How did I get caught? Well, it was mental.
I could have run, but my pockets were full of money and so we were walking along when a police van drove up to us. It was a routine stop, so I said to myself: no need to run. The cheques and a lot of the money were safely out of the way. OK, I had £180 in my pocket, but in those days it was up to the police to prove that the money was stolen – you didn’t have to show where it had come from. So the police searched me, found the cash and asked where it had come from. I told them I’d been saving it up, but unfortunately they decided not to believe me or my friend. Next thing, they put us in the van and took us to Baird Street police station.
The police took me up to the first level. There were four of them, all holding the old-fashioned black truncheons, and they just began hammering my legs as I was made to stand. This wasn’t the first time I’d encountered police brutality, but this particular time they really gave me a good hiding. I knew they only had six hours to get anything out of me before the law ruled that because of my age I had to be charged or released. And they knew that, too. So for six hours I didn’t say a word. Eventually, they locked me in a cell.
They did the same to my mate. He came from a well-known Barmulloch family and they got stuck into him too, giving him similar treatment. To his credit, he held out for about five hours, but then he gave in and said we had screwed the car, stashed all the money and the Provvy cheques, thousands of pounds worth. For good measure, after he had broken, the police came back down into the cells, took me back again and set about me once more with truncheons.
I have told this story to ex-servicemen I know who are now policemen, and I’m sure they believe me, but they still tell me that it wouldn’t happen now. But I wonder. The fact was that this beating was just one of many. I used to get hammered all the time.
The outcome in this instance, however, was that I was charged with fraud. Everything, the cheques and cash, had been recovered and when it went to court I was fined £15 and told to pay £40 for breaking the car window.
Three months later I was back in court, this time Glasgow Sheriff Court, accused of a break-in at a shop. I was fined £20 and ordered to pay compensation. I used to defend myself, but it was never any use. You got the feeling that even before any of the evidence had been heard, a guilty decision had already been made.
That was also the case when I was accused of mobbing and rioting. It all started off in the aftermath of the 1981 riots in Brixton and the Toxteth area of Liverpool. In Brixton, the trouble had been caused when a crowd felt the police were not getting medical help fast enough for a black youth who had been stabbed. Three months later, in July, long-standing ill feeling between the local community in Toxteth and the police reached boiling point. The result was an outbreak of mob violence.
In both cases, gangs who would normally have been battering each other joined together and set about attacking anybody or anything they felt had any association with the police or authority. It was a case of if you weren’t with them, then they took it that you were against them. The media had a field day and there were pages and pages of dramatic coverage in the newspapers. What the rioters really loved was the fact that television cameras followed every petrol bomb, brick and burnt-out car. The troublemakers revelled in their moment of glory.
Naturally, once the footage appeared on national television, others elsewhere decided to get in on the act. There were outbreaks of lawlessness across the country, mainly in areas of cities where there was high unemployment. In Toxteth, the trouble was ignited by two things: the loss of thousands of jobs at the docks due to containerisation, and strong-arm tactics by the police in the arrest of a black man. Elsewhere trouble kicked off simply because young men had nothing else to do and fancied a bit of excitement.
After the Brixton Riots in April, it was as if young people just waited until the summer months and then, out of sheer boredom, decided to try getting themselves on television again. There was more rioting the following year, although not on the same scale as 1981, but one of the spots where there was trouble was Glasgow. Sometimes it was no more than a crowd gathering to taunt the police, who retaliated by indiscriminately arresting anybody who happened to be in the area at the time of the bother. I know, because I was one of the victims and, for me, the consequences could have been dire.
