The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4

by Todd, Ian

  “Christ, whit did yer ma say?” Silent hid stupidly asked him, using up his precious communicating time by talking shite.

  “Ma wee maw? She wanted tae know if wan ae them could gie her a light fur her fag as she didnae hiv a match in the hoose,” Freckles hid replied drily, as everywan roond the table, supposedly playing cards, pished themsels laughing.

  “So, whit happened tae them?” Johnboy hid asked.

  “The dugs? The dirty basturts goat them put doon, so they did. Bang oot ae order, if ye ask me.”

  “Aye, they goat the death sentence, so they did,” Tottie hid chipped-in.

  “Naw, Ah meant the bizzies?”

  “That pair ae tadgers? They goat carted aff doon tae The Royal fur a tetanus jab in they arses ae theirs, alang wae some stitches in their erms, legs and arses.”

  “So, how come ye ended up being charged then, if Patsy fucked aff wae the fags and ye wur supposedly in the bath, no hearing them at the door?” Johnboy hid asked, looking at the others wondering if he’d missed something.

  “The pricks done me wae assault efter Ah threw them doon the stairs heid first, fur gieing that wee maw ae mine the fright ae her life and damaging her good front door. Total fit-up, so it wis.”

  “Tell them whit yer excuse up in court wis, Freckles,” Patsy hid butted in, jist aboot tae pish himsel wae excitement. “Ye’ll like this wan,” he’d said, nodding his heid at Johnboy and Silent.

  “Ah telt that Sheriff wan that Ah thought they wur burglars and Ah wis jist protecting that wee maw ae mine’s possessions. ‘Bit, the officers hid a search warrant, Kelly,’ the baldy auld fuck-face hit me wae. Ye should’ve heard the laughter in the court when that cow, Glenda Metcalf, the procurator fiscal, telt him that ‘It’s believed that wan, or aw ae the devil dugs, scoffed the warrant during the frenzied attack, m’lord.’ And they still hid the cheek tae find me guilty, the basturts,” Freckles hid scowled, aw hurt, while the rest ae them hid sat laughing themsels silly that anywan wid’ve hid the cheek tae question Freckle’s obvious innocence.

  “That’s terrible, so it is,” Silent, the eejit that he wis, hid persisted.

  “Too bloody true it is,” Freckles hid moaned, nodding that heid ae his, wae Patsy and Tottie sitting there clearly in agreement.

  “Oh, er, naw, Ah meant fur the poor dugs,” Silent hid said.

  “The dugs? Christ, that’s another story, that is. They never belonged tae me in the first place…they belonged tae Greasy Jake. Aye, Ah know, ye’re laughing, Johnboy, bit it wisnae bloody funny at the time, so it wisnae,” Freckles laughed.

  Greasy Jake wis the manager ae The Big Man’s scrap yard operation doon beside the Clyde oan the Broomielaw. Nae fucker in the toon crossed Greasy Jake...except fur Freckles, that wis.

  “Ah’m telling ye, thank Christ Ah never goat bail. It gied Baby Huey time tae talk Jake oot ae skinning me alive before slinging me in the boot ae wan ae his auld scrap cars and being turned intae a wee square block in that crusher ae his. See, Silent? That’s whit happens when ye dae ungrateful pricks favours, so it is,” an indignant Freckles hid continued tae bleat, exaggerating his hurt and challenging anywan no tae believe he wis lucky tae be alive.

  Johnboy crossed his feet oan the mattress tae get mair comfortable and smiled, thinking aboot Baby Huey. He wis another wan ae the Garngad crowd who’d done time wae The Mankys o’er the years. He wis aboot six feet four and ten feet wide and could clear a pub in ten seconds flat. Although he wis only eighteen, Wan-bob Broon hid convinced The Big Man tae employ Baby as a debt collector and when he wisnae breaking people’s erms and legs fur nae paying back their debts in time, he bounced oan the doors ae some ae The Big Man’s pubs in some ae the rowdier hoosing schemes. As much as they goat oan wae the Garngad crowd, they wur jailbait, as far as Johnboy and Silent wur concerned. Due tae aw the shit that wis happening ootside, up in Springburn, Tony hid warned Johnboy tae stay well clear ae the uglies if they came across them inside. Tony hid been right tae be worried. Silent and himsel hid been due tae be released oan Christmas eve morning…aw gaun well. That meant they’d be oot fur the New Year. They never really gied a shit aboot Christmas, bit New Year wis always something else. The problem fur Johnboy and Silent wis that if they wur hinging aboot wae the Garngad uglies, it meant that they’d always be in the spotlight, which in turn, could mean losing remission and they’d no be oot helping the rest ae The Mankys tae keep The Simpson’s in check. Tony hid goat word in tae him that the constant retaliation fae The Simpsons o’er in Possil hid increased dramatically and that they wur noo buckling under the onslaught, trying tae keep themsels fae getting wiped oot by Toffee Arse’s brothers and their gorillas, which hid explained the warm reception Johnboy hid goat when he’d been sent tae work in the pallet shoap. Tony also kept demanding that Johnboy needed tae work harder oan Freckles, tae try and find oot where the fuck Pat Molloy and Freckles’s uncle, Wan-bob Broon, hid disappeared tae o’er the past year.

