The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4

by Todd, Ian

  “Aye, bit it could’ve been worse. At least ye’re jist oot oan yer ain landing, and naebody seems tae hiv noticed the blade,” The Stalker said, in a conspiring whisper tae the knifeman, wishing the neighbours behind Biscuit and him wid fuck aff back intae their ain hooses.

  “Ah’m warning ye, Ah’ll slit her fae ear tae ear if ye take wan mair step. See if Ah’m fucking kidding or no.”

  “Look, here’s the story. As Ah’ve jist said, son, ye’ve put us in a wee bit ae a sticky situation. Put the chib doon, and we’ll go and hiv a wee cup ae tea. Ah’m sure we kin sort it oot withoot the whole ae Springburn lugging in. How dis that sound, eh?” Biscuit asked him.

  “Youse basturts don’t know whit it’s like fur us. Who the fuck ur youse tae try and tell me how tae sort ma life oot, eh? Whit Ah dae aboot here is ma ain business.”

  “Listen, Ah used tae be an alky masel, so Ah wis. Noo look at me? Hivnae touched a drap in ten years,” Biscuit said, exhaling a straight blue line ae smoke.

  “Ah don’t drink.”

  “Naw? Well, at least that’s something positive tae be getting oan wae, bit the point Ah’m making is, if ye think ye’ve goat problems, ye should’ve seen the mess that Ah wis in,” Biscuit said cautiously.

  He shrugged they shoulders ae his at The Stalker, as if tae say, ‘Well, you come up wae something better,’ efter seeing The Stalker moothing, “Whit the fuck ur ye oan aboot?”

  “Hoi, ya fucking moron, ye! Jist cut her bloody throat and get oan wae it. We’ve aw goat oor work tae go tae in the morning, ya selfish prick, ye,” a voice yelled fae somewhere in the flats.

  “Don’t listen tae him, son. He’s jist a selfish basturt who disnae gie a shite aboot anywan bit himsel. Thank God we’re no aw like him, eh? Right, hiv ye goat milk? If ye hivnae, Ah’ll go and get us some,” Biscuit suddenly announced.

  “Whit?” Jim Bowie demanded, looking confused.

  “Milk? Fur the tea? Ye jist agreed we’d aw sit doon and hiv a wee chin-wag tae sort aw this oot,” Biscuit said, looking at him as if he wis daft.

  “Bit, Ah never s…”

  The Stalker flew across the six feet that wis separating them, jist as the haun gripping the blade tae the lassies throat relaxed and withdrew a few inches. Baith ae The Stalker’s hauns clamped the blade wrist. Meanwhile, Biscuit pulled the lassie free wae his left haun. He grabbed Jim Bowie by the hair wae his right wan and smashed his forehead against the door jamb when he turned tae see who it wis that hid a grip ae his haun. The lassie disappeared intae the hoose and The Stalker followed in her footsteps. The place looked as if a bomb hid gone aff in it. He winced oan hearing the sound ae crunching glass underfoot as he slowly made his way fae room tae room, finally stoapping at a closed door at the end ae the lobby. He turned the haundle and gently pushed it slightly ajar, wary, oan guard and no sure whit tae expect. The light bulb, which wis dangling doon fae the ceiling in the lobby, withoot a shade oan it, lit up hauf ae the bare flairboards in the room, exposing a pair ae knees that wur skinned and bloody. The lassie wis sitting oan the edge ae a bed, clinging oan tae two wee weans, who couldnae hiv been mair than two or three years auld. The wee wans didnae move or make a sound, and he could jist make oot three pairs ae white, wet, shiny, frightened eyes, looking oot ae the darkness across at him in the doorway. He pushed the door open and slowly walked across and lifted wan ae the weans oot ae the lassie’s erms and sat doon, putting his erm aroond her and drawing her and the weans heids closer tae him. Within a few seconds he felt the lassie’s trembling transform intae shudders as she began tae sob.

  “Why? Whit hiv me and the weans ever done tae deserve this?” she wailed, as The Stalker sat staring intae space towards the open door.

  Chapter Three

  The Stalker hidnae gied much thought tae the stabbing at the bingo hall doon oan Gourlay Street due tae the fact that they’d hid tae get an ambulance fur the madman wae the knife. As well as splitting open his foreheid, which required eighteen stitches, the hospital hid discovered that he’d a fractured skull fae where Biscuit hid skelped his heid aff the sharp edge ae the doorframe.

