The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4 (37 page)

  “Noo, remember, it’s the Provi-cheque men we’re efter.  Avoid hivving any run-ins wae they Simpsons if ye come across them,” Tony hid reminded them.

  It hidnae taken Johnboy, Snappy and Ben long tae catch up wae their man oan the Hawthorn side ae Mansion Street, up towards the fitba ground.  He’d been driving a wee grey Minivan.

  “Fuck, Ah know him.  That’s Johnny Apples, so it is,” Ben hid exclaimed, smiling.

  “Whit, kin he fight?” Snappy hid asked him, gieing Johnny Apples a close inspection as he exited a closemooth.

  “Kin he fuck.  That skinny wee midget ae a wife ae his knocks fuck oot ae him every time she’s goat a bottle ae Auld England doon her gullet, so she dis.”

  “Pity,” Snappy hid murmured, as they watched him gaun fae close tae close, whistling like a man who didnae hiv a clue he wis aboot tae be robbed.

  “Ah taught Ah taw a puddy tat,” Snappy hid said, mimicking Tweety Bird fae the Tweety and Sylvester cartoons, as Johnboy and Ben jist aboot pished themsels laughing.

  They’d caught up wae Johnny Apples in Walnut Crescent, jist aff ae Hawthorn Street.

  “Right, let’s dae something a wee bit different fur a change, eh?” Snappy hid announced oot ae the blue.

  “Like whit?” Ben hid asked, turning roond.

  “Like, follow me, Johnboy.  Ye’ll need tae be quick,” Snappy hid said, getting oot ae the car.

  Snappy hid walked across tae the parked Minivan, clasped the haundle and hid twisted, snapping the lock oan the back door.

  “Right, Johnboy, get in, quick.  When he comes back, let him sit doon oan the driver’s seat.  As soon as he pulls the door shut, get a grip ae him and pull him o’er, intae the back.  Ah’ll nip in and gie ye a haun if ye need it and we’ll take him away and rob the basturt at oor leisure.  If Tony wants these robberies oan the front page ae the paper, then that’s whit he’s gonnae get, so he is,” he’d chuckled.

  If Snappy hid telt Johnboy aboot his bright idea when they’d been sitting in the car, Johnboy wid’ve telt him tae fuck aff, bit seeing as Snappy wis staunin wae the back doors open, he didnae feel he’d any choice bit tae nip in tae the back ae the van.  He could still remember the strong pungent odour ae apples and oranges.  Ben hid said that Johnny Apples worked in a fruit shoap during the day, so it shouldnae hiv been a surprise tae come across a box full ae Granny Smiths and Outspan oranges.  Johnboy hid shifted the boxes tae wan side and manoeuvred his legs roond so he could use wan ae them as a seat.  A few seconds efter sitting listening tae his heartbeat rattle aff ae his collar bone, he’d heard footsteps scurrying towards the van.  When the driver’s door wis unlocked and opened, the whole ae the back ae the van hid lit up like Sauchiehall Street oan a Saturday night.  Aw Johnboy hid been able tae see in the driver’s mirror wis his ain beady, blinking eyes, which wur staring back at him through the tights that wur covering his heid.  Two seconds later, they’d been replaced by Johnny Apples’s startled eyes.  Johnny Apples hid let oot a terrified yelp as Johnboy gripped his hair wae the fingers ae his leather-gloved hauns.  It hid soon become obvious that the poor basturt used Brylcreem as his hair slipped through Johnboy’s fingers, like marge aff ae a hot knife.  Luckily fur Johnboy and unluckily fur Johnny Apples, Snappy hid gied him a swift kick in the baws as he tried tae exit the drivers seat, which hid sent him hurtling backwards intae Johnboy’s ootstretched, grappling hauns.  In nae time at aw, Johnboy hid dragged him o’er the driver’s seat, wae a wee bit ae help fae Snappy, who’d jist aboot broke the thrashing legs in hauf, in his attempt tae get behind the steering wheel.

  “Remember, the starter button is oan the flair,” Johnboy hid wheezed, trying tae clamp his gloved haun o’er the screaming, terrified mooth beneath him, as Snappy turned the key in the ignition.

  “Ah know, Ah know...Ah wisnae born last week,” Snappy hid growled, as the van took aff, wae Ben following behind them.

  They’d pulled up tae the kerb oan Finlas Street.  Snappy, who’d still been wearing a balaclava wae a pair ae ladies’ tights underneath it, hid goat calmly oot ae the van and strolled back tae open the back doors.

