by Denise Mina
The entrance to the Steps Bar is a few stairs up from the street. There are two doors. Red carpet creeping beneath one denotes the lounge area, red and white tiles under the other the public bar. They go through the door to the public bar, the cheap seats.
An oily smog of cigarette smoke hangs in the room. Four or five men sit alone at tables. They all look tired. They are suited in the old-fashioned way, double-breasted, wide-shouldered, conservative business fashion from ten years ago. The ashtrays are glass, not tin. It is a confident signal that the clientele are trusted not to hit each other and if you want that sort of evening then just move on, bub.
Watt and Manuel approach the bar. Watt orders half and halfs. The wiry, weathered barman has a grubby black apron and steel suspenders on his sleeves. Watt winks: Make the Scotch doubles. The barman salutes with two fingers to his temple, As you will, sir.
Watt looks at Manuel, expecting him to be pleased, but Manuel rolls his eyes. ‘Watt, don’t think you can get me drunk. I can pour this stuff down my neck all night.’
Watt is glad that Manuel has mistaken his need for drink for a cunning ploy. He is quite self-conscious about his drinking.
The drinks arrive. Watt drinks half of his beer and then drops his shot glass into it. It’s a silly thing to do, childish, a way of making the drink more fun. He lifts the double glass to drink and sees Manuel disapprove.
That cuts him. He’s warming himself at the thought of the Trades and the Merchants, sharing their money and power and status, and now a man who is just out of prison is sneering at him.
Watt drinks. Through the white froth smeared on the beer glass he sees Manuel’s expression deepen. Uncomfortable, Watt keeps drinking because he doesn’t want to put the glass down and have a conversation about his drinking. But there, it’s finished and he has to. He puts the glass on the bar.
Manuel doesn’t say anything about his drinking. He looks at Watt, neither kindly nor unkindly, and mouths one word. Money.
Watt looks at Manuel’s drink, he flicks a finger, go on, drink that. Manuel leaves a pause, looking around the bar, making it clear that he isn’t drinking because he’s been told to by Watt. He could take it or leave it. He is choosing to drink. He picks up his beer and just before he takes a drink he glances at Watt’s empty double-glass and says, ‘Take a bucket, don’t ye?’
Manuel has seen that he has a weakness for the drink. Watt feels uneasy now. He starts to sweat. His brain tells him to blurt something.
‘There? Where we parked. Outside?’S the Trades Hall.’
Manuel is still drinking but Watt has finished his drink. He looks forlornly at the glass. He desperately wants to order another but Manuel will judge him. He wishes he was drinking alone. He gibbers on.
‘Trade guilds of Glasgow. Trade unions of the Middle Ages. Ancient. Beautiful. A lot of money.’
Manuel is listening. His beer is two-thirds full. His hand rests on his glass and Watt sees him look at his fingernails. They are broken and dirty. Hard physical work. Manuel curls the face of his nails in to face the glass.
Quite suddenly Watt understands. Manuel isn’t judging Watt’s drinking. Manuel is snarling because he is intimidated by the bar and the suited people in it. He is intimidated by the Trades Hall, or doesn’t know anything about it. Because, of course, Peter Manuel is a workingman and a Catholic, they’re not welcome. He won’t even have heard of such things. The Trades Hall, the Merchants’ Guild, they keep their heads down.
‘You ever heard of the Merchants’ Guild?’
Manuel shrugs vaguely and drinks to cover his face. Watt leans down to keep his voice low. ‘They own Glasgow. Have seats on the Corporation. Between them they own all of the land Glasgow’s built on. Power.’
Manuel is determined not to be impressed by anything Watt says.
‘They own George Square, Hutchesontown, Tradeston, all of the banks of the Kelvin River. They take in two million sterling in feu duties every year.’
‘Much?’
‘Two million. Every year.’
Now he has Manuel’s attention. Watt sees his eyes widen and narrow. Two. Million. Sterling. He sees Manuel smile, imagining sacks of cash. Sacks of money he can rob and take away. But it all goes through the books in cheques and bank drafts, paid through lawyers and suchlike. You can’t rob that sort of money. It would take an elaborate swindle and Manuel doesn’t have that in him. Still, Manuel is so distracted by the thought Watt feels he can order a drink now. He looks up but, disappointingly, the barman is muttering into the telephone, a hand over his mouth.
