Parly Road: The Glasgow Chronicles 1 (7 page)

  Crisscross only hid wan wall tae scale in the back courts, bit managed tae mess it up by trying tae take a short cut alang a ledge behind the tyre garage opposite the back closes ae the tenements. He’d been making good time side-shuffling, when he came across broken glass embedded in cement oan the ledge, blocking his way. He looked aboot. There wis a cabin dookit sitting oan tap ae the middens, leaning against the last wall he hid tae climb o’er. Flypast, the local doo man, hid obviously stuck the glass in tae stoap doo thieves getting access tae the pigeons in his dookit. He looked across at the dookit. Apart fae the landing board at the tap where a nice wee hen and grizzly doo wur showing aff tae each other, the cabin itsel wis made ae upright auld doors tae form the shell. It looked like Fort Knox, straight oot ae The Man Fae Uncle, he thought tae himsel. The distance between him and the midden that hid the dookit sitting oan tap ae it wis aboot five feet, Crisscross reckoned, as he launched himself, legs gaun like the clappers tae gie him mair acceleration across the divide. The leap wid’ve put Lynn Davies tae shame, he thought tae himsel, as he flew through the air.  Wae his erms and hauns ootstretched like Batman, he managed tae grab baith sides ae the landing board oan this, his wan and only maiden flight. Everything seemed tae go tae plan as his two size elevens thudded oan tae the wee ledge in front ae the cabin. Unfortunately, this wis followed a split second later by his face and body ricocheting aff the front ae it. Oan the rebound, and still clutching the sides ae the landing board, the whole side ae the dookit followed him backwards intae the midden below. By a stroke ae luck, he landed oan the bottom edge ae an auld mattress that hid been chucked oot ae wan ae the tenements, which managed tae break his fall as he became engulfed in six hooses worth ae the usual cat litter, coal ash, used fanny-pads, shitey nappy contents and everything else that the clatty basturts who lived there hid thrown oot o’er the previous two weeks. Oan his backwards trajectory, wae his heid poking up between the landing board and nesting boxes oan either side ae it, amidst the scattering pigeons and feather explosions, Crisscross thought he caught sight ae Flypast sitting oan whit looked like a comfy seat wae his tadger in wan haun, a copy ae True Detective in the other, and a look ae abject terror splashed across his face.

  Crisscross tried tae open his eyes.  Somewhere in the distance, he thought he could hear bells and a screeching eerie voice. When he finally managed tae get his eyes unstuck, he thought he must’ve landed in hell.  He could taste the burnt ash and see a big swirling grey cloud that smelled heavily ae cats pish. The screeching crescendo jist aboot caused him tae shite his pants as a contorted grotesque face suddenly appeared through the cloud. He tried tae escape, bit there wis a massive weight pressing doon oan his chest that made flight impossible. The face wis trying tae tell him something, bit he couldnae make oot whit it wis saying fur the ringing ae the bells in his lugs.

  “Fur fuck’s sake, Crisscross!  Whit hiv ye done tae ma good dookit?” the face screamed in anguish. 

  “Flypast, get aff that bloody door and gie me a haun before Ah fucking suffocate,” he spluttered.

  Flypast jumped tae the side and using baith hauns, lifted the side ae his dookit aff ae Crisscross. Crisscross gulped doon a mixture ae air and coal ash as Flypast helped him tae his feet.

  “Crisscross, whit the fuck hiv ye done tae ma good dookit and aw ma poor doos?” the doo man howled.

  “Flypast, no the noo. Ah’m oan duty oan a snatch and grab mission.  Ah’ll speak tae ye later,” he said, jumping up tae scale the last wall.

  Crisscross looked doon. The Sarge hid Carrot-heid by the scruff ae his collar wae wan haun and wis using his other erm tae defend himsel against some mad wummin, who wis using a scrunched up washing line as a whip tae try and free the boy. At the same time, the boy’s maw hid a haud ae the boy’s other erm, tugging the boy back and forth between her and The Sarge. Another two hairys, who could’ve been Hattie Jacques’s twin sisters, hid a grip ae the maw fae behind and wur pulling like a pair ae anchors oot ae the East German wummin’s tug-o-war team. Even wae the ringing ae the bells in his lugs, the racket coming up fae the ground wis deafening.

  “Leave ma wean alane,
ya
basturt, ye!”

  “Get yer paws aff that wean, ya fascist, ye!”

  “Leave im alane, ya fascist prick!”

  “Ah jist want tae speak tae him fur a minute,” The Sarge snarled back, ducking as the washing line whizzed past his heid.

  “Fuck aff, ya bullying basturt!”

  “Let him go, ya frigging pig, ye!”

