by Ian Todd
Ian Todd was born in the Townhead district of Glasgow in 1955 and lived there until his family was moved out by the bulldozers in 1969. He lived in Maryhill and Milton, before the family finally settled in Springburn. He moved to the north of Scotland in the early 1980s to go to Aberdeen College of Education and has worked as a Community Development Worker, within Youth Work and Adult Learning, since then. Ian has a grown-up family and lives with his partner, his five dogs and one cat and has been writing for a number of years.
For Morven, Sarah and Calum
One Hundred And Twelve Days
By Ian Todd
One Hundred And Twelve Days is a work of fiction. The names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
You can keep up to date with The Mankys and Johnboy Taylor on The Glasgow Chronicles’ website and Ian Todd’s Facebook page for The Glasgow Chronicles:
www.theglasgowchronicles.com
www.facebook.com/theglasgowchronicles
Chapter One
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello? Is there anywan there?” he shouted.
Silence.
He looked aboot, fighting tae suppress his growing panic. Everything wis whiter than white…where the sky wis meant tae be, the ground, the horizon…everything. There wisnae edges tae anything either, he noted…at least, none that he could detect. He held the palms ae his hauns oot and upwards facing, turned towards himsel, Jesus style, gieing them a good wee swatch. The pinkish-coloured lines ae the palms stood oot in contrast tae the surroundings. He couldnae fathom oot where the source ae light wis coming fae. Nothing. He looked aboot again, this time screwing up his eyes slightly tae gie them a better focus, bit still couldnae find any light bulbs or switches. He lifted his erms, Spitfire mode this time, slowly birling roond in a three hunner and sixty-degree circle, tipping his wings up and doon, searching fur a shadow oan the ground tae try and help him tae zero in oan the light source.
“Hello?” he shouted again, listening intently.
There wis nae echo. It felt as if he wis still ootside, bit in some sort ae box, withoot sides or edges tae it. He squatted doon and tapped the ground wae a knuckle. The surface wis solid and pristine white. Nae dirty footprints, tyre tracks or shoe scuffs. He grasped the air in front ae his face wae his haun, as if plucking something oot ae a tree, before scratching the back ae his heid.
“Hello? Is there anywan there?” he hollered, cupping his hauns roond his mooth like a funnel.
Silence.
He stood up and started walking, bit stoapped efter aboot twenty feet. Something jist wisnae quite right, bit he couldnae figure oot whit the hell it wis. If it wis a new digger, nowan hid telt him aboot it. He’d heard ae the cages up in Porterfield nick in Inverness, which they’d slung the arses ae the rioters intae, the wans who’d wrecked Peterheid, efter they’d taken o’er the roofs. A cell within a cell, they’d said. He started aff at a canter, quickly glancing aboot fae side tae side, as he propelled himsel forward, speeding up, gaun faster and faster, aiming fur the blind horizon in the distance. Where the hell am Ah, his brain kept shouting at him o’er and o’er until it finally hit him. There wisnae a horizon…at least nothing he could make oot as being horizonish. He tried tae keep his eyes fae being drawn doonwards as he continued tae shift up a gear, bit it wis hopeless. It wis the soles ae his shoes. Where wis the sound ae pounding feet? He slowed doon tae a walk, deliberately slapping the front hauf ae his flat soles oan tae the ground in front ae him, before eventually coming tae a stoap. He clapped his hauns thegither. He repeated it, listening mair intently this time. Nothing…there wisnae any sound coming fae the slap ae his palms.
“Hello, hello, hello?” he bawled again, listening.
He turned and looked back the way he thought he’d come. There wis nae way tae tell how far forward he’d propelled himsel or in which direction he’d come fae. Another thing he suddenly became aware ae wis that, despite the exertion ae his mad dash, he wisnae breathless. He lifted the palm ae his right haun up tae his mooth and gently blew oan it. Nothing. He opened his gub wider and breathed oot fae his lungs, using the muscles oan his stomach as billows tae push the hot air up tae the back ae his throat. He couldnae detect or feel his breath oan the palm ae his haun. Strange. He looked at the ground and chose a spot, before letting fly wae a well-aimed spit. He walked o’er tae where he thought it hid landed. There wis nothing there. He bent forward, his hauns oan his knees, curling that tongue ae his in tae a tube shape, allowing a saliva trail tae slowly drip fae it, keeping his eyes peeled until the silvery thread eventually snapped efter aboot eighteen inches.
“Whit the fuck?”
There wis nothing there. Nae wet patch or blob oan the white surface. He knelt doon and touched where the spit should’ve been wae the tips ae two ae his fingers.
