by Todd, Ian
It couldnae hiv been anywan important or she’d hiv shouted up tae him, Tom hid thought tae himsel, gieing his pouting arsehole another wee squeeze, while taking a stab at the dirt under his left pinkie nail wae his bit ae curved thumbnail.
He walked across tae the plush couch and sat doon before looking aboot. The reception wis quite plush…no ‘fancy hoose’ plush, bit ‘casino’ plush, as ye’d expect it tae be. He’d never darkened the door ae a casino before. He’d walked past The Chevalier lots ae times, bit hid never felt the urge tae find oot whit went oan behind the uniformed doorman and the glass fronted doors. He couldnae afford tae oan whit he wis taking hame.
“Mr Bryce?”
“Aye?”
“Please follow me,” the wee sister ae Miss Slinky, who wis still perched behind the reception desk said, as he followed her up the stairs, hivving a wee check ae that Penny Dainty-chewing arse ae hers as she mounted the stairs wan at a time.
At a door at the tap, she turned, smiled and asked him jist tae go right in.
“Tom, Tom, glad to meet you at last,” Sir Frank Owen called oot, avoiding the haun that hid been proffered oot tae him. “Take a seat, please.”
“Ah’m sorry if Ah’m a wee bit late, Sir Frank. Ah goat caught up,” he said, noting the presence ae the paper’s editor, Hamish McGovern.
Hamish wis sitting silently, no acknowledging his entrance, oan a wee two-seater sofa in the seating circle.
“Yes, so your dear wife said.”
“Oh, no, it’s no wae whit ye’re thinking, sir, it wis wae the traffic,” he blurted oot, feeling they cheeks ae his burning.
“Yes, well, you’re here now.”
“Aye, well, here Ah am, eh?”
“Right, please tell me what’s being going on up in the Townhead. Don’t leave anything out,” Sir Frank said pleasantly, sitting doon and crossing they pin-stripe-suited legs ae his.
“Er, the Toonheid, sir?”
“You know...the young street urchin that managed to get himself cremated in a pigeon dovecot?”
“Oh, that? Well, there isnae much tae tell ye, sir,” he replied, running through the events ae the past few weeks, as hid been relayed tae him by The Rat.
“So, what do you think then? Is there any truth in the rumours?”
“Ah think there’s a story that we kin get some mileage oot ae, bit Ah cannae see the local polis intentionally trying tae dae away wae a bunch ae wee toe-rags, despite the break-ins they’ve been committing aw o’er the place,” Tom said, wondering whit the fuck wis gaun oan.
“Hmm...”
“Don’t get me wrang, sir, bit why wid somewan like yersel be sitting here asking me aboot this kind ae stuff?” he asked, gulping.
“And where are the mothers of this little group of innocents in all of this? What about the one that seems to be the leader? What’s her game then?” Sir Frank asked, ignoring Tom’s question.
“According tae Sammy Elliot, she’s the wan that kin get us access tae people who could verify and corroborate the rumours ae whit his been supposedly happening between the local pavement pounders and the gang ae wee toe-rags who’re at the centre ae oor investigation.”
“And the problem?”
“The problem is, er, she demanded free publicity tae highlight her warrant sales campaign. Ah’ve...er, tried no tae let her gie us a using by slinging a few wee crumbs her way, if ye know whit Ah mean?”
He heard the door behind him open. He knew it wis Slinky Arse as he caught a wee whiff ae her perfume. He wis jist conjuring up the picture ae that Penny Dainty arse-wiggle in that heid ae his, when Sir Frank goat up and walked o’er tae a desk and returned tae shatter Tom’s peace by throwing doon a copy ae The Evening Times and The Evening Citizen oan tae the coffee table.
“Thank you, Venice,” Sir Frank said politely, as Slinky Arse haunded him an early edition ae the next morning’s Glesga Echo.
Sir Frank slowly started tae thumb through it, wan page at a time. Tom, fur the first time in his working life, hidnae seen the evening papers ae the opposition before he’d left fur hame earlier that evening. It wis a golden rule that he’d never broken, until that night. He glanced doon at the screaming heidlines lying there oan the coffee table. Even though he wis reading them upside doon, he still managed tae get the message loud and clear.
“Battle Ae John Street,” screamed The Evening Citizen.
“Warrant Sale Riot,” The Evening Times subtly proclaimed.