  “Ye mean he might croak it?” Biscuit hid asked the doctor hopefully.

  “No, I think he’ll survive…this time,” the doctor hid replied, clearly disapproving ae the polis tactics in arresting his drug-crazed patient.

  “Aye, ye’re back, Paddy,” Chick Thompson, the inspector said, breaking intae his thoughts, as The Stalker lifted his mug ae tea up tae his lips.

  “Aye, Ah’m jist hivving a wee quick wan while Ah get the chance, before nipping up tae Stobhill Hospital, tae pick Biscuit up.”

  “That’s a wee turn-up fur the books, eh?”

  “Whit is?”

  “That murder...the stabbing doon in Gourlay Street earlier oan.”

  “Murder?”

  “Aye, the McManus boy. Ah thought he wis well oot ae the game noo,” The Inspector replied, before being dragged aff tae the phone.

  The Stalker followed The Inspector oot tae the front desk, tae make sure he’d goat the name right ae the stabbing victim, bit efter waiting patiently fur hauf a minute, he gied up and heided oot ae the door. Happy Harry, the desk sergeant wis surrounded by a group ae Hari Krishnas, wearing orange robes and sandals. They wur demanding tae know why they’d been arrested at hauf wan in the morning, jist because they’d been banging their tambourines, chanting and singing at the tap ae their voices oan their way doon Hawthorn Street towards Possil.

  “Ah’ve tried tae tell them that they wur committing a breach ae the peace, bit they won’t take a telling,” Happy Harry, the longest serving desk sergeant in the division, bleated tae him, as the group burst intae another rendition ae ‘Hari Rama Hari Krishna.’

  The street wis empty, apart fae a couple ae squad cars and the white incident caravan that hid jist been drapped aff as The Stalker arrived. Aw the lights ae the bingo hall wur still oan, including the big ‘Princes Bingo’ neon wan ootside. He nodded tae a couple ae the forensics boys and went across tae wan ae the murder squad.

  “So, whit’s the score, Bobby?” The Stalker asked.

  “Aye, aye, Paddy boy, Ah wis wondering when yersel or Fin wid grace us wae yer company and gie us a wee haun aboot here.”

  “Ah wis trying tae persuade some madman no tae cut his wife’s throat up in Balgrayhill earlier oan and Fin finished his shift at ten. Ah heard it oan the radio at aboot a quarter tae ten.”

  “So, whit kin Ah dae ye fur?”

  “Chic Thompson jist telt me that it might’ve been that young Joe McManus that goat murdered,” The Stalker said, peering across at the large pool ae black blood, congealing oan the front step ae the foyer.

  “Oh, there’s nae might aboot it. It wis wan ae yer angels wae dirty faces, right enough.”

  “Bit that disnae make any sense, Bobby. He’s a bloody cabbage, so he is.”

  “Wis a cabbage.”

  “Aye, awright, bit the point Ah’m making is that he’s been oot ae the game fur well o’er a year noo…maybe longer. Whit the fuck wid anywan want tae go and stab somewan like him fur?”

  “Why wid a hubby want tae slit his nearest and dearest’s throat?”

  “Naw, that’s different. This disnae make sense. It’s jist no right.”

  “Aye, well, Ah widnae imagine there will be too many people losing sleep o’er this wan, cabbage or no.”

  “So, whit’s the score then?”

  “Fae whit we kin gather, McManus wis walking up Gourlay Street fae Springburn Road and a red coloured car, make unknown, skidded tae a halt. We know three ae them jumped oot and attacked yer boy, bit we’re no sure whether wan ae them wis the driver or no. The boy tried tae escape, in through the doors ae the bingo hall,” the inspector replied, nodding towards the glass doors tae the foyer.

  “Wur they aw carrying chibs?”

  “We don’t know at this stage.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “There wis two auld wummin jist leaving the bingo when
it kicked aff. Wan fainted. They’re up in Stobhill. We won’t get much oot ae them the night though. Hopefully, they’ll be able tae gie us good descriptions or recognise who done it.”

  “So, where is he noo?”

  “Ye’ve jist missed him. He’s oan his way doon tae the slab in the Saltmarket. Why?”

  “Er, nothing, Ah wis jist wondering, that’s aw.”

