Once Upon a Crime

by Jimmy Cryans

‘How did you get them Jim?’

  ‘Were you no’ scared?’

  I have to say truthfully that I basked in their admiration and this was probably the beginning of my lifelong search to find a way to fill the emptiness I sometimes felt inside. I say sometimes, but truth be told it was always there. If I kept myself busy enough I was not aware of it so much.

  Stealing became a way of life for me and hardly a day would pass without me stealing something. Whether consciously or not, I never stole anything from either my own home or anyone else’s. As time went on I became more ambitious and started to break into secure premises, scrap yards, pubs and local shops. Of course I was never able to take any of my ill-gotten gains home, the only exception to this coming after I had visited the local library. I have always loved books and it wasn’t enough for me to read and return them, oh, no. I wanted to own them, to keep them. Even if Ma discovered them I would say in truth, ‘They are library books.’

  This cunning plan worked very well until the day Ma looked under my bed and discovered more than 80 books! She went ballistic and told me in no uncertain terms to get them back or she would escort me there herself. Maybe that is what she should have done because those books never saw the inside of that library again. I put them into various bags and dumped them on some waste ground a few streets away, which was really hard, but there was no way I was going anywhere near that library.

  I was also now coming to the attention of the teachers at school for the wrong reasons. Now I was acting the fool in class and being cheeky. I was never afraid, which pretty much left the teachers with no alternative but to inflict corporal punishment. It must have been very frustrating for the teachers having me as a pupil because I obviously had the ability to do really well and showed great potential.

  Chapter Four

  There was a group of us at school who were very close. Of course there were times when we would fall out and on rare occasions this could lead to blows, and one incident in particular involving myself and one of my closest pals was to be very significant.

  The pal in question was an Italian boy called Nicandro Dinardo. He had arrived in Scotland with his parents and a younger sister some five years previously. Unable to speak a word of English he felt very isolated. We took him under our wing, taught him the Glaswegian version of English and generally looked after him. He soon got the hang of things and turned out to be a smashing guy. The reason for our falling out was over him letting in some goals during a lunchtime game at school. I had given him some verbal, he responded in kind and before we knew it, a square go had been agreed. I had never seen Nicandro involved in any fight and was confident that this was going to be a very brief encounter. Big mistake.

  The rest of our pals and all the other school kids formed a circle while Nicandro and me stood face to face about two feet apart. Before I knew it he had swung his right foot and connected with my balls. I doubled up in his direction to be met with a solid right uppercut that caught me full in the face and sent me crashing onto my arse. Fight over, and it had taken all of three seconds!

  I immediately jumped to my feet and screamed, ‘Right, ya tally bastard, let’s go!’ but my face was a mess with blood spurting from my nose and mouth. I was also now aware of a truly sickening feeling coming from my stomach and the fact that my balls were on fire. Yes, this fight was well and truly over and Nicandro knew it. He simply turned on his heel and walked away. I learned a valuable lesson that day and it came in three parts: never underestimate anyone, never be overconfident and never, ever stand square-on to an opponent.

  Along with these points it would become my policy that if a fight cannot be avoided then you should strike first and strike hard and keep striking until there is no resistance. I don’t mean that you should keep hitting a guy until he breathes no more. It is usually obvious when a guy has had enough and it would be taking a liberty to go beyond that – I am not in the habit of taking liberties. Having said that, I have to admit that over the years I have seriously damaged a number of guys. However, I’ve only done this when I have believed myself to be in real danger of serious injury or it has been a case of taking retribution against people who have taken a liberty.

  I have been on the receiving end of some horrific violence as well over the years and it has been my policy never to boast when I gave it out or to complain when I received it. I have made my choices and I live with them. So, the fight with my pal Nicandro was my first defeat on a one-to-one basis and it was obvious that he had beaten me fair and square, and I realised that I should be big enough to accept defeat graciously.

