by Ian Todd
“Oh, er…”
“Ah’ll put the kettle oan,” he’d said, heidin fur the kitchen, as the cat sat looking suspiciously at her.
When she’d returned tae the living room, efter hinging her jaicket up in the lobby, he wis still in the kitchen. She’d sat doon opposite the cat. It hidnae budged, bit hid jist sat there, trying tae stare her oot. Distracted, flustered, confused or whitever, she’d felt the need tae try and take back control ae her emotions, so hid stupidly let oot a wee whistle. Nothing. She’d tried again, bit it still refused tae entertain her, as Johnboy arrived wae their mugs ae tea.
“Ye’re daeing it wrang. Look,” he said, sitting doon opposite her, letting oot a wee whistle, as the bloody thing leapt across the space between them in mid-air, landing perfectly oan his ermrest, as he looked across at her triumphantly.
“Aye, ye know whit they say aboot owners and their pets,” she’d drawled, as he burst oot laughing. “Look, there isnae any other way tae say this, bit did you sleep wae Pearl Campbell?” she’d coughed accusingly, trying tae control the sob welling up in the back ae her throat.
“Whit makes ye ask that?” he asked.
“Oh come on, Johnboy!”
“Whit?”
“Ye heard me the first time.”
“Why don’t ye ask her?”
“Because Ah’m asking you.”
“So, how dae ye think she’d feel aboot you, her supposedly best pal, hitting me wae that kind ae shite?”
“Don’t play games wae me, Johnboy Taylor. Ye’re no sitting wae wan ae yer gangster pals noo. Ah’m the wan that sacrificed everything fur you, remember?” she’d made the mistake ae retorting.
Time and time again, he’d warned her no tae confront Tony Gucci heid oan. He’d always reminded her that whether she wis right or wrang, gaun full frontal wid get her nowhere. The shutters wid come doon and he’d come right back at ye. Whit she hidnae stupidly realised wis that they wur aw like that, including Johnboy.
“Ah’m sorry…Ah didnae mean it tae sound like that,” she apologised, trying, bit failing tae back-pedal before it wis too late.
“Aye, ye’ve sacrificed a lot. Ah’ll never take that away fae ye and Ah’ll always be grateful fur yer caring, kindness and love. Whit Ah don’t appreciate is hivving yer sacrifices cast up in ma face. You knew fine well who Ah wis. Ma feelings still hivnae changed, despite whit you or anywan else might believe.”
Silence.
“Did you sleep wae Pearl Campbell?” she’d repeated, less accusatory this time, bit still feeling sick in the pit ae that stomach ae hers, scared ae his answer.
“Whit dae you think?” he asked, the defences well up noo, being jist as awkward as that Tally pal ae his.
“So you did then?” she’d sobbed.
“That’s you that’s saying that, no me.”
“Naw, Johnboy, Ah know whit Ah’m saying…it’s whit ye’re no saying that’s the important point aboot here,” she’d spat at him, cursing hersel again fur no easing aff and changing tack.
Bit then, why should she? She wis the victim, she’d convinced hersel, as he stood up and put oan ‘Wan Ae These Nights,’ the new Eagles Album.
“So, whit makes ye believe that Ah’d sleep wae yer best pal then?” he’d asked her, settling back in his seat, as she’d sat wondering if he wis still oan the offensive, trying tae work oot if he’d slung in the ‘best pal’ part ae his question, tae deliberately noise her up.
“Jean Paul Guerlain?” she’d spat at him, trying desperately no tae sound triumphant, like the crazy paranoid mad wummin that she knew she wis.
“Who the fuck’s she?”
“He came oot wae Chamade Eau De Cologne in 1969.”
“Eau whit?”
“It’s perfume. Pearl goat a wee bottle ae it aff ae Kim Sui at the same time as Ah goat ma bottle ae Fidji…the perfume you like.”
“And?” he asked, him and that stupid cat sitting there looking at her, as if she wis possessed or something, clearly still no getting where she wis coming fae.
“And Pearl is the only wan ae the lassies who uses the stuff.”
“So?”
“So, Ah smelt it in here the last time Ah came roond. Ah only realised when Ah bumped intae her that night doon in The Dial Inn.”
“Senga, ur you fucking bonkers or whit?”
“So, ye’re denying it then?”
“Denying whit?”
“That Pearl wis roond here?”
“Why the hell wid Ah deny something like that fur? Christ sake, so this is whit aw this is aboot?” he’d scoffed, throwing her aff balance, gieing the cat’s ear a wee playful rub.
“So, why did ye no mention it then? Whit wis the big secret? And then ye telt me that ye didnae want me roond here at nights so often.”
“Senga, fur a start, Ah never said that. Ah said we’d catch up…the next day…the day Ah goat a shot ae Simon’s wheels. Fuck’s sake, whit ur you like?”
“So, ye’re denying it…sleeping wae Pearl, Ah mean?”
“Aye, Pearl came roond…tae ask me a favour.”
“Favour…whit favour?”
“Ask her, she’s your best pal.”