  The Stalker picked Biscuit up fae Stobhill. While he wis up there, he phoned Fin at hame. The phone rang fur ages before it wis finally picked up.

  “This better be good,” Sergeant Finbar O’Callaghan, known by aw and sundry as Bumper, oan account ae running o’er the legs ae a couple ae toe-rags wae his squad car years earlier in the Toonheid, efter they refused tae stoap when he telt them tae, croaked intae the phone.

  “Fin? It’s me, Paddy.”

  “Aye, Ah bloody-well know who it is. Who else wid phone me at this time ae the night? Whit ur ye wanting?”

  “There’s been a stabbing oan the steps ae the front door ae The Princes Bingo Hall in Gourlay Street.”

  “So?”

  “So, it’s wan ae that manky mob fae the Toonheid.”

  “Which wan?”

  “Joe McManus.”

  “No Gucci?”

  “Naw, no Gucci! Christ, ur ye awake or whit?”

  “Ah thought he wis a cabbage?”

  “He is...wis.”

  “So?”

  “So, Ah’m heiding doon tae the Saltmarket tae check oot whit the score is.”

  “Whit the fuck wid ye want tae dae that fur? Ye’re no oan the murder squad.”

  “Fin, waken up, fur fuck’s sake. Dis it no strike ye as odd that wan ae that crowd, who’s no involved in anything anymair, oan account ae hivving being turned intae a cabbage efter getting a severe doing, his suddenly been stabbed tae death in the street?”

  “No really. It’s probably some basturt efter revenge, if ye think ae whit aw that crowd hiv goat up tae o’er the years.”

  “Aye, that’s whit Ah’ve been thinking, bit who?”

  “Paddy, dis any ae this matter? Who gies a monkey’s fuck anyway?”

  “Ye’ve missed ma point, ya Irish Mick, ye. Dis it no strike ye as being suspicious that none ae that crowd ever sought a revenge come-back efter wan ae their best pals goat kicked fuck oot ae, so badly, that he ended up wae brain damage?”

  “Okay, Ah’m listening.”

  “Think aboot it. Kin ye imagine Gucci leaving things at that? No coming back, big style and noo this? Is this no rubbing salt intae the wounds?”

  “Whit aboot Gucci, Taylor and Smith?”

  “Gucci’s aboot and the other pair ur still in borstal, oot in Polmont.”

  “Then, there’s yer answer aboot the lack ae any come-back then.”

  “Look, Ah kin tell ye’re no interested, so Ah’ll let ye get back tae sleep.”

  “Hoi, Paddy, stoap gaun aff in the huff. Ah never said Ah wisnae interested. Gie me ten minutes tae get ready and Ah’ll see ye doon at the bottom door.”

  “Right, Ah’ve jist come up tae collect Biscuit fae Stobhill. Ah’ll drap him aff doon at the station and then Ah’ll come roond by yersel and pick ye up.”

  “Stobhill?”

  “Ach, don’t worry, it wis some madman we arrested in a domestic earlier who copped his whack,” The Stalker replied, hinging up the receiver.

  Chapter Four

  The mortuary wis a wee hauf red brick and hauf sandstone squat building which sat adjacent tae the High Court, doon oan the Saltmarket, beside the River Clyde. Snow hid started tae fall in big white fluffy flakes as The Stalker turned intae Jocelyn Square and then took a quick left intae the drap-aff point at the back. He’d intended tae park oot in front, bit Bumper telt him tae keep the car oot ae sight as, knowing their luck, they wur sure tae be spotted by Billy Liar, the local chief inspector, who wis a first class shitehoose and wid kick up a fuss aboot no being telt that he’d a couple ae unauthorised sergeants fae Springburn wandering aboot his patch. The fact that Chic Thompson, their ain inspector, didnae know that The Stalker wis AWOL and Bumper wis sniffing aboot whilst aff-duty, also meant that keeping oot ae sight wis a wise move.

  The building always gied The Stalker the heebie-jeebies and he never felt comfortable darkening its doors. This occasion wisnae any different tae his previous visits and the haunting voices ae The Everly Brothers, belting oot ‘Ebony Eyes’ made him shiver as they followed the sound alang the dimly lit, tiled corridor tae find Hammy Hamilton, the post mortem technician.

  “He must’ve known ye wur coming,” Bumper said wae a smile, as he pushed open the well-bashed, chipped double doors intae the post mortem room.