Manuel turns to Watt with a stiff neck. ‘Who did you say gets this money?’
Watt smiles, sees that Manuel’s weakness is money, robbing it, getting it, knowing where it is. The barman has hung up. Watt catches his eye and nods for another round.
Manuel looks at Watt, his eyes widened with avarice. He thinks maybe Watt has seen the bags of cash. It makes Watt chuckle.
‘Do they keep it across the road?’ Manuel sounds casual. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Their accounts are made public at the end of every tax year.’
‘You a member in it, then?’
The barman brings the salving drink just in time because Watt isn’t a member of the Merchants’ Guild and it’s a bit of a sore point.
‘Not yet. But I will be. One day.’ He lifts his Scotch and drinks. He looks at Manuel, whose fingernails are chipped, who didn’t even know the Merchants’ Guild or the Trades Hall existed until Watt told him a minute ago. Watt suddenly realises how much better he is than Manuel. This buoys him. ‘I’ll be President of the Merchants’ Guild one day, you mark my words. Know what that means?’
Manuel shakes his head, still smiling about the money.
‘The President is the “Second Citizen of Glasgow”. After the Provost. And that’ll be me. Third Citizen is the Deacon Convener of the Trades Hall.’
‘So, how come you’re not a member now? Is it too dear?’
Watt laughs joylessly. ‘“Too dear”? No. Well, it is expensive, but I can easily–’ He rolls his fat hands away before remembering that he shouldn’t make a big thing of having money. He stops. ‘Hm. No. Technical… To be a member you have to be nominated by other members and so on and so forth.’
‘Ha! They won’t have you.’
They are standing close.
‘Yes. They will. They will.’ Watt taps his nose. ‘Ways and means.’
They drink thoughtfully.
‘I’m a writer.’
Watt almost looks around to see who said that. Manuel is looking into his beer. He looks worried.
‘I write stories. Haven’t had any published yet but…’
Watt is blown away. ‘Really?’
A little coy, Manuel nods. ‘Aye.’
Watt blinks hard. ‘Have you written many stories?’
Manuel shrugs. ‘Nine.’
‘Nine!’
Manuel is pleased by this reaction, ‘Yeah. Nine full stories. Sent them off. I’m starting a novel soon.’ Manuel lies all the time but he’s telling the truth about this. He has never told anyone before, apart from his sister.
‘Good Lord! An author ? That’s absolutely amazing!’ Watt is impressed. He can’t imagine sitting down to do that, or wanting to. ‘I had no idea!’
‘Well, I haven’t had anything published yet.’
‘I believe persistence is a virtue in that game, isn’t it?’ Watt knows nothing at all about this. ‘I’m quite sure you will be published. Quite sure.’
Manuel drinks and feels kindly towards Watt. They’re both excluded from things they shouldn’t be. It bonds them. Standing so close in an empty public bar makes them feel that they are together, that they are close. Watt furnishes each of them with cigarettes.
A draught from the street hits Watt and Manuel at the same time. The barman startles and slides behind the gantry. They turn to look at the door.
Shifty Thomson skulks into the lounge.
Shi
fty’s wide-leg grey slacks hang precariously from his bony hips. His jacket is a loud blue check, his shoes brown and beige. Shifty always looks as if he stole the clothes he is wearing. Nothing fits or suits him.
He’s looking back at the windows to the street but heads straight for Watt and Manuel. He doesn’t need to look for them. He knows exactly where they’re standing. Shifty works for Dandy McKay and Watt suddenly realises that the barman called the Gordon Club to say they were in here. Watt looks at the barman who is hiding behind the gantry and watching. This is strange. Watt rarely drinks in here. Either the barman got lucky or Dandy has the whole city looking for them. The barman doesn’t seem like a man who ever gets lucky.
Shifty Thomson is now standing in the tight huddle of them. He looks away and rubs his nose.