  Big changes were happening elsewhere too. In quick succession both Sheena and Olive were to be married. Sheena met a smashing guy called Jack Hutchison. They were married in St Michaels in Parkhead in a white wedding with fancy limos and all the trimmings. Olive married James Park, who was another good guy but had a wee bit of a wild side to him, which made him a bit exotic in my eyes. Life at home was a bit quieter now and there was more space but I really missed my sisters.

  My brother Hughie was almost five years old and was starting school soon. He was blue-eyed with a head of blond, almost white, hair and everybody adored him. Where I was outgoing and boisterous, Hughie was a very shy wee boy but he was intelligent and smart as a whip.

  He wasn’t to be the last child. Ma soon had another boy, named Gerald. He was born in Ma’s bed at 796 Springfield Road on 21 August 1963, making him almost exactly ten years younger than me. He had a head of thick, black hair and was a very impressive physical specimen even as a baby. So now there was just us three boys in the house along with Ma. I would help Ma as much as I could and I know that she relied on me a lot, but I never resented this. I think I had realised from an early age that you had to pitch in and do your share.

  As well as the thieving I had a couple of jobs that made me a few bob, so I was never really short of money and I would be able to give some of it to Ma without raising any suspicions that I was up to no good.

  I had a job delivering freshly baked rolls to customers throughout Parkhead that, with tips, earned me about one pound per week. But the real earner was the Saturday job I had delivering coal briquettes. These were about four inches square, made from baked coal dust and sold for five bob for a dozen, about 25 pence today. All the houses had coal fires so these briquettes were essential for people, especially during the winter months.

  I would get up at 6am on a Saturday and walk two miles to the lorry yard at Dalmarnock on Clydeside. We would be hired by the day by one of the lorry owners. They were all big, tough guys who would pay about ten shillings for work which consisted of loading a board with briquettes and carrying them from the flat-bed lorry to the customers inside the tenements. It was hard, dirty work and by the end of the day myself and the other boys would look like chimney sweep kids.

  The guy we worked for was not a very nice man. He welcomed us by saying, ‘Right, listen up all you wee toe-rags, you’ll all dae yer work and any of yous who cannae will be left on the pavement. And don’t even think aboot trying tae thieve aff me, ’cos I know all yer wee tricks and moves and if I catch yous I’ll kick yer fuckin’ arses that hard it’ll need a doctor tae get ma boot oot, right?’

  So off we set in the direction of the Gorbals and once there the lorry would be stopped in the middle of the street and Boris Karloff, as we had nicknamed our boss, would climb onto the back of the wagon and bellow in a voice that could shatter windows at 50 paces, ‘Briquettes! Coal briqueeettts!’ Windows in all the tenements that lined the street would be flung open and heads would appear to shout down their orders. Boris would then bark at us boys, ‘Right you, a dozen two up at number 37. Move yer arse!’ You were paid on delivery and gave the money straight to Boris on returning to the lorry.

  It often happened that you would receive an order from someone as you passed their door. This would be an order that Boris would not be aware of and I quickly spotted an opportunity to supplement my earnings. He was so busy with si
x or seven of us constantly running back and forth that it became very difficult for him to keep an accurate tally on the orders. As we loaded our own carrying boards, it then became a simple matter for me to double up on the order that Boris gave me with one I had received at a doorstep. He never tippled what was going on, and I was wise enough never to mention it to anyone. This was my scam and I intended to keep it that way as I was able to walk away at the end of the day with about £6-£7 extra.

  The main problem for me was how to hide all the extra money because I knew that Boris would not hesitate to make us strip off if he realised he was being robbed. I solved this problem quite easily by simply finding a hiding place for the loot somewhere along the route before we returned to the coal yard. We would be paid on our return and off we would go with me taking a little detour to retrieve my bonus money.

