by Todd, Ian
“Ah don’t think Mr Elliot is in jist noo. He’s usually up and away by this time ae the morning,” he heard Mrs Cookson, his landlady, telling them fae the bottom ae the stairs.
The Rat stood frozen tae the spot. He clamped the cheeks ae his arse thegither as he felt his stomach churn and a rush ae wind heiding towards his puckered arsehole. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated, bit tae nae avail. He’d jist heard whoever wis ootside the door turn and start tae walk away, when his arse let oot a sound straight oot ae a piccolo flute. It wisnae that loud, bit loud enough fur the shadows under the door tae stoap deid in their tracks and a pair ae feet walk back tae his door, and knock louder. The sweat wis pouring aff ae him by this time.
“Please, God...please God,” he murmured quietly, looking up at the heavy black clouds in the sky through the dirty glass, hauns clasped thegither like the Pope.
Efter wan mair final knock and a slight hesitation, the feet aboot-turned and heided back tae join the other set.
It only took The Rat four minutes tae pack his shoulder bag and auld suitcase, before he wis oot ae his room and doon the stairs, leaving the ootstaunin rent he owed Mrs Cookson oan the page ae her Glesga Echo that wis sitting open at the Green Fingers section. He nipped through the kitchen and oot the back door before slinging his bags o’er the red brick wall at the back and following them two seconds later.
Fifteen minutes later, he wis sitting in The Savoy Cafe, up in the Coocaddens. His stomach hid settled and his sphincter felt comfortably relaxed and back in place. He poured the milk intae his cup first, before topping it up wae the strong tea. He took a sip while returning tae ponder oan the problem in haun. Who the fuck wis it that hid appeared up at his digs? Who knew he wis back in the toon? And even if somewan did know that he wis back, how the hell did they know where he wis bunking? He’d deliberately chosen the bed and breakfast across in West Graham Street because ae its run-doon nature and oot ae the way location. It wis far enough oot ae the toon centre bit within easy walking distance ae whit wis gaun oan in the pubs and clubs at night. There hid been two ae them, he thought tae himsel. The only people who went aboot in twos and who’d turn up unexpectedly at people’s doors at odd hours, wis either the polis, or heavies. He ruled oot the bizzies. They usually stayed well clear ae the likes ae him due tae the paranoid nature ae the inspectors and superintendents, who’d come doon oan the pavement pounders oan the beat like a ton ae bricks if they suspected that stories wur being passed oan, oot ae school, tae hacks like him. That left the heavies. He tried tae think ae who they might be. He ruled oot the McGregor’s fae across in Govan as they tended tae stay oan their ain side ae the Clyde and only came intae the toon fur social occasions. If they needed something, they tended tae leave word aroond the pubs fur him tae pick up. They wur well-in wae the bizzies, so tended no tae use him unless they wur really stuck. The Simpsons, up in Possil? Maybe, bit it hid been aboot two years since he’d hid any dealings wae them. If it wis them that wur trying tae get a haud ae him, then he’d need tae look at his situation carefully. The last time he’d spoken tae Tam Simpson hid been tae thank him fur hauling that mad wanker ae a brother ae his, Toby, aff ae him. He’d provided them wae a few names that they could deal wae at The Corporation, doon in George’s Square. They wur stellar contacts and wid sell their granny’s gold teeth fur a few bob. Unfortunately fur The Simpsons, the officials hid awready been under observation by the polis, as part ae the big corruption clean-up in the city at the time, and a couple ae The Simpsons’ bears hid goat trapped in the net. By that time, he’d awready been paid fur his assistance, bit Toby hidnae been happy and hid demanded their back-haunder back. Tae assist him in seeing their point ae view, Toby hid ladled intae him using a length ae electrical cable that hid been lying near tae haun, before attempting tae strangle him wae it. Thank fuck Tam hid been present at the time or he wid probably hiv ended up buried in a field somewhere. He