The House_Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story

by John Mayer

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello. Mr Mularkey. I’m …’

  The slightest raise of Big Joe’s index finger interrupted the man: ‘At the moment, I don’t care who you are. But that could change. Now, you may think I don’t know you; but you’d be wrong. You see, I could find out every detail about you in about two or three minutes. Do you catch my drift?’

  ‘I’m only trying to …’

  Big Joe raised his finger right up to the man’s face: ‘Ah, Ah. First I speak. Then, when I’m ready, you speak. OK?’

  Right on his shoulder, the stranger could feel Arab breathing and it was getting deeper:

  ‘Aye. Of course, Mr Mularkey.’

  Leaning back and with every eye on him, Big Joe downed a large malt whisky in one well practised swallow: ‘Now. Let’s get a few things straight. You told the barman that you’re local. That was your first lie: and we don’t like liars around here.’

  Holding his breath, the man was obviously desperate to say something but was following Big Joe’s orders. Big Joe continued: ‘He also told me that you know about these marks the Council has been making on walls and pavements all over the Calton. So, that makes me think you work for the Council or you might even know a Councillor. Either way, tonight that makes you my enemy. Do you follow?’

  Involuntarily, and in more danger than he realised, the man blurted out: ‘Please! I wasn’t lying. I am local! I was born in the Calton.’

  Big Joe narrowed his eyes and, after his outburst, saw the man heave a sigh as the blood came straight back to his face; a sure sign that he was telling the truth. Checking around the faces of the men who were listening, Big Joe saw only shakes of the head. But Auld Faither and one other old man seemed not to be so sure. When Auld Faither tapped a couple of elbows to get through, the sea of men parted at this biblical command. Putting up his bony old finger, Auld Faither took another look:

  ‘Wait a minute, Joe. I think I might know this guy. But it’s been a long while since I saw him. A lot o’ years, in fact.’

  The man nodded vigorously and reached out a hand to tap the back of Auld Faither’s:

  ‘Aye. It has been many years. My God it’s over fifty years since I left. But I was born in the Calton and I’ve been in this pub before.’

  Looking into the curious faces of a few men he hadn’t seen since he was a teenager, the guy shrugged:

  ‘I can prove that I’m no stranger, boys. And I’m not here to do you any harm. In fact, quite the opposite.’

  Big Joe’s steely eyes met Arab’s and without Joe needing to say a word, Arab understood his instructions were to go outside and phone Brogan McLane : right now.

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 23

  In otherwise perfect silence, the gallery clock in Court One of Parliament House softly chimed three times indicating that the time was quarter to four in the afternoon. Shortly after taking the highest judicial office in Scotland, the Lord Justice General had decided that it was unbecoming of Court One, the highest court in the land, to sit on after four in the afternoon; as happened regularly in the lower courts. A Standing Order was issued to that effect. But that morning the Keeper of the Rolls had sent his most junior clerk with a written request from the Supreme Court in London asking if in accordance with European Law, the court could remain in Session until Mr McLane’s submissions could be completed whenever that might be this afternoon.

  On the bench, the five old judges were sitting like any five students taking an examination. With eyes narrowed on the paper in front of them, every chin was dropped into a hand, their pencils darted and scrubbed and their mouths twisted this way and that, until the Lord Justice General finally put down his pencil. On either side of him, his brethren quickly finished the last of their calculations. When all were ready, they went into an ancient practice conducted only on the two highest benches in Parliament House: they Huddled.

  Whispering to each other at very close quarters, the five judges nodded, shook their heads and scratched their chins until finally they reached accord. As the only one to have retained his seat, the Lord Justice General needed only to turn back towards counsel and look down into the Well of the Court. As his brethren re-took their seats, the old judge’s face gave no hint of which way their decision had gone:

  ‘Mr McLane.’

  Springing to his feet, McLane bowed and submitted: ‘My lord.’