  Chapter Seven

  The Stalker sat scowling tae himsel in the driving seat ae the unmarked squad car, a wee bit back fae the corner ae Millarbank Street, beside the Springburn Public Halls and opposite the fire station oan Keppochhill Road. He drummed they fingers ae his oan the steering wheel, as he watched the comings and gauns fae The Jonah’s Arms pub oan Springburn Road. Bumper sat in the front passenger seat, cleaning they teeth ae his wae his new fancy aluminium tooth pick. Sitting behind The Stalker wis his ain sidekick Biscuit Smith. Bumper’s man, Froggie Shearer, sat behind Bumper oan the other side. Bumper and Froggie wur well-suited tae each other...a match made in hell, wan ae the local neds hid been heard tae shout next door tae his mate in the cells up in the station recently. The pair ae them wur always up fur a battle, day or night. Froggie goat his tag while he wis in the commandos oan account ae they bulging eyes ae his. He wis always at pains tae tell people that it wis a glandular thing and no a coal briquette stuck up that arse ae his that gied him that surprised, bulging-eyed, froggie look oan his coupon. The Stalker felt uneasy. He usually felt okay when it wis jist himsel and Biscuit, bit being in the company ae the other two thegither, usually meant pain and grief tae anywan that happened tae be aroond them, bizzies or toe-rags alike. He peered through the windscreen fur the umpteenth time. Wee flecks ae snow wur lazily floating doon, cleaning the dirty mush oan the pavement that hid been getting trampled oan aw day by people gaun aboot their business. The lights fae the pub oan the corner ae Flemington Street and Springburn Road wur being reflected aff the road, where the wheels ae the cars and the buses hid created black liquorish tracks oan it. Jonah’s hid been a good wee pub at wan time, until the lounge hid been taken o’er by The Mankys…a thieving bunch ae wasters, who’d shifted up fae the Toonheid efter it hid been flattened. The bar itsel hid a good atmosphere and ye goat a nice clean pint in it. Maist ae the clientele who drank in the bar hid been regulars since they’d left school, including a lot ae auld age pensioners. There wis never any trouble, apart fae a few wee skirmishes o’er the years, which hid never amounted tae much. The problem wae the place wisnae wae the bar, bit wae the lounge next door. Fae where the squad car wis sitting, they could see people coming and gaun fae the bar entrance oan the corner. The lounge, which directly faced the fire station, looked quiet fae the ootside, wae the only signs ae life being the lights shining oot through the frosted windae tae the right ae the door. The Stalker wis waiting anxiously, playing fur time, while Bumper wis engrossed in whit he’d picked fae between his teeth. Something wisnae right, bit he couldnae quite put his finger oan it. The reason they wur sitting there oan that particular Friday night could be traced back eighteen months, tae when there hid been a big debate aboot no-go areas in Springburn, up at the station. It hid aw started when Bumper hid been oan his high horse aboot the boys in the station who wanted their ain social club, a place where they could go fur a pint in peace, withoot feeling threatened oan account that they wur bizzies. Even gaun intae the toon centre hid its risks, as a couple ae th
e Springburn boys hid been assaulted in Renfield Street when they wur oot wae their wives, even though it hid been proved that it hidnae been Springburn neds who’d committed the assault. At the time, Bumper hid convinced himsel that he’d won the argument that, as bizzies, they should be able tae drink in any pub in Springburn withoot fear. His argument hid been that if they acted any different tae anywan else gaun oot fur a quiet pint in the area, then they’d be haunin o’er the streets tae the wee neds who seemed tae think that they owned the place. That hid aw changed within a few weeks ae his argument when wan ae the Petershill and Balornock bizzies, John Stewart, hid nipped intae Jonah’s fur a few pints oan his way hame efter his shift. A right dirty, mean shitehoose called Frisky Frank McKenna, fae across in Possil, hid been in the bar that night, pished as a fart. Frisky Frank wis wan ae the notorious Simpson brothers’ right-haun men. Nowan knew why the fuck Frisky hid been there in the first place, other than he’d been getting oot ae his skull. Frisky hid been well away fae where ye’d expect tae find wan ae The Simpson’s crew. Everywan wae hauf a brain knew that Springburn wis wan ae Pat Molloy’s territories, so tae find somewan like Frisky Frank McKenna drinking in the middle ae it, wis like watching somewan who wis desperate tae commit suicide...or…the stupid basturt hid jist been too pished tae know where the hell he wis. John Stewart said he never recognised anywan in the bar that he thought could finger him as a bizzy. Whether somewan hid or no, soon became irrelevant. Frisky Frank hid followed him oot intae the street jist before closing time. Frisky hidnae messed aboot either. He’d jist ladled straight intae John, breaking his nose and practically rupturing his baws intae the bargain. There hid been two known witnesses tae the assault that night…Tony Gucci and Joe McManus, no long before McManus hid been gied a hiding fae somewan that hid turned him intae a cabbage. Wance John hid hit the deck, he’d jist curled up and tried tae protect himsel as best he could. It hid been when he wis doon and the mad fucker fae Possil wis kicking fuck oot ae him, that he’d caught sight ae Gucci and McManus, casually staunin oan the opposite corner ae Flemington Street beside the chemist, clocking whit wis gaun oan. Tae make matters worse, when John hid cried oot tae the boys oan the corner tae come and help him, Gucci hid casually pulled oot a wee packet ae Wrigley’s chewing gum fae his pocket, slid the white and silver wrapper aff the gum and slowly, bit deliberately fed the stick intae his gub, before chewing oan it, whilst watching the defenceless bizzy getting a hiding. By the time reinforcements hid arrived oan the scene, Gucci and McManus, alang wae Frisky Frank, hid disappeared. John hid also said at the time that he thought he’d heard Frisky Frank snarling at Gucci and McManus that whit John hid goat wis nothing compared tae whit wis in store fur them. At the time, The Stalker and Bumper hid never followed through tae see if there hid been any trouble brewing between The Mankys and the Possil crowd and efter that, their focus hid been aboot trying tae stall the wave ae crime being unleashed roond aboot them as a result ae The Mankys expanding their troop numbers.

