They had a punt every week hoping their lives would be changed by a big win. Besides as the cliché goes, you’ve got to be in it to win it.
Johnny joined the syndicate with ten other labourers and for five months he moaned every week to the other labourers that it looked like a waste of money and would have preferred to have spent his cash on beer. But one Irish labourer gave him confidence, shouting to him as they dug a deep hole, “Don’t worry Johnny boy, our day will come. Just wait and see!”
A few weeks later he was about to give up on the pools syndicate when the foreman of the site rushed into the hut and shouted, “Boys we’ve won the jackpot! It’s no’ gonnae be millions or anything near that but it’s a few bob for the lot of us!” In the event they had won £20,000, £2,000 each. Johnny threw his shovel to the ground and never went back to the building site again. “Fuck that for a lark,” he thought.
He gave some of his pals a “bung”, bought his mother some nice clothes and treated his brother to a pile of Superman comics. But overall, he was careful with his money and told very few people about the pools win. He placed his new-found wealth in The Royal Bank of Scotland near George Square. He would never have placed his winnings in the Gorbals branch in Crown Street as that would have let the cat out of the bag.
The win meant that he could lead a comparatively comfortable lifestyle without having to dig holes. But he was shrewd, he also signed on the dole, pretending to look for work and a giro cheque arrived at his door every two weeks – this was his beer money and stopped him delving into his savings.
When his giro money was spent, he would sneak in the city centre to make discreet withdrawals.
As he sat in the public gallery for yet another day of the High Court farce he thought the pools win had been lucky for him in more ways than one. It meant he secretly had enough money to avoid taking part in capers like the failed robbery. But when he looked at the poor bastards in the dock, he realised they did not have that choice. To him all the crime talk had been bullshit. Money talks, bullshit walks.
The fat QC announced, “I would like to call the next witness for the prosecution. Mr Edward Driscoll.”
“Bastard!” Johnny murmured. Even a brick through the guy’s window had not put him off being a grass. Driscoll appeared in the dock looking very much like a retired respectable businessman, grey suit, shirt and tie and was wearing intellectual looking glasses that made him look far more intelligent than he really was. The clothes did not fool the public gallery, people saw him for what he really was – a grass in a suit.
QC, “Mr Driscoll can you please describe the events to us what exactly happened on the day of the robbery?”
Driscoll, “Well I was walking past Gorbals Cross when I saw an old Jewish guy carrying a large bag. Next minute, a gang of four guys ran over and tried to take the bag from him. They were all wearing balaclavas and gloves. The old guy put up a fight and grabbed a couple of the robbers. Then one of them pulled out a revolver and shot him. They ran off and jumped into a speeding car.”
QC “Do you see any of these men here?”
Driscoll looked over the dock and hesitated, “I can’t say for certain as the robbers were wearing balaclavas and it was a dull day and my eyesight is no’ what is was.”
Johnny realised that Driscoll was being economical with the truth – he had initially told police he had “seen couple of faces” but now he was reversing the story. The QC and the police looked annoyed. Driscoll had changed his story at the last minute. It got even better, under further questioning he said because of his age he was having “memory lapses” and could barely remember the day of the robbery.
The young counsel made mincemeat of him and by the end of the questioning he looked like a shattered man.
Driscoll had realised at a late stage that by telling the truth he would have written his own suicide note. The brick through the window had worked!
Agatha McFadden was next up, she looked even more nervous and worried than Driscoll. She told the same story and said she could not verify that the men in the dock were the robbers.
QC, “You said in an initial police interview you would have no problem identifying the men. Why has this changed, have you been got at?”
Agatha McFadden never mentioned she had been attacked by big Bella and replied meekly, “No it’s just that it seems a long time ago and at my age it is hard to recall things with clarity. I’m no spring chicken and my memory isn’t as sharp as when I was younger.” Buying big Bella a few large glasses of cheap wine had been a good investment.