“Hoi! Hoi! Is there anywan there?”
“Whit a racket,” a vaguely familiar voice suddenly replied oot ae nowhere.
“Whit the…” he yelped, jumping up and spinning aroond, frantically looking aboot. “Who the…”
“It’s me, Johnboy. Ah’m here.”
“Where?”
“Staunin here in front ae ye. Kin ye no see me?” Skull asked him, sounding amused.
“Skull? Is that you?”
“Aye. Who’d ye think it wis?”
Silence.
“Where ur we?” Johnboy eventually asked, fighting tae control his fear, wondering why he wisnae feeling mair freaked oot than he wis.
“Ah’m no sure…it’s hard tae explain tae...”
“Tae whit?” Johnboy butted in, instantly regretting no letting Skull finish.
Silence.
“Ur you still there, Skull?”
“Oh aye.”
“Whereaboots?”
“Ah’m staunin here in front ae ye.”
“Staunin in front ae me? Where? Ah cannae see ye. Where ur ye?”
“Straight in front ae ye.”
“Okay, how far in front?” Johnboy asked, starting tae get irritated, looking aboot, wondering where the speakers wur that wur amplifying Skull’s voice towards him.
“Ah don’t know…ten…fifteen inches, maybe.”
“So, whit ur ye wearing…and don’t say a white sheet,” Johnboy warned him, being forced tae smile at the sound ae a chuckle, despite his nervousness, as he reached oot and tried tae touch Skull.
“Oh, Ah don’t think that’ll work aboot here, so Ah don’t.”
“Okay, Ah’ll rephrase that. Ur ye still wearing that manky auld flea-bitten Celtic tammy oan that bald napper ae yours?”
“Of course.”
“Is this a dream? Ah mean, am Ah lying in some new dungeon under B-Hall, doon in Dumfries, making aw this up?”
“Making aw whit up?”
“Aw this…nothingness,” Johnboy replied, shrugging they shoulders ae his, still looking aboot, trying tae waken himsel up. “How did Ah get here then?”
“Ah’m no sure, bit ye’re looking good. Ye wur here fur a second or two before ye disappeared. Ah wis away looking tae see where ye’d gone.”
“Ah hivnae any holes in ma chest or back, hiv Ah?” Johnboy asked, suddenly remembering, feeling aboot his body wae baith hauns, finding nothing, before running his fingers through his short red hair.
“Naw, ye look fine,” Skull replied, as Johnboy looked at his fingers tae see if there wis any blood oan them. “Mind you. It might mean ye’re no supposed tae be here...yet.”
“No supposed tae be where? Where the hell ur we, Skull?” John
boy demanded tae know, still looking aboot at aw the nothingness.
“Ah’m no really sure…Ah’ve only jist passed through this bit withoot hinging aboot…a good wee while ago noo, when Ah come tae think aboot it.”
“Passed through? Passed through tae where?”
“Tae…” Skull wis jist replying, when aw ae a sudden, Johnboy doubled up, clutching baith hauns up tae his chest.
“Arggghhh,” he screamed, they legs ae his buckling fae underneath him, sending him crashing doon oan tae the white flair like a heavy sack ae shite, as a burning bolt exploded, shooting pain doon through his chest.
Chapter Two
“Whit’s wrang Pat?” Elsie murmured, wakening up fae her fitful slumber, as he carefully spread an auld dish towel across the glowing panel ae the dashboard wae his left haun efter switching aff the heidlights, turning in the direction ae the dirt track road in neutral.
He allowed the wee Datsun Sunny tae free-wheel before he yanked oan the haunbrake, causing the baith ae them tae suddenly shoot forward aff ae the black vinyl seats before jolting them back against them again, as the car shuddered tae a stoap. He didnae want the brake lights tae announce they wur oan their way.
“Whit the…” his wife squealed, bending o’er intae the foot well oan her side ae the car, her fingers blindly searching fur her glasses that hid taken flight.
Silence.
Black Pat McVeigh screwed his eyes up, as he leaned forward in his seat, resting that stubby chin ae his oan tae the tap ae the steering wheel. He could dae wae a shave, he telt himsel, as he waited fur his thumping heart tae slow doon a bit. He hoped she couldnae hear it. He didnae want tae panic her anymair than she awready wis. He peered doon the track towards the farmhoose and sheds. He noo regretted no shifting the ootside light fae the gable end ae the stable block roond intae the yard proper. She’d been moaning at him fur years aboot it. It meant sixty percent ae the yard in front ae their main door still sat in pitch darkness, even when the gable light wis oan.