  Hammy wis sitting astride an auld metal stool, chomping intae a big breid doorstopper cheese sandwich, surrounded by tin buckets, looking tae the heavens, as they entered the room.

  “Shhhh! This is the best bit ae the song,” Hammy hissed, before returning tae his heavenward glance as wan ae the Everlys started prattling oan aboot the plane being overdue.

  “Aye, there’s nae rest fur the wicked, so there’s no. And whit kin Ah dae ye fur, boys?” Hammy asked, as another record drapped oan tae the turntable ae his wee record player and the voice ae Ricky Valance wafted oot ‘Tell Laura Ah love her.’

  “Christ, hiv ye no goat any happy tunes in that stack ae yours, Hammy?” The Stalker asked, shivering.

  “This is happy...fur in here. The next time The Who bring oot wan that’ll tear the arse oot ae yer troosers, Ah’ll play them. So, whit ur youse efter then?”

  “Joe McManus, the murder victim fae up in Springburn.”

  “Whit aboot him?”

  “We want tae see him.”

  “Whit fur?”

  “Tae make sure it’s him.”

  “Joseph McManus, male, born 8th November 1953, up in the Rottenrow. Admitted at wan twenty five a.m. oan December the 18th 1971. Probable cause ae death? Multiple stab wounds. Wid that be him?” Hammy asked, reading aff ae the tap page ae a sheath ae papers.

  “If it’s no, then he’s goat a twin,” Bumper replied.

  “That wis a quick ID, so it wis,” The Stalker said, looking doon at Hammy, who’d jist torn a lump aff ae his sandwich wae they gnashers ae his and wis chomping away tae himsel, wondering whit this pair wur up tae.

  “Aye, wan ae the murder squad boys knew him and phoned across the road tae Central tae get his details.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Like whit?”

  “Like, did he say whether they knew who’d done it?”

  “Right, o’er here,” Hammy sighed, ignoring the question, placing his hauns oan his knees tae help himsel staun up aff the stool.

  As he walked across the room tae the fridges, there wis a sound ae slapping as Hammy’s rubber apron skelped aff ae his yellow welly-booted shins. The Stalker and Bumper stood tae the side as Hammy pulled the haundle and the fridge door swung open. The boy wis in the middle fridge ae a stack ae three. Hammy reached forward, using baith hauns tae get a firm grip ae the trolley. The lifeless, deid body ae eighteen-year-auld Joe McManus, slid oot ae the darkness and intae the light.

  “He’s no been cleaned up or anything,” Hammy warned them, staunin back tae let them get a better view.

  Bumper walked roond tae the other side, so that he wis staunin opposite Paddy. The boy wis a bit ae a mess. His face wis like a grotesque mask wae its lips drawn back in a frozen grimace. He lay sightlessly, staring intae the void. Baith ae the sergeants’ eyes zoomed straight tae the wounds oan his neck and side.

  “Fuck, either wan ae those wid’ve probably done him in,” Bumper said, looking closely at the side wound.

  “There wis practically nae blood in him when he arrived. The neck wound oan its ain wid’ve drained him. Put that wae the wound in his side, and he wis well-goosed. The blade wid’ve went through aw his main organs,” Hammy chipped in.

  “And aw the bruises?”

  “They obviously kicked fuck oot ae him ei
ther before, during or efter he wis chibbed.”

  “Wis it the same blade that done the damage, Hammy?”

  “Aye, Ah think so.”

  “So, when’s the post-mortem then?” The Stalker asked, no taking his eyes aff ae the neck wound.

  “A murder incident report is being written up across at Central as we speak. Ah wid say that that’ll arrive back here first thing in the morning, so by the time the forensic pathologist gets it, the post mortem will probably be sometime in the morning.”

  “Will you be in attendance?”

  “Ah’ll be assisting, as per usual. Why?”

  “Because wan ae us will gie ye a phone the morra tae find oot whit the cause ae death wis,” Bumper replied.

  “Er, let me see. Maybe Ah kin save ye a phone call, lads. Noo, this is jist a guess oan ma part, ye understaun, bit how aboot…multiple stab wounds?” Hammy suggested, wan eyebrow lifted, as The Stalker and Bumper heided fur the door, tae the jolly dulcet tones ae Twinkle, singing ‘Terry.’