shuddered, thinking aboot it. He’d passed back the fifty quid through a third party, and that hid been the last time he’d seen or heard fae The Simpsons. That left only The Big Man, Pat Molloy. Pat hid eyes and ears everywhere. The Rat hid done quite a bit ae work fur him o’er the years when he wis working wae the various newspapers in the toon. Some ae the work hid jist involved passing oan gossip fur a few bob, while the mair detailed stuff hid involved investigative research, which hid usually meant that some poor basturt wis oan the receiving end ae being toppled fae their perch or wid suddenly find themselves wae a new business partner. Failure tae respond positively meant the victim ended up in a scandal story, usually written by himsel fur wan ae the papers. Wan ae the strangest jobs he’d done fur The Big Man wis tae connect a couple ae bizzies wae the death ae a young boy who’d goat himsel burned tae death in a pigeon loft up oan Parly Road in the Toonheid in the mid-sixties. He’d been tasked wae persuading some mad wummin tae get hersel and her pals, including the wee boy’s maw, tae gie statements that implicated the local bizzies in the harassment ae the boy and his pals. It hid been a nightmare because she wis a walking disaster and hid refused tae play ball unless it wis oan her terms. The stupid tart hid ended up in the jail fur assaulting the bizzies, efter organising a picket ootside a tenement where a warrant sale wis being held. He wis supposed tae hiv done a story oan the evils ae warrant sales fur her, in exchange fur the evidence fae them oan the alleged harassment ae the young boy by the local pavement pounders o’er the summer holidays ae that year. Before The Rat could get his story and make the deidline, she’d ended up in Gateside Prison, oot in Greenock. By that time, The Glesga Echo hid goat interested in the story and hid paid him, through the back door, tae hire a lawyer, Harry Portoy, tae defend her. The only problem at the time, wis that Harry Portoy hid been drunk since the late fifties and wis shacked up in The Tontine Hotel, as a fully paid-up jakey and hidnae practiced law in years. She’d eventually goat aff wae the charge and he’d goat the story, only tae be telt by Pat Molloy oan the wan haun and Tom Bryce, the sub-editor, oan the other tae drap it like a hot brick. There hid been nae explanation fae either side other than the instruction tae move oan. He remembered his heid hid been minced at the time, wae aw the skulduggery that wis gaun oan roond aboot him. He tried tae remember the name ae the mad bitch, bit her, alang wae her name, wis lost in the mists ae time. Taylor...Helen Taylor...that wis her name. A right foul-moothed hairy that should’ve been incarcerated in a looney-bin. And tae think that somewan like her hid ever been allowed tae bring up weans, as well? He’d never met her man, bit he could jist picture him...wee, timid and scared fur his baws. He wondered whit hid become ae her. She’d been something else, he wis thinking tae himsel, when a well-known voice broke intae his thoughts.
“Well, well, look whit the cat’s jist dragged in,” Swinton Mclean, crime hack wae The Evening Times announced tae everywan in the cafe, sitting doon at his table.
He wis accompanied by Harold Sliver fae The Evening Express.
“Ur ye coming or gaun?” Harold asked The Rat, nodding tae the shoulder bag and suitcase sitting oan the flair beside his chair.
“Ah’ve jist arrived and Ah’m jist hivving a wee quiet cup ae tea before heiding aff tae get masel some digs...or Ah wis.”
“Aye, glad tae see ye tae, Sammy,” Swinton said, ordering up another, bigger pot ae tea.
“So, Sammy, is that ye back fur good? The last Ah heard, ye hid a fancy job wae The Boston Globe. Whit happened?”
“Nothing happened. It wisnae fur me so Ah took the opportunity tae travel aboot the States, picking up bits ae work here and there. Very interesting it wis tae. Ah feel Ah’ve learned a lot wae the break and noo, Ah’m back here in Glesga, ready tae impart aw that good experience intae the journo scene here.”
“So, ye’ve goat a job then?”
“Naw, naw. Ah’ll probably take ma time and jist dip ma toes in the water first. Ah’ll maybe work freelance fur a while till Ah get the lay ae the land. So, whit aboot yersels then? Whit’s the latest?”