“Ah’ve awready telt ye, Ah’m asking you,” she’d retorted, fighting tae keep her anger and hurt in check.
“It wis something tae dae wae a story that she’s working oan.”
“And?”
“And she wanted me tae ask Tony if he’d use his influence wae Graham Portoy tae get her access tae that bitter and twisted wee procurator fiscal, Glenda Metcalfe.”
“Oh…”
“Ah never mentioned anything tae you because Ah never thought it wis that important. And anyway, Ah’d furgoat aw aboot it until ye’ve jist brought it up,” he’d mocked.
“A story…fur the paper…bit.”
“That’s whit she said.”
“And did ye?”
“Whit?”
“Speak tae Tony?”
“Ah mentioned it …against ma better judgement.”
“And?”
“And he telt me tae fuck aff and tae tell her if she wanted tae speak tae him, she should come and speak tae him hersel withoot gaun through me,” he’d replied, shrugging, as they baith smiled thegither, her wae embarrassment, fur the first time that night.
“So, whit wis the story aboot then?’
“Look, how dae Ah know? Ah furget. Ah’m tired and Ah need tae go tae ma bed. Ye’re mair than welcome tae stay or ye kin phone fur a taxi, although Ah’m no sure that ye’ll get wan noo, seeing as it’s Christmas Day night.”
They hidnae said anything efter that, even when she’d slipped in naked beside him. He wis soon fast asleep. She wisnae sure who’d instigated it, bit they’d made love in the middle ae the night, before falling back tae sleep in each other’s erms. In the morning, he’d been up, waiting oan her. He’d awready hid her spare uniform neatly folded beside a plastic bag through oan the spare bed fur her tae take tae work wae her. He’d waited until she’d finished the bowl ae porridge that he’d made her, before he’d telt her the devastating news. It hid awready crossed her mind that he wis up tae something, efter he’d stood up and gone across tae the windae a few times and looked doon oan tae the street.
“Who’s Victor Ruth?” she’d asked.
“Eh?” he’d hauf yelped, spinning roond, looking a wee bit guilty, a confused and surprised look oan his face.
“Victor Ruth. Ye mentioned his name a few times in the night…in yer sleep.”
“Look. Ah’ve goat something Ah need tae tell ye and it isnae good,” he’d admitted, as her heart sank, thinking there wis a confession coming before she wis being dumped. “Ah don’t know how tae say this, bit Snappy goat blasted in the face wae a shotgun oan Christmas Eve. He’s up at The Royal as we speak.”
“Snappy?” she’d gasped, her hauns covering her mooth. “Bit…”
“Aye, well, that isnae aw either. Peter goat stabbed tae death ootside Sherbet’s the same night as well,” he’d s
aid calmly, watching her closely, before coming roond the table and taking her in his erms as she fell tae pieces.
“Bit, Jean…Francis…Ah’ll need tae go and…”
“Naw, ye don’t. Listen, Senga, there’s nothing ye kin dae…ye’ll hiv tae go tae yer work,” he’d said, loosening his grip and looking intae her eyes.
“Bit…”
“We need tae find oot how Snappy’s daeing…”
“Bit the girls…” she’d sobbed.
“We’ll be letting everywan know who disnae awready. We need ye tae find oot whit the damage is and if he’s gonnae pull through.”
“Who?”
“Snappy. None ae us kin go near him. The polis will be up there. Aw Ah’m asking is that ye phone me here, as soon as ye know whit the score is.”
And the reason fur him peeking oot the windae? Baby Huey wis awready sitting wae the engine running, waiting tae drive her up tae her work. They hidnae exchanged a single word oan the journey. She’d been in shock, scared ae whit wis waiting tae confront her and whit she wis gonnae hiv tae report back tae Johnboy, who she’d known wid be sitting by the phone, anxiously waiting fur her tae call. Efter Baby hid drawn up oan tae the double yellow lines ootside The Royal oan Castle Street, she couldnae remember if she’d even thanked him fur the lift or no, as she’d jist seemed tae float oot ae the car and intae the hospital. Of course, there wis nothing anywan could’ve done tae save Snappy. Even withoot the devastating brain damage caused by the cartridge fragments and the exsanguination, or severe blood loss, coupled wae hypoxia, the loss ae the supply ae oxygen tae the surface blood vessels oan his face, neck and chest, Snappy Johnston hidnae been expected tae make it through the day. Wan ae the junior doctors hid telt her that she wis surprised he’d still been lingering oan.
“It’s as if he’s waiting oan somebody,” she’d speculated.
She’d been sitting by his bed in intensive care, efter finally managing a five-minute break. The polis, against the wishes ae the hospital authorities, hid kept Francis and his family at bay, hoping tae be able tae question him aboot who shot him, if he came roond. Snappy hid never regained consciousness or uttered a sound since his admission oan Christmas Eve. A few seconds before the heart monitor above his bed confirmed that he’d passed away, he’d startled Senga, when his haun hid blindly reached oot and clasped the back ae hers, gieing it a wee gentle squeeze. She wisnae convinced that he’d been aware that it hid been her sitting there, given his state ae consciousness. Francis…aw the lassies, in fact, believed the opposite and wur convinced that he knew exactly who’d been sitting there wae him.
