The other’s heidin towards Tradeston and the Gorbals. Believed tae be armed and dangerous. Repeat. Believed tae be armed and dangerous. Central notified and co-ordinating armed response team. All visual IDs tae report via Central, call sign Alpha Blue Wan. Repeat. Call sign Alpha Blue Wan. Repeat. Armed and Dangerous. Call sign Alpha Blue Wan. South’s murder squad heidin tae the scene. Over.”
8.29 AM
“Oh, ye made it. Thank Christ,” Lizzie Mathieson said tae Senga, sounding relieved.
“Ah’ve hid tae walk aw the way fae Great Western Road, so Ah hiv. Ah wis oan a bus, bit efter fifteen minutes ae sitting stationary in the traffic, Ah jist asked the driver tae let me aff. Whit’s happening here?”
“They’ve jist came through and said the trial won’t start until twelve. There’s a lorry stuck oan the Kingston Bridge seemingly, that’s causing traffic jams. Hauf the witnesses hivnae turned up.”
“Aw the Crown witnesses oan the Monday ae that poor Lesley Bare’s trial last week wur telt tae go hame and come back the next day,” a wummin Senga didnae recognise reminded them. “Talk aboot being organised? Ah’ve hid tae take time aff ma work tae be here, so Ah hiv.”