The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4 (44 page)

  Johnboy thought aboot his ma.  Aw the boys in Polmont loved their mas.  The mas wur the wans who made sure they goat a visit, received books and comics and occasionally letters fae ootside.  Whenever guys in the jail spoke aboot family, it wis always aboot their mas.  Johnboy wisnae that sure how he felt aboot his ma.  She’d always been there, gaun up tae the school when he wis younger and jist starting tae get intae trouble, or up in court whenever he appeared.  Tony, Paul, Joe and Skull always said that they’d wished their mas hid been mair like his.  Her reputation as hero number wan wae them hid been sealed the day that she’d stormed intae Central when they wur snappers and torn strips aff ae an inspector, alang wae that prick ae a sergeant, Liam Thompson and his skelly eyed-sidekick, Crisscross, who wis married tae Sally Sally, the fat cow fae the Sally Army.  The basturts hidnae known whit hid hit them.  Johnboy smiled, remembering how they’d aw been let oot ae the station, withoot being charged wae anything.  While his mates hid raved aboot her, Johnboy remembered being embarrassed by her and wishing that she wis like their mas.  He wisnae too sure why he wis scared ae her.  Everywan’s ma cursed and raved at them.  Wae Johnboy, it always seemed tae be different.  When his ma hid a go, it wis like a hot knife searing through him.  He’d always tried tae go oot ae his way tae try and please her when he wis young, bit he’d never seemed tae manage tae get it right.  As he’d goat aulder, he realised that there wis nae pleasing her, so, insteid ae trying tae impress her, he’d spend maist ae his time trying tae avoid displeasing her.  Unfortunately, he wis always confused as tae whit wis actually expected ae him and whit he should dae next, and so he ended messing up even mair in her eyes than if he’d jist left things well alane.  Wan ae the reasons he’d left hame tae set up wae Silent wis because ae the run-ins she wis hivving wae his sister Norma.  Following each other fae room tae room screaming the place doon.  It wisnae jist him.

  Johnboy looked aboot.  Two weeks in the digger hidnae been too bad.  It hid kept him oot ae trouble and hid made sure he’d be celebrating the New Year in The Jonah wae the people he trusted and wanted tae be wae.  It wis gonnae be the start ae a new year and nineteen seventy two wid take care ae itsel.  He lay doon oan his bare back, shifting every noo and again as that skin ae his kept sticking tae the gloss paint that covered the cement bed.

  “Fuck them...fuck them aw,” he said oot loud.

  He caught sight ae a wee blurred, flashing movement underneath the door, as Rabbie arrived late fur his tea.  Johnboy lay his heid doon oan the bare concrete and fell asleep.