  ‘We have conferred and decided to follow your recommendation that we treat every one of your clients’ cases collectively. That is to say, we will allow these cases to be treated as a ‘Class Action Suit’. You were right to recall for us that this court has allowed something of this nature in the past with the plethora of dockyard and coal mines ‘Pneumoconiosis cases’. In that event, we required a separate Summons from each sufferer. That method, though efficient enough in its day, as I recall nevertheless took up a great deal of court time in the cases which were defended. Now, you have one hundred and thirty four other cases I think you said. Yes. Well, in this case, as we are keen to avoid that consumption of time, I now Appoint you as Commissioner to assess the damages due to each sufferer in what I shall call this Temporary Brittle Bone Disease action. Your financial ‘Assessment of Damages’ in each case will only be subject to judicial review on the basis that you have misapplied the judgement and directions of the Supreme Court: a likelihood which I consider to be minuscule. You shall, of course, be required to present your final assessments to our most junior Brother, Lord Carlton, for judicial approval on our behalf. We think that method should lead to a comparatively speedy resolution of this whole matter.

  McLane had only just said ‘I’m obliged, my lord.’ when the gallery clock struck four times. At the nod from the cheery-looking judge in the Chair, old Jimmy Robertson shouldered Her Majesty’s Golden Mace and called ‘Co-ou-rt!’ and a satisfied old Lord Justice General rose for the day.

  After gathering his papers together and passing them to Maisie Rodgers his junior, for return to his Advocate’s box, McLane strode along the corridor towards the Commercial Court to check on the next day’s running order. Switching on his phone, he didn’t like what he saw. Among several messages from his Chambers Clerk and a couple from Ababuo about staying overnight at some new friend’s house, there were five missed voice messages from Arab who was over in the Calton Bar saying that Big Joe needed him : right now.

  Whatever the problem, McLane knew Big Joe could take care of it for a while longer and, still in wig and gown, he turned into the corridor leading to the offices of the Chambers Clerks. At her desk with a phone on either ear, his Deputy Clerk smiled and mouthed a welcome but the poor girl was far too busy to actually speak. Holding a phone to one ear with her shoulder, she flicked through her pile of yellow messages and was simultaneously handling a change of counsel in a murder case for the following morning. Finding what she was after, the overworked girl could only look apologetically as she silently handed Mr McLane a scribbled note stapled to a one-page print-out from a name McLane didn’t recognise. On House of Lords notepaper, a Lord Mayfield seemed to be inviting himself and Lady McLane to some sort of a dinner to welcome him as the newest Member of the House. But the invitation wasn’t to the House of Lords itself. It was to his lordship’s country seat called Mayfield House; which was in Aberdeenshire, of all places.

  After a hasty disrobing and weaving through the Edinburgh traffic by squeaking the Range Rover up onto only one or two pavements, McLane at last reached the motorway between Edinburgh and Glasgow. When the phone rang in its cradle, the voice of his blood brother sounded tense:

  ‘Brogan! At last. We have a little bit of an unusual situation here.’

  Flashing past every other vehicle on the road, McLane had the windshield wipers on at full speed: ‘Unusual? How so?’

  ‘Let me ask you this: have you ever heard of a guy from the Calton called Thomas Fraser? Tam Fraser, he says he’s called. And he’s not connected to the Frasers who had the shoe shop. He’s not one of them.�
�

  ‘Tam Fraser? I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘He says he was born in the Calton but he’s been away for over fifty years. That sounded a wee bit unlikely to me.’

  ‘So? If he’s been away all this time, what’s the big rush all of a sudden?

  ‘That’s the thing, Brogan. He’s not been far. In fact, only about a mile away.’

  ‘A mile? Is that all? Have you got him in the Calton Bar right now?’

  ‘Aye. How can I put it? He’s erm, sittin’ wi’ Arab and Tucker. I thought it best if he doesn’t move from here till you’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘OK. Well for the moment, we’ll leave the issue of kidnapping aside. What’s he said?’

  ‘Wait till you hear this! He says he lives in Bridgeton. Tullis Street. Behind Olympic House, very near The Cross.’