With Mick Kenna and a few of my mates, I wandered over to Wester Common flats, where trouble had kicked off. It was just a case of the wee mob rioting. We were curious to see what happened and had even taken a carryout with us. I can honestly say we had no intention of getting involved – as far as we were concerned, we were only there to watch and maybe have a bit of fun. We didn’t want to get into trouble and, in fact, I remember thinking we were beyond all that, even though we were only in our mid-teens. I had left school while we were all making money from a variety of enterprises and we would have been crazy to do something stupid that could have got us arrested and stopped us earning. But when the police came along – twice – and said, ‘Right, you mob move on,’ we felt they were picking on us. We were doing nothing wrong. Maybe it was because we were older, or maybe it was approaching their tea break and they fancied getting back to the police station and needed an excuse in the form of having to take prisoners with them. Whatever it was, next thing they seemed to be saying to themselves, ‘Right, let’s lift the nearest ones we can find.’ And that’s exactly what they did.
We were standing doing absolutely nothing when they drove up alongside us. Out jumped five policemen and lifted seven of us. ‘In you get,’ they told us.
We were pushed into a police van and taken off. Before I knew it, we were all charged with a breach of the peace, and mobbing and rioting. When it eventually went to court, I was charged with a breach of the peace. I pleaded not guilty and tried to defend myself, but at 16 you are not going to get anywhere, so I was convicted.
In all honesty, we did nothing wrong. I was asked what I intended to do with my life and said I was going to join the army. Of course, anyone could say that to make him sound impressive and so the bench decided to see if I was telling the truth. The sentence was deferred for a year – I would have to go back and if I didn’t turn up in uniform, I’d be for it.
These early experiences have made me sceptical – not just about the police, but about the justice system in general. A minor conviction like this can have a lasting effect and close doors to potential opportunities. I had committed no crime but because there were seven policemen against me I had no chance. In their version I was the troublemaker, so I was deemed to be one. Worse was that it would be on my record for the rest of my life, all because of something petty. What happens when it comes to serious things? People get fitted up just because the police think they might be guilty and worry that without additional evidence they won’t get a result. I know of many cases where men have gone to prison to serve life sentences for crimes they have not committed. These things follow you for the rest of your life. Forget all this Rehabilitation of Offenders Act. Once you have been convicted of even the most minor offence, even if you are innocent, and later you want to try and turn your life around by joining one of the armed services, the police, the prison service or whatever, don’t bother. One strike and you are out forever. In deprived areas of Glasgow such as Possil, Springburn, Castlemilk and Easterhouse, I think the police and others, certainly in the 1980s and possibly these days, simply see all those young boys with no job and nothing to do as scum, lowlifes, and if they can get some of them off the streets, then who cares? Nobody cares. That’s the way I believe they saw it. I still feel sad looking back on it all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Despite my troubles, Angie was never far from my thoughts. One day, as I was standing at Saracen Cross, a face I recognised from the past walked by. I realised right away who it was: Adam Scullion, Angie’s brother. I knew he stayed in Galloway Street, so I used the excuse of asking how things were in our old stomping ground to get talking to him and then turned th
e conversation to his sister.
Angie was 18 months my senior and I knew she felt she was too old for me. Such a difference is much more noticeable at that age than when you get older, and she had tried setting me up on dates with her school pals. None of them really interested me; my heart was set on Angie. Adam told me she was working in a chemist’s shop in Bishopbriggs. He said if I went to see her, she might slip me some uppers or downers. Needless to say, this wasn’t the case, but then Adam had been known to be a bit of a storyteller in his time. It didn’t bother me, though. Just the fact that he had mentioned her name and where she was got me wondering how she was keeping. I persuaded Mick Kenna to go with me to Bishopbriggs and, sure enough, when I got there and found the shop I could see Angie through the window. She was beautiful, but I was too scared to go inside and so I persuaded Mick to try breaking the ice.
Angie remembers that she saw Mick and me outside talking, and then Mick coming in and asking if she was Angie. For a laugh, she told him she was called Sharleen. Mick wasn’t sure, so came outside. I knew she’d told a fib, so we just hung around outside the shop until she eventually came out and asked us to move on. I couldn’t refuse – by that time, I was head over heels in love with her and knew I would see her again, one way or another.