Chapter Fifty Nine

Hogmanay: Friday 31
st
December 1971

4.30 A.M.

   Everything in the street wis covered wae a heavy sheet ae white frost.  Nothing stirred.  They’d sat and watched fur aboot fifteen minutes, before Pat flashed the heidlight tae Snappy in the other car, tae gie him the nod tae escort Harper up the closemooth tae open Tam Simpson’s front door.  They’d agreed beforehaun that if Tam Simpson appeared at the door when Harper opened it, Snappy wid jist let him hiv it, full in the face.  The only problem wae that scenario, wis that they’d then need tae take care ae Harper.  Nothing moved between the parked cars, bushes and the railings that ran doon the street towards the closemooth.  Efter two minutes, Snappy and Harper reappeared oot ae the closemooth and walked doon towards the Balmore Road end ae the street, where the other car wis parked up.  Simon and Tony shifted in their seats and goat oot ae the car, shutting the doors o’er quietly behind them.  Tony looked behind and wis glad tae see that they wurnae leaving any fitprints oan the pavement behind them.  Tony led the way through the bottom front door, wae Simon following closely behind, carrying the holdall wae the Poacher’s Retreat and tools in it.  Wance they wur oan the stairs, Tony pulled oot a haungun fae his jaicket pocket.  At Tam’s door, he hesitated slightly, listening fur any sound fae inside, before pushing the door open.  They’d gied themsels hauf an hour tae set up.  Simon stood in the lobby, a sawn-aff shotgun in his hauns, while Tony disappeared intae the bedroom oan the right.  They’d agreed that they’d dae a quick search before they goat doon tae business, in case Tam wis lying in his bed.  Efter looking in a wardrobe and checking under the bed, Tony went through tae the kitchen.  The place wis empty.  He nodded tae Simon, who immediately knelt doon and opened the bag.  Efter making sure aw the internal doors wur shut, Tony switched oan the lamp oan the wee table beside the toilet door.  Simon wis awready laying oot the fishing line, screws, net curtain wire hooks and the Poacher’s Retreat oan its block ae wood oan the flair, parallel tae the skirting board.  Tony measured back fae the closed ootside landing door, before nodding tae Simon, who lifted the wee table, wae the lamp oan it, forward tae the right position.  It noo sat oan the other side ae Tam’s bedroom door, well away fae it’s original position.  Tony bent doon, picked up a brass screw and screwdriver and pushed the screw hard intae the side ae the table leg, causing big dark shadows tae dance aboot the lobby ceiling wae that bobbing heid ae his in front ae the shade.  The screw bit intae the leg first time and he soon hid it through intae the high skirting board.  He tested it by pulling the table towards him.  It wis stuck fast.  He bent doon and picked up another screw and repeated the process wae the other leg.  When he looked across at Simon, he saw Simon wis awready bent doon, manually twisting the hooks intae the skirting board oan the other side ae him, ten inches high, at twelve inch intervals.

  “Toss me the measuring tape,” Simon whispered, catching it first time as Tony slung it across tae him. 

  Simon measured back thirty three inches fae the ootside landing door, before moving the tape back four inches tae twenty nine, where he embedded a curtain hook, oan each skirting, directly opposite each other.  Tony stood up and patiently stood watching Simon tie the fishing line oan tae the first hook oan the right as ye came in fae the stairheid landing.  He’d awready double-checked tae make sure that the gap in the wee hooks wur aw facing the flair.  Tony, meanwhile, hid lifted up the Poacher’s Retreat and laid it oan the wee lamp table, underneath the lamp shade.  They’d decided tae keep the lamp sitting where it wis so that Tam wid still see it as he opened the door, hopefully jist momentarily, before he realised that something wis amiss and it wis too late.  He knelt doon oan baith knees behind the table, before crouching forward so that he could see the firing line he wanted fur when the wire wis tripped.  When he wis satisfied, Simon came across and held the wooden block in place while Tony placed the first ae the two six inch screws intae the hole in the wooden block.  He pressed doon oan the screw and felt it bite.  He could hear the scrunching ae the surface ae the table as the screw bit intae it.  Within twenty seconds, the table, wae the Poacher’s Retreat attached, wis solidly in place.  He looked at Simon who winked and grinned.  Tony unscrewed the brass ring, pulled the shotgun cartridge oot ae his jaicket pocket and inserted it in the slot.  He then slipped the ring o’er the tap ae the cartridge and screwed it tight oan tae the short barrel.  He knelt doon again and repeated the line ae fire process.  He knew whit he wis daeing couldnae be classed as perfect, bit it wid hiv tae dae.  At least he’d tried.  He attempted tae wobble the block, bit it widnae budge.

  “Right, Simon, this is the tricky bit.  We need tae be very, very careful here,” he whispered.

    Tony pulled the plunger oot until the cut groove in the stem wis exposed.  Gently using his middle finger and thumb, Simon pushed the wee brass safety disc that wis attached tae the copper wire intae the groove.  Tony gently eased aff the tension ae the plunger until the stem wae the disk stuck in the groove, rested solidly oan tae the brass T-junction, preventing the plunger fae being fully inserted.  Tony moved tae the side and pressed his gloved thumb against the wee disk tae stoap it popping oot as Simon looped the fishing line roond the copper wire attached tae it before tying a knot.

