by Todd, Ian
“Ah think Ah’ll call ye Flashback fae noo oan,” Johnboy hid said, grinning.
“Will ye fuck. Ma name’s Snappy…Snappy Johnson.”
“Ma name’s Johnboy Taylor.”
“So, whit ur we blagging oot ae Silverman’s the day then, Johnboy?”
Johnboy and Snappy hid sat in the sun oan the pavement roond the corner fae Silverman’s, watching the fruit vans coming and gaun oot ae the Fruitmarket. Snappy hid swiped two big green cooking apples fae a box, oan route tae their perch, and they’d sat sucking the sour juice oot ae them. Snappy hid reminded Johnboy how lucky he wis tae hiv met him seeing as he worked in the shoe department. When he’d gone in that morning, the gap fae where Johnboy hid nicked the three shoeboxes hid stood oot a mile. Snappy hid replaced the boxes fae the back store, and so aw hid been made well wae the world again. Johnboy hid telt him aboot his wee adventure wae the lift the night before.
“So, whit’s the score the day then?”
“When we finish the night, Ah’m gonnae hide until everywan leaves and then Ah’ll come and open the basement door at the side ae the building and let ye in and we kin go fur a wee donder aboot the departments tae see whit the score is,” Johnboy hid telt him.
“Brilliant. Apart fae gaun up in the lift when Ah start and doon when Ah finish, Ah hivnae really seen the inside ae the place, so Ah hivnae,” Snappy hid confessed.
Later oan in the day, everything hid gone like clockwork. Johnboy and Snappy hid wandered aboot the place, checking oot aw the stock and where everything wis kept. They’d spent aboot twenty minutes trying tae figure oot how tae get intae the jewellery department, bit hid gied up, as there wis nae way tae get through the roller doors withoot it being noticed that the locks hid been tampered wae. It hid been aboot seven o’clock before they’d heided fur the bus. They hidnae blagged anything that first night. Snappy hid come up wae a brilliant plan. He’d said that a pal ae his, Peter Paterson, wis always oan the go selling this and that. He’d a lot ae customers always oan the lookoot fur a bargain. Snappy hid said he’d ask Peter if he wis interested in coming doon tae Silverman’s tae take a look and if he saw stuff that his customers wanted, him and Johnboy wid take orders and deliver them. Two days hid passed and there hid been nae word ae any orders. Another thing that hid bothered Johnboy at the time wis that Tony and Joe hidnae met Snappy yet. Snappy hid telt Johnboy that he’d run aroond wae The Peg fur a while. The Peg wur the local Springburn street gang, who wur a pain in the arse, and Johnboy, Tony and Joe hid awready hid a few wee skirmishes wae them since moving up tae Springburn. The Peg thought they wur entitled tae stab fuck oot ae anywan between the ages ae fourteen and twenty wan, who happened tae be walking up the street, minding their ain business. Efter Silent hid finally been released fae approved school, he hidnae been in Springburn three days before he’d been attacked up near Balgrayhill. Joe hid nicked a car and hid trawled the streets wae Silent beside him, looking fur the attackers. When they’d spotted two ae the basturts, Joe hid jumped oot ae the car and chased efter them. By the time Silent hid caught up wae Joe, Joe hid managed tae corner wan ae them in Kay Street, up beside the swimming baths. Unfortunately fur the Peg boy, the baths wur shut so there wis nae escape route and Joe hid ladled intae him wae a bit ae the car jack that hid been lying in the foot well ae the car. Two days later, some ae The Peg boys hid arranged tae meet up wae Tony tae arrange a pow-wow aboot whit wis gaun oan. Nowan wis supposed tae be carrying any weapons tae the meeting. During the pow-wow, wan ae The Peg boys hid pulled oot a sharpened screwdriver. Efter a brief struggle, Joe hid managed tae wrench the screwdriver aff ae the basturt and hid proceeded tae stab him aboot the face wae his ain weapon. It hid caused a bit ae a stooshie fur a while, seeing as the wan that hid goat stabbed hid no only ended up blind in wan eye, bit hid nearly lost that nose ae his and hid been scarred fur life. The Peg hid stayed clear ae them efter that, bit there wis nae love lost oan either side. Oan the bus back and forward tae Silverman’s, Snappy hid telt Johnboy how he wanted tae start up a gang ae thieves who lived aff the earnings ae aw the swag that they nicked.
