The Purple Contract

by Robin Flett

  A few minutes walk along the already crowded street brought him to a sports and outdoor shop. Among the hiking boots, ski equipment and multi-coloured all weather clothing was a rotating display rack containing Ordnance Survey maps. Hollis flipped through them until he found Landranger Sheets 5 and 6, covering the Orkney Islands. He paid for them at the counter and returned to the car the way he had come.

  Glasgow's Royal Infirmary is situated immediately adjacent to the ancient Cathedral in what is the oldest part of the city. At one time the hamlet that became Glasgow was little more than a fording point on the river Clyde, a loose clutter of wooden houses gathering through the decades on a major trade route stretching up the west coast. Many centuries later the original Infirmary was built around 1792. Erected on a site which previously had been occupied for hundreds of years by the Bishop’s Castle.

  Over a hundred years old and feeling its age, it was completely rebuilt between 1907 and 1914. The resulting structure being the largest public building in the UK at that time.

  Downhill a few hundred metres, and on the opposite side of High Street, lies Provands Lordship, the oldest house in the city and in all probability the oldest domestic building still standing anywhere in Scotland. It is a dauntingly impressive structure dating from 1471.

  Waiting at yet another set of traffic lights, Hollis watched a party of Japanese tourists emerging from the building’s low doorway in an enthusiastic gaggle and wondered what the original occupants would have thought of the plastic and concrete jungle that had grown from their quiet rural village alongside the river.

  Having phoned earlier to inquire, Hollis had timed his arrival for the commencement of afternoon visiting. He walked into the elderly hospital at five past the hour in the midst of a group of other visitors and rode the elevator to the third floor. 'Mr MacRae?' he asked of an exceedingly pretty Staff Nurse. It had been so long since he had spoken Gojo's proper name that it sounded odd, unreal, especially in this depressing place.

  'Mr MacRae? Oh, yes, second last bed on the right,' the engagement ring on her finger glittered as she pointed. It looked very new. Hollis nodded his thanks.

  The ghostly pale figure lay with his eyes closed and looked to be asleep, a dressing covered with gauze obscuring most of the left side of his face where the cheekbone had been fractured. His left arm, lying alongside his torso but on the outside of the covers, was encased in the lightweight resinous substitute for old fashioned plaster. Other abrasions were also visible on the face and hands.

  ‘Jesus.’ Hollis muttered to himself.

  After a few seconds the limp figure became aware that the approaching footsteps had stopped at the foot of his bed and he opened his eyes, blinking in the bright sunlight flooding the ward.

  For the rest of his life Mike Hollis would remember the expression that crossed the battered face when Gojo recognised him. He was appalled to see moisture gathering in the corner of one eye above the spare and discoloured cheekbone. In a flash of understanding he understood that there was likely to be no-one who cared enough about Gojo to come here. Few probably to even know where he was or wonder why he hadn't been around his usual haunts of late.

  To a man like Mike Hollis, a loner by profession as well as nature, friendship was something to be valued above most of life's experiences. It was at that moment, standing awkwardly in a bare Victorian hospital ward with Spring sunshine casting shadows into the corners, that it occurred to him that Gojo and Dave Jordan were the only two close friends he had in the world.

  It was a stark acknowledgment of his life, and one that cracked his supposedly impregnable veneer more than he would ever admit.

  'Mike!' The voice was muffled but clear, speaking through puffed and split lips. 'How did ye know––?'

  Hollis pulled a chair across from the unoccupied bed at the end of the row and sat, resting his forearms on Gojo's starched covers. There were things to be said that had better be discussed quietly. 'I had to come down yesterday for a few things. There was no answer when I phoned last night and again this morning. So I thought I'd better call at the flat, maybe your phone was out of order or something. Mrs Danter told me you were here.'

  Gojo tried to nod and winced. 'Christ, man, I'm glad to see you. I thought those bastards were goin' to kill me,' he swallowed painfully. 'Nearly did, too, I think.'

