Run Johnboy Run: The Glasgow Chronicles 2 (27 page)

  Hauf the wummin in the yard, who wur walking roond in a circle, came tae a staunstill, while the other hauf kept walking, bit stared across at them.  It wisnae because ae their singing because they hidnae even started yet.  Big Pat, Wee Morag, Betty, Gina, Sally, Jean and Patsy hid stood up and started tae clear their throats and noses, sounding like something oot ae a black plague ward.  Big Pat wis swinging her erms roond aboot like cartwheels, loosening them up while Wee Morag wis La La La-ing up and doon the scales ae some strange musical instrument.  If it wisnae fur the odd fart, some people could’ve been furgiven fur thinking that a steam train wis oan the verge ae breaking doon, bit eventually they wur up and running.

First aff the line wis Big Pat and Wee Morag.

  “Oor Helen disnae know whit makes us love her so.

We only know oor hero loves tae hiv a go.

When she’s started battling, the bizzies hide.

She takes they bloody polis fur an awful ride.

It happens tae be true-oo.

We love ye loads fur whit ye do.”

  By this time, aw the wummin in the circle hid stoapped walking and wur aw hooting and clapping.

  “Gaun yersel, hen,” somewan shouted as Big Pat and Wee Morag belted oot the song at the tap ae their voices and the whole lot ae them wur daeing a seven-wummin ‘Baby Love’ Supremes’ stage show dance impression.  Then it wis o’er tae Betty and Patsy.

  “It disnae matter if her pals ur fair or dark.

Oor Helen is their ain wee charging Joan ae Arc.

When she’s oan the march at the warrant sales.

Her war cry ‘Scummy Basturts’ never ever fails.

Wae Helen tae the foe-ore.

They warrant sales go oot the door.”

By noo, aw the wummin in the yard wur whistling, cheering and clapping as The Seven Supremes carried oan grinding their hips and arses tae the song.  Gina stepped forward wae the chorus.

“She stoaps and glowers at them.

Asks them fur a second chance.

When they dirty buggers refuse tae play.

They wish she’d only asked them wance, so listen bizzies...”

  The screws, who’d been staunin aboot looking bored, as usual, who wur getting paid fur daeing sweet F A, aw heided intae the inner circle.  They wur looking fae Helen, lying there oan the grass, looking embarrassed, bit enjoying the show, tae aw the wummin who’d crowded roond The Seven Supremes and who wur aw swaying and clapping alang tae the song.  Jean and Patsy hidnae missed a step wance Gina danced back intae the line-up.

  “Noo, Helen’s wae her sisters here through thick and thin.

Selling oor weans bedding is a bloody sin.

Bit she’s started fighting fur aw oor rights.

Ye’ll no stoap her wae the jail, ye fucking bunch ae shites.

No matter whit ye dae-ae.

Oor Helen will be back another day.”

  By this time, the whole yard wis gieing it big laldy, clapping, whistling and cheering at the tap ae their voices.  Big Fat Martha, the senior screw wae the men’s sideburns, hid arrived oan the scene, panting like a pig that hid jist completed the fastest four hunner yards oan that side ae the Clyde.

  “C’mone noo, girls, settle doon, let’s hiv ye.  We widnae want tae cut yer recreation short, wid we?” she wheezed as The Seven Supremes and the rest ae the wummin in the yard aw let rip wae a repeat rendition.

  The screws aw looked uncomfortably at each other, wondering whit they should dae next.