‘Dandy’s saying yees’ve get tae t’club.’
Shifty never looks you in the eye when he speaks. His diction is poor, as if his teeth are all smashed up or his jaw is wrong, but it isn’t. He chooses words that jangle, inelegant rhythms that grate, so that his next word can never be anticipated by someone earwigging nearby. People usually have to ask him to repeat what he has just said but Watt and Manuel have both heard him. They don’t know who he is talking to though.
‘Might one enquire, Shifty: of the two of us, whom are you addressing?’
Shifty sucks his cheeks in. ‘M’nel.’ He looks at the ceiling. ‘Dandy’s at Gordon. You’ve tae up there. Pronto.’
Shifty reels away abruptly, falling back from the tight trio like a side peeling off an upright banana. Three big strides and he’s at the door. And then he’s gone.
Manuel sucks violently on his cigarette, empties his whisky into his mouth, swallows and only then breathes out a long stream of smoke through his nostrils. As he exhales Watt sees his eyes dart this way, that way, looking for the angles, for a way out.
‘You going?’
Manuel shakes his head but they both know he has to go. Dandy McKay ordered it. The Gordon Club is just a few blocks away.
Watt looks at the barman who flinches.
‘Did you call the Gordon?’
The barman shrugs and whispers, ‘We wiz told we had to.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Word went out. Everb’dy’s been told.’
Watt can’t quite believe it. ‘Everybody?’
The barman shrugs helplessly.
Watt knows how powerful Dandy McKay is. He knows the weaselly barman had no choice, but still, Watt is frightened, and he takes it out on him.
‘It stinks in here,’ he announces to the room. ‘Let’s go.’
He throws money onto the bar. A shilling rolls off, dropping noisily onto the metal trap into the cellar. It makes the stoolie barman jump. They walk out, banging the door as they go.
In the street, struck by the cold once again, they stop and Manuel lifts his jacket collar. He is in a lot of trouble. Watt looks down at him. He knows Manuel is no innocent, but he also knows that trouble is a bad thing to be in a lot of.
He glances across the road and sees the Trades Hall door open. A gold-braided doorman hails a taxi for a prosperous couple. The man helps his mink stole’d wife into the cab before getting in himself, palming a tip to the doorman. The doorman watches the taxi drive away, adjusts his white gloves. The lights from inside the Hall are warm and clean and Protestant. They go back fifteen generations.
Watt prides himself on knowing all the different grades of society in Glasgow. He moves among them seamlessly. They all mistake him for their own, except the Merchants’ Guild. They know he is not one of them. Especially now, since the Burnside Affair and the publicity. But Watt is convinced he can make up the ground. He can do it because he is certain that the way in is not respectability or staying out of the papers. The way in is money. You might be washed in the blood of the lamb, but the real cleanser of souls is money, and he’s going to have a lot of money soon. If he can just sort this out.
‘What’s it going to take for me to get the gun?’
‘I’ve got a joe. Take him, then I’ll give you the gun.’
‘But the police won’t look at anyone but me.’
‘Buzzies’ll want him for it,’ says Manuel. ‘Bastard called Charles Tallis. Record as long as your arm.’
Manuel’s eyes narrow, his mouth curls down. Watt has never heard of anyone called Tallis but he can see Manuel hates the man, wants bad things to happen to him. Manuel doesn’t want to go down for it, Watt can see that, but he’s struggling to find the connection between the gun and money and doing harm to a man called Tallis with a record as long as your arm. William Watt is good at long-term planning. Even where he can’t see clear connections, he can usually imagine what they might be like. He can’t here and grunts, shaking his head. It’s not believable, not even to someone who wants to believe it.
Manuel sneers at the pavement. ‘Tallis told me the whole thing was a mistake. He was after the Valentes next door.’
Watt is instantly sober. For a moment he forgets to breathe. The story could work. It may be more believable than the truth and really what difference does it make if it’s Manuel or someone else? Watt isn’t looking for justice but an ending to this story. He’s a conversation away from the whole bloody mess being over. But Dandy McKay is after Manuel, seriously after him, this vessel of the potential solution. Watt needs to get this story resolved before Dandy gets him.