  Hollis watched him shifting uncomfortably, trying in vain to find a position that didn't hurt. 'What happened?'

  Gojo gave up trying to ease the discomfort: he ached all over, the broken arm in particular. 'I was goin' down to the shop for somethin'––milk, that's right. When I came out on to the pavement, there were two guys stripping my bike. Right outside the hoose, f'r fuck's sake!' He swallowed again and coughed. Hollis filled the plastic tumbler with water from the jug sitting on top of the tiny locker beside the bed and held it while Gojo drank.

  'Thanks.'

  'So you had a go at them, did you?'

  'Yeah. Should have known better, I suppose, fightin's never been my strong point.' The battered mouth twisted in a semblance of a smile. 'I thought they'd just run for it, you know try again somewhere else.' He shook his head slowly. 'Not these bastards. One of them pulled out what looked like an old fashioned police truncheon. You know, the ones they used to use before these extendable things were issued?'

  Hollis nodded.

  'The sod broke my arm with it, straight off. Bloody hell, the pain! I've never felt anything like it!' Sweat stood out on his forehead at the memory. 'Couldn't do anything after, that anyway and they just got stuck in. 'I must have passed out pretty quick because I don't remember much more. Don't even know how I got here.'

  Hollis recalled that Gojo's Yamaha had looked semi-dismantled, as if he was busy working on it, right enough. Nothing unusual in that and it had aroused no curiosity at the time.

  'Do you know them?'

  'Aye, one of them.' Gojo closed his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to picture the faces of his attackers. 'Irish bastard called Moloney, Conway Moloney. He’s an evil sod. We went to the same school, although he's a year or two older than me.' He winced with the pain of moving his bruised jaws. 'He was a thug then and he's worse now.'

  'Was he the one with the nightstick?'

  'What?'

  'The baton.’

  'No. The other one. Never seen him before, but he was a big bastard. Crew cut, black leather jacket. I remember the big grin on his bloody face. He was enjoying himself,’ he ended bitterly.

  Hollis thought about that for a while. Gojo closed his eyes again and rested his head on the pillow.

  'Do you know where this Moloney guy lives?'

  'No, no idea.'

  Where would you go if you wanted cheap motorbike parts?'

  Gojo slowly opened his eyes again and stared up at the ceiling. 'Blind Jimmy's, I suppose.' The eyes came down again and levelled at Mike Hollis. 'But he's no intae this sort of thing, Mike. The bugger would take your last penny, but he wouldnae hurt anyone.'

  'Maybe not, but he has to get his stuff somewhere. And I doubt if he asks too many questions about where it came from.' Silence fell for a few seconds, each man occupied with his own thoughts.

  'What did you come down for, Mike?' queried Gojo, meaning why had he made one of his rare visits to Glasgow.

  Hollis was silent for a moment. 'I want some metalwork done, Gojo––in a hurry. I need someone reliable who can make up a piece of kit to a tight specification, but without an actual drawing. Someone who'll forget about it afterwards.'

  Gojo paused while familiar thoughts flitted through his head. He knew better than to ask questions to which there wouldn't be any answers. If his friend was working again then it was better not to know too much anyway. Gojo's conscience troubled him from time to time over the things he knew about Mike Hollis, and even more about the things he didn't.

  'Gavin Donlevy,’ he said after a time. ‘Runs an outfit called Five Star Fabricators in East Kilbride. It's a legit company and they turn out
some pretty good stuff. He went straight into the yards as a welder when he left school––must have worked in every shipyard on the Clyde.’ He grunted morosely. ‘ In those days there were shipyards on the Clyde. When I first knew him, he had just taken up Stock Car racing and some of his custom body jobs were beyond belief.'

  ‘Can he be trusted?’ Trusted to keep his mouth closed even if direct questions were asked. But that wasn’t likely to happen unless Hollis’ project suffered major exposure––and then it would be the least of his worries.

  Gojo gave his grimace of a smile. 'He went inside for a couple of years when they caught him doing hefty chassis modifications specially designed for Ram Raiding. He knows how to keep his mouth shut all right.'