* * *
When school broke up for Easter in 1982, I knew I would not be going back. The time had come for me to leave and decide what I wanted to do with my life. As far as I was concerned, I had made that decision a long time ago. I was going to join the army.
Just a few days before I left school, Argentine forces had invaded the Falkland Islands in the South Atlantic. Stories and photographs of troops landing on the Falklands and a tiny British Army force having to surrender filled the newspapers and dominated television channels. It was an event I followed with avid interest. I kept wishing I had been older so I could have joined the task force sent to overthrow the invaders. The Argentine forces were no match for our own, but by the time they surrendered on 14 June and the Falklands, South Georgia and South Sandwich Islands returned to British control, 255 British and 649 Argentine soldiers, sailors and airmen had lost their lives, along with three civilian Falklanders. I did not know it then, but the Falkland Islands would loom large in my life.
While my heart had been set on joining up long before that war, the dispute, with its dangers and excitement, had given me an extra buzz; however, because of my age, I knew my application papers would have to be signed by my mum. And that would be easier said than done. My oldest brother, James, had been in the army, but things hadn’t worked out for him and he had left. Mum had been upset by this and would have her heart set against another of her sons going down the same route. I would have about a year to wait, in any case, which would give me time to work on her.
For the meantime, I was put on a government Youth Training Scheme, YTS. I worked as a welder at Hawthorn workshops off Balmore Road and loved it. I was 16 and getting to meet all sorts of people from different schemes across Glasgow. It meant I could go into the schemes and do whatever I wanted, getting to know more people all the time. I would go partying in places like Ruchill. The guy training me was ex-army. He knew I wanted to join up and was forever encouraging me.
One of the girls who worked with me had also gone to my school. Her boyfriend was Robert Fleck, who was a few months older than me and was about to become a star striker for Glasgow Rangers and Scotland. He scored 29 goals for the Gers in 85 games before being transferred to Norwich City. He came down to meet her every day. His younger brother, Alan, had been in the same class as me, and Alan’s boy John now plays for Rangers. I knew the Flecks well but would be disappointed by something that happened when I met Robert a few years later.
Being on the YTS was good because it meant I was earning legitimate money. It was only £25 a week, mind you, so I had to subsidise my income with some turns. But even better was the fact that I could now afford to go into the Brothers bar on Saracen Street. Even though it was in the middle of Posso, it was one of the most popular pubs in Glasgow, but make no mistake it had more than its fair share of tough customers. A few years later Birdman O’Hara staggered in there, near death, after being the victim of a drive-by shooting.
At weekends young people from all over the city headed to the Brothers. I would often join them, but I had to keep on my toes. As I was getting older, I was becoming a police target more and more. I knew I had to get into the army as soon as possible before it was prison.
I went to the army careers office in Glasgow to begin the process, but initially there were a couple of obstacles – Mum’s reluctance to sign the papers and my weight.
As long as I was under 18, I would need her consent. I could have waited until 1984 but believed I might have blotted my copybook too much by then, so I pestered her. Initially, she refused, having preconceived ideas that I would not be able to cope. She kept mentioning James, who had been based in Ballykinler in Northern Ireland but had spent a stretch in the glasshouse, leaving her to try to resolve and deal with the problems resulting from his imprisonment and ultimate departure from the army. I think she assumed that would happen to me, but I knew differently. I remember explaining to her, ‘Look, Mum. I’ve been lifted a couple of times by the police and there’s nothing for me here, so I just want to get away, give myself a chance to stay out of prison.’ It worked because after a time she agreed to sign the necessary forms.
I was five foot two and weighed eight stone, half a stone under the minimum needed to enlist. I did serious training, started boxing and was really fit, but you can imagine my horror when I went for my army medical and failed because I was still underweight. So I set about beefing up.
