Welcome to the Heady Heights

by David F. Ross

  ‘Aye, glad yer able tae be so rational about it all, eh?’ For the not-knowing of what else to do, they both laughed. Geordie was in a corner, but at least he’d regained some composure.

  ‘Hey … if you live by the willy, you need tae be prepared tae die by the willy.’

  ‘Right-o, Grasshopper,’ said Archie. ‘You sound like a fucken Carntyne Confucius. He was a baldy bastard, tae!’

  ‘Que sera, mate.’

  ‘Did ye tell Blakey?’

  ‘Did ah fuck! Sub-section 4.2: Nae inter-depot fraternising. The first note said that if ah paid this cunt a tenner a week, naebody needs tae know anythin’.’

  ‘What about the guys ye went wi’, ya balloon! Did they get their baws munched tae?’

  ‘They’ve never let on. Ah dunno.’

  ‘An’ ye’ve been payin’ it … the money?’

  ‘Aye. Four weeks straight.’

  ‘Christ, Susie an’ her man … they’re Bonnie an’ fucken Clydebank! Scammin’ horny auld bastards like you out ae their superannuation.’

  Geordie’s eyes widened, as if he hadn’t yet considered that a possibility. ‘So how come he went tae Teresa?’

  ‘Ah’ve missed a couple ae payments.’

  ‘Ya daft bastart! Why?’

  Geordie paused. He took a deep breath. He had been holding something else back. Something he didn’t want to tell his friend but had now been forced to. ‘Cos ah had tae pay Chib Charnley tae show up as a fucken witness at your hearing!’

  6

  April 1976

  It had been four months since that New Year’s Day shift. Barbara Sherman’s police colleagues had held her down, lifted her skirt, pulled down her tights and knickers, and branded her backside with E-299; her collar number stamp. ‘Just a daft wee Ne’erday prank,’ in the words of her commanding officer. ‘Let it go, fuck sakes. High spirits,’ he had continued. ‘The men needin’ tae let off some steam after the pressure ae a tough Hogmanay shift.’ Platitudes and worn clichés from a sergeant who seemed to base his policing on the new TV series The Sweeney.

  WPC Barbara Sherman had filed a complaint, against her commanding officer’s advice. ‘Dinnae go makin’ a target ae yerself, hen,’ he’d cautioned, his complicity only making her situation worse.

  In the weeks that followed, none of the men she’d cited would speak to her. Her daily beat was still limited to the streets around the station HQ. She was paired with the same ‘buddy’, Don Braithwaite.

  Don cared less that she was a woman than he did about her being yet another of the ‘Heilan Mafia’ – the influx of new cops from the Highlands and Islands. In his view, if she’d been born in a tightly packed Tollcross tenement, like him, she’d know the rules of the game here. But she hadn’t been, and she didn’t. If Barbara Sherman had grown up in Barra, then the vast open spaces of the Western Isles are where she should have been sent, not straight into the scalding sectarian heat of the former second city of the empire. In some respects, though, he could understand Sherman’s desire to escape the quiet of her home. The tedium alone must’ve been like a five-stretch in the Bar-L, but with fresher, colder air. He just didn’t see why it should be his responsibility to show her the local ropes.

  Barbara Sherman did want to escape, that much was true, but for reasons that Don Braithwaite couldn’t have begun to comprehend. Her father, Edward Sherman, was the chaplain on Barra. He had come to the island in 1949 as part of an Ealing Studios production crew shooting the movie, Whisky Galore! Edward was a close friend of the film’s director, Alexander McKendrick, and having visited the island once previously on clerical duties, was invited to accompany his friend to provide ‘spiritual reinforcement’ for the Christians in the crew. When filming was complete, Edward surprised everyone by electing to remain. He took on the official responsibility for developing a Presbyterian foothold across the islands. He uprooted his wife and their baby daughter from their London home and moved them to the tiny village of Castlebay on this remote island in the Outer Hebrides with its population of less than a thousand, all of them smelling of liquor and smoke and coal and horses, and speaking a language neither he nor his wife understood.