  “Hiv ye goat the money, Toby?” he’d asked Johnboy, who’d nodded, haudin up the wee moneybag.

  “Right, Bawbrains...aff wae yer troosers.”

  “W…whit?”

  “Ye heard me...aff wae them…and don’t furget the shite catchers as well,” Snappy hid snarled.

  “Bit, bit...”

  “Hiv you goat the gun, Toby?” Snappy hid demanded fae Johnboy.  “If Ah hiv tae repeat masel, ye’ll be in bigger shite than ye awready ur,” Snappy hid continued, making a move towards Johnny Apples’s legs.

  “Ah’m daeing it...don’t hurt me…please!” the poor basturt hid whined, as he whipped aff his underpants.

  “Right, oot ye get.”

  “Whit?”

  “Ye heard me...oot!”

  “Bit, bit...”

  “Whit, ur ye still here?” Snappy hid asked him, feigning exasperation.

  Johnny Apples hid suddenly launched himsel oot ae the van and hid heided aff, running doon Finlas Street, wae his white arse cheeks reflecting in the streetlights, like a wee bare-arsed whippet.

  “Whit the fuck wis aw that aboot?  And whit’s wae aw that Toby shite?” Johnboy hid demanded, efter getting back intae the passenger seat beside Ben.

  “That’ll gie us a few minutes tae get oan oor way,” he’d replied.

  “And how the fuck dae ye make that wan oot then?” Johnboy hid snarled, turning roond tae face him in the back seat.

  “Be honest, Johnboy…wid you turn up tae some mad basturt’s hoose in darkest Possilpark, who ye didnae know, in nothing bit yer bare arse, claiming tae hiv been robbed by some mad basturt called Toby?” he’d asked, as Ben turned intae St Teresa’s, oan the corner ae Saracen Street and Keppochhill Road, two minutes efter robbing their target.

   While everywan hid split a hunner and sixty five quid between them in Jonah’s that night, Toby Simpson hid goat dragged oot ae his bed by the Serious Crime Squad at two in the morning oan suspicion ae robbery wae violence and hid been held in the polis cells until the Monday morning when his brief hid goat him oot oan bail.

Chapter Forty Six

  The Rat opened his eyes and blinked, before clanging the back ae his heid aff the ceiling ae the oven, creating a sound like a copper dinner gong being struck by some butler oot ae wan ae they black and white films.  Efter managing tae get himsel aff his knees and intae a sitting position oan the flair in front ae the oven, he realised that he wis still in the land ae the living.  He looked at the knob above the oven door.  It wis still switched oan full, at ten.  Rubbing the back ae his heid where he’d clanged it, he goat up and staggered across and looked at the gas meter.  The red arrow in the glass telt him that he’d run oot ae gas and that if he wanted tae continue wae his mission, he’d need tae put another shilling in.  He felt aboot in his trooser pockets, took oot a bob, pushed it intae the slot and swivelled the wee brass haundle tae accept the coin.  He stumbled back across tae the cooker, still gently rubbing the back ae his heid and switched aff the oven, before lighting wan ae the rings underneath the teapot, which still hid tea in it fae the night before.  Efter meeting wae Lord Frank and Hamish McGovern, the editor, he’d goat in touch wae Wan-bob, who in turn hid taken him tae see The Big Man.  His timing could’ve been better.  Pat Molloy hid been like a bear wae a sore arse, efter hivving swallowed a full box ae aspirin tae ease the pain ae the toothache that wis tormenting him and getting oan his tits.  When The Rat hid informed him aboot the knock-back oan his two and a hauf grand ransom fur the ring, he’d gone ape-shit...big style.

  “Fifteen hunner!  Did Ah jist hear ye saying that that fat rich wanker jist offered me a measly fifteen hunner fur the ring?  A ring fit fur a fucking princess...that ring?” he’d bellowed in disbelief, peppering The Rat’s face in spit.

  “Er, aye, Pat.  Ah couldnae persuade him otherwise,” The Rat hid whimpered apologetically, unable tae avoid the fist that hid scudded aff ae his foreheid.

  “Ouch! Ya wee basturt, ye.  Noo, look whit ye’ve made me dae,” The Big Man hid howled, slipping his painful knuckles under that oxter ae his good dressing gown.