Chapter Thirty Eight

  The Rat wis thinking tae himsel that it hid been a lot harder tae track doon Harry Portoy than he thought it wid be.  He turned the Morris Minor Traveller left intae Great Western Road, heiding oot ae the toon in the direction ae Balloch.  Thank fuck it wis September and no the middle ae winter, he thought, as he took a quick glance in the mirror tae make sure the crumpled body, lying in the back, wis still there.  He stretched o’er the empty passenger seat and turned the haundle tae let the passenger side windae doon, tae let some mair air in.  He tried tae place the smell.  It came tae him, jist before he went under the railway bridge in Anniesland.  He’d been sent oot tae Kirkintilloch tae cover the Strachan story aboot two or three years earlier.  Donald Strachan, Coocaddens hard man and feared gangster, hid disappeared aw ae a sudden.  He’d been well-known as a double-crosser.  He’d steal the eyes oot ae a blind nun’s heid and still come back fur her false teeth.  Nasty fucker aw roond, he wis.  He’d been sentenced tae hang in nineteen fifty nine fur shooting a wages clerk, who’d also happened tae be a grandfaither.  The poor auld basturt hid been due tae retire the following week.  Two men in masks, wae guns, hid entered the Post Office depot in West Nile Street wan Friday morning and hid forced the granda tae haun o’er the wage packets that wur ready tae be haunded oot tae the workforce later that day.  Everything hid gone tae plan and the two robbers hid escaped wae the dosh.  It wis only when they wur ootside, getting intae the getaway car, that the alarm bells hid gone aff.  Insteid ae jist driving away, wan ae the robbers hid run back intae the building and hid shot the granda in the heid, at point blank range, before running back oot intae the car and escaping.  The poor auld soul hid been deid before he hit the flair.  Two months later, Donald Strachan hid been charged wae the murder.  The polis couldnae find oot who the other guy wis or the weapon used in the shooting.  Efter three months up in the Bar-L, Strachan hid goat sentenced tae hang.  The Secretary ae State hid refused his petition fur clemency and then the bombshell hid landed.  Two days before he wis due tae be hung, they’d hid tae set him free.  Unknown tae anywan, he’d been languishing, untried, up in the Bar-L fur a hunner and thirteen days, insteid ae the mandatory maximum ae a hunner and twelve.  The papers hid hid a field day o’er it and heids hid rolled, aw o’er The Chief Advocate’s office in Edinburgh.  Nae fucker hid heard ae the rule that a prisoner who wis oan remand hid tae be tried within a hunner and twelve days or be let loose.  The fact that Strachan hid still been pleading his innocence hid meant nothing tae anywan.  The uproar hid continued when The Rat found oot that even if they could prove Strachan hid definitely done it, because ae the hunner and twelve day rule, they couldnae charge him twice fur the same crime.  That wis the story that hid put The Rat amongst the elite investigative journalists in Scotland…that and the fact that when he tracked doon Donald Strachan tae a Highland cottage up in Golspie in Sutherland and managed tae persuade him tae gie an interview, the shite hid hit the fan aw o’er again.  Strachan hid said in his interview that efter he’d been found guilty and sentenced tae hang and his appeal fur clemency refused, Harry Portoy, his lawyer at the trial, hid come up tae the death cell and whispered in his ear that he wis gonnae get him aff oan another appeal and that he wis tae haud tight and no breath a word tae anywan.

Harry Portoy hid claimed efterwards that it hid been his legal duty tae point this discrepancy oot tae his client and tae ask him if he wanted him tae put in another appeal oan his behauf.  Harry Portoy hid denied that he knew aboot the rule leading up tae the hunner and twelfth day and hid said that he’d only sussed it oot efter he’d been filing his trial papers in his office.

  Due tae the public uproar, and Harry Portoy hivving becoming the maist hated man in Scotland, he hid suddenly stoapped defending criminals.  Three years later, Donald Strachan hid been identified as the gunman who’d shot deid another wages clerk, this time o’er in the BRS depot, up in the Toonheid.  Despite a national manhunt, the polis hidnae been able tae find Strachan, until his body hid turned up in a makeshift grave oan a new building site in Hillheid, jist up fae the toon centre in Kirkintilloch.  The Rat could remember the smell fae the grave when he reached the new hooses being built in whit eventually became Burns Road.  The smell in the car, wafting aff ae Harry Portoy wis similar tae the smell that hid been coming aff the body ae Donald Strachan.  When it wis reported that the gun that hid been used tae kill the auld granda at the Post Office heist three years earlier wis the same gun that hid killed Donald Strachan, Harry Portoy hid hit the bottle…and skid row…wae a bump and he hidnae picked himsel up since.

  The Rat hid kept bumping intae, or should he say, stepping o’er Harry Portoy, oan and aff o’er the last couple ae years or so, usually roond aboot the city centre.  The maist recent time he’d clocked him wis oan Ingram Street earlier in the week.  Harry hid been sitting oan the corner wae a bunch ae wino jakeys when The Rat hid gone intae a shoap fur a packet ae fags.  When he’d come oot, the winos hid moved oan, bit Harry hid been left lying oan his back, oot ae the game, a bloody gash above his eye.  He’d been mumbling tae himsel and he’d hid a piece ae string tied roond his coat, even though it hid been a sweltering hot day.  He’d looked as if he’d jist pished himsel.  The Rat remembered feeling sorry fur him.