  “Right, Ah’m gonnae pull the line tae it’s maximum tension, Tony.  Remember tae keep that finger ae yers pressed doon oan tae that disk,” he whispered, as Tony watched the tension ae the drooping fishing that wis level wae the hook oan the wall at the side ae Tam’s kitchen and the Poacher’s Retreat before it drapped doon vertically tae start its journey horizontally alang the length ae the skirting board towards the ootside landing door.

  Efter Simon wis happy he’d run the line where it wis meant tae go, he crawled oan his hauns and knees, checking each curtain hook and slipping the fishing line back in tae the wee curved loops ae two ae them.  Efter a final check, Simon stood back, oot ae the firing line and nodded tae Tony.  This wis the dangerous part.  If the line wis too tight, then it wid set the Poachers Retreat aff, which it hid done up in the empty tenement in Glebe Street twice.  If that happened, then Tam Simpson wid get a respite.  If the line wis too slack, then Tam wid get aff wae opening the door withoot the fishing line pulling oot the wee disc and setting the cartridge aff.  They only hid four inches ae slack tae play wae.  Still haudin the disk in place, Tony stood up, looked across at Simon and then took his thumb away fae the disk.  Tony could hear his heart thumping.  He lifted up his haun and showed it tae

Simon.  There wis a slight shake.

  “If ye think that’s bad, ye should feel that pouting arse-hole ae mine,” Simon whispered, laughing quietly.

  “Right, aw we need tae dae noo, is get oot ae here withoot getting shot, so we dae,” Tony said.

  Simon went first, stepping o’er the trip-wire and opening the door aboot twelve inches, before squeezing through while Tony kept a finger oan the wee brass disc.  Simon pulled the door o’er, keeping a haun oan it wance he wis ootside oan the landing.  He knelt doon and shone his wee pen torch through Tam’s letter box.  As soon as the torch wis switched oan, Tony switched aff the lamp.  He felt himsel freeze.  Despite trying tae move that leg ae his forward, he stood transfixed, staring at the narrow light beam ae the torch that wis illuminating the fishing line in the dark, barring his way tae the front door.

  “Whit’s wrang, Tony?” he heard Simon whisper through the letter box.

  Before he could answer that his feet wur glued tae the flair, the moment passed and he managed tae move his right leg forward, gingerly lifting his left leg o’er the trip-wire.  He twisted his body roond before lifting his other leg o’er.  Wance he wis oan the other side, he looked alang the lobby at the shotgun cartridge sitting silently…deadly…in the Poacher’s Retreat, pointing straight up at that face ae his, before he slipped oot the door and oan tae the landing.  He felt a shiver run up the whole ae his body.

  By the time Tony and Simon hid reached the car and he’d slipped intae the front passenger seat beside Pat, Tony clocked Snappy and Harper exit the closemooth, efter getting Harper tae lock the door.  Tony felt himsel relax.  The door wis noo sealed, awaiting Tam Simpson’s early morning arrival.

  “Everything go okay?” Pat asked, looking at Tony.

  “Like clockwork.”

  “Hoi, turn that up.  They’re playing oor song, Pat,” Simon said fae the back seat, as the tinkling ae the keyboard in the introduction tae ‘Riders on The Storm’ faded and Jim Morrison’s voice announced that there wis a killer oan the road.

  Simon hid awready started stripping oot ae his clothes and stuffing them intae a GPO sack.  Pat started up the engine, turned up the volume and followed the brake lights ae the car in front, being driven by Jake, as he turned right oan tae Balmore Road.

5.30. A.M.

  Blaster Mackay yawned as he took a sharp right oot ae Farmer Macpherson’s farmyard oan tae the dirt track that led back oan tae the Helensburgh road.  He wis fair chuffed wae himsel, despite hivving hid tae be up and oot ae the hoose at hauf three that morning.  Even though it wis past Christmas, the demand fur good quality chickens wis still strong and he’d goat this load fur a fraction aw whit it wid’ve cost him a week earlier.  He’d been surprised tae receive the phone call the night before, bit auld McPherson hid telt him that he needed tae make room fur mair stock that wis getting delivered later that morning and if Blaster wanted them, he’d need tae move fast...reminding him that it wid be cash in haun.