  “Ma, Ma, Ah didnae dae anything. It wisnae me, honest!” wailed Ginger Nut fae the middle ae the melee.

  Crisscross, putting intae practice his ‘using wan’s initiative’ skills, learned in his six week training course efter being accepted intae the polis, drapped doon aff the wall straight intae a six inch deep puddle. The impact ae his size elevens sent a wave ae dirty water o’er the wailing swirling mass, which morphed intae a stunned, still, dripping silence. Everywan hid jumped back aboot three feet in unison, loosening their grip oan each other as they glared at Crisscross, who wis staunin there in gleeful triumph. This allowed the boy tae shoot aff like a bullet, up through the back stairs ae the closemooth where he’d exited fae a few minutes earlier wae The Sarge hinging aff the back ae his collar. Crisscross took advantage ae this lapse tae make his presence felt and calm the situation doon.

  “Haw, Madam Zorro, put that fucking rope doon or ye’re under arrest,” he ordered.

  The first tae respond wis The Sarge.

  “Fur Christ’s sake, Crisscross, where the hell hiv ye been?” he demanded, gasping fur oxygen, again managing tae duck oot ae the way ae an incoming lash.

  Before Crisscross could reply, Ma Barker let fly.

  “Don’t ye ever lay yer hauns oan ma wean again, Thompson.”

  “Ah wis jist wanting a wee word wae him aboot the break-ins at the nursery at the bottom ae the street...and other stuff,” replied The Sarge, in a ‘Ah’m jist daeing ma job’ voice.

  “Whit the hell his that tae dae wae ma boy, eh?” screeched the demented jezabel.

  “Ah never said it did. Ah wis jist looking fur a bit ae information fae him and his pal, in case they knew anything aboot it.”

  “If ye want tae talk tae ma son, ye come through me, insteid ae scaring him shitless wae yer usual heavy-haunded tactics, or it’ll be mair than a black eye ye’ll get the next time.”

  “Whit’s that supposed tae mean?” snarled The Sarge.

  “Ye know exactly whit she means,” interjected Hattie Jacques number wan.

  “Don’t come roond here terrorising us poor defencless wummin and weans while oor men ur aff at work and don’t ever come near ma weans again or ye’ll find oot whit Ah mean,” responded the maw.

  “Ah’m entitled tae question gang members who ur loitering aboot the streets.”

  “Whit gang?  He’s only jist turned ten, ya haufwit, ye. He’s still in primary school and he bloody well lives here,” she spat back. 

  This wis gaun naewhere, The Sarge thought tae himsel. Apart fae being in a nae-win situation wae hauf the windaes in the back court open wae screaming wummin hinging oot ae them, shouting abuse, another flash point wis brewing between Crisscross and the wan wae the rope.

  “Zorro? Zorro? Who the fuck ur you calling Zorro, ya cross-eyed tadger, ye?”

  “Don’t speak tae me in that tone ae voice. Ah saw ye using that clothes line as a deadly weapon against Sergeant Thompson.”

  “Listen, Clarence, if Ah wanted tae use this as a deadly weapon, dae ye think he’d still be staunin there,
insteid
ae swinging fae that bloody telephone pole o’er there?” Madam Zorro shouted.

  “Aye, ye tell ’im, Lizzie!” shouted wan ae the wummin fae a second flair windae.

  “Clarence?  Clarence?  Who the fuck’s Clarence?” Crisscross demanded wae a puzzled look oan his coupon.

  “Clarence, the cross-eyed lion!” came a unified chorus fae a gaggle ae female voices that could probably be heard in Denniston.

  Meanwhile, as if that wisnae enough, The Sarge spotted Flypast oot ae the side ae his eye, appearing oot ae naewhere fast. He flew straight intae the fray, waving a piece ae paper under Crisscross’s nose.

  “Crisscross, ya skelly-eyed basturt!  See whit ye’ve done tae ma dookit and good doos? Hauf ae them hiv shot the craw, hauf hiv died wae a heart attack and the other hauf, Ah’ll no be able tae breed fae again, ya clumsy, useless prick, ye!”

  “Dae ye no mean a third ae them, Flypast?” Crisscross shot back, clearly irritated at the interuption.

  “Eh?” a stalled Flypast said, looking confused.

  “Dae ye no mean…ach, never mind.  Look, Flypast…Ah telt ye, Ah’ll get it sorted oot later.  Noo fuck aff jist noo!”

  “Don’t ye tell that poor basturt tae fuck aff. It’s no his fault he’s saft in the heid,” interrupted Hattie Jacques number two.