“Hiv ye ever heard ae a guy called Tony Gucci, Snappy?” Johnboy hid finally asked him.
“Nope.”
“Whit aboot Paul McBride?”
“He disnae play fur Celtic, dis he?”
“Naw, ye’re thinking ae Joe McBride who plays fur Hibs. Whit aboot Joe McManus?”
“Naw.”
“Dae ye remember wan ae The Peg boys lost an eye, as well as hauf ae his nose, efter somewan took a screwdriver tae it when he wis at a meeting aboot trying tae stoap violence getting oot ae haun?”
“Aye, that wis John Dale. Whit a beezer that wis. His nose still looks as if it always wants tae piss aff fur a pint, so it dis. He looks like something oot ae ‘The Man wae The Bent Nose.’”
“Aye, well, that wis Joe McManus that done that and he’s wan ae ma best pals, alang wae the other two that Ah’ve jist mentioned.”
“Whit? Ye run aboot wae the tadger that took a liberty wae poor John Dale, when aw he wis daeing wis trying tae stoap the trouble fae spiralling oot ae control?”
“Snappy, before we go any further. Yer pal wis an aggressive prick and wis only making things worse. Noo, if ye want tae go aheid wae this wee venture, ye need tae get it intae yer heid that ye cannae say ye ran aboot wae The Peg. Ye’re nae intae gangs either, setting wan up or otherwise, and when ye dae meet them, keep yer trap shut and yer bright ideas tae yersel, at least fur the first five minutes. They won’t take any shite aff ae ye, so keep that in mind. Other than that, they’re actually okay.”
When Peter Paterson hid finally goat back in contact, Johnboy hid jist aboot shat in his pants. The reason fur the delay hid been because Peter hid been oot and aboot and hid managed tae get hauf ae Springburn doon tae the shoap tae check oot whit wis available. When Johnboy hid read the list that Peter hid produced, he hidnae been aware that Silverman’s sold hauf the stuff that hid been requested. Peter’s punters wanted bed quilts, sheets, lamps, cushion covers, shoes, boots, curtains, snow globe ornaments, canteens ae cutlery...you name it...if the shoap sold it, they wanted it. There wis nae way that they wid’ve been able tae haul aw that stuff back up the road oan the bus every night, withoot attracting the scent ae every bizzy in the toon. Johnboy hid arranged a meeting between Tony, Joe, Snappy and Peter in Jonah’s. Because Pat hid awready started semi-hinging aboot wae them, he’d sat in as well, although he hidnae contributed any advice, wance he’d found oot that they couldnae get intae the jewellery department.
Efter a hesitant start, they’d soon goat doon tae business. Peter wid take ten percent ae everything sold. The other ninety percent wid be split four ways. Joe and Tony wid borrow wan ae Fat Fraser’s vans behind his back and come doon tae the shoap aboot nine o’clock at night, allowing Johnboy and Snappy time tae make up the orders. It hid also been agreed that they’d strike while the iron wis hot o’er the next four weeks, as Peter said he could keep the orders coming in. Efter four weeks, baith Snappy and Johnboy wid jack in their jobs. At lunch times, they’d look aboot the toon centre fur mair shoaps tae try and get jobs in, while Peter checked oot the kind ae stuff that his punters wanted. Fae it jist being Johnboy, Joe and Tony running aboot thegither, Pat McCabe, the jeweller, Snappy Johnston and Peter the Runner hid joined the ranks. Things hid started tae look up.
Chapter Twenty Eight
George Crawford sat facing the interview panel in the administration office above the gatehoose ae Barlinnie Prison. While he wisnae overconfident, he felt comfortable enough tae be able tae answer maist ae the questions that wur being thrown across the desk at him. The clock above the heids ae the panel members said it wis six minutes past nine. He’d been in the hot-seat fur exactly six minutes before the questions started coming at him.
“According tae yer file, Mr Crawford, it says that ye’ve been an Assistant Hall Governor in HMP Barlinnie twice, hiv hid two stints as AG in Peterheid, wan in Friarton, Perth,
and that fur the last two and a hauf years, hiv been Assistant Governor in Polmont Borstal oot near Falkirk. Apart fae Barlinnie, these are aw relatively small institutions. Whit strengths and experience dae ye believe ye hiv that wid assist ye tae manage a large institution ae o’er a thousand adult prisoners here in Glesga?” Jack Broon, Scottish Prison’s manager asked.