  Chapter Five

  Digger Day Wan

  Johnboy hid been in the digger before. In fact, since the age ae ten, he hidnae been in any place where he hidnae ended up daeing some time in solitary fur wan thing or another. It never really bothered him as he jist saw it as part and parcel ae being inside. The main thing wis tae get yer heid sorted oot as quickly as possible and tae get intae a wee rhythm ae how ye wur gonnae spend yer days. The first thing he needed tae dae wis tae sort oot the domestics, which widnae take up too much ae his time, seeing as he wis sitting wae his arse plapped against the brick wall ae an oblong brick box. There wid be nae pacing up and doon. Wance ye started that, it wis aw doon hill fae there. Secondly, he’d need tae get his fitness regime gaun. A hunner sit-ups, a hunner press-ups and running oan the spot until he knackered himsel oot, first thing in the morning and jist before the chow arrived roond aboot hauf four. Noo that he’d goat that sorted oot, he looked aboot the cell. It always took him a few days tae get used tae the silence or the usual hum fae the heating system somewhere in the building, which wis always jist near enough tae noise ye up when ye wur lying there, trying tae keep yer sanity in check. A dripping tap wis a piece ae piss compared tae some ae the noise-ups he’d suffered in the different diggers that he’d been in o’er the years. Hivving said that, this place wid definitely win the noise-up league, hauns doon, nae questions asked. He’d been lying oan his back wae they heels ae his feet resting oan the two central heating pipes that came oot ae the wall underneath the windae. The pipes ran fae left tae right, or right tae left, whichever way ye looked at it, fae wan wall tae the other, at the bottom ae the windae wall. Hivving never been in the other cells in the digger, he assumed that the pipes travelled through them aw. He’d sometimes heard eejits talking, maistly wans that hidnae done any time in the digger, saying that tae survive, ye hid tae look oan it as a battle ae wills between yer brain and whitever it wis that wis daeing yer heid in while ye wur in the chokey. They’d harp oan aboot the fact that ye hid tae learn tae control and focus yer mind intae believing that the noise ae the nearby generator or central heating system that wis daeing yer heid in wis actually jist the same as listening tae yer favourite hit record, or a sound that made ye feel happy, like yer ma asking ye if ye wanted another big dollop ae mince oan that empty plate ae yours, or a big stoating bird asking ye if ye wanted yer Nat King Cole…again. Fucking know-it-aw fud-pads, he thought tae himsel. He turned his thoughts back tae the real noise-up at haun. He listened intently fur a couple ae minutes. There wis a definite rhythm gaun oan. Sometimes it sounded like the wheels ae a train clicking and clacking, or in this case, smashing and crashing, although he wisnae sure if it wis intentional by the pricks that wur causing it. Sometimes it sounded like African drums and then at other times, it sounded like nothing mair than a noisy racket. He opened his eyes and looked up at the windae, which wis seven or eight feet up oan the wall above him. It hid rusty wire mesh covering the bars, which he could only see as shadows through the tiny pin-heid sized holes that wur trying tae let the light in. He rolled o’er and stood up, too quickly, waiting fur the wee floating, firework things tae stoap dancing aboot in front ae his eyes. There wis nothing different or unusual aboot this place tae whit he’d been in before, other than the size ae the cell. Wan bare digger cell, wae a moulded concrete plinth bed in wan corner, always under the windae, opposite a bare door that hid a spy-hole in it and a light bulb, submerged intae the wall and oot ae reach, high above the door, wis the same as the next. The only moveable object, apart fae himsel, wis the plastic chanty pot that wis sitting oan the flair fur him tae dae a pish or shite in, oot ae sight ae the spy-hole, in the corner, beside the door. He turned aroond and faced the windae wall. The noise wis the loudest he’d heard it, so far, and it wis only day wan. He could picture aw the boys in the shed. If his memory served him right, there wur aboot a dozen steel-framed, welded pallet tables, wae two boys allocated tae each table. Two times twelve made twenty four ae the basturts, aw gieing it laldy. Fur tools, a crow bar wis shared between each pair ae boys and a claw hammer wis signed oot tae each wan first thing in the morning. Some pallets wid need a total rebuild while some jist needed a replacement spar tae be eased intae the gap where the bust or broken wan hid been removed. Whit aw the pallets hid in common when they came intae the shed wis that they wur gonnae get a severe gaun o’er by some noisy basturt wae a claw hammer in wan haun and a clutch ae four inch nails in the other.