   He wisnae sure how long he’d lain oan his back oan the lino-covered kitchen flair, stunned and dazed by the cracked knuckles.  He’d felt something solid in his mooth that he couldnae manage tae spit oot.  When he’d opened his eyes and been able tae focus, Wan-bob’s ugly mug hid been aboot eighteen inches fae his ain wan.  Wan-bob’s right haun hid been attached tae a haungun, the barrel ae which wis stuck in The Rat’s gub.

  “Will Ah jist let the wee rodent basturt hiv it right here, Pat?” Wan-bob hid snarled.

  “Naw, will ye fuck.  Get him up oan tae they feet ae his.  Ah don’t want a mess oan ma good flair,” he’d heard The Big Man growl, as he wis bodily dragged up and in tae a staunin position.

  “Too late,” he’d heard The Goat say fae behind him, as the pish seeped through The Rat’s troosers and dribbled doon oan tae The Big Man’s good kitchen flair.

  “Pat, please, Ah’m sorry, Ah’m sorry…honest,” he’d screamed in terror, drapping tae his knees and clinging oan tae The Big Man’s right leg wae baith erms.  “Ah done ma best, so Ah did.  Please...let me live...gie me another chance...please?” he’d howled, trying nae tae shite himsel fur the second time that day...especially as The Big Man hid obviously goat a thing aboot his good kitchen flair being kept clean.

  “Whit the fuck am Ah gonnae dae wae him, eh?” The Big Man hid demanded tae the two bears behind The Rat.  “Ah gie him a simple task, and here he is, back here, slobbering and pishing aw o’er the place.”

  “Ah say we jist get shot ae the ratty wee basturt, wance and fur aw.  He’s fucking useless, so he is,” Wan-bob hid grunted in disgust.

  “Pat, Pat, please, please, Ah don’t want tae die…please don’t dae it…please,” he’d sobbed, as The Big Man attempted tae shake him aff ae his pyjama-covered leg.

  “Right, Ah’m bloody-well warning ye!  Ye’ve wan mair chance tae dae the right thing, Sammy...and Ah’m telling ye...don’t you come fucking back here withoot the goods noo.  Ye better keep running if Ah don’t get whit Ah want.  Hiv ye goat that?”

  Efter being unceremoniously dumped oan tae the pavement in Cambridge Street, wae the pillow case still o’er his heid, The Rat hid scurried back tae his bedsit and turned oan the gas oven tae it’s full setting.

  “Fuck them aw,” he remembered saying before he’d blacked oot.

  Things didnae seem quite so bad in the cauld light ae day, he thought tae himsel, as he took a sip ae his stewed tea.  Efter leaving The Glesga Echo building the day before, he’d come back and taken a bath, which probably explained why he’d run oot ae gas.  He’d plastered his rash wae Calamine lotion and though he’d still been able tae feel a few wee itchy bits fae where he’d been manhandled, it noo didnae feel too bad.  The Big Man wis willing tae settle fur two grand oan the ring, and two grand wis whit he wis gonnae get.  Either that, or The Rat wid hiv tae leave the toon...and fast.  He gently peeled aff his shirt and turned tae see his reflection in the mirror.  The rash wisnae looking as angry as it hid been the day before.  He squeezed a big dollop ae the Calamine oan tae the middle ae a twirled up dishtowel and haudin an end ae it in each haun, he gently pulled and tugged, rubbing the ointment across his rash-ridden torso.

  “Ahhh...” he groaned in pleasure, looking forward tae tackling his spotty arse and red raw hee-haws next.

Chapter Forty Seven

  “Ye wanted tae speak tae me, boys?” Chic Thompson asked the two sergeants sitting opposite him in his office.

  “Aye, we dae, Chic,” Bumper replied, sitting up straight.

  “Right then, fire away.  Who’s first?”

  “Oan ye go, Paddy,” Bumper motioned tae The Stalker.

  “Chic, wur we mistaken or did Daddy Jackson no say that we could focus oor time oan this carry-oan between The Simpsons and that manky bunch ae toe-rags across here in Springburn?”

  “Ah seem tae remember him saying something tae that effect, aye.”

  “Well, since Boxing Day, masel and Biscuit hiv hid tae deal wae twelve domestics, wan which meant the husband hid tae be carted aff tae the looney-bin, three shoaps being broken intae and two stabbings...and it’s only Tuesday,” The Stalker said.

  “And Ah’ve hid tae deal wae wan stabbing, two hooses being tanned and their gas meters broken intae and an auld age pensioner setting her dug oan Froggie efter he went tae her door tae arrest her man fur a breach ae the peace and assault ootside The Springburn Arms,” Bumper chipped in.