“Well, sir, you rightly highlight that all of the institutions mentioned have been small in comparison to Barlinnie, but I would point out that all of these institutions have housed prisoners, young and old, who are serving minimum tariff sentences of two years or more. This has afforded me an opportunity to study the inmate at close quarters over longer periods of time and respond accordingly to the needs of the prison service locally and the department centrally, thus ensuring effective control is maintained, whatever the situation might be and wherever a situation may arise.”
“So, you make a distinction between those prisoners serving longer sentences and those who are with us for a few short months?” Maggie Bates, known throughoot the prison service as Maggie Tin Knickers, governor ae Gateside Wummin’s Prison asked him.
“I believe my experience in dealing with those incarcerated for longer, whose offences would be categorised as more serious than your local short stay inmates, has allowed me a better insight into the minds of repeat offenders and of how we, as a service, should be responding to the needs of these malcontents, whilst at the same time protecting the communities we are entrusted to serve.”
“Can you give us an example, Mr Crawford?” Maggie Tin Knickers asked.
“Well, in my experience, throwing resources at the flotsam of society, believing we can somehow change the way people behave in their communities is…well...quite preposterous really. If we cannot change offending when we have riff-raff for periods exceeding two or more years, then the chances of changing short-term sentenced recidivists, is hardly likely to succeed in the time we have them in our local facilities. As governor of this fine institution, I would ensure that as little money as possible is spent in molly-coddling those who believe society owes them a favour and would apply the necessary short, sharp, shock treatments to make them think again before darkening the doors of this prison again. I believe I would be able to save the department money whilst at the same time, ensure that society gets its well deserved pound of flesh...if you’ll pardon the expression, ma’am.”
“Not at all, Mr Crawford, not at all,” Maggie Tin Knickers purred, flashing her eyelashes at him, as the other two interviewers nodded in agreement, clearly impressed.
“What are your views on the handling of prison staff, Mr Crawford?”
“The Prison Officers’ Association is like any other union...full of bullies, trouble-makers and communists. Whilst I clearly do not subscribe to anything they stand for, the ordinary decent prison officer, in my mind, most of the time, acts like a lost sheep. I believe their needs are as simple as themselves and that they cry out for strong, firm leadership that not only listens to what they have to say, but acts accordingly.”
“Yes, I notice that the officers in Friarton refused to work to rule when you were in charge and that the same applied in Polmont recently, much to the consternation of the Prison Officers’ Association, Mr Crawford. What would you say were the secrets of your success?” Alistair Fleming, Scottish Home and Health Department, prisons’ secretary asked.
“It’s really quite straightforward, sir. If a prison officer claims an institution regime is being too soft on prisoners, then the chances are, he is right. He’s the one who has to implement management decisions in allowing prisoners out of their cells, having to supervise evening recreational access, family visits, and more so-called visiting committees gaining entry to our institutions, all of which undermine his supposed authority. Where I have had responsibility, I have applied fair, but measured rules to those incarcerated, as laid down by the Secretary of State for Scotland. If I have any weaknesses at all, it is that I don’t fully subscribe to all this rehabilitation nonsense that is being forced on us by longhaired social worker psychologist types, who believe that talking to people who break the law will somehow cure them. For some strange reason, prison officers tend to believe they have a right to be heard and my way of controlling them is by giving them the impression that the tough measures I enact are as a result of me listening to what they have to say. Of course, it’s a total illusion, as all decisions are made at the centre. Prisons were built to lock people up, not allow inmates to wander about the place once they’re removed from society and put behind prison walls. In my view, prisons are there to punish.”
“Here, here,” Jack Broon harrumphed, tapping twice oan the desk wae his white knuckles.
“You mention social worker types, Mr Crawford. It says here that your wife is...er, a social worker herself. Does that mean she holds opposing views that conflict with your own? I can imagine there must be some interesting conversations around the Crawford dining table on occasions,” Maggie Tin Knickers enquired, slipping the stiletto silently and effortlessly between they ribs ae his.