My determination to get fitter, stronger and bigger did not curtail my visits to the Brothers bar, where two of my favourite acts were Scheme and the Radio Clyde DJ Mr Superbad. His real name was Freddie Mack. He had grown up on a cotton plantation in South Carolina and one of his friends was the world heavyweight boxing champion Floyd Patterson, who had encouraged Freddie to take up the sport. And he did, with so much courage and skill as a light heavyweight that he reached No. 3 in the world rankings. He turned to acting after meeting Richard Burton and got a job in Cleopatra as one of the slaves who carried Elizabeth Taylor’s sedan chair around. When he moved to Britain, he landed an acting part in Taggart and became a rhythm and blues singer, then in 1979 moved to Glasgow with his wife Jan and became a disc jockey. He was a really well-liked guy and his gigs were always packed.
We youngsters were capable of looking after ourselves, but there was one person who had us all petrified at the time. Legal reasons prevent me from mentioning his name, though he has been in prison for a long time. He was known to cruise the streets of Posso and Maryhill looking for young good-looking guys he could take away and do whatever he wanted with, whether they liked it or not. Some of them were my friends, and none of them liked what happened but they were too scared to say anything to anyone. Everyone knew, though, that as soon as you saw him or his car you should make a fast escape. I personally never had any dealings with him, but some of the stories that came back to us either first or second hand were frightening; they made you watch what you said, and where you went, in case you were next. Maybe the fact that Tam, Pawny and me tended to stick together and we had a reputation for not allowing anyone to mess us about saved us from this man.
One of the questions the army had asked when I applied to join was whether I had any convictions. Of course I had, but I was so desperate to become a soldier that I said nothing about them, hoping nobody would find out. I was sure that had I been truthful I would have been rejected, so I decided there was no need to let anyone know about my past problems. What would I have done had the army found out there and then that I had a criminal record and turned me down? Someone suggested I might have tried joining the police. Well, there would be one occasion when I made an approach about becoming a police officer, but at the age of 16, living in the east end of Glasg
ow, such a prospect was never going to become a reality.
Next, I had to wait until I could pass the medical. I think the guy in charge at the careers office got fed up with me because I regularly rang up and asked, ‘Can I come up and get weighed? I think I’ve put on the half stone.’ Of course, I hadn’t. I couldn’t believe it. I had even started eating porridge!
I was elated the day I went along, stood on the scales and was told, ‘Congratulations, Shannon! You have finally made eight and a half stone.’
Now I was ready to take the Oath of Allegiance, doing so in a fairly informal ceremony in which I promised ‘I, Alex Shannon, swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, her heirs and successors, and that I will, as in duty bound, honestly and faithfully defend Her Majesty, her heirs and successors in person, crown and dignity against all enemies and will observe and obey all orders of Her Majesty, her heirs and successors, and of the generals and officers set over me.’ That done, I took the Queen’s shilling, although I think it was a fiver in those days. Formalities completed, I waited to be given a joining-up date.
* * *
While all this was going on, to my astonishment one night Angie came to see me. I was like putty in her hands, and she knew it.
She had begun visiting my mum’s house at the end of the night with a few of her pals for a few drinks and we would talk for hours about everyday things, like what we had been doing over the previous few days. I was too shy to let her know how I felt, and as 1982 wore on I had another problem. Two warrants had been issued for me in respect of unpaid fines. If I was arrested, it would almost certainly end my chances with the army, so I went back off to Springburn to lie low and stay with my dad. It meant I was unable to get to see my mates or Angie as much as I would have liked. Then, to make matters worse, she met someone she really liked in the Brothers bar. It turned out to be one of my mates and she was fairly serious about him, but heroin was taking over his life. He was already a part-time addict. I knew he was stringing her along – he had a few girls on the go at the same time and I was sure Angie didn’t see what he was up to. I couldn’t get involved, though. To do so would have appeared selfish on my part, and it was more than likely that I would have done or said something out of jealousy. I decided I had to let things take their course, but I tried to let her know I was there for her if she ever needed me.
The Underworld Captain: From Gangland Goodfella To Army Officer Page 7