  “Fight? Assault ootside Jonah’s? We never clocked any assault,” Gucci and McManus hid claimed later.

  Bumper hid even gone oot ae his way that night and found the chewing gum wrapper tae charge Gucci wae litter throwing, bit Chic Thompson, their inspector, hid laughed at him.

  “Fin, ur ye bloody serious or whit? Ye’re no back in the Toonheid noo. Ah’ll be the laughing stock when they laugh ye oot ae court fur wasting tax payer’s money, so Ah will. Kin ye imagine that Gucci’s brief when he found oot that his client wis getting done fur throwing a chewing gum wrapper oan tae the pavement?”

  No long efter that, The Stalker hid started tae pick up wee titbits noo and again aboot skirmishes between Tony Gucci’s manky crowd and elements ae The Simpsons, bit nothing that hid caused him tae worry. In fact, he wid’ve been quite happy if he’d known that Gucci wis getting leaned oan fae across in Possil. The Stalker and Bumper hid been trying tae get Gucci and his wee manky mob aff the streets fur years, and if they couldnae dae it, then it widnae bother anywan in Springburn if The Simpsons did it fur them.

  So, Frisky Frank never did get charged fur the assault, bit that’s no where the story hid ended. A few weeks efter John Stewart wis assaulted, Bumper and Froggie hid been cutting across Cowlairs Park, up behind the bowling green in Carlisle Street, aboot two o’clock wan morning, when they’d literally bumped intae his Friskiness in the middle ae wan ae the cinder fitba pitches. In the ensuing hiding that they dished oot tae him, Frank’s jaicket and shirt hid been ripped aff ae his back. As he wis rolling aboot oan the ground, trying tae escape the battering, they’d kept dragging him back across the pitch tae the centre spot before ladling intae him aw o’er again. By the time they’d left him, Froggie’s baton hid a split up the length ae it, while hauf the cinder fae the fitba pitch hid been used as sandpaper tae lift the skin fae Frankie’s upper body. Frisky Frank hid ended up spending seven weeks in hospital, being transferred aw o’er the place fur various operations and cures fur the skin infections that kept recurring.