  “And yer point is?” The Inspector asked them.

  “So, when ur we gonnae get the time tae investigate Gucci and his band ae merry men?”

  “Ah spoke tae The Gruesome Twosome across in Possil this morning and they said that it’s even worse fur them,” Bumper added fur good measure.

  “Look, Ah hear whit ye’re baith saying, bit look whit Ah’m hivving tae deal wae,” The Inspector tut-tutted, nodding at the board oan his wall.

  “Whit’s that goat tae dae we us?” The Stalker asked, a puzzled frown oan his coupon.

  “That, Paddy, is the amount ae crime that is being perpetrated in the patch, fur yer information.  Including whit ye’re dealing wae yersels, there’s been eighteen shoaps tanned, nine hooses screwed, six stabbings...wan fatal, and nineteen domestics...aw in the last three days.  Christ...and we’re still in the holiday period.  Ah’m dreading Hogmanay and the bells.  They’ll be murdering the fuck oot ae each other wance the fire-water is flowing, so they will.”

  “So, whit’s aw this goat tae dae wae us then?” Bumper asked, making the mistake ae repeating whit The Stalker hid jist come oot wae.

  “Ur youse fucking serious or whit?  That, fur yer information, Fin, his goat every bloody thing tae dae wae youse, so it his.  The pair ae ye ur supposed tae be clamping doon oan crime aboot here.  Christ’s sake, Ah cannae believe whit the baith ae youse hiv jist come in here and asked me.  Hope and Glory ur baith aff sick efter getting involved in the middle ae a domestic.  Hope goat his nose broken and Glory hid tae hiv five stitches in that heid ae his.  The pair ae dirty basturts whose hoose they went up tae, tae try and stoap them killing each other, hiv noo turned roond and pressed charges ae assault against them.  There’s fuck-aw wrang wae the husband and wife, bit oor boys ur oot ae the game, injured.”

  “Ah think whit Fin is saying is...where the hell is aw this in relation tae whit’s brewing between Possilpark and here?” The Stalker asked.

  “Aw, fur goodness sake, Paddy.  Will you pair get a life, fur Christ’s sake.  Aye, it’s important we keep the lid oan whit might or might no be happening, bit we need tae keep it in perspective, so we dae…Ah mean, Ah hivnae noticed the blood running doon the streets between here and Possil.”

  “Whit’s that supposed tae mean?” The Stalker demanded, bristling.

  “It means that unless yersels and that pair ae dumplings across in Possil come up wae hard facts oan whit is really gaun oan, we’ll hiv tae try and stem the tide across here meantime.  Ah spoke wae Duggie Dougan this morning.  He says it’s like the Battle ae the Bulge across there, and Ah’m no talking aboot aw they fat wummin wanting tae lose weight while they’re aw getting tore intae the Carlsberg Special Brews either.”

  “That’s oor point, Chic.  We cannae dae baith.  As Daddy says, we’ll hiv tae prioritise, so we will.  There’s definitely something brewing and we’re well aware that it’s no Carlsberg Special Brew.”

  “Whit dae ye think Ah’m daeing, eh?  Youse two come in here, saying that The Simpsons and Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves ur hivving a wee tango.  Baith Duggie and masel hiv responded positively.  The baith ae us hiv put oor necks oan the line and involved Daddy and that wee maggot ae his, Billy Liar.  Where’s the thanks, eh?  In fact, where the fuck’s the evidence, that’s whit Ah want tae know?  Aw this oan a bloody hunch as well.  Nae wonder Ah’ve goat an ulcer coming oan.”

  “A hunch?  Did ye jist say a hunch?  Fur fuck’s sake, Chic.  A blind man kin see whit’s gaun oan here.  We’re tripping o’er the evidence, so we ur,” The Stalker shouted, looking at Bumper in exaggerated amazement.

  “Substantive, corroborating evidence…that’s whit we’re looking fur…nae hearsay.  Noo, if ye’ve nothing mair tae add, Ah’d suggest that ye get they long hairy legs that ur attached tae yer lazy arses, oot ae ma office and oan tae they streets oot there, before there’s another murder...and Ah’m no talking aboot it happening a million miles fae where Ah’m sitting either,” The Inspector bawled.

  “The shit is gonnae hit the fan big time soon, Chic.  This isnae any auld hunch, so it isnae and it’s gonnae kick aff sooner, rather than later,” The Stalker pleaded.

  “Get oot ae ma office, right noo, the pair ae ye!” The Inspector roared.