  “Typical farmer,” Blaster hid cursed tae himsel, efter putting the phone doon.

  He could jist see the gate that led oan tae the main road in the distance, when a set ae heidlamps turned intae it.  He assumed it wis the farmer’s new stock arriving.

  “If that knob thinks Ah’m reversing aw the way back tae the yard, then he’s goat another bloody think coming,” Blaster growled, as the oancoming heidlamps continued tae come towards him.

  He stoapped the wagon and jumped doon.  He put his hauns up tae shade his eyes as a white transit van drew up.

  “Cut yer beam, man.  Ah cannae see a bloody thing!” he shouted.

  “Blaster, how’s it gaun?  Long time, no see,” a voice said, as the driver’s and passenger’s doors ae the white van opened and two sets ae feet appeared underneath them.

  “Who’s that?” Blaster shouted, lit up in the middle ae the track.

  “It’s me, Blaster...Bob.  The Big Man wants a wee word wae ye,” Wan-bob said, stepping oot in front ae the heidlamp ae the white van, pointing a sawn-aff shotgun at him.

6.30 AM. 

  Johnboy followed the back ae the screw in front ae him, alang the corridor towards the reception.  He’d hid whit must’ve been the maist uncomfortable sleep he’d hid since arriving at Polmont.  If it wisnae his back and arse that hid been sticking tae the concrete bed, it hid been his erm and the side ae his thigh.  He couldnae wrap himsel roond the pipes because he’d been in the bare buff and the pipes wur too hot fur his skin.  The bones ae his hip and shoulder joints wur tender and sore.

  “Good kip, Taylor?” McVey hid asked him, letting him oot tae empty his chanty pot before tossing his prison garb across tae him.

  In the dug-box in the reception, they awready hid his civvy clothes hinging up oan the back ae the door.  His jaicket, wae his Ben Sherman shirt underneath it and his suit troosers, wis oan the main hanger, while underneath, in a canvas bag, wis the rest ae his stuff.  Efter refusing breakfast, he sat in the four feet by four feet dug-box, waiting tae be taken doon tae the train station.  Efter whit seemed like a lifetime, the door wis yanked open.

  “Right, get yer arse across here, Taylor,” the reception screw barked fae behind the coonter.

  “Here ye go, ye’ll need tae sign fur aw this,” another wan said, emptying the contents ae a big broon envelope oan tae the coonter. 

  His watch, a set ae keys and a pile ae cash, in notes, tumbled oot oan tae the worn, shiny surface.

  “According tae this here inventory, ye’ve goat an eighteen carat gold Rolex Oyster Perpetual Metropolitan watch, a set ae keys and seventy six pounds in cash.  Coont it before ye sign fur it.”

  Johnboy took his time.  He slipped oan his watch, bought because it wis made in 1955, the same year that he’d been born, aff ae Pat fur pennies.  He lifted his and Silent’s auld hoose keys and drapped them in his jaicket pocket, before slowly coonting oot his dosh.  He wisnae sure how much these jumped-up turnkeys goat paid weekly, bit he reckoned it wis a lot less than whit wis gaun through they fingers ae his.  He looked up and saw the wan that hid barked at him wet his lips wae his tongue, staring at the notes, as Johnboy slowly folded the wad in hauf and slipped it intae the back pocket ae his troosers, breaking the spell.

  “Right, Taylor, ye’re aboot tae be transferred tae Polmont train station under escort.  Any funny stuff and ye’ll be dragged back here and put oan report and ye’ll end up losing mair remission.  Ye’re no officially free until ye step oan that train.  Hiv ye goat that?”

  Oan the way tae the car, wae the cauld icy wind cutting him in two, he heard his name being called.  When he stoapped and turned roond, Creeping Jesus wis hurrying across the front ae the reception building towards him.

    “Taylor...Johnboy?  Wait a minute.  I’m so glad I managed to see you before you left.  I just wanted to thank you,” he panted.