He felt a wee twitch, as his sphincter muscle expanded like a well-worn elastic band. He could tell that Sir Frank still hid a wee bit tae go before he reached the Green Finger section. He glanced o’er at Hamish, bit couldnae make any eye contact. He didnae smoke, bit could’ve been daeing wae a drag ae a Capstan full strength as he felt the sweat dribble doon between the cheeks ae his arse, waiting, watching.
“I don’t want to sound confused, but did you not just say that we had a photographer and a journalist on John Street today, Hamish?”
“Er, Ah think ye’ll find whit ye’re looking fur oan page thirty seven, jist at the side ae the Green Fingers section, sir,” The sub heard himsel say before Hamish could reply.
Fuck, fuckity fuck, he howled tae himsel. He knew whit Sir Frank wis gonnae find. When Slipper hid come back wae his photos, Tom hidnae even looked at them.
“Whit hiv ye goat?” he’d asked.
“A bus and a van that collided up oan the High Street, Fraser’s new lingerie department make-o’er and the warrant sale wummin up in John Street.”
“Right, we’ll use the three ae them,” he’d said withoot looking up.
“Ah’ve goat some crackers ae the warrant sale that wid look good, especially the shots Ah took efter the local militia arrived.”
“Hiv ye goat any wae the wummin loitering aboot ootside the closemooth?”
“Aye.”
“That’s the wan we’ll go wae.”
“Ur ye sure?” Slipper hid asked, looking and sounding surprised.
“That’s the wan,” he’d said wae finality.
“Aha!” Sir Frank said, peering doon at the article oan page thirty seven, before reading oot loud. “A group of women protested outside a tenement closemouth at sixty eight John Street, Townhead, earlier yesterday during the sale of the household furniture of Mrs Madge Morrison. Mrs Morrison, aged seventy three, owed Glasgow Corporation’s housing department twenty five pounds, four shillings and fourpence in rent arrears. Demonstrators said that Mrs Morrison, who suffers from rheumatoid arthritis, fell into debt after having to dry out her house as a result of a burst pipe last winter. Mrs Helen Taylor, another Corporation tenant and near neighbour, said that Mrs Morrison had no close relatives to help her out and that the fault lay with The Corporation, who had refused to take any responsibility for the damage caused by the burst pipe. A Corporation spokesman said they could not comment on the matter. Mrs Taylor said that she, along with other local tenants had been protesting against warrant sales in the area for a number of years now and that The Corporation had not seen the last of them. It is believed that further demonstrations are planned over the coming weeks and months. ‘We’ll be back’ promised Mrs Taylor. I see there’s a photograph as well,” Sir Frank said, peering at the wee photo ae a group ae smiling wummin.
“Aye, as ye kin see, that’s the early morning edition which will go oot the night fur the local pubs,” The Sub volunteered lamely.
“So, while our two main rivals have screaming headlines depicting a riot, we’re going with a nice little photograph of a group of badly made-up women on page thirty seven?”
“Aye, well, Ah did say that this wis the early edition. Obviously, there’s still time tae upgrade the story fur the morra morning, sir.”
“So, where are the women now, Hamish?” Sir Frank asked The Editor.
“They’re aw in the jail, Ah believe, Sir Frank.”
“Including this Taylor one?”
“Aye, as far as Ah know.”
“Tom,
Hamish informs me that you don’t think that there’s a real story behind what happened to this boy. Would that be correct?”
“Er, aye, Sir Frank.”
“So, if I was to inform you that a key player, a close stakeholder, who stood to lose everything, who shall remain anonymous, had approached me to back off on this arson story involving his officers, what would your advice be?” Sir Frank asked him pleasantly, as The Sub felt that elastic sphincter band ae his snap.
“If Ah’m honest, it wid ring alarms bells that there wis maybe something gaun oan, efter aw,” he croaked, trying desperately no tae shite himsel while sitting oan Sir Frank’s nice red velvet-covered chair.
He knew his job wis oan the line.
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. What do you think, Hamish?”
“There could very well be a cover-up oan the go, although he did say the reason wis tae gie them a bit mair time tae investigate whether there wis any rogue elements taking the law intae their ain hauns. It makes sense...oan the face ae it.”
“Hmm…it seems to me that there just might be more to this than what we have been led to believe. Do you think that it’s worth exploring further by trying to find out what’s going on…in the public interest, of course,” Sir Frank said, turning tae The Sub. “How far along are we on this story and who else suspects that there’s perhaps more to this than meets the eye?”