“Oh, er, not at all, Miss Bates, on the, er, contrary. When Alison and I decided to pursue careers in giving back to the community, our approaches on how best to do that were based on the same Christian principles, but our approach was always going to be different. Whilst I chose to apply my Christian values within the prison service, Alison, my dear sweet wife, wished to devote her life to doing missionary work within communities themselves. After twenty years of blissful matrimony, I can honestly say that we are still in harmony in our determination to help those less fortunate than ourselves. Since our children have left and gone on to university, my wife has gone back to work in one of the most deprived communities in Glasgow. Like me, she is quite capable of ascertaining who requires help and time invested in them and those who are a drain on resources and society,” he replied tae Tin Knickers, feeling that sphincter ae his twitching fur the first time since entering the room.
“Barlinnie was built to hold 1008 prisoners but I believe the current population stands around the 1500 mark. How would you deal with overcrowding, Mr Crawford?”
“As I stated earlier Mr Fleming, prisons are, in my view, there to inflict punishment. If this means offenders such as rapists, muggers and misfits having to live on top of each other, then so be it. I would contend that that’s how half of them probably live on the outside anyway. My priority would be to ensure they stay locked up with minimal time out of their cells. If that means two, three or even four to a cell, then perhaps time spent reflecting on the implications of breaking the law in the future will be time well spent.”
“Right, well, unless there ur any further questions, Ah’d jist like tae thank Mr Crawford fur attending the interview this morning,” Jack Broon, Scottish Prisons’ manager declared, looking at the panel members.
“May I ask a question, sir?” The AG asked.
“Of course you can, Mr Crawford.”
“Could you give me an indication of when a decision will be made regarding who will be appointed to the post?”
“I think Mr Fleming may be able to answer that, Mr Crawford. Mr Fleming?”
“We will make our recommendation later today to the Secretary of State, seeing as there was only one other candidate…Mr Bob Grump from Craiginches, up in Aberdeen…other than yourself, Mr Crawford. The process usually takes about seven days, therefore you should hear by telephone, in the first instance, if you have been successful, probably by this time next week. Hopefully, I am not talking out-of-school when I say that I am very impressed by your interview today and I would not be surprised if Mr Brown will be phoning you next Friday with a Happy New Year message from the department,” he beamed.
“Hear, hear,” Jack Broon harrumphed again, tapping the desk fur the second time wae they white knuckles ae his as Maggie Tin Knickers fluttered her eyelashes across the desk at the candidate.
Chapter Twenty Nine
It wis clear that the Superi
ntendent meant business, The Stalker thought tae himsel as he entered the boardroom. Daddy’s right-haun bum-boy, Chief Inspector Billy Liar, wis lifting the black chalkboard up oan tae the wooden pedestal at the end ae the table, as everywan wis shuffling and bumping intae each other, heiding fur the same seats that they’d been sitting oan at the meeting the previous week.
“Talk aboot creatures ae habit,” The Stalker mumbled.
“Well, well, wid ye look at the mooth oan that...haw, haw,” Shane Priestly, wan ae The Gruesome Twosome, shouted oot, laughing.
“Whit happened, Paddy? Some wee lassie gie ye a skelp fur poking yer finger in where it wisnae wanted, eh?” the other gruesome prick, Dave McGovern, chipped in.
“Ignore they bawbags, Paddy. Tell them fuck-aw,” Bumper said.
“Ah hope ye gied the tart mair than whit she gied yersel, Paddy,” Billy Liar quipped fae the bottom ae the table.
“It wis the dentist,” The Stalker mumbled, taking his seat, while dabbing his mooth wae a bar towel that he’d goat fae wan ae the wummin at the warrant sale up in Endricks Street earlier oan.
“Aye, that’s whit they aw say,” Shane mumbled tae titters fae Duggie Dougan and Chic Thompson.
“Aye, bit the difference between me and you, Shane, is that Ah tell the truth aboot these things. Whit wis the name ae that wee wummin that used yer tie and yer baws as a stepping stane tae get far enough up so she could stick the heid oan ye?”
“Haw, haw…Maggie, the Mansion Street midget. Broke that nose ae his, if ma memory serves me right,” Bumper guffawed.
“Aye, and whit did he try and say? He walked intae a door. Isn’t that right, Shane?”
“Fuck aff, Paddy, ya Irish tadger, ye,” Shane replied, eyes narrowing.
“Oh, sorry, Ah furgoat, it’s still a sore point,” The Stalker tittered, gieing his blood-stained lips a wee dab wae the towel.
“And still a talking point as well, at least it is o’er in Springburn, Burmulloch and Balornock,” Bumper slung in.