“Ach, s
ame shite, different day. Ye know whit it’s like? Stabbings, mair stabbings, and then there’s stabbings. Every noo and again, there’s a worthwhile story tucked in-between another stabbing story, usually concerning a strike when the union boys end up in a pitch battle wae the polis ootside the factory gates or there’s a big bank or post office robbery, bit that’s rare these days. We play a game ae who kin regurgitate and gloss up aw the same shite that nowan wants tae read aboot and put it across as being different fae the crap that wis in the paper the day before. Ur ye sure ye’re glad tae be back, Sammy?” Harold asked him.
“So, whit’s the story aboot this fancy ring that goat blagged oot ae a swanky hoose then?” he asked them, glad tae hiv it confirmed that they hidnae heard that he’d been back in the toon fur a while.
“It depends oan who ye ask. Some people think it’s aw made up by yer auld boss, Tom Bryce, tae gie the readers a wee break fae another stabbing story.”
“Really?”
“Well, the polis don’t know anything aboot it. Who the fuck wid announce, oan the front page ae The Glesga Echo, that some big shot’s five grand ring hid gone walkies, bit no report it tae the polis, eh?” Swinton asked, looking at Harold fur confirmation.
“Unless whoever owned the ring wisnae supposed tae be where they wur in the first place and didnae want tae be exposed,” Harold murmured.
“So, why wid ye announce that it hid gone missing through the papers then?” Swinton wondered.
“A reward?” The Rat volunteered.
“Oh, there’s a reward been offered, although it disnae say how much. A much better option wid’ve been tae get a private dick oan the case...somewan tae scurry aboot in the background.”
“Aye, somewan like yersel, Sammy?” Harold said, as the two ae them looked at him, eyes narrowing and brows furrowed.
“Me? Christ, Ah’m jist back. Ah widnae know where tae start wae something like that nooadays,” The Rat replied, chuffed that the pair ae eejits wurnae oan the case ae the missing ring, or if they wur, hidnae a clue where tae start.
“Anyway, boys, Ah’ll need tae be oan ma merry way and get me a bed tae lay that weary heid ae mine. See youse aboot, eh?” The Rat said suddenly, staunin up, picking up his bags and leaving them tae pick up his tab.
Efter hivving a good swatch tae his left and right tae make sure nowan wis watching him, he turned left and heided up towards Cambridge Street in search ae a room. So, if it wisnae the polis, and the journos didnae know he wis back, then it hid tae hiv been heavies that hid been up at his door. He felt his sphincter expand slightly. It wid jist be his bad luck if Pat Molloy knew he wis back. If that wis the case, he knew fine well that he’d hiv tae tread oan plenty ae shite before he wis done wae whitever The Big Man wanted him tae dae. It wid also fuck him up fur a permanent job if anywan picked up that he wis back working fur the bad guys. He started tae regret his decision tae come back tae Glesga. He knew that wance the jungle drums put oot that he wis oan the trail ae whoever blagged the ring, then the word wid spread that he wis getting paid tae track it doon. He took wan last glance behind him quickly, before nipping through the shabby-looking door in Hill Street that hid a sign behind the dirty glass saying ‘vacancies.’
Chapter Twenty Five
They’d nabbed him as he goat aff a forty seven bus at the tap end ae Renfield Street that he’d caught oan Balmore Road, up in Possil earlier. He’d jist aboot shat in they troosers ae his when Wan-bob Broon appeared fae naewhere in front ae him before telling him tae get that arse ae his in tae the back ae the white transit van that hid jist drawn up beside him.
“Wan-bob…er, it’s yersel?” he’d yelped in fright, as a pillowcase wis swiftly pulled o’er his heid.
“Sammy, shut the fuck up, ya wee rodent, ye. Somewan wants a word wae ye,” another voice hid growled.
The Rat hid jist aboot jumped oot ae his skin as the van door slammed shut and the engine shifted intae gear.
“Pat? It’s yersel…er, long time no see?” The Rat hid squeaked, blinking and fighting tae keep the frightened tremble oot ae his voice, as somewan behind him yanked the bag fae his heid.
The Rat hid tried tae take in his surroundings…a kitchen…smelling musty…nae sound ae traffic fae the ootside…probably a secret address that wisnae used much…sense ae danger…shallow-graves…Oh sweet mother ae God...try and breathe easy, he’d telt himsel.
“So Sammy, long time no see.”