But the prosecution had a surprise in store- another witnesses popped up without any warning. She was Betty Blogger, a 60-year-old woman from Govanhill who had been passing by Gorbals Cross when the robbery took place. She told then court she was on her way to visit her daughter, who lived in Thistle Street, when she saw the robbers.
QC “Tell me this Mrs Blogger. Can you see any of the men here today?”
“Aye,” she replied, “when they jumped into the getaway car, I could see two faces. The face of the guy who had the gun and the face of the driver.”
The QC gave a smile of delight, “Do you see these two men in the dock?”
At first, she pointed to Joe McCoy, “That fella was the gunman.”
Next, she pointed to Sam McGlinchy, “And that fellow was the driver.”
At this McCoy who had showed no emotion during the trial turned white, in turn Sam McGlinchy turned into (like the song) a whiter shade of pale.
But all was not lost when the young counsel took over. He argued that the day was so gloomy, dark and rainy, it would have been impossible to recognise somebody accurately.
He asked Mrs Blogger, “Would you say you have perfect eyesight?”
Mrs Blogger, “Well, I don’t wear glasses but my eyesight is almost perfect. I can get a bit of eye strain now and again because I watch telly all the time. Especially Coronation Street.”
The young counsel was amused, “Coronation Street? A fine soap opera. So, you know all the main characters?”
Mrs Blogger replied confidently, “Of course I do, I watch every episode without fail. It’s my hobby”
Johnny, the public gallery, and the boys in the dock were confused. What the hell was the counsel doing talking about Coronation Street? Had he suddenly lost his marbles? The counsel asked the judge to “adjourn for half an hour” so he could pick up “vital new evidence”.
He then rushed out of the High Court in the pouring rain, still wearing his wig and gown, and returned 20 minutes later, soaking wet, clutching a magazine.
The trial resumed. Mrs Blogger was back in the witness stand.
Counsel, “Mrs Blogger before the short adjournment you said you were an avid fan of Coronation Street and knew all the characters. Is that not true?”
Mrs Blogger, “Yes, I am a big fan”
Suddenly the young counsel, who was standing about 30 feet from her, ripped a page out of the magazine, which had a large picture on it and said, “Who is this?”
Mrs Blogger squinted her eyes, thought for a moment, and said, “It looks a bit like Ena Sharples.”
The counsel gave out a bellowing laugh, “No Mrs Blogger, it is Elsie Tanner. I have grave doubts about your eyesight. No more questions.” (At the time in Coronation Street, Elsie Tanner was a glamorous sex symbol and Ena Sharples was a grumpy old pensioner.)
The case was adjourned until the next day and things were looking up for the boys. Johnny left the court and once again Cathy was standing across the road, outside of the gate at the Glasgow Green but this time she was smiling and holding a piece of paper in her hand. They both walked through the park and the birds were whistling in the trees. She handed Johnny the piece of paper, it was the telegram from Donegal, “Here for a wee vacation…” Cathy said, “Oh Johnny ah’m so happy ma father is safe and sound in Donegal and he’ll be back when the heat is off.”
Johnny felt guilty but put on an air of confidence that would bols
ter her hopes for the future, “There’s an old saying. Everything will be ok in the end. And if it’s not ok… it’s not the end.”
Chapter 12
SLUMS
He was living in strange times. The Gorbals had stood for hundreds of years but the publication of No Mean City in 1935 had led to it being castigated all over the world for its poverty, slums, drunkenness and violence.
The international media would often descend on the place describing in lurid detail, in some stories, how thirteen people lived in one tiny single end and even had rats running through their houses. The razor gangs, the slums, were all part and parcel of the picture that was painted. The articles often described the Gorbals as hell on earth. It was the 1970s, man had landed on the moon in 1969, but it seemed local people lived like the inhabitants from the Victorian age or a third world country.
By the age of 21 Johnny had seen it all, the drunks, the razor gangs, the slums the poverty, but in his mind it had all been magnified out of proportion. Of course the Gorbals was not hell on earth but neither was it heaven. It was the only place he knew, the only place where he felt at home, the only place where he could communicate effectively with other people.