“Ah kin never find the bloody lock oan the door wae that key ae mine in the dark, so Ah cannae,” wis wan ae her mair restrained bleatings.
He knew he couldnae jist drive doon and park under the light, despite his senses trying tae persuade him otherwise. That’s whit any normal person wid dae. He knew if he did that, it wid gie the game away if there wis somewan there, waiting, lurking aboot in the shadows. It wid also fuck up the plan that he’d managed tae cobble thegither oan the road oot ae the toon. Their arrival hid tae appear normal or he’d hiv nae chance ae surviving. They’d know fine well that somewan like him wid be alert. Driving in tae the yard hid tae be understated. Fae where they wur sitting, he could jist make oot the dark shadowy ootlines ae the two doors leading intae the stable block tae the right ae the farmhoose’s front door. He took comfort fae the fact that the other two doors, opposite the front ae the hoose, that he couldnae see fae where they wur sitting, hid heavy locked padlocks oan them. That jist left the door oan the shed that wis hinging aff ae its hinges…another ignored, penny-pinching job, that he noo regretted no hivving done.
“Whit’s wrang, Pat?” she asked again, her nervousness mair pronounced this time, her sudden interruption startling him.
He turned and looked at his wife and gied her a wee reassuring smile. It wis important tae keep her calm. He wanted tae switch oan the light above their heids so she could find her glasses, bit that wis a non-starter. They’d been married o’er twenty years and she’d always hid his tea oan the table, no matter whit time ae the day or night he arrived hame. Despite the kids trying unsuccessfully fur years tae get her tae wise up and leave him, she’d stood her ground.
“Fur better or worse,” she’d always reminded them.
She’d waited until he’d been slowing doon at the traffic lights at the junction ae the Kirkie and Colston Road before demanding tae know whit he wis up tae.
“Ah cannae remember the last time ye wur behind the wheel ae ma car,” she’d accused him suspiciously, fishing, her lips twisting wae undisguised irritation, as he crunched they shitey gears ae her wee prized possession.
“That’s because Ah want tae drive and concentrate this time, insteid ae sitting here listening tae aw the shite you come oot wae,” he’d hit her wae, trying tae throw her aff the scent.
Despite the predicament he found himsel in, he allowed himsel a wee smile in the dark. She’d taken the hint and hid lain back, dozing aff, her eyes opening every noo and again if he hid tae brake suddenly or drap a gear tae overtake some slow retard that should never hiv been allowed tae pass their test in the first place. Efter reaching across and gieing her haun a wee reassuring squeeze, he inhaled deeply and shifted intae first gear, slowly taking the pressure aff the pedal, allowing the clutch tae move the car forward doon the rutted incline. He wis six feet three in his stocking soles. She wis five eight or nine. He wis coonting oan them being as surprised as her and no expecting him tae be sitting in the driving seat. If they’d done their homework, they’d go fur the passenger first. The sixty-four-dollar question wis, wid they leave the driver untouched long enough fur him tae be able tae strike back? If it wis in broad daylight, then he’d be copping his whack. Nae question aboot that. It hid crossed his mind tae keep in tae the wall at the front ae the stable block opposite the front door, bit they’d smell a rat. How wis the passenger supposed tae open his door if the car wis hard up against the crumbling building? It wid be too obvious that he wis oan tae them. He knew he’d hiv a better chance ae survival if he could manage tae get himsel oot ae the car, and intae the open, before they realised they’d fucked up. If he drove right up tae the front door, where the light fae the gable end didnae cover that part ae the yard, then they jist might no suss oot who wis behind the wheel, gieing him the few precious seconds required. That’s aw he’d need. It wis also important that Elsie made the first move tae get oot ae the car…bit no too quickly. The driver also hid tae be seen tae be exiting fae her side at the same time. The weakest part ae the plan that made him vulnerable, wis when the baith ae them wid hiv their heids bent forward, their faces hauf hidden, efter they opened baith doors. He regretted taking her wee shitey car noo. It wis they vital seconds that wid determine whether he lived tae see another day or no. He knew driving doon the track intae the yard, withoot his heidlights oan, wisnae a problem either. In the business he wis in, that wid’ve been expected.
“Ah’m no too sure aboot this,” Elsie suddenly piped up, her voice trembling, turning tae look at him, as the sound ae the tyres slowly crunching o’er the stanes ae the dirt track sizzled like distant thunder in they ears ae his. “Ah’ve goat a funny feeling in the pit ae ma stomach, so Ah hiv.”