  The island was only six miles wide and eleven miles long; physically bigger than the centre of Glasgow. But if divided equally, each inhabitant could’ve had a hundred square feet to themselves. All the places where a person might hide were natural, not man-made – the clefts and coves of the eastern edges, and the brochs and Iron Age ruins higher up towards Heaval. Barbara knew them all like the smoother terrain on the back of her hand. Apart from the infrequent summer visitors, the faces – pitted and ravaged – she saw only changed with the passing of their allotted time. So Barbara Sherman grew up knowing everyone in the wild and lonely island community. All the women. All their offspring. The fishermen, the shopkeeper, the doctor, the teacher, the handful of farmers. And she knew Albie Grant, the local policeman.

  Albie was the person who had put his comforting arm around her shoulders on Christmas Eve ten years ago as he informed her that her parents were dead. Albie Grant, the white-haired old copper who assured her that it was fate … ‘the Lord’s will’; a tragic accident in which a fisherman’s truck had ploughed into her dad’s car on the dark, single-track dirt road up to Brevig. Albie Grant, the head of a tight-knit community that conspired to shift the blame onto her outsider father and his ‘reckless driving’. Albie Grant, brother-in-law of Angus McNeil, the driver of the truck who, by common acknowledgment, had been in the pub all that day – and part of the previous one – because his fishing boat couldn’t put to sea in the tempestuous winter North Atlantic swells. Albie Grant, the policeman who covered up a crime that resulted in the deaths of two innocent people and put the wheels in motion for something with much more sinister consequences.

  ‘Sherman.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge!’

  ‘You’re on these, doll.’ Davy Dodd handed over a large cardboard box. The corners of it were scuffed and torn, and the edges bulged with the pressure of too many files having been jammed into it.

  ‘Take yer time. Nae rush,’ he added.

  Barbara heard sniggers coming from behind her. The box had the initials M and P marked on it in handwritten black marker pen. The box had been in Sergeant Dodd’s room for as long as Barbara had been at Tobago Street, and almost certainly far longer. She had tripped over it on her first day, its normal job being to hold his office door open.

  ‘Missing Persons, sir?’ She wasn’t that green that she didn’t appreciate the dead-end connotation of a Missing Persons detail. If someone reported missing wasn’t picked up in the first twenty-four hours, the likelihood of a successful outcome dropped in direct proportion to the police interest in the case.

  ‘There a problem wi’ that, Sherman? This assignment no’ good enough for ye, after yer bloody Jamesie Campbell stint?’

  Barbara was aggrieved that having instructed her to respond instantly to any requests from upstairs concerning Big Jamesie Campbell, she was now being castigated by the entire Dodd squad for it being the ultimate in cushy jobs. Ironically, she was fulfilling the only type of task her male colleagues assumed her capable of. WPC Sherman’s on-off job was to chaperone the Labour MP’s ditsy wife on various trips when he had ‘official’ business, especially if the venue for it was his Mount Vernon home.

  Barbara lugged the heavy box back to her desk. She had to lift it by the base for fear that the bottom would give out.

  ‘Meals on wheels duty, is it now Sherman, ya lucky bitch?’

  ‘Naw, The Tank’s just havin’ tae sort through aw my fan mail, Des.’ Raucous laughter from the assembled plod.

  ‘Haw, Sherman, stick my letter tae Santa in there afore ye go tae the Post Office. Ah’m hopin’ for a shag affa yon Anthea Redfern.’ Guffaws, farts and belches.

  The jokes continued but Barbara Sherman had zoned out from the buffoonery. She despaired at the sheer number of open files in the first box. And another two that accompanie
d it. All representing the not-knowing that was making someone out there distraught. She flicked through the files – aimlessly at first. But then, beyond a sequence of middle-aged wives claimed as ‘lost’ by fraught husbands, no doubt unable to switch the cooker on, a different pattern emerged. As she scanned the basic details of each case, Barbara totted up twenty-eight young missing males in a six-month period. It was hard not to conflate these with the current spate of suicides from that same demographic. But as far as she knew, no one in this station had yet made what was now, to her, an obvious link. For some months now, the lifeless bodies of young men of no fixed abode had been washing up on the banks of the Clyde. George Parsonage, the riverman from the Glasgow Humane Society who recovered them, had observed the worrying upward trend in a recent report in the Scotsman. He’d talked about the life and mood of the city, and of how the numbers of people attempting to kill themselves escalated in times of war or economic downturn. Having patrolled the steep sides of the dirty, freezing-cold river scything through the city for almost twenty years, George Parsonage was genuinely stumped as to what was prompting the current spate.

  Barbara Sherman was lost in the possibilities that these files offered. So many stories. So many tragic people feeling like there was only one way out of their various traumas. She hadn’t noticed the hours passing. Her shift was nearly up.