  Efter he’d left Tom Bryce’s office earlier, he’d scoured aw the streets and the wee lanes that crisscrossed the toon centre.  He’d come across plenty ae wino jakeys, bit none ae them hid seen Harry oan their travels.  He’d been up tae The Tontine Hotel in Duke Street twice.  The Tontine wisnae really a hotel, bit a hostel fur aw the city’s doon and oots.  The first time he’d gone roond there, the wee Sally Army chookter lassie at the reception widnae answer any ae his questions until her lieutenant came oan duty at twelve o’clock.

  “Och, I’m awfully sorry, loon, bit ye’ll have to come back later when Sister Sally, our lieutenant, is back on duty and no, I dinnae ken when that’ll be. Probably in an hour or so,” she’d sung.

  When he’d gone back, a fat stuck-up bitch who wis full ae her ain importance hid been waiting fur him.

  “Hello, Ah’m Acting Lieutenant Cross.  Whit kin Ah dae ye fur?” she’d said, looking him up and doon as if he wis a lump ae dug shite she’d jist scraped aff the heel ae her flattened high heels.

  “Ah’m looking fur Harry Portoy.”

  “And whit’s Harry tae you?”

  “Ah’m his long lost brother, trying tae track him doon.”

  “Well, we’re no in the habit ae gieing oot information oan oor clients.”

  “So he’s here then?”

  “He might be, then again, he might no be.  It depends oan who’s asking.”

  “Ah’ve jist telt ye.  Ah’m his long lost wee brother.”

  “Ye don’t look like him, so ye don’t.”

  “The same maw, bit different faithers.”

  “Whit dae ye want wae him?”

  “Ah want tae help him.”

  “Whit if he disnae want help?”

  “Eh?”

  “Some ae the men who come in here ur happy and don’t want tae be found.  That’s maybe why they came here in the first place.”

  “Or maybe it’s because they don’t hiv any choice.”

  “It wid surprise ye, son.”

  “Ah’m sure it wid, hen.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Ah’m sure it wid, Lieutenant.”

  “He’s no here.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “It aw depends.”

  “Oan whit?”

  “Oan whether he’s hungry, sober, needing a wash, needing a change ae drawers, or the weather’s cauld.  In fact, there’s nae stock reason why and when they want tae use us.”

  “It’s ma brother, Harry, that Ah’m efter.  Ma poor auld maw is oan her deathbed and wants tae see him wan mair time before she croaks it.”

  “He never mentioned a brother tae me.”

  “Ah suspect there’s a lot ae things he widnae mention tae somewan like yersel.”

  “Ye’ll need tae fill in an application form.”

  “Fur whit?”

  “So we kin consider whether we gie oot the information ye want.”

  “Look, there’s a warm bath and a cosy bed waiting fur him, where he’ll be taken care ae.  He could be deid the night while Ah’m waiting fur a reply efter ye read ma form.”

  “It’s no actually a form, it’s a pro-forma we use.”

  “A whit?”

  “Aye, we jist use the word ‘form’ tae people ootside the organisation as ‘pro-forma’ usually confuses them and we hiv tae end up explaining the difference.  Ye widnae believe the time it takes, so we jist use ‘form’ as an easy expression.”

  “Look Mrs…”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Mrs Lieutenant, Ah’ve come a long way tae get here and Ah’m in a hurry, so if we kin jist cut the cackle and come tae a wee understaunin here, Ah’d be prepared tae make a wee donation...”

  “Naw, it’s Lieutenant, Acting Lieutenant Cross.  Kin ye no see the studs oan ma collar?” she’d scowled indignantly, looking at him as if he wis fucking stupid.

  The Rat hid wondered how long he wid’ve hid tae spend in the jail if he’d strangled her right there and then oan the doorstep.  He’d been trying tae calculate whether baith his hauns wid fit roond that fat wobbly neck ae hers, when the wee blond chookter wan hid appeared o’er her shoulder.

  “Sister Sally, we’ve got an emergency.  Old Percy Pitman has emptied his bowels again in the queue and he’s refusing to let me bath him until he gets his soup.”

  “Right, Mr, Mr?”

  “Portoy.”