  Thank Christ, thought Hollis, feeling a weight lift in the depths of his mind. Thank Christ for Gojo and his never-ending contacts. For the next hour they spoke of happier days, staying off the more sensitive subjects in unconscious deference to these antiseptic surroundings. Gojo learned more about his friend in that hour than in all the previous years put together.

  At the age of nineteen, after a lengthy series of dead-end jobs washing cars and filling shelves, interspersed with regular petty crime, a judge gave him an ultimatum: six months in jail or volunteer for the armed forces. No contest. Later that same day Mike Hollis had walked into the nearest recruiting office, which happened to be the army.

  It was the best thing that ever happened to him and he knew it. The year was 1975.

  The army succeeded in supplying the one item that had been missing from Hollis' life: discipline. They taught him self-respect and self-reliance––and he responded with enthusiasm. He excelled with firearms of all sorts, resulting in the comparatively rare "exceptional" comment appearing in his official confidential records under the appropriate heading. He went on to represent his unit at several auspicious small arms competitions in the following years.

  In February 1982, at the age of twenty six, he came close to losing both legs as a result of a training accident involving explosives. It had been partly his own fault: young men consider themselves invulnerable. Returning after nearly a year in hospital, the army medical board refused to give him the vital grade allowing active service. Instead the army offered him an administrative appointment which would have carried with it considerable promotion.

  But pen-pushing was not for Mike Hollis. With no other options available, they invalided him out and he found himself right back where he had started: job hunting along with tens of thousands of his fellow countrymen.

  It was hopeless from the start. Without a proper trade the only work on offer was the sort of menial task that had sickened him before. There are few openings in civilian life for a trained weapons expert and natural marksman.

  The ward was thinning of visitors now and Hollis had noted the nurse in charge casting glances in their direction. 'I'll be getting thrown out soon, is there anything you need?'

  'Aye. A bottle of malt and a straw.'

  Hollis laughed, the ludicrous image clear in his mind.

  'Can you phone somebody for me? Get him to pick up the bike and keep it until I get out of here. The bloody thing will disappear for good otherwise.'

  'Sure'.

  Gojo gave him a phone number.

  'I'll only be in town for a few days, then I'm going away for a while. When I get back I'll come down again and we'll have a few beers.'

  'Thanks for comin' in, Mike.' said Gojo. God alone knew where his friend was going and who it was this time. One of these days … 'Watch out for yourself, okay?'

  Hollis saw that Gojo's colour had improved noticeably and he looked stronger. Good. Unbidden, a memory of his recent conversation with Dave Jordan came into his mind. Reminding him of something he had to say before he left this place. 'This is the last one, Gojo. I've been thinking about it a lot over the past year and it's time to quit. I've had enough,' he said seriously. 'Getting too old for all this running around,' he added, trying to make a joke of it.

  It was surprising admission, even though Gojo had suspected something like it was coming. The signs had been there all right. 'Aye. You're a poor old soul, right enough!' he grunted from his hospital bed.

  They both laughed.

  'I'll come in again tomorrow,’ Hollis assured him. ‘You keep your hands off the nurses, hear?'

  'You ain't no fun no more,' replied Gojo in a mocking imitation of an American accent, passable even through his bruised lips. He watched Hollis walking back down between the two rows of beds, shrugging into his jacket and running a hand through his sandy hair. He spoke cheerfully to a nurse at the door and she glanced back twice, smiling, as he disappeared down the hallway.

  Gojo felt a shiver run down the length of his spine. He had been careful to say nothing. He would not, could not, have asked his friend to sort this out for him. It wasn’t his way to ask anyone for anything. Better not to have debts which would need repaying at some time. But the certainty lay over him like a blanket of ice. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would be wise if the hospital casualty department got two beds ready pretty damned soon.

  'Look. I don't care whether he's in a meeting or sitting on the toilet, I want to speak to whoever it is in your organisation that's responsible for security matters!' Frank Wedderman closed his eyes in despair. 'Well make damned sure you do.' He put the phone down and glared at it.