  She was about to pack up for the day, when, near the back of the second box was a file that rocked her – suddenly and almost physically. A nineteen-year-old man had been reported missing six months earlier by his worried mother, Esther. The boy’s name was Lachlan Wylie. His last known address had been in Dowanhill. The first eighteen years of his life had been spent living on Barra.

  She lifted the file out of the box and took it home.

  7

  May 1976

  Archie woke suddenly from another night of bizarre, fevered, alcohol-induced dreams. There had been a steady stream of them lately. His dad’s dementia had taken a turn for the worst, and with the hearing looming Archie was fearful of the impact unemployment would have on them. And there was Bet, a nocturnal spectre constantly pulling at the unravelling thread of culpability. It had been more than five years, and the subliminal pictures were less frightening now than the ones he used to observe. At times, he felt like his eyelids were held open mechanically. No respite. Forced to watch the painful memories and recollections being filtered through a hallucinatory kaleidoscope. The big double bed still held fears that he knew other, more rational people would find hard to believe. But they weren’t him. They didn’t carry his guilt. Many times, he wished he’d just deposited the mattress at the dump; gotten himself a single one. But every time his resolve had broken. He just couldn’t.

  The phone rang. Archie’s slick, new second-hand answering machine kicked in after the third bell, like an outclassed fighter’s corner throwing in the towel to save their man. He’d traded it for an old bike. It was the size of a small suitcase, and it had taken Archie about three days to set up, but in the turbulent months since he’d been suspended, it had proved its worth. With the proliferation of union reps and Corporation bosses calling to influence him to suit their agendas, it was often better to be out, even when you were in.

  ‘This is Jim Rockford. At the tone, leave your name and message. I’ll get back to you. [Beep]’

  ‘Archie, old buddy. Buddy? It’s Angel! You know they allow you one phone call? Well, this is it!’

  Christ Almighty, Angel, thought Archie. He was thoroughly sick and tired of bailing that shifty loser out of gaol. Angel was always getting nicked. Often, it wasn’t his fault, but that only made it worse. As a career criminal, he was useless. And what was with that tag? Wandering about the East End of Glasgow answering to the name of Angel was a surefire way to get battered. But, nevertheless, Angel was a mate. He and Archie went way back. Friends since school. Blood brothers. There was nothing Archie wouldn’t do for…

  The phone rang again. Archie refocused, and staggered out of bed. He ventured gingerly through the warzone of alcohol-related detritus over to where the ringing sound was coming from and, having uncovered it, gently lifted the receiver. It was Geordie McCartney. Agitated.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been? Ah’ve been tryin’ tae get a hold ae you aw last night! Ah’ve been ringing about every five bastart minutes.’

  ‘Aye … em, ah dunno. Just up, an’ ah kinda zoned out a bit there.’ Archie stared at the receiver as if it Scotty had just beamed it down from the Enterprise straight into his sweating, calloused hand.

  ‘Deary me, yer a fucken dreamer, you! Ye know that, don’t ye?’ Geordie’s tone had switched. It had transformed into his more professional shop steward’s one. ‘Are you ready, Arch? Did ye sleep?’

  ‘Naw, no’ really,’ said Archie.

  ‘Worried about this?’

  ‘Aye, ah suppose. Bad dreams tae, though.’

  ‘Did you take the pills ah gave ye?’

  ‘Naw. They were fucken enormous, Geordie. The size ae hard-boiled eggs!’ Geordie laughed at this. ‘Ah just tanned the rest ae the booze,’ said Archie. ‘Didn’t stop me thinkin’ about her again though.’

  ‘Ah know, bud,’ said Geordie, although he really didn’t. He had his own preoccupations.

  ‘Anyways, how are you? Ye heard fae Tre?’

  ‘Naw. The boys came ‘round. She’s well done wi’ me, accordin’ tae them. Cannae say ah blame her.’ Geordie was back at his eighty-one-year-old mum’s place. Not ideal for either.

  ‘Christ, Geordie, ah’m sorry pal.’ Archie felt for his friend, but he needed him to focus. Holding on to his job unfortunately rested on Geordie’s performance at the hearing. ‘Ye aw set?’

  ‘Well, it’ll be what it’ll be,’ said Geordie. It sounded profound to Archie, like something Shakespeare had composed. Even if it wasn’t, it made Archie feel better; as if Geordie McCartney knew what he was doing.