The Gorbals he experienced was different from the one portrayed in the media. Of course, there were the slums but there was also grand magnificent buildings as well, comparable with those in posh Edinburgh. As far as he saw it, there was poverty, crime and drunkenness but surely every city in Britain had these problems?
The difficulty was the Gorbals had become the star of the dystopian show. He thought of an old joke his father had told him: A guy dies and wakes up the looks around. There are crumbling tenements everywhere. He says,” Ah never thought that Heaven would look like the Gorbals.” And a loud voice replies, “Who said this was Heaven? This is hell!”
By the early 1970s the area was being torn apart with many slums being demolished. Local MP Frank McElhone, had stood in the Commons and described in a dramatic fashion, the horrors of living in such a place. The authorites had listened to such voices and decided to tear the place down, dispersing thousands of people from the tenement buildings to vast soulless housing estates like Castlemilk or Househillwood. The planning was dire for such neighbourhoods. Around 100,000 people were given new houses in Castlemilk, there was a lack of amenities and not even one pub. It was much the same story in Househillwod, a leafy green area with hardly any amenities.
Many displaced people felt conned, nothing would ever replicate the atmosphere and community that existed in the Gorbals. Of course, there were plenty of bad guys but there were plenty of good guys. Johnny thought of himself as a good guy, but he had no hesitation in becoming a bad guy, and use violence, if need be.
It was part of the Gorbals unwritten rule – some people only understand violence when it comes to putting them right. It was strange days, strange times for the Gorbals and its rapidly declining population. Johnny walked along Crown Street and saw an old woman and a priest coming in his direction. He recognised them straight away. It was Mrs Brenda McGinty and her priest son Tony. He had known them for years.
Tony had been at primary school with him and both had been altar boys. The father at the time encouraged Tony to become a priest, and he did so with great evangelical gusto. He was with a parish on the other side of Glasgow. Johnny secretly admired him and all the good charity work he had done. They had similar backgrounds but both had taken different paths through life. Tony the path of the church. Johnny the path of a gang leader and hardman.
Mrs McGinty was originally from Cork in Ireland, and even at the age of 80, she still had a strong Irish accent with a personality to match. The priest and his mother stopped to talk to Johnny and have a “blether”. Mrs McGinty said sardonically, “Would ye look at what they are doing to the Gorbals, pulling some fine tenements down and shutting perfectly good businesses. This isnae redevelopment, its murder. “
Tony nodded his head in agreement, “I agree mother, but then again, all good things come to an end, don’t they Johnny?”
Johnny felt a bit shy having to answer such a philosophical question but replied, “They should just do a lot of these old buildings up instead of demolishing them out of existence.” The mother and son nodded in agreement saying they were “heading into the toon”, the city centre, to do some shopping.
Johnny wished them all the best and watched as they walked off together. They were an incongruous duo, a little Irishwoman, clutching her handbag, and a priest by her side. It was a sight to behold. But all was not what it seemed. Like the Gorbals, the McGinty family had two sides, the good and the bad. Mrs McGinty was proud of Tony the priest, she even hoped and joked he might become the Pope one day, “A Pope from the Gorbals – now that would be an achievement!” she’d say with a hysterical laugh.
But she would never, ever mention her other son, Al McGinty. Al had been one of the biggest gangsters in Britain and had even served his apprenticeship with the Kray twins in London. In fact, rumour had it the Kray twins came to Glasgow to visit their pal to discuss “various business opportunities.”
Al was a top-notch professional gangster; protection rackets, moneylending, illegal bookmaking, the whole shebang. But gang warfare between him and other criminals meant that he was languishing in Barlinnie on numerous charges including attempted murder, extortion, police assault and having a firearm without a license. The speculation on the street was he was facing a 20 year stretch at least.
Johnny heard through the grapevine that Al more or less controlled the fellow prisoners in Barlinnie. He had a team of henchmen inside who ran various rackets including supplying snout – illicit tobacco. It was very profitable.