  'Having trouble, Frank?' one of the two officers drafted in to assist him asked, grinning at his expression.

  'These people aren't real!' Wedderman shook his head in disbelief. 'I'm trying to tell them that we think this guy Mintushi is in danger of his life, but all they're concerned about is whether the guy’s name should be in red letters or black letters on the award certificate!' He looked around the room as if searching for enlightenment. 'In the unlikely event of them actually calling me back, I'll be with the boss.'

  When the door closed behind him the other two officers glanced at each other. Christ, they were both thinking, I wouldn't want his job.

  In the hospital foyer, Mike Hollis replaced the telephone handset and picked up the tattered phone book from the shelf beneath. The voice at the other end had been surprised to hear that Gojo had been hospitalised. Hollis had passed on the request about the motorbike and received ready agreement. He had also suggested that Gojo could do with some visitors so maybe a few friends could be rounded up …?

  'One last thing, I need some bits for my own bike, where's the best place to go? Jimmy who––oh, Blind Jimmy? Right. Where will I find him? Okay, thanks.'

  It was easy enough to locate Five Star Fabricators in the same phone book. He made a mental note of the address and walked out into the sunshine.

  The congestion wasn't getting any better and it took Hollis nearly twenty minutes to get clear of the city centre and across one of the many bridges spanning the River Clyde to where the traffic was thinner. He made better time now, skirting the town of Rutherglen through a well remembered short-cut and heading for the Cathkin Braes and the climb up out of the Clyde valley.

  By the mid-60's the increasing problem of shortage of building land to house Glasgow's ever-growing population was becoming acute. Consequently the City Council thought it would be good idea to resurrect an overspill strategy first formulated as the Clyde Valley Plan in 1946. Simply put, this meant the transference of city residents to outlying areas where new towns would be built specifically for the purpose. Some of these were green-field sites and other involved a huge expansion of an existing countryside community. One of the first of these new towns was East Kilbride, intended from the beginning to be a self-sufficient community and not merely a dormitory area.

  Less than twenty years later 30,000 folk lived in the new town, and the population target had been increased yet again to 70,000. As the town grew in size the local people, many of whom had been transplanted from Glasgow, began demanding more control over their own affairs. And as a direct result, in 1963 East Kilbride became a Small Burg
h complete with it’s own Town Council.

  This overspill policy certainly achieved the desired result of reducing housing demand within the city limits, but it tended to draw away more skilled workers than unskilled ones––which was not in fact what had been intended. History does not regard it as a success.

  The tenancy board was peeling badly and a lower corner was missing altogether. Hollis stared at it though the open side window of the car, finally spotting Five Star Fabricators tucked away in a corner, in a cul-de-sac off another cul-de-sac in the usual pattern of modern industrial, and housing, estates. Supposed to cut down through traffic and reduce noise and road hazard they did neither, instead having the inevitable result of funnelling every vehicle coming or going down the same restricted roadways.

  Another triumph for modern planning, thought Hollis cynically. He had never been overly impressed with the standard of ability displayed by local government officials in general.

  An empty Toyota pick-up stood in the yard in front of the gaping loading bay door. From the gloom beyond an actinic blue spark flickered, and further into the dark recesses Hollis heard the screech of a metal-working lathe.

  'Gavin Donlevy?'

  The man turned a knob and the bright blue flame of the oxyacetylene cutter flicked and died. He flicked the welding mask up and revealed a bearded face topped with long untidy hair. Two extremely bright eyes gazed back at Hollis from under bushy brows and a thumb was waved at the lathe on the other side of the workshop. Then the mask dropped again and he turned back to what appeared to be a damaged ploughshare, the torch popping into life again.

  The lathe whined down into silence while the boiler-suited figure alongside it scrutinised his work with care. Hollis, who set great store by first impressions, noted the critical appraisal and smiled wryly when the workpiece was thrown casually to one side with a clatter.