  “If Ah ever see ye anywhere near ma patch again, Ah’ll bloody kill ye, so Ah will,” Bumper hid panted at him, before putting him oot ae the game wae a swift full frontal boot oan tae that horrible coupon ae his.

  The new social club for the Springburn, Possil and Milton constabulary and their wives wis jist aboot tae open, up in Bishopbriggs, jist efter the New Year. Hauf the boys in the station wur boycotting the opening ceremony oan account ae Scotland’s answer tae Jimmy Tarbuck, Charlie Chip, the maist boring comedian in the country, who wis also in the back pocket ae Pat Molloy, being asked, no only tae cut the ribbon, bit tae gie a show oan the night. Any further inquiries at the time as tae why Frisky Frank McKenna hid been in Springburn in the first place oan the night ae John Stewart being assaulted, hid been well and truly forgotten efter the hiding he’d received fae Bumper and Froggie.

  “Ah’m no happy,” The Stalker finally confessed, breaking the silence.

  “Why, whit’s yer problem? Ah thought we hid it aw sorted oot,” Bumper asked, irritation in his voice, as he looked o’er at The Stalker.

  “It’s too risky, so it is. There’s bound tae be witnesses.”

  “Who the fuck is gonnae speak up fur a prick like Frisky Frank McKenna?”

  “The same basturts that hate the polis mair than they hate him,” Biscuit sensibly volunteered fae the back seat.

  “Ah’m still no convinced we’re gaun aboot it the right way,” The Stalker said, shaking his heid, as wan ae Gucci’s manky mob, a well-known violent thug called Simon Epstein, looking shifty as fuck, came oot ae the lounge door and started walking alang tae their left.

  A bus whizzed by, heiding in the direction ae Castle Street, blocking their view. When it hid past, The Manky wis naewhere tae be seen.

  “Ah wonder where he’s aff tae?” Froggie wondered.

  “Dae ye want me tae nip roond tae Gourlay Street and cut him aff?” Biscuit volunteered.

  “Naw, he’s no likely tae hiv anything oan him oan a Friday night, apart fae a pocketful ae somewan else’s hard earned dosh,” Bumper said, scowling at a couple ae wee ten-year-aulds walking past the car, staring in at them.

  “There’s something no right aboot whit’s gaun oan here,” The Stalker muttered, biting his bottom lip.

  “Whit?” three voices asked at wance.

  “Ah don’t know. It’s jist a feeling, so it is. Why the fuck dis somewan like Frisky Frank feel comfortable aboot swanning aboot Springburn? Dis this no seem a wee bit strange, Fin?”

  “Aye, it dis. It means the thick prick won’t take a telling efter whit masel and Froggie telt him that night oan the fitba pitch across in Cowlairs.”

  “Ah cannae believe ye don’t get it, so Ah cannae?”

  “Fur fuck’s sake, Paddy. Get whit?”

  “Ah’m no sure,” he mused.

  “Well, Ah’m ready tae go,” Froggie piped-up fae the back seat, clearly getting restive.

  “Right, there’s a change ae plan.
Insteid ae Froggie gaun in and getting him oot ae the lounge, Ah’ll dae that bit,” The Stalker announced suddenly.

  “Why?” Bumper asked, suspiciously.

  “Because Ah don’t want world war three tae erupt. It’s Frisky we want, no hauf the wee neds in Springburn turning oan us, that’s why.”

  “Froggie?” Bumper asked.

  “Fine wae me, bit don’t blame me if we hiv tae charge in there mob-haunded tae save that arse ae yers, when Gucci’s crowd aw turn oan ye,” Froggie replied.

  “Aye, well, Ah’ll try ma best no tae disappoint youse.”

  “Dae ye want me tae come in wae ye, Paddy?” Biscuit asked, sounding concerned.

  “Naw, Ah’ll be fine oan ma ain. Ah’ll see youse across in Flemington Street in two minutes flat,” The Stalker said, opening the squad car door and stepping oot.