  The sound of those last two words caused McLane to grip the Range Rover’s wheel just a little tighter. With villages and fields speeding by, through a break in the dark clouds McLane caught a glimpse of the Glasgow skyline hoving into view. There had been a timbre in Big Joe’s voice. That name ‘The Cross’ in Bridgeton held a mixture of memories for both McLane and Big Joe so complex that to find a pattern in a swarm of midges would be an easier task. Their fathers, blood brothers themselves, had been murdered on that fateful ‘Night of the Dead’ as it was now remembered. Every time that name was mentioned, McLane went cold at the thought of his father Sam and Cloudy Mularkey fighting with their bare hands about twenty guys swinging hatchets and meat cleavers. Murdered by Rangers supporters seeking revenge on the very night of their sons’ births only minutes apart, the names Sam McLane and Big Tommy ‘Cloudy’ Mularkey had passed into legend in the Calton. Now their fatherless sons were facing a challenge which, if it overcame them, would see many more deaths among the Calton’s residents; but this time the deaths would be slow, tortuous and approved by civic government. Whatever this guy now under Big Joe’s control wanted, it would probably be something that would have its roots in those days.

  McLane tapped the wheel twice: ‘Hmm. The Cross? Hmm. Look Joe; until we know more about him, maybe it’s not such a good idea if he and I are seen together in public.’

  ‘Good idea. What about you-know-where?’

  ‘Yeah. Perfect. Just take him there and don’t do anything that might make this backfire. I can see the city skyline now and the rain is almost off. So I won’t be long.’

  Sitting at the sturdy wooden table Sam McLane had long ago saved up to buy, with cups of tea in hand, Jean Mularkey and Bella McLane waited in silence. Neither Jean nor Bella had ever seen the need for a phone to be installed, so a boy runner had been sent with the message. When they heard the unmistakeable sound of men’s feet coming up the stone stairs, the women looked into each other’s eyes and took a drink of tea.

  As he pushed open his mother’s front door, all Big Joe said was: ‘In here.’

  Waiting in Jean’s tiny tenement kitchen, McLane stood up and put out his hand: ‘Do you know who I am?’

  At the sight of this well-dressed man and Big Joe and Arab leaving, Tam Fraser let out a sigh of relief and shook hands: ‘Of course, Mr McLane. Everybody knows who you are.

  ‘Take a seat, Mr Fraser. Sorry about the need for all this.’

  Tam Fraser didn’t need to look around this tenement house kitchen. He’d lived in one just like it all his life and to McLane, that didn’t go unnoticed.

  Motioning towards the kettle on the old black grate, McLane asked cordially: ‘Tea?’

  ‘Eh? Oh aye. Aye, tea would be good. Thanks. Hot and sweet, if you don’t mind. I’ve been a wee bitty nervous for the last hour or so.’

  Laying down two cups on saucers, McLane’s demeanour was the polar opposite of Big Joe’s: ‘Before we get down to anything, Mr Fraser …’

  ‘Oh! Please. Nobody calls me that. Please call me Tam.’

  ‘Alright, Tam it is. Well Tam, as I was saying, before we get down to anything else, I want to ask you a question.’

  ‘Fire away, Mr McLane.’

  Taking a sip of his tea and looking over the cup, McLane paused. To ask the question on his mind and get a negative answer, might be a mistake. But, he thought, one he could easily correct; so he asked: ‘Have you ever heard the saying: Beware of Greeks bearing gifts’?

  Tam Fraser’s look of utter surprise was obviously genuine and he took a second or two to think about what he’d been asked: ‘Err, no. But do you mean the story about the Trojan horse? I’m sorry, I don’t really understand what you’re asking.’

  ‘Yes. The Trojan horse was, on the face of it, a gift from the Greeks to the Trojan gods. But of course, the Greek soldiers hiding inside the horse was the undoing of a proud and gallant people who’d defended their city for nearly ten years. So I’m just wondering if you might be such a gift.’

  Tam Fraser pursed his lips, shook his head and three times waved his downturned palms: ‘Oh, absolutely not, Mr McLane. I’m here because …’

  ‘Woah. Right there. We’re still a very long way from why you’re here. I want to start at the beginning. I’m told you said you were born in the Calton. Is that right?’

  After a big gulp of tea, Tam Fraser sighed very deeply: ‘Aye. I was. Sixty three years ago. Right at the top of Dornoch street. Right next to …’

  ‘I know where it is. Let me ask you this: How come you don’t have any relatives in the Calton? You just pop up and say you were born here but yet you don’t have any relatives that we know. And Fraser isn’t a catholic name. So you see, from our point of view, that’s all a little bit strange, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Nodding and draining the last of his tea, Tam Fraser clasped his hands: ‘I can explain that, Mr McLane, if you’ll let me.’