“Ah, er, aye, Pat”
“Right, tell me whit ye’re up tae then?” The Big Man hid demanded, nae messing aboot.
“Me? Er, oh well, y’know, this and that, er…” he’d mumbled.
“Sammy, if ye don’t stoap pissing me aboot, Ah’m gonnae gie Wan-bob or The Goat the go-aheid tae sort that stutter ae yers oot.”
“Oh, er, sorry, Pat. It’s jist that, er, Ah’m surprised tae see ye… and me finding masel here…if ye, er, know whit Ah mean?” The Rat hid whimpered, looking aboot him, frightened and confused.
“Well, that’s okay then. Ah’ll let ye aff. Ye obviously needed time tae get yer breath back. So, oan ye go. Whit ur ye up tae then?”
“Oh well, er, y’know, whit is it exactly that ye want tae know?”
He’d known instantly that his response hid been a mistake, as The Big Man hid looked at him fur a full five seconds before nodding tae the two bears who’d proceeded tae wallop him aboot the ears and heid.
“Right, hopefully that’ll hiv helped ye tae collect yer thoughts. Noo, remember, if Ah hiv tae ask ye wan mair time or if ye try and evade answering ma questions, wan ae they fingers ae yers is gonnae get snapped. Hiv ye goat that?”
“Er, aye, Pat. There’s really nae need tae sp...” he’d started tae whimper, as The Big Man held up his haun tae silence him.
“Right, Sammy, why hiv ye been gaun aboot aw the pubs in the toon, Maryhill and Possil then?”
“Me? Well, er, Ah wis jist trying tae, er, see if, er...”
He’d heard the pinkie ae his right haun snap like a twig. The pain that shot up his erm wis the maist excruciating he’d ever experienced in his entire life and hid continued efter his haun hid been released fae the shovels that The Goat used as hauns. Efter aboot five minutes ae him screaming and howling in pain, Wan-bob hid lifted him up aff the flair and oan tae his feet tae face The Big Man, who wis still sitting in his chair, lighting up a Panatela.
“Right, Sammy...fae the beginning. And remember whit Ah telt ye,” The Big Man hid warned him, blowing oot a cloud ae white smoke.
“Ah’m…Ah’m, trying tae track doon whoever blagged The Princess’s Ring fae that hoose across in the West End,” he’d managed tae get oot, as another bolt ae pain shot up his erm fae his broken finger and a big dollop ae sweat drapped aff the end ae his beak.
“Fur who?”
“The paper...The Glesga Echo.”
“Who oan the Echo?”
“Tom Bryce, the sub-editor.”
“Why dis he want it?”
“I, er, Ah...”
This time he’d known that he’d been unconscious. When he’d come roond, he wis sitting oan the hard-backed kitchen chair, facing The Big Man. He hidnae been sure if somewan hid brought him roond by throwing water across his face or if he’d jist dribbled doon the front ae his shirt and tie, which wur baith wringing wet.
“Oh, Pat…Oh Jesus, oh ma God…the pain...it’s excruciating, so it is,” he’d panted and howled in agony, looking aghast at his ring finger that wis twisted and facing in the opposite direction tae where it should’ve been like something oot ae a Hammer Hoose ae Horror film.
“Right, Sammy, carry oan...ye wur saying?”
“It’s fur the owner…Lord whitever his name is,” he’d squealed, wanting tae throw up as a wave ae searing pain engulfed him.
“Lord Frank Owen?”
“Aye, that…that’s him. It belongs tae him, or at least, tae somewan he knows. Who…whoever it is, th…they want it back. Ah’m oan a freelance contract tae…tae try track it do
on.”
“And the pubs?”
“Ah’m jist laying the groundwork. Ah’ve…Ah’ve jist started the search the day.”
“Why did ye no open yer door this morning, Sammy? It wid’ve saved everywan aw this pissing aboot.”
Silence.
“Right, then, whit hiv ye turned up?”
“Nothing, so far…honest…Ah swear tae God, Pat,” he’d whined, efter catching sight ae The Big Man gieing The Goat a wee glance.
“Let me be the judge as tae whether ye’ve goat much tae report back oan or no, eh?”