‘Let’s go and see my brother John.’
6
Monday 6 January 1958
THE THREE BOYS ARE all eight years old or thereabouts. They should be in school but aren’t. They have been kicking around for an hour this morning looking for trouble and now they’ve found it.
A car, an Austin A35. It is parked in Florence Street in the Gorbals. A long, wide street of black-scalded four-storey tenements. Cars are rarely parked here and never left unattended. But this car is empty. It has dew on it so it has been here for a while. It is small and as cute as a button. It looks like a cartoon. Every edge is rounded, every contrasting line exaggerated. The grate is chrome, long and pinched, a prissy kiss of a grate.
The boys cross the road and sidle up to it. They try the driver’s door and it opens. They can’t believe their luck. They giggle, look around, waiting for a mother at a window to shout them away or a driver to run at them, but nobody does. Omniscient Gorbals mothers are watching from windows and doorways, but they don’t care. It doesn’t seem to belong to anyone. The boys get into an actual car.
They pretend to drive, take turns sitting in the driver’s seat, waving their hands around the steering wheel like actors driving in the movies. One of them makes the passable sound of an engine by burring his lips and the others compliment him on it.
They search the car. In the glovebox they find a tin of travel sweets. The lid lifts off with a white puff of magician’s smoke. Inside, translucent pink boiled sweeties are sunk into a nest of icing sugar. These are posh sweets.
Reverently, the boys take one each. They savour the flavour and this moment, when they are in a car, eating sweets, with friends. In the future, when they are grown, they will all own cars because ordinary people will own cars in the future but this seems fantastical to them now. In the future they will think they remember this moment because of what happened next, how significant it was that they found Mr Smart’s car, but that’s not what will stay with them. A door has been opened in their experience, the sensation of being in a car with friends, the special nature of being in a car; a distinct space, the possibility of travel, with sweets. Because of this moment one of them will forever experience a boyish lift to his mood when he is in a car with his pals. Another will go on to rebuild classic cars as a hobby. The third boy will spend the rest of his life fraudulently claiming he stole his first car when he was eight, and was somehow implicated in the Smart family murders. He will die young, of the drink, believing that to be true.
The boys are in the car for quite some time.
‘GET THE
FUCK OUT OF THERE, YA WEE SHITES.’
A polis has yanked the door open and his meaty hands are coming for them. The boys scramble out of the far door, spilling the sweets and the icing sugar all over the red leather seats and themselves.
They bomb it across the road, trailing sugary smoke. On the far pavement they run towards the river, their steps punctuated with excited leaps and squeals. They skip sideways past giant prams parked outside a shop. To the cries and burbles of the baby parliament, the boys belt up a close to a backcourt and run around a midden to hide. They crouch, panting and laughing, thinking they are miles and miles from the policeman when they’re really just a few hundred yards away. He could find them if he wanted to.
Out in the street the policeman knows this is wrong. The car is new, clean and unlocked. It has been left unlocked in Florence Street where cars and policemen don’t belong. He keeps his eye on it as he backs away to call it in from the police box around the corner.
The registration says it is a Mr Peter Smart’s car. The police call the man’s registered place of work. The work says Mr Smart is missing. He is the manager there but hasn’t returned to work this morning after the five-day Hogmanay holiday. He hasn’t been seen for nearly week.
A different policeman from Hamilton Police Station sets off to visit the family home in Sheepburn Road, Uddingston. Uddingston is a nice town, far enough away from Glasgow to stay nice. The poor people, mostly Catholics, are corralled into an estate nearby called Birkenshaw. Uddingston is an agricultural area, it is set in a landscape of soft hills, marred by mine works abandoned since nationalisation. Many of the mines were unsafe and inefficient, had dreadful working conditions.
He reaches Mr Smart’s address in Sheepburn Road. It is a bungalow. Mr Smart is an engineer and built the house a few years ago with his own two hands. It looks a bit home-knitted, hasn’t the detailing or finesse of a professional build. There is no ornamentation and the windows are smaller than the facade could support.