  The scene that greeted us the following Saturday morning will live long in my memory. ‘Right, you shower of thieving little bastards!’ Boris told us. ‘I don’t know who it was or how it was done but I will find oot, and when I dae then I’ll cut the hands aff the fuckin’ bastards who stole ma money last week. And I’ll fuckin’ tie yous up and throw yous in the Clyde. Now get tae fuck, ya bunch a maggots!’

  After tallying up the previous Saturday he had become aware of the shortfall in his takings but he couldn’t figure out how it had came about. The clincher was that far from dismissing us, he had to keep us on as without our efforts he was out of business: sweet! Boris now became even more vigilant and I had to be that much more careful, but I still managed to pocket a few quid every week. It became a source of real entertainment for the boys to watch this horrible man unravel week by week, as he became more frustrated and more paranoid until he was convinced that everyone at the coal yard was involved in a conspiracy to cheat him out of his money. This eventually led to him having some stand-up fights with some of the men at the coal yard and the last time I saw him he was sitting in the cab of his lorry muttering, ‘I’ll find them! I don’t care how long it takes, and when I dae I’ll burn the bastards tae death!’

  It was also about this time that I became more aware of girls, other than just as an annoyance. A few of them from my class had started to hang around with our little group of boys, which resulted in little romances blossoming. These were all very innocent with nothing more than the odd wee kiss and cuddle, but there was one girl from the year below us who made a big impression on me and who would figure prominently in my life at different times during the next 25 years. She was probably my first love and certainly my first crush and her name was Ruth Connor. She was gorgeous and bore a resemblance to one of Glasgow’s favourite entertainers, Lulu. I thought that Ruth was much more attractive than Lulu and even at that early age knew that there was just something special about her.

  At home the arguments between my ma and my da were becoming more frequent but I kind of just got used to it. I do know that it had a much more detrimental effect on my brothers and it was this more than anything else that bothered me. During one confrontation, he grabbed hold of her, both of my brothers were crying and for a second I thought that Hughie was going to hit her. I stepped in between them and said, ‘If you touch my ma I’ll kill you.’ Hughie was so taken aback by this that the argument stopped and the situation immediately defused.

  ‘Did you hear what he said to me, Sadie?’ he laughed. ‘You’ve got plenty of guts, wee man.’ I could see that he had pride in his eyes and I liked that. He scooped me up in his arms and I wished that it would always be like this.

  Ma looked at Hughie and said, ‘He’s a bigger man than you’ll ever be.’

  I wished they could be pals, I wished Hughie didn’t drink so much, I wished Ma would let it go sometimes. I loved the two of them so much, but Ma would always come first, no contest.

  I was 11 when I had my first encounter with the police – on Mother’s Day. A few of us boys had wandered out of Parkhead and made our way over to the dog track at Carntyne, where the greyhound racing took place. We climbed over the fence and made our way to the grandstand, where we forced a door and found ourselves inside one of the bars. There were bottles of alcohol of every description and boxes of crisps and nuts which we started to grab and pile up near the door. One of the boys found the door to an office and we ransacked it, discovering a drawer in a desk filled with money. It probably amounted to no more than £20 but it seemed an absolute fortune to this little gang.

  Gathering up our ill-gotten gains we made for the fence and looked for a way out that would enable us to take the goods with us. After a brief search we found a hole in the fence and made our escape and found ourselves in the middle of Carntyne Road. We had almost reached the end of the road when a car pulled to a stop beside us. We all knew it was the police and worse than that it was the plain clothes CID. The three coppers quickly had us cornered and radioed the station for a van to transport us to Chester Street police station in Shettleston.

  As soon as we were in the back of the van I quickly said to the boys, ‘Right, listen we’ve no’ got much time so this is the story and everybody stick to it, OK? We were walking along Carntyne Road and saw a box lying on the pavement with all the drink and the money inside so we just took what was there and were taking it home to tell our dads, right? Stick to that and we will be OK.’

  The cops questioned us and gave us a hard time for a couple of hours with all sorts of threats but eventually we were all released and no charges were brought. Result. I learned how valuable it can be to keep a cool head and to be able to think quickly on your feet, and this has stood me in good stead. Never, ever, panic. Of course, my wee mammie knew we were not the innocents we had made ourselves out to be, but all she said was, ‘You’re gonnae end up getting locked up if you don’t stop all this carry on.’ She must have been worried to death about me but I just couldn’t see it, so nothing changed.

  From this moment on my thieving began to be more serious and more lucrative. Now I was consciously seeking out targets. Breaking into shops, scrap yards and grabbing goods from unguarded delivery lorries became my earners. This was also supplemented by pick-pocketing at dog tracks and football grounds. I was a regular little Artful Dodger. I never tried to justify my wrongdoings and if I am honest, I must state that neither did I have any pangs of conscience. I was under no illusion about what would be in store for me once I was eventually brought to book and at the rate I was going then it would only be a matter of time.

  There were periods when my thieving was at a standstill, but only briefly and usually only during the summer holidays. This was the best time of the year for me as it was when my brilliant uncle John would take me to Loch Lomond on a camping holiday with my cousins James and Jackie. My uncle made those summers come alive for me and gave me a lifelong love of Loch Lomond and the hills and forests that surround it. All too soon these holidays would be at an end and I would return to pick up exactly where I had left off. I didn’t miss a beat.

  Chapter Five

  I continued to do well at school and was still able to pass any exams without too much effort, but my overall behaviour was giving cause for concern as I continued to be a pain in the arse to the teachers. The coming year of 1964/65 would be crucial as it would determine which school I would be selected for.

  But early in 1965 half a dozen of my pals and me appeared at Glasgow sheriff court charged with a variety of offences that included theft, breaking into premises and criminal damage. We had been caught after breaking into a scrap yard and were in the process of trying to open the safe when the police arrested us. This time there was no chance to give a pep talk in the back of the van as the cops made sure they separated us. This paid dividends for them because one of the boys talked and also told of some other matters that the cops were delighted to hear of. I, along with most of the boys, refused to say a word but it made little difference as we were all charged and bailed.

  The hardest part was facing my wee ma, as I knew how disappointed she would be. What
I did not appreciate was just how much of a worry it was. Ma didn’t give me too much of a hard time after the initial tongue-thrashing but I could see a kind of sadness in her eyes.

  Our day in court arrived and it was all over very quickly. I was the only one to receive a custodial sentence: 14 days detention at Larch Grove remand and detention centre alongside the Edinburgh road on the fringes of my beloved east end. I later found out that the thinking behind this was to try and shock me into changing my ways. Well, if that was the case it did not work. I was transported to the Grove in the company of some of Glasgow’s finest tearaways in the back of a black Maria with a brief stop at Barlinnie to drop off a couple of the older guys. This was my first experience of the infamous Bar-L. It was an imposing and intimidating place, but I have to confess that I was quite excited by the experience.

  On arriving at the Grove I knew immediately that this would be no picnic, but again I wasn’t unduly concerned as I had always been able to cope well in difficult circumstances. We were greeted on arrival in the reception area by two middle-aged men in civilian clothes. One of the men shouted at us in his best parade-ground voice, ‘Right, you thieving little bastards, stand to attention!’

  The other man walked slowly behind us and without warning punched a boy standing next to me. The boy fell to the floor in a heap with this endorsement ringing in his ears: ‘You will jump when we say jump or this is what you will get and you will keep getting it, ya fuckin’ wee bastards. Now fuckin’ strip off and keep yer mouths shut.’

  ‘You fuckin’ dirty bully-boy bastards,’ I said to myself. This sort of treatment has never frightened me and it fostered in me a determination never to give in. The term for my attitude was ‘dumb insolence’. When I first heard it in connection with myself I kind of liked it, as I knew it really infuriated those in charge and anyway, I really didn’t give a fuck what these sick bastards thought of me.