Al had always been an entrepreneur. He was a businessman with a psychotic violent side. Only a few people knew about his Irish mother and his priest brother. He had kept them a hidden secret and vice versa, mother and brother never mentioned him. His criminal activities and gang warfare were best never to be talked about.
Johnny thought that the Gorbals had many secrets and this was a cracker! He walked the streets and saw an old pal, Walter, standing on a corner with a bandage on his head, two black eyes and a bruised nose.
Walter was about 17, a nice wee guy, who often did errands for Johnny’s mother. He looked at him and said, “You been fighting again Walter? Looks like you’ve been in the wars”
Walter looked subdued, “Nah, a guy has been going to the demands for money from me and when ah widnae cough up, he beat me up.”
“Beat you up! Who is this bampot?” Johnny asked.
Walter was quick to put him right, “He’s just moved into the area fae Blackhill. Dave’s his name, he says he’s an ex wrestler and if ah didnae pay him protection money every week he was going to break every bone in ma body.”
Johnny had known Walter all his life. He came from a poor Polish family, he had no father, and his mother had single-handedly brought him up in a crumbling Thistle Street tenement. Walter was a timid little guy and never got into trouble, never got into a fight. Yet he had been beaten up by a bully, an ex-wrestler to boot. Johnny loved it. It was a case right up his street.
Walter told Johnny where the guy lived, a few blocks away in Florence Street – just above a seedy run-down café called Knot’s Restaurant. Johnny headed to his back court in Crown Street, went into the midden, and took a couple of bricks out from the wall. Concealed there was a razor, a hammer and a knife. He had considered these hidden items necessary armour in times of trouble and this was a time of trouble.
He headed towards Florence Street and entered the stinking tenement. There was a terrible stench in the air, the smell of shite, poverty and pish – so unlike his own close in Crown Street where his neighbours took pride in keeping it clean. How could people live like this?
He knocked on the flat’s front door, no answer. He knocked again, no answer. He knocked even louder. He then heard footsteps and the door opened.
A big unshaven guy was there and
he gave a violent stare. He looked every inch an ex wrestler. He was dressed in a grimy, manky-looking string vest. He shouted, “Stop knocking on ma door so loud. What the fuck dae ye want?”
“Is your name Dave?” Johnny asked.
“Aye, who wants tae know?” said the ex-wrestler.
His fingers were around the edge of the door. Johnny pulled out his hammer and hit him full force on the fingers.
The man screamed, “Ya bastard ye!” and doubled over with pain. Johnny then kicked him in the balls. As the ex-wrestler lay bleeding at the door, Johnny pulled out a razor and shouted, “If you fuck wi’ Walter, you’re fucking wi’ me, ya tube. Ah’ll be back to slash your face to ribbons if ah ever hear about you again. By the way, give your string vest a wash. It’s so fucking manky you could make a pot of soup out of it!”
Johnny was to quick escape from the stench of the rancid tenement. He placed the hammer the waist of his trousers and emerged into the fresh air of the street.
A woman in curlers and headscarf, pushing a pram, was passing by.
“Lovely day,” she said.
“Aye too right,” Johnny replied with a smile, “Lovely day, but no’ for some!”
He had administered his own form of justice and in his mind it had been successful. But what about the High Court?
Would the scales of justice work in the boys’ favour, or against them? He would soon find out.
Chapter 13
MUGGER
The court case re-started with a bit of a whimper. The red nosed QC argued on a point of law regarding identification and the young counsel counter argued back. It all sounded Blah! Blah! Blah! To those in the public gallery.
When normality and clarity returned there was shocking news, although there had been a question over the men’s identification, the one thing the police did have was fingerprints. This was crucial to the outcome of the case. The other members of the gang had been wise enough to wear gloves but Sam McGlinchy the driver had not. The police did not find any fingerprints on the discarded gun but McGlinchy’s prints were all over the car.
The Incredible Rise of a Gorbals Gangster Page 8