  It hid been a few months since he’d been in the lounge. There wis an auld couple sitting at the table by the door when he entered. He caught sight ae their eyes widening, jist before he took in the scene doon tae his left. Something wisnae right, bit he still couldnae put his finger oan it. Oan a normal Friday night, the lounge wid’ve been packed full wae Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, wheeling and dealing. Practically every single bit ae stolen property in this part ae the toon usually changed hauns in this place. Whether it wis radios, watches, rings or bigger stuff like carpets, beds and furniture, maist ae it wis aw ordered through Jonah’s lounge. At the far end, oan the left, a barmaid hid her back tae the customers as she stretched up tae get a nip fae wan ae the optics. Frisky Frank wis sitting at the bar oan his lonesome. The Stalker wis relieved that he wis sitting oan his ain. Christ knows whit he wid’ve done if he’d been sitting wae Gucci’s crowd. Beyond Frisky, hauf a dozen ae The Mankys wur sitting wae their pints in front ae them, aw immaculately dressed, their backs tae the wall, facing up towards the only door in and oot ae the place. A group ae wee darlings wur in amongst them, tottering oan stools, shrieking and giggling aboot something he couldnae catch. He briefly locked eyes wae Pat McCabe, who wis intae anything made ae gold. The Stalker wis well aware that he specialised in jewellery, bit rings in particular. He wondered where Simon Epstein, commonly known up in the station as ‘The Carpet Blagger,’ hid fucked aff tae a few minutes earlier. Harper could get any make ae carpet ye liked...Axminster, Wilton, Berber...you name it, he could get ye it. There hid been whispers that he’d carpeted the flairs ae hauf ae the pavement pounders in the station at some time or another. Sitting beside McCabe wis Jake McAlpine, who wis maistly intae up-market clobber like coats, suits and shirts, including wedding dresses…aw blagged tae order. It wis said that he’d supplied the famous television newsreader, John Turney’s new bride wae her wedding dress a few months back, as well as the ootfits fur the bridesmaids and flower girls. Next tae McAlpine sat Snappy Johnston, well-known fur blagging aff ae railway goods wagons, lorries and vans full ae promise. Two weeks previously, Daddy Jackson hid done the roonds ae the Possil and Springburn cop shops, bawling everywan oot and telling them tae get their fingers oot ae their arses. Jack Tipple, The Assistant Chief Constable, hid burned the ears aff ae him efter British Rail threatened tae sue the city fur aw the extra security costs they’d incurred tae keep the wagons rolling in and oot ae Cowlairs withoot being hi-jacked. Next tae Johnston sat Ben McCalumn, who seemed tae be involved in everything and anything that the others wur involved in. The Stalker hid picked up that him and Johnston provided maist ae the back-up muscle. And finally, there wis Peter Paterson. Paterson wis the runner fur The Mankys. If ye wur tae take him oot ae the game, everything wid come tae a halt…at least fur a wee while. He wis the main go-between, who took the orders fae the customers and made sure they goat whit they wur efter, as soon as possible, wance the order hid been placed wae the rest ae The Mankys. He hated tae admit it, bit they wur a well-oiled money-making machine, wae balls the size ae elephants. If they wurnae crooks, they’d be unstoappable. Fae whit The Stalker could gather, efter talking tae some ae the sergeants in the other divisions, The Mankys wur a step above maist ae the other wee thieving squads that wur scattered aboot the toon, in that they seemed tae be better organised and much mair disciplined. He’d been hoping tae come across Tony Gucci and wis disappointed no tae see him haudin court. Gucci hidnae been visible fur a few weeks noo, which hid been a bit strange, although no unheard ae. He wis glad tae clock the wee Chinky thing sitting in amongst the other lassies. It meant that Gucci widnae be too far away. They wur an odd mix, The Stalker admitted tae himsel. None ae them seemed tae hiv picked up a bad reputation fur liberty-taking, although everywan who knew them, knew fine well that they’d dished oot a fair bit ae violence in the course ae their travels, especially a few years back when Gucci, McManus and Taylor wur busy robbing Provi-cheque men, or if some poor eejit tried tae put up resistance in their criminal endeavours. It wis also well-known that making money wis their main goal and that they stuck tae each other like shite in the neck ae a bottle. While everywan else in the lounge went silent when he’d stepped through the door, The Mankys, who’d aw clocked him straight away, continued talking amongst themsels as if he wis jist another punter arriving fur a pint. When ye looked them straight in their eyes, they didnae gie ye that frightened look ae ‘Whit hiv Ah done?’ or the pathetic defiant stance that some ae the wee neds gied ye when they wur staunin wae their pals. They always seemed tae hiv an amused, kind ae friendly look aboot them that gied ye, if ye didnae know them, the impression that they’d dae anything fur ye, bit it wis, in actual fact, a look that said ‘Fuck you.’ At least that’s the impression he goat and he despised them fur it…the cocky basturts that they wur.