  “Right, Ah’m needed.  Ah’ll hiv tae go.  If ye want tae fill in a form, come back and see me later,” Fat Sally Sally hid said, and wae that, she’d aboot turned and waddled efter Highland Mary.

  The next day, he’d jist left The Tontine again, hivving hid nae luck again.  He hid decided tae cut up Ladywell Street oan tae Castle Street, tae hit the toon centre via Parly Road, when he’d spotted a figure slumped beside the actual well that hid gied the street its name.  It wis situated jist behind where the auld Duke Street prison hid stood, up until a year ago or so.  It wis the string tied roond the coat that hid caught his eye.  When he’d drawn the car up beside the bundle, he’d known he’d goat his man, or whit wis left ae him.  He’d opened the back doors ae the traveller and hid tumbled the deid weight in tae the back.  Jist as he’d shut the doors o’er, he’d spotted a wee lassie ae aboot four or five years auld oan the pavement opposite, staunin staring at him.  She’d hid oan her maw’s red high heels that wur ten sizes too big fur her and wis twiddling her skipping rope between her wee fingers.

  “Whit ur ye daeing wae that man?”

  “Taking him tae the hospital.”

  “Whit’s wrang wae him?”

  “He’s goat the toothache.”

  “Oh,” wis aw she’d said, as he’d goat back in tae the driver’s seat, crunched the gears and heided up the cobbled street towards Parly Road and the Coocaddens.

  He’d need the wind behind him, The Rat thought tae himsel, as he glanced oot ae the windae at the castle sitting oan tap ae Dumbarton Rock.  Somewan hid telt him wance that it hid been the Sheriff ae Dumbarton who’d grassed oan William Wallace and Robert The Bruce.  When The Bruce hid found oot, he’d rammed a sharp pike up the sheriff’s arse.  The Rat wis wondering how that wis reported in the papers back then, when he hid tae suddenly swerve tae miss an oancoming Macbrayne’s holiday coach.

  “Basturts, ye!” he shouted as the traveller bounced aff the embankment, before careening back oan tae the road. 

  He looked in the mirror.  Harry wis sprawled oot oan his back, mooth agape, snoring like a stinking midden.  He wis in fur the shock ae his life when he woke up, The Rat grimly thought tae himsel, as he heided oan past Renton.  Mad Molly wisnae known fur taking any prisoners.  Ye either tucked in or ye died where ye stood.  He’d met her a couple ae years ago when he’d taken Springer Morgan up tae her tae dry oot.  Springer hid been an alky fur years and hid been telt that he widnae live another three months unless he stoapped his bevvying.  Efter three days at Mad Molly’s, he’d been changed furever.  A fucking miracle it hid been.  She said she only took in professional gentlemen, so Harry wis in wae a shout, being a member ae the legal profession.  She wis mad as a thrupenny bit and hid the eyes and long grey witch hair tae go wae it.  Her take oan alkys wis that they wur allergic tae food like barley, wheat, corn, sugar and aw sorts ae grain.  She said that aw the stuff the breweries made the booze wae, wis tae an alky, whit a choir boy wis tae a randy priest.  The fact that the breweries and the distillers watered the grain doon, gied the alkys a quicker and bigger high and made them want tae come back fur mair.  The mad cow believed that it wis the stuff that made the booze that they craved insteid ae the alcohol itsel.  She fed her alky guinea pigs oan specially made cakes that wur full ae the earth’s goodness…according tae her.

  “Jist like Popeye wae his spinach,” she’d cackled tae him the last time he’d paid her a visit.

   If it worked fur Springer Morgan, who’d been oan the drink fur twenty odd years, then it should be a piece ae pish fur smelly Harry lying there in the back, who’d only been pished every day fur three years, The Rat thought tae himsel.

  He missed the wee hidden turn aff and hid tae double back twice before he clocked it.  The hedges wur well overgrown since his last visit, bit he saw the sign fur Tank Wood and drove alang the wee deserted road.  He hid tae keep Sheepfold tae his right and Upper Stoneymollan o’er tae his left.  Efter aboot twenty minutes, he spotted whit he wis efter.  Chambered Farm looked like something oot ae the Addams Family, only scarier.  He drove up the bumpy track and parked at the front door.  There wisnae a soul in sight.  He looked behind him and wondered if she hid moved oot wae aw the souls she’d saved, when the door creaked open.  The Hunchback ae Notre Dam poked his heid and hunch roond the door and asked The Rat whit he wanted.