  “Aw he’s efter is a bit ae justice and respect, jist like the rest ae us aboot here,” the wan called Soiled Sally
screeched, puffing oot her massive paps indignantly.

  Before Crisscross could reply, The Sarge butted in.

  “C’moan Crisscross, let’s get tae hell oot ae here before Ah lose ma cool and start booking the whole bunch ae them.”

  “Oan whit charge, Bilko?” snorted the maw.

  “Breach ae the peace, disorderly conduct and assault wae a washing line, hen,” Crisscross retorted.

  “Crisscross, piss aff and go and jump in the canal. The smell ae cats pish fae where Ah’m staunin wid peel the paint aff ae a cludgie door, so it wid,” Sharon Campbell shouted tae the echoing ae laughter bouncing aff ae the walls ae the tenements in the back court.

  “Aye, you’d be the expert in the smell ae pish aboot here, hen,” Crisscross responded, moving oot ae reach, as
Sharon’s
two pals held her back.

  “C’moan Crisscross, don’t waste yer time,” The Sarge said, heiding fur the back stairs leading tae the street.

  “Aye, fuck aff and don’t come back in a hurry,” Soiled Sally shouted, as the polis retreated back through the closemooth tae the street.

  “They’ve always goat tae hiv the last word,” Crisscross grumbled tae The Sarge, before turning and shouting, “Bloody tarts!” intae the closemooth.

  They came oot oan tae the street and crossed o’er towards the wee car park tae collect Crisscross’s hat, tie and jaicket.

  “Crisscross, where the fuck wur ye when Ah needed ye?  Aw Ah asked ye tae dae wis wan wee simple task and grab that wee prick before he reached the back court.”

  “Sorry, Sarge, Ah goat intae a wee pickle wae Flypast’s dookit and that held me up fur a…”

  Suddenly Crisscross started tae run across the car park towards the bushes. Elvis’s back wis bent o’er like a banana, shiting oan whit looked fae a distance like a hat and jaicket.  The patched arse ae Elvis disappeared through the bushes wae a sauntering gait, jist as Crisscross arrived oan the scene.

  “Aw, fur Christ’s sake. Ah don’t believe it!” Crisscross howled.

  He held up his uniform jaicket, which hid a big dollop ae watery shite plastered oan the inside ae it and glared doon at the puddle ae pish that wis swimming aboot in his hat.

  “Ah’m gonnae get that flea-infested mongrel put doon, the first bloody chance Ah get. And who’s this Clarence that they wur aw oan aboot?”

  “C’moan Crisscross, let’s get oan the road, son. It’s been a shite day aw roond, bit we’ll be back. We might’ve lost the battle, bit we’ve certainly no lost the war. Don’t ye worry aboot that.  We’ll see who’ll be laughing then.”   

Chapter Nine

  Helen sat back oan the chair in the kitchen and looked at her hauns. She couldnae stoap them fae shaking.  She took a sip ae her PLJ, grimaced, lit up a fag and searched fur the bit she’d been reading in the warrant sales section ae the previous night’s Evening Times before the commotion hid started. Betty next door always diluted hers wae water and added a wee drap ae sugar and swore it worked jist the same.  Helen smiled, thinking aboot it. Betty claimed that it tasted better and it wisnae as bitter as taking it straight, the way Helen did.

  “Ah read that it’s supposed tae be honey ye mix wae it tae make it taste better as the sugar cancels oot any ae the dieting benefits when ye drink that pish,” she’d informed Betty wan day recently efter reading an article in wan ae the magazines in the doctor’s waiting room roond oan St James Road.

  “Naw, that’s shite. Don’t believe everything ye read and anyway, who the hell kin afford or even if they could, who the hell aboot here wid eat honey anyway? They say it’s fae bees, although Christ knows how they work that wan oot,” Betty hid declared wae authority.

  Helen wondered who the genius wis that managed tae find a use fur PLJ.

  “Right, lads, we’ve goat this green lime stuff that’s the colour ae bile, it tastes worse than camel’s pish and we need tae get rid ae a ton ae the stuff before next Monday. Any suggestions?” The failed master limejuice brewer must’ve asked.

  “How aboot putting it intae wee skinny bottles tae maximise the profit, wrapping a wee bit ae fancy gold Christmas paper roond the tap, the way they dae wae Babycham, then tying it in yellow see-through paper tae make it seem mysterious and selling it through chemist shoaps tae fat birds up in Glesga,” his pal, the genius, must’ve answered.

  “Fucking brilliant! You get the bottles and Ah’ll get ma labelling machine.”

  Helen found her place.

  ‘MACDONALD
: 
Wednesday, Thirteenth ae June, nineteen sixty five, at forty three Grafton Square, Toonhead, C-Four.
A selection ae hoosehold goods and bric-a-brac tae include television, fridge, gas cooker, beds, children’s clothing etc. Sale starts at two p.m.’