“As Ah said tae Hamish earlier the day, sir, we think the maws ae the boys involved, and in particular this Taylor wan, are the key tae this. We don’t think anywan else his picked up oan the conspiracy angle other than masel,” he said, managing tae slip in the wee ‘Ah’m indispensable’ morsel at the end.
“Does it not strike you as a little bit of a coincidence, at this particular moment in time, that the one person who could maybe lift the lid on this, has suddenly been arrested and put out of harm’s way by our friends in the local constabulary? Hamish?”
“If Ah wis the suspicious type, Ah’d probably smell a rat in there somewhere,” Hamish said, smiling, as he looked o’er at Tom.
“So, what happens next?” Sir Frank asked Hamish.
“They’ll appear up in court in the morning and probably get jailed or fined fur assaulting the polis and causing a riot.”
“Is there anything we can do in the meantime?”
“No really,” Hamish The Editor said, looking at his wristwatch. “Ah don’t think we should be seen tae be getting involved. We widnae want tae expose any interest we might hiv tae that Irish Brigade doon in Central. Ah agree we need tae follow through and keep wan step aheid ae the competition. Ah also think at some stage in the future she might require some legal advice and protection though. If Sean Smith thinks the cat’s oot ae the bag, they’ll no let this stoap here.”
“And we’ve definitely got this Taylor woman on side, Tom?” Sir Frank asked.
“Aye, she’s a bit demanding, bit we’ve goat an agreement…in principle,” The Sub replied, feeling his sphincter settling back intae place, still intact, bit wae minor stretch marks.
“Right, if she’s ours, we’ll need to ensure we protect our investment without the competition being alerted. Let’s hope she’s capable of defending herself, although we may have to intervene surreptitiously, depending on what happens at court tomorrow morning. I’ll leave that part in your capable hands, Tom. Don’t let me down, now. Let’s run with the pack on this one, but make sure we’re out in front. Keep me informed through Hamish…alright?” Sir Frank said, picking up the copy ae The Evening Times fae the coffee table.
The door opened jist as Tom reached it. Miss Dainty Bar Arse let him pass in front ae her this time as she escorted him doon the stairs tae the door that led oot oan tae Buchanan Street.
“Whit the fuck wis aw that aboot?” he asked himsel oot loud, as he hailed a taxi tae take him doon tae The Glesga Echo offices at the bottom ae Hope Street tae amend the morning edition ae the paper.
Chapter Twenty Two
The shutter oan the camera hid jist clicked at the smiling faces when Slipper swung roond tae see whit the sound ae screeching tyres wis aw aboot. Before he could say, ‘Wan mair, girls,’ he’d found himsel in the middle ae a riot. Luckily, a haun hid grabbed him by the scruff ae the neck and pulled him tae the side ae the pavement, away fae the melee. It hid been Sammy The Rat.
“Christ’s sake, Sammy, whit the fuck’s gaun oan?”
“Never mind that, Slipper, jist get that bloody camera ae yers gaun,” The Rat hid shouted, as a group ae wummin charged by them like something oot ae ‘Ivanhoe’, wae their placards stuck oot in front ae them like lances. He couldnae believe whit he wis witnessing. Two cars wae a couple ae photographers and journos fae The Evening Times and The Evening Citizen hid sped up John Street at the back ae a squad car and a Black Maria, before spilling oot oan tae the road. He’d spotted Swinton McLean duck jist in time, as a stiletto heeled shoe came whizzing through the air, spinning like a Catherine Wheel before scudding aff the foreheid ae wan ae the young bizzies, who’d hit the deck like a sack ae totties.
Helen’s brain hid frozen momentarily before it screamed oot a warning. The back ae the Black Maria’s back door hid crashed open and shat oot five bizzies wae another bunch spitting oot ae the squad car in front.
“Take up defensive positions, girls!” she’d shouted, horrified at seeing the polis batons being drawn.
“Charge the wankers!” Jane Mansfield hid bellowed, lowering her ‘LEECHES’ placard in front ae her in wan swift move, followed by Marilyn Monroe, Sandra Dee and two others.