  Leaning back into a worn old kitchen chair he’d sat in thousands of times as a boy, McLane nodded his consent: ‘OK. Fire away.’

  Pressing the tip of his index finger onto the table, Tam Fraser began:

  ‘You’re right, of course, Mr McLane. I am a protestant from Bridgeton and I don’t have relatives in the Calton. You see my mother had me very young; when she was only fifteen. In fact, she’s still alive, hale and hearty. But I was a bastard, like many others at the time. Well, my mother’s father was in the Lodge, and he was a stickler for everything done by the bible. Her mother would’ve allowed her to stay, but not her father. So when she started to show, my mother was sent to live with a woman her mother knew through having been in the same hospital ward. She was just explained away as being a cousin; but of course, nobody believed that. Anyway, after she had me, she moved back to Bridgeton but I stayed on with the family until I was twelve. I even had their name at the time. It was Tobin and I was called Tam Tobin. In fact, my nickname at school was TT. But by the time I was supposed to go to Saint Joseph’s Calton Secondary School, her father died and my mother brought me back to live with her and my granny. So I went to Bridgeton Secondary.’

  With one eye half closed, McLane was doing calculations and needed more precise information: ‘Please stop there, Tell me, what age are you?’

  ‘I’ll be 64 next month. I don’t have a birth certificate but my mother could …’

  ‘Hold it. Hold it. So you’d be twelve or so when you left the Calton. Is that right?’

  ‘Dead right, Mr McLane.’

  Getting up, McLane put out his flat hand as his way of telling Tam Fraser to remain seated: ‘I’ll be back in a minute. Just sit there please.’

  Across the landing, McLane pushed open Bella’s front door. With both women, Arab and Big Joe in the kitchen, there was no room for him to sit. All four heads turned as he came in. Looking at the women, he asked:

  ‘Aunty Bella. Jean. Do either of you remember a guy at Primary school …’

  In unison, the women blurted out: ‘What! Now you’re askin’ Brogan. What the hell do you want to know about Primary school for?’

  ‘Erm, please. If I could just do this my way. Do either of you remember a guy at Pr
imary school whose nickname was TT?’

  Instantly, both women nodded: ‘Aye. Tam Tobin was his real name. But he left. He said he was goin’ tae England. Is that right Bella? England, he said.’

  ‘Aye Jean. I remember him. Cheeky wee bastard that he was. There was somethin’ about him that I didn’t like. Why are ye’ askin’ about him?’

  ‘Because I think he’s sitting next door.’

  Four mouths dropped open as McLane closed the kitchen door. Back in Jean’s kitchen, McLane took his seat:

  ‘Now Tam. Thanks for that. So … Let’s get to why you’re so keen to help us stop this demolition of the Calton.’

  Tam Fraser drew a lot of breath and pressed the flat of his hand into the table: ‘Oh that’s an easy one, Mr McLane. Because as I said, a woman in the Calton brought me up and without her, I’d be in God-Knows-Where. Plus … and I think you’ll know what I mean Mr McLane … when I say that there’s only so much shit a man can take before he thinks of a way to fight back.’

  He wasn’t physically a big man, nor had he risen to any extent in society, but in that moment of explanation, Tam Fraser was most certainly a proud man. One who’d felt the cruel hand of injustice - maybe several times in his life - and had decided that walking boldly in to the Calton Bar was his way of beginning a long-awaited fight back. McLane hadn’t needed to stop him; because his eyes had watered and his throat had become choked.

  Nodding as though giving a witness a moment to recover, McLane took a decision: ‘Look, Tam. Gather yourself together. Pour yourself some water. I’m just going to get some other people. I won’t be a minute.’

  In the tiny room, with the two women sitting on either side of the fireplace, everyone else was either on wooden chairs at the table or standing.

  With a glass of water in his hand, Tam Fraser was now keen, if not eager to tell the inner circle of the Calton Residents' Association the rest of his story: