by Tony Roper
He kept slowly exerting the pressure that would result in a satisfactory snap.
This was the bit that Pig enjoyed. He always liked to look at the face of his victim to see what reaction they showed. Disappointingly, some fainted, others bit their lips or their tongues in fright and some actually cried real tears. Pig preferred the tears to anything else. It made him proud to be him and not his victim and bolstered his sense of manhood.
As he studied Peter, he fancied that he could see tears beginning to well up in his victim. He stuck his large lump of a face right up into Peter's and softly began to speak. ‘If you feel like burstin' oot in tears, go ahead – I don't mind. It might make you feel better – go on, cry if you want tae.’
Peter looked into the cruel eyes and felt abject terror take over as he realised that Pig was breathing hard, almost as if he was sexually aroused. ‘Pig, please don't,’ was the best he could come up with, through the rising tears. Unfortunately, this seemed to arouse Pig even more. He started to moan. ‘Oh! Ahh! Ahh! Oh! AHHHHHHH!’ Then he actually screamed as he released Peter and staggered back awkwardly. Behind Pig, John was on his knees, bent down behind him and both his hands were up at his mouth in a gesture of extreme consternation. The reason for this became obvious as Pig whirled around still screaming to reveal the barber's pole that John had jammed up his rectum. Pig staggered backwards again, a motion which, unfortunately, caused him to sit back on the pole, which, even more unfortunately if you were Pig, rammed the pole even further up Bovril Boulevard. With a bellow of pure pain he stood upright to gain temporary relief.
Through his tears he saw Peter and John fleeing up the alleyway. Pig tried to take after them but the pole up his arse was not helping. He tried to remove it and then remembered a movie in which his favourite actor John Wayne had an arrow in his shoulder. One of the other actors went to pull it out but Wayne stopped him. ‘Leave it,’ he drawled. ‘If you pull it out, I'll bleed to death.’
What goes around comes around and it was now Pig's turn to panic. If a little arrowhead could make you bleed to death, what chance did he stand with a barber's pole? The only thing he could do to stem the tide of pain and frustration he was feeling for the first time was to yell, at the top of his voice, ‘I'll get you, ya bastards.’ – that and cry copiously.
Peter turned the corner of the lane and into Warrick Street just ahead of John. ‘Thanks,’ he babbled breathlessly.
John just nodded his head in shock.
‘There's only the one problem,’ Peter said, continuing to run.
‘What?’ John replied.
‘He might think that's you and him engaged.’
John did not see the humour in this remark and he could also think of a lot more than just the one problem.
THIRTY-THREE
The atmosphere between stalls fifty-seven to sixty was extremely taut. For twenty minutes, no one had spoken – not even Dolly, which was killing her. But she wanted to make sure that Magrit felt her displeasure and, if that took not talking for an hour or two, then so be it – she could always make up for it later on anyway, she reasoned.
Doreen was similarly displeased with Magrit and, although losing out on small talk was not as much of a strain on her as it was on Dolly, she resented the fact that she had been forced into keeping her mouth closed. Magrit was in between Dolly and Doreen and was only too aware of the tension she had caused by losing the rag and shouting about Mary Culfeathers' mince and tatties.
Mary Culfeathers was also feeling very tense – not about Magrit shouting, she had forgotten that already, but about the slur she felt had been cast on Galloway's mince by the others.
She was working out how to prove them all wrong when Magrit's voice cut through the damp air once more. ‘Would youse all listen up for a minute?’
The other two stopped what they were doing and, with frosty faces, turned to Magrit, wearing expressions that said plainly, ‘WHAT NOW?’
‘I'm sorry I lost the rag – I was totally out of order.’ Magrit's face was grim. She was not a natural penitent and apologising did not come easy.
The others feigned ignorance that there was any grievance on their part. ‘Och, we never thought nothin' aboot it,’ Doreen offered.
‘Aye,’ Dolly agreed. ‘Think nothin' o' it, Magrit – I wasnae botherin',’ she fibbed, smiling at Magrit and delighted that she could, at last, get back to battering her gums together.
Magrit nodded her appreciation of their attitudes and then moved out of the stall and crossed over to where Mary Culfeathers was trying to wash garments and, at the same time, plan the revenge of the maltreated mince.
Pausing at the front of the stall, she tapped Mary on the shoulder, which gave her a start. When she turned and saw Magrit the memory of being harangued flooded back and she was visibly not at ease.
Magrit saw how unprotected Mary was and it made her feel very guilty. ‘I'm sorry I shouted at you, Mrs Culfeathers.’ Magrit was abject in her contrition.
Mary felt at a bit of a loss but she did appreciate Magrit's sincere apology and how much it cost her to do it. ‘You don't have tae apologise tae me, Magrit,’ she said softly so the others wouldn't hear what she considered private business between her and Magrit.
‘Oh, yes I do,’ Magrit contradicted sharply, unwittingly making Mary nervous again. ‘My mother and father brought me up to respect my elders – if they deserved it,’ she qualified. ‘And you deserve anybody's respect, Mrs Culfeathers. You're a fine auld woman and I'd no right to shout at you. So I hope you'll accept my apology.’
It would be wrong to say that Mary was not deeply touched – she was – so much that she felt unable to voice her appreciation of Magrit treating her like a human being. These days she felt people thought of her as an old biddy that it was manners to be pleasant to but basically ignore, as they no longer were of relevance to their modern world. She gave Magrit's arm a squeeze that said more than a thousand words could ever express and nodded her acceptance of Magrit's apology.
THIRTY-FOUR
Peter and John finally stopped running after they had put a good half mile between them and the stuck Pig. They cowered in behind a poster on a hoarding that was advertising the fact that Domestos killed ninety-nine per cent of all known germs. Both of them felt an affinity with the germ that had got away as they peered out from behind the hoarding to check they had not been followed.
‘Christ, I've done it noo – I'm a marked man,’ John moaned as his breath laboured with the exertion of running at full pelt.
‘Well you will be if – or should I say WHEN – Pig gets his hands on you,’ Peter agreed, fuelling John's already night-marish vision of the future. ‘I'll tell you one thing,’ he added, also trying to recover his full breathing capabilities.
‘What?’ John asked, his face a study in anxiety.
‘If I were you I wouldnae get my hair cut for a while … A barber's pole?’ His question did need answering.
‘Well, it was the only thing I could see … and I just …’ John's voice tailed away with the hopelessness of it all. He had no idea how all this had come about. Normally he was known as a guy who would sooner do you a good turn than a bad one. Now he was going to be a marked man in the Glasgow underworld. ‘Doreen'll murder me,’ he said to no one in particular.
‘Naw! Doreen'll nag you. Pig'll murder you,’ Peter stated, correcting him on his faulty logic. ‘Why did you have to jam it up his arse? Could you no' have hit him ower the head wi' it?’ was Peter's next, not unreasonable, question.
‘I was gonnae do that … but I was afraid I might have hurt him, you know? Gave him a permanent scar on his head, like?’ was what John offered instead of a reasonable explanation.
Peter stared at him unbelievingly. ‘Eh!! Right enough. Instead o' a permanent limp, you mean.’
‘Well, I don't know … do I?’ John said with a fair degree of irritation in his voice. After a moment's pause, he added, ‘He'll probably set his gang on us, eh?’ He glanced at Peter
for verification.
Peter shook his head and shrugged. ‘Maybe no'.’ He analysed the situation as his breathing calmed down. ‘What's he gonnae tell them? – Get they two – one o' them jammed a barber's pole up my sphincter.’ He sniffled in the cold of the night air as he further appraised the situation. ‘No' a lot o' credibility there, is there? He'd be known as Pig the Pole – or maybe – The Tripod.’ He mused for another moment. ‘Naw, I've got it – THE PENCIL SHARPENER.’ He started to laugh despite himself and he slapped John on the back. ‘A barber's pole – brilliant – I could get tae like you a lot, Johnny Boy.’
Suddenly his laughter stopped and he stared over John's right shoulder with a look of total bewilderment on his face.
John froze, too terrified to look round. His eyes were wide with alarm as he croaked, ‘What is it? It's no' Pig, is it?’
John shook his head.
‘Naw. I've just seen an auld man wi' a soldier's uniform walk past, carryin' a gas mask,’ Peter explained, replacing the puzzled expression for one of sardonic mystification. ‘This place is gettin' weirder and weirder,’ he concluded, before urging, ‘C'mon there's a café along the road. Theresa might be there.’
As they walked towards the café John kept glancing behind them just in case Pig, by some miracle, had decided to chase them. A thought struck him. ‘What do they call him Pig for?’
‘Well … he doesnae look like a horse, does he?’ Peter explained.
THIRTY-FIVE
The Clan Macintosh had been sailing from Glasgow to India for over ten years. She was a cargo ship of medium tonnage, crewed mainly by dark-hued seamen, from various parts of India, who were overseen by white-hued officers from various parts of the British Isles. Normally, she would have been berthed at the George V Dock in the outlying district of Shieldhall but, due to an excess of ships being loaded and unloaded, she had been diverted to the Broomielaw so she could be on her way back to India before the Glasgow dockers stopped work for the New Year. She had unloaded various cargoes ranging from cotton, tea, leather, etc. and had taken back on board, for export, flour, plastic goods and, most importantly, a very large quantity of spirit in the form of a well-known and popular brand of malt whisky.
The Glasgow dockers had a reputation for extreme cunning in their ability to, shall we say, sample the goods without the owner's permission. They would have argued that, by carrying out this function, they were making sure that no substandard spirit reached far-flung climes and they were, therefore, doing this for the benefit of the export trade – thus being of service to the customs and excise while, at the same time, getting out of their heads with free whisky. It was the duty of the authorities to try to ensure that the dockers did not help out the export business to excess – sometimes they succeeded, very often they did not.
Today had not been a good day for the customs officers. Despite their best efforts, the lure of un-sampled alcohol which needed to be unofficially tested, coupled with the fact it was Hogmanay, had swayed the contest in favour of the dockers and resulted in a large police presence to clear the various holds of expert but unofficial tasters. Had the dockers been politicians they would have been described as ministers without portfolios. They were not politicians, however, and so were described on the police charge sheet as looters without a leg to stand on.
The captain had received a stiff reprimand from his superiors and, as is the way in these situations, he had reprimanded the chief petty officer who had reprimanded the petty officers and so on down the line. Consequently, everyone felt glad that the day was over and they were now enjoying some unofficial sampling of their own in the various messes.
Not that they were inebriated – they still had to cast anchor and put to sea, so they would have to be fully functional to carry that out. A small libation to help them unwind was more the atmosphere that prevailed as they sat down for their supper before they embarked on the business of casting anchor and leaving port.
Anyway, the pilot that would be responsible for guiding them out of the river was not due for another hour, so it was the perfect time to relax. This, coupled with the fact that it was New Year's Eve, resulted in nobody being on gangway watch, which was never a problem really as no one had ever wanted to stow away to India anyway.
Of course, Theresa knew none of this. All she was aware of was that a golden opportunity to start her career as a stewardess was beckoning. The creaking of the fore and aft restraining ropes was the only sound that reached her ears. She wrestled with the numerous arguments she was having inside her head. Her overactive brain told her that, on the one hand, she was being extremely foolhardy if she carried out her plan. On the other hand, the same brain told her that if she lacked the courage to carry out the plan then she would have to suffer Tim and Frankie taunting her. They would no doubt tell everyone in the district and she would be held up to ridicule for the rest of her life.
She studied the empty gangway. No one had gone up or down it for at least ten minutes. No one was even on deck. ‘If I don't do it now, I never will,’ was the thought that kept pinging away at her. She was trapped in a morass of possibilities that were making her head spin with the effort required to make the right move. She regarded the ship for the hundredth time.
Then, without warning, she did not know how or why, but her deliberations suddenly became crystal clear. What did she want more than anything? Answer – glamour and adventure in her life. Did she have the courage? Her mother's steely resolve rose up in her. Answer – yes she did. She regarded the Clan Macintosh differently. Before, it had seemed strange and foreboding – now it seemed as a friend that was beckoning her to a new and fascinating life. Her mind was finally made up.
The owner of the bloodshot eyes had made his mind up too.
THIRTY-SIX
Mary Culfeathers wiped the steam off her brow for the umpteenth time and decided that a wee break was in order. She stepped out of the stall and had a look round to see if anyone else was having a break too. She noticed that Magrit and Doreen's stall was empty. As this fact registered, Doreen appeared from round the corner that led to the wringer with a pile of freshly wrung washing in her arms. She passed Mary and gave her a nod before stopping to tip her load into the empty pram that had once been full of dirty duds.
Mary was concerned that Magrit might still be annoyed with her, she thought it best to check just in case. ‘Is Magrit a'right, Greta?’ she asked Doreen.
‘I'm Doreen, Mrs Culfeathers. My mother's Greta – remember?’ Doreen answered, perhaps a bit tetchily. ‘Magrit's waitin' tae see if she can get a wringer.’
‘It's awful busy, right enough, hen,’ Mary agreed. She had already forgotten Doreen's name but resolved just to call her by the term that was often used as an endearment by people of her generation.
‘It always is this time of the year,’ Dolly agreed. Her antennae had picked up that someone was talking and automatically alerted her mouth to join in.
‘The week before the Fair Fortnight's the same. You're lucky to get a stall – never mind a wringer,’ she continued, referring to the period of the year when Glaswegians traditionally went on holiday.
‘It's awful stupid. They should put more wringers in the place,’ Doreen replied, showing a grasp of mathematics that had sadly eluded the male planners who had drawn up the designs for the washhouse.
This was a conversation that Mary Culfeathers felt totally at home with. ‘It's always been the same, hen. My mother used tae go tae the big one on Glasgow Green and she would take me alang wi' her. I was just a wee lassie, of course, but I can mind o' it well.’
Dolly wracked her brain ‘Was that no' the first washhoose that was built?’ she asked, making it sound as though the question was a point of information as well.
Mary considered the question for a second before committing herself to a reply. ‘I think it was, Dolly – but I might be wrong,’ she answered, covering herself just in case. ‘It was enormous, I know that. It was open fae seven in the morning ti
ll nine at night – every day except a Sunday.’ Her face lost its permanently puzzled look and replaced it with one of confidence. ‘I can aye mind as a wee lassie goin' wi' my mother and do you know what was lovely? Seein' Glasgow Green wi' all the washin' hangin' from the lines.’ She saw the scene clearly in her mind's eye and it brought back happy memories for her. ‘Yon was a marvellous sight.’
Doreen, with her expectation of a brave new world free from the chains of drudgery, failed to see why rows and rows of washing could inspire this reaction. ‘It doesnae sound all that marvellous to me,’ she responded honestly.
‘Ah! You should have seen it, hen – especially in the summertime,’ Mary answered, secure in her memories. And then, as if to give concrete proof of how good those times had been, she said pointedly, ‘Of course we had real summers then – from May right on till September. It was that hot the tar used tae stick to your feet and the whole o' Glasgow Green was as if it was at the sea. The sheets and mattress covers were like waves as they blew aboot – and there were men's shirts white as snow as far as you could see and lovely coloured silks and woollens, all dancin' in the dryin' wind.’ She paused momentarily in her flight of fancy. ‘It's funny noo but, at that age, I always thought that they looked kind o' happy. It sounds daft, I know, but it was the men's shirts and women's dresses. You see they a' have arms and, when the wind blew them aboot, they seemed tae be wavin' to each other. It was as if the clothes had a life o' their own. Underneath them the women were a' movin' about, laughin' and jokin' wi' each other. It was awful noisy, of course, but, to me, awful thrilling as well.’ She smiled to herself as she remembered her childhood innocence. ‘I often think o' them days. We went once a week but you could go and have a wee blether any time you felt like it – anytime except a Sunday – the men played fitba' on the Sunday. It was a great meetin' place. There was never any loneliness in that place.’