“Aboot whit? Ah’m only being cautious, hen. Ah dae this every time Ah come oot fae the toon...especially in the dark. And anyway, Ah widnae worry. If anywan wis doon there waiting, it wid be me they’d be wanting, no you. There’s an unspoken rule in the toon that the wives and weans get left oot ae these things,” he lied, trying tae sound reassuring as his heart rate quickened again.
There wid be two likely ootcomes, he telt himsel, scanning the darkness in front ae them, keeping the distant gable end light firmly in the middle ae the windscreen, avoiding the deep drainage ruts oan either side ae the track. The passenger side, her side, wis a given, so he didnae need tae dwell too much oan that. It wis whit wid happen oan the driver’s side ae the car that he wis focussed oan? In maist cases, if it wis the passenger they wur targeting, the driver wid either be left alane, jist so long as they didnae try tae interfere, or they’d incapacitate whoever wis driving by gieing them a wee skelp oan the heid tae keep them quiet if they wur making tae exit their side ae the vehicle. He knew as soon as he stoapped the car, there widnae be any messing aboot either. In that isolated location, the basturts could make as much noise as they wanted. The nearest neighbouring farmhoose wis jist o’er a mile away. He knew if they decided tae keep the driver in check, it wid be a sore wan, bit he also knew that his chances a
e survival wid be better than fifty-fifty. The plan wis simple. Nowan wid think fur a minute that he’d sacrifice his wife, the mother ae his weans, tae ensure his ain survival. He knew fine well that people wid be judgemental oan using a tactic like that if they ever found oot. Fuck them. This wis survival. Who the fuck wur these so-called experts that claimed tae know whit somewan wid dae if they wur in a similar situation tae the wan he noo found himsel in? He hated sanctimonious cunts who knew nothing. He’d been oan tap ae the game fur a long time noo. He widnae hiv survived six months in the toon if he hidnae demonstrated whit it took tae be oan tap, in a shithole like Glesga. Hivving regrets wis allowed, so long as ye didnae dwell oan them. Everywan hid them…even him, bit being remorseful? That wis a different tune aw thegither. It wis the survival ae the fittest and the fittest always looked forward, towards the horizon. Dwelling oan the past wis fur mugs. That’s where remorse could creep back in and take a grip ae a man’s soul. Never look back, unless it wis in anger, an auld buddy ae his, Bob Dick, who The Big Man hid shamefully goat shot ae during The Simpson Brothers clear-out, back at the tail end ae seventy wan, hid telt him. He’d heard that it wis Wan-bob himsel that hid taken an acetylene torch tae Bob. The basturt hidnae even hid the decency tae put him oot ae his misery when he wis finished wae him. Peter The Plant hid doused the poor basturt wae petrol where he lay, still somehow managing tae plead fur mercy, despite his horrific injuries. The Goat hid then tossed a lighted penny book ae matches oan tae him, as the others hid jumped back, laughing, watching him burn tae death. He’d heard that poor Bob hid screamed fur a full three minutes before falling silent. If they basturts could sleep at night efter whit they’d done, then he knew he certainly could. Whit an absolute waste. A total gentleman, Bob hid been. He turned and gied Elsie another wee glance. He couldnae make oot her features because ae the tea-towel covering the luminous lights oan the dash. Despite his thoughts ae a few seconds earlier, he still felt a pang ae guilt. In aw the time that they’d been married, he didnae think he’d ever telt her that he loved her…at least, no that he could remember. If there wis a welcoming reception waiting, he wis sure that she widnae feel a thing. He took a bit ae comfort fae that. He’d spoken tae Willie Commotion oan the phone, bit he’d denied any involvement in the shooting. He claimed that it must’ve been they fucking eejits, Streaky John McGinnis and John The Haun. Whether Willie wis involved in the actual shooting or no, as far as he wis concerned, it hid been the three ae them that hid put Elsie in the passenger seat, no him. He’d bloody well warned them, pleaded wae the basturts. Noo it wis too late. The damage hid been done. Why the fuck hid they no listened tae him? Why? And aw fur a poxy inspector like Duggie Dougan? Where the fuck wis the justice in the world? He wanted tae apologise tae Elsie, say he wis sorry, bit that wis oot ae the question. The toon hid been swarming wae bizzies. How he’d managed tae nip up and get her oot ae the flat oan Saracen Street withoot being lifted hid been a bloody miracle. He’d thought aboot trying tae track doon Streaky John, bit he knew him and John The Haun wid’ve gone underground as soon as they’d blasted that basturt. Why, oh why, hid they no come and spoken tae him? Because they knew he wid’ve stoapped them, that’s why, he cursed bitterly under his breath. Who the fuck ever heard ae anywan shooting an inspector in the toon, even if he wis a violent, psychopathic, corrupt basturt?