  ‘Try an’ sound a bit more enthusiastic, bud, eh? Fuck sake!’ said Archie, before laughing to let his friend know he was joking.

  ‘Christ. Aye. Right … ya cunt, ye!’

  Archie laughed again.

  ‘Get somethin’ inside ye, an’ don’t be fucken late!’ warned Geordie. ‘See ye there.’ The flat tone confirmed that the conversation was over. It was just after eight-thirty.

  I thought you handled that well, boy. Jim Rockford’s calming Californian drawl filled the small front room. It wafted gently around the space and enveloped Archie Blunt like a warm eiderdown.

  ‘Thanks Jim. His friendship’s everythin’ tae me. Sometimes think this hearin’ means more tae him than tae me. Cannae let him down.’

  Yeah, that’s friendship for ya.

  ‘Other times though, ah think it’s too much the one way, this thing wi’ Geordie.’

  I know what you mean, man. It’s the same with me and Angel.

  Archie nodded and sighed.

  But you’ve just gotta put that to one side, Arch. Loyalty to a friend is the only thing that matters in our game, y’know.

  ‘Aye, ah suppose you’re right, Jim. Totally fucken bang on.’ Archie got up sharply and walked towards the kitchenette through a doorframe that had, seconds earlier, been filled by the coolest guy Archie Blunt knew.

  He lit the stove with his second to last Swan Vesta. The other went back in the drawer for later. He watched hypnotised as the small brick of lard became formless in the tiny pan, melting into a half-inch deep milky puddle. His mind was suddenly racing like it was flying out the Cheltenham traps and being ridden by Lester Piggott. He should’ve prepared better. He couldn’t afford to lose this job. The financial consequences of such an outcome were beginning to become apparent. Although his suspension had been on full pay, thanks mainly to the bullishness of Geordie McCartney, the agreed limit was three months. For the last four weeks, the only money coming in was from irregular stints at the club, knocking out Beatles tunes to largely uninterested audiences. And he was sharing that income with Geordi
e, to help deal with the demands from Susie and her man, who had now raised the threat level from the personal (the wife) to the professional (the Corporation). Geordie McCartney was desperately defending the employment position of his close friend, fearing all the while that someone else might shortly be doing the same for him. It was only a matter of time before Archie would be sharing his flat too. Geordie and his ma drove each other crazy. The longer they lived together, the more likely actual bodily harm became. And the odds favoured the feisty old battle-axe in that scenario. Archie looked on the bright side. Last month’s tips had bought provisions.

  ‘Right Jim, fuck off an’ let me get my tattie scone, fried egg an’ a slice ae square.’ Archie said this out loud, knowing it would break the spell. Imaginary friends are fine for lonely children being bullied, or dislocated old men in sheltered housing, but for lonely ex-bus conductors? Perhaps not so much.

  It was the last of his tiny fridge’s meagre contents. With today’s judgement looming, this was likely to be the end of the recent spell of decent days. But there surely must be better times ahead. This monastic existence was depressing.

  Archie let the hot food slide onto a nearby plate, which still bore the encrusted remnants of a previous meal. The lava-like lard obscured it and temporarily absolved his sloth. He walked gingerly back into the bed-sitting room. The Green Lady was still smiling from her place on the wall. Always smiling. She was his mystical oriental muse; always there for him, always willing. Never judgemental. Always deceptively happy. Just like Bet.

  Archibald Renton Blunt had met and married Elizabeth Ann Ferrie within the first six months of 1961. Back then, she had the lustrous blonde hair of a Marilyn or a Mansfield. He had found her intoxicating from their first meeting as potential jurors on a serious assault trial at the High Court. Elizabeth was selected; Archie was dismissed. He got himself signed off on the sick and waited daily for his new friend at the same spot on the edge of Glasgow Green. Archie Blunt wasn’t such a different man back then. Still basically kind, considerate; an optimistic dreamer, but a little better groomed – a dark-haired romantic. Elizabeth was also smitten. At twenty-seven, she was ten years younger than Archie. They were older to marry than most couples but, in the opinion of her strict father, she was still too young for him. The aftermath of Peter Manual, blamed for the murders and rapes of young women all over working-class Glasgow, was taking a long, long time to fade. Young women meeting older men from the East End of the city continued to raise understandable fears for protective fathers.