It hid been like the Charge ae the Light Brigade or the charge ae the three and a hauf ton ae Toonheid wummin wae three hunner and thirty seven failed diets under their belts o’er the past ten years between them. Nothing could staun in their way, except fur Skanky Smith, who’d stupidly stood his ground and shouted oot, “Remember the Boyne!” before being run o’er and trampled underneath ten ae the cheapest stiletto high heels that hid ever come oot ae the Barras in the 1950s. The posse hid screeched tae a halt and aboot-turned in wan smooth manoeuvre that General George S. Patton wid’ve been proud ae and hid charged back intae the melee ae polis and newspaper people, taking the bizzies by surprise, who’d aw thought they wid’ve jist kept galloping aff hame efter that first charge.
“Code red twenty wan! Code red twenty wan! Officers under attack! Officers under attack! Argh, ya hairy basturt, ye,” a howling, panicking voice hid been heard screaming intae the radio through the driver’s side windae ae the squad car as wan ae Elvis’s sons sank his teeth intae Big Jim’s arse.
The lances hid soon become double-haunded swords and were being flayed aboot, cracking bare-heided bizzy skulls wae a skill that wid’ve put the knights ae the round table tae shame. The cardboard signs that seconds earlier hid proclaimed ‘LEECHES,’ ‘FUCK AFF PARASIGHTS,’ ‘WHO’S NEXT?’ ‘WE ARRA PEEPLE,’ ‘NAE MAIR,’ and ‘KEEP OOT!’ fur the benefit ae any potential buyers, hid ended up either hinging aff their poles, or hid been flying through the air as the three photographers continued tae click away. Helen hid jist managed tae duck tae her left as a swishing baton, held by Crisscross, missed her heid by a whisker. She’d been relieved tae see that Betty hid whacked him oan the side ae that napper ae his before Helen hersel managed a right hook oan tae the skelly basturt’s kisser as his swishing exertions took him flying past her. Maist ae the wummin who hidnae hid poles hid taken aff their stilettos and wur rattling holes in anything that moved roond aboot them. At wan point, Liam Thompson’s ugly coupon hid appeared in front ae Helen.
“Goat ye, ya hag, ye!” he’d shouted wae glee, lifting up an erm wae a baton in his right haun, before a pole came crashing doon oan tap ae that skull ae his.
At the same time, Helen hid let loose wae a punch that hid jist aboot crumpled every knuckle in her haun as it scudded aff ae his right eye. Meanwhile, another Black Maria and two squad cars wae reinforcements hid arrived oan the scene. Efter that, it hidnae taken long fur the wummin tae b
e overpowered and bundled intae the back ae the vans. Efter the dust hid finally settled, an argument hid started up amongst Glesga’s finest aboot who wis gonnae sit in the back ae the Black Marias tae escort the prisoners back doon tae Central tae be charged. None ae the constables who’d still been staunin wid obey a direct order tae enter the vans despite being threatened by Colin, the inspector. They’d aw pretended tae be busy as they’d huddled roond the bonnet ae the squad car, that Big Jim lay sprawled face-doon across, wae his troosers and string underpants at his ankles, being gied first aid oan that teeth-riddled arse ae his by hauf a dozen sets ae hauns.
“Right, ya cowardly basturts, we’ll sort it oot later. Get in the cars and follow behind the vans. We’ll sort oot how we’re gonnae get them back oot wance we get them doon tae the station.”
Colin hid walked o’er and helped Skanky, the Possil PC, who’d still been lying where he’d fallen at the start ae the charge, oan tae his feet.
“Aw, ma baws,” he’d moaned. “Ah think they’ve been punctured in three places.”
“Inspector, Inspector, whit hiv ye tae say aboot whit’s happened here the day?” Swinton Maclean fae The Evening Times hid shouted, pushing his way through the uniforms.
“As ye kin see, Ah’m surrounded by polis officers that hiv aw been injured by a bunch ae anarchists, jist fur carrying oot their lawful duty.”
“How seriously ur they hurt?” Harold Sliver, fae The Evening Express hid asked, looking aboot at the walking wounded.
“Well, Ah’m nae medical expert, bit Ah’d expect some ae ma officers tae be kept in o’er night up at The Royal, efter this,” Colin hid said, as The Sarge joined him wae a painful-looking dribbling swollen hauf-shut eye.
“Hiv ye goat the ringleaders?”
“Ah believe we’ve goat aw the principle rioters in custody. Noo, if ye’ll excuse me, gentlemen, Ah’ve tae see tae the welfare ae ma officers.”
“Wan mair photo, Inspector?” The Evening Times photographer hid asked, as The Inspector drew himsel up and puffed oot his chest.