  Helen hid gone tae school wae Mary MacDonald. Her man hid goat killed working up in Springburn at the Atlas Works jist efter she’d found oot she wis pregnant wae her fifth wean. He’d goat crushed when a load hid toppled aff ae a goods train and buried him. Mary hid goat two weeks wages plus his holiday stamps.  Somewan hid telt Helen recently that Mary wis still paying aff the tic tae The Co-op fur the cost ae his funeral. It hid been aboot two years since his death. She’d bumped intae Mary a few weeks earlier up the Parly Road. She’d been like a packhorse wae the five weans aw clinging tae her oan tap ae the shoapping she wis carrying.

  “How ur ye daeing, hen?” Helen hid asked her.

  “Ach, no bad, Helen, apart fae trying tae feed the five thoosand here. Ah’ve jist been up tae the post office tae get ma family allowance and managed tae get ma hauns oan hauf a dozen stale loaves oot ae Curley’s. Baldy John said that they’re nae mair than two days auld and wid make good breid-pudding, bit Ah jist think he wis saying that tae get shot ae them. They’re as hard as bricks, so they ur.”

  The weans hid looked quite clean, Helen remembered, apart fae aw their sleeves wur covered in the usual dried snotters. Helen hidnae goat the impression that Mary wis struggling though, or that things wur as bad as they obviously wur.

  Jimmy wis always telling her that there wis something creepy and no right aboot her gaun straight tae the deaths and warrant sales column ae the paper first.

  “Why the hell dae ye want tae know who’s croaked it or whose furniture is being flogged fur no paying aff their bills?” he wis furever asking.

  “Ah jist look tae see whit’s gaun oan. It’s no as if Ah’ve many pleasures in life and it wid surprise ye who is up tae their eyes wae the Provi people, the same as us. Ye jist widnae believe it,” wis always her reply.

  “Aye, right. Well, gie’s a shout when ye discover they’ve spelt oor name wrang again,” wis wan ae his usual retorts, or her favourite, “His that auld man ae yers no made it intae the despatches column yet?”

  “Is that you, Johnboy?” Helen shouted, putting the paper doon.

  She’d heard the ootside door clicking saftly shut. It couldnae be wan ae the lassies because she wid’ve heard them hauf way up the street.  Anyway, they sounded as if they wur up the stairs in their bedroom.

  “Aye.”

  “Come intae the kitchen where Ah kin see ye.”

  Johnboy appeared in the doorway looking shifty or feart or baith. Helen couldnae make up her mind which wan it wis.

  “Hiv ye been breaking intae the nursery?”

  “Naw.”

  “So, if it’s no you, who his?”

  “Ah don’t know.”

  “Ah’ll ask ye again. If it’s no you, then who wis it?”

  “The Fergusons and the Martins.”

  “And ye’ve hid nothing tae dae wae it?”

  “Naw.”

  “Who wur ye wae doon at the close when the polis grabbed ye?”

  “Ma pal.”

  “Right, Ah’ll start again. Who wur ye hinging aboot wae doon at the closemooth when the polis grabbed ye?”

  “Ma pal, Tony.”

  “Who’s Tony?”

  “Tony Gucci.”

  “Whit kind ae name is Gucci?”

  “Ah don’t know.”

  “How dae ye know him?”

  “Fae School.”

  “Is he a Catholic?”

  “Ah think so.”

  “So, why dis he go tae your school then?”

  “Ah don’t know.”

  “How dae ye know he’s a Catholic then?”

  “He telt me.”

  “Why wid he tell ye something like that?”

  “Ah don’t know.”

  “His he goat brothers and sisters?”

  “Ah don’t know.”

  “Whit dae ye know?”

  “Ah don’t know.”

  “Where dis he live?”

  “Ah don’t know.”

  “Johnboy, if ye say tae me wance mair that ye don’t know, Ah’m gonnae come o’er there and burn yer eyes oot wae this fag,” she threatened, waving the fag at him as his eyes followed the blue swirls ae the smoke trails.

  “Somewhere up aboot St Mungo Street.”

  “Bit ye don’t know where?”

  “Naw.”

  “If Ah find oot that ye’re up tae nae good and ye’re lying tae me, it’ll no be yer da that will be skelping yer arse, bit it’ll be me that’ll be taking a stick tae it.”

  “Ah’m no lying,” he protested, looking her straight in the eye fur the first time since he’d arrived.

  “Right, gie yer sisters a shout and tell them their tea’s ready and get intae that sink and wash yer hauns.”