“He wid’ve smelled the Fidji that ye wur probably wearing, Senga. Oot ae us aw, you’re the only wan that wears Guy Laroche,” Francis hid wept, as everywan, including her, hid aw burst intae tears when she’d confirmed that she’d sprayed some oan, efter coming oot ae the shower across in Johnboy’s earlier, before being drapped aff by Baby.
Francis hid taken a lot ae comfort, unlike poor Jean, fae the fact that Snappy hidnae died alone and that wan ae the lassies hid been there tae haud his haun. Senga hidnae wanted tae upset Francis, or the others, so hid kept her thoughts tae hersel aboot Snappy’s last moments. She’d also kept quiet aboot the fact that The Mankys seemed tae know an awful lot ae whit hid been gaun oan the night that Peter and Snappy hid been attacked, than whit they wur willing tae admit tae. Jean hid been whipped aff, across tae The Rottenrow in an ambulance, due tae her pregnancy being so well advanced so she hidnae been in a position tae alert anywan. Also, Francis said that she’d been informed ae Snappy being shot late oan Christmas day evening, efter Snappy’s ma and da hid come roond by tae take her up tae the hospital. There hidnae been any newspapers printed oan Christmas day and it hidnae been oan the news, as far as she’d been aware. Peter’s family hidnae found oot aboot his death until the early hours ae Boxing day, when Jean hid managed tae get up oot ae her hospital bed and borrow ten pence fae wan ae the other patients tae phone them, so how hid The Mankys found oot that Peter hid been murdered before anywan else? And where hid Johnboy been oan Christmas Day night wae Tony Gucci, Ben McCalumn and Baby Huey? She’d furgotten aw aboot that in the confusion and grief that hid followed, efter everywan else hid received the news aboot Snappy and Peter. And how could he hiv acted so normally oan Christmas night, before disclosing the news ae Snappy and Peter tae her first thing in the morning? She’d never found oot who that Victor Ruth wan wis either.
“Right, whose is whose?” Pearl asked, interrupting her thoughts and picking up the mugs, efter strolling back in tae the kitchen tae gie her a haun, as Senga caught the pleasant waft ae hyacinth, wae a hint ae blackcurrant, fae that Jean Paul Guerlain perfume ae hers.
Chapter Eleven
Pearl slumped back in the chair, looking aboot in frustration, as she lit up another fag. The ashtray wis overflowing. She’d looked aboot the day before tae see if there wis a bin tae empty it in, bit couldnae find wan. Before she’d left fur the day, she’d tried tae open wan ae the windaes oan the Hope Street side ae the room, bit it widnae budge, despite her climbing up oan tae the wide ledge tae gie her mair leverage. Christ knows whit the bemused, noisy pigeons hid thought ae her, as their heids bobbed up and doon expectantly, looking in through the dirty glass in excitement, no sure if they wur in fur a wee gourmet treat fae the mad basturt in the miniskirt, exposing that pair ae bright red knickers ae hers at them. She took another drag and cast her eyes across tae the manky windaes. They wur back. Only this time, there looked as if there wur mair ae them, nodding and bobbing their heids at her eagerly in anticipation, probably wondering whit colour her knickers wur the day. She wis the only person in the archive section, apart fae the ghosts…or wis the creepy noises that wur spooking her, coming fae the paper rollers next door? Despite the amount ae back issues and shelves full ae leather-bound books, there wur only two tables in the big cavernous room. The two, scabby-looking, chipped-varnished chairs, their backs and arses covered in broon cracked, studded leather pads, summed up how she felt. It wis obvious that no many people darkened the doors ae the internal archive section. Efter deciding which chair wis the least likely tae rip the arse oot ae her new black tights when she sat oan it, she’d struggled tae pull the other table across tae hers tae gie her mair working space. Apart fae spending too much time reading aboot Tam Simpson being murdered up in some flat in High Possil oan Hogmanay back in 1971 and reading aw the stuff aboot Helen Taylor’s successful election campaign against JP Donnelly in February and March ae 1972, she’d finally goat doon tae business. She’d slowly worked her way through every page ae The Glesga Echo back issues fae the 1st January 1972 through tae December 31st 1973. Despite wandering roond tae the bus stoap the day before, wae a splitting headache and her throat red raw wae aw the smoking she’d been daeing, she’d only found the wan reference tae Susan McFarlane, the WPC who’d been raped across in the toilets ae the polis social club in the Gorbals back in September 1972. The wee postage stamp ae an article, tucked in at the bottom ae a page ae the Green Fingers section, stated that two sergeants, a brother and sister, hid baith been reprimanded fur being part ae an unofficial efter hours lock-in, in a polis social club across in the Gorbals, where a young WPC, under the influence ae drink, hid been injured. Wan ae them, a male, hid been transferred oot tae Penilee. There hidnae been any other details. The journalist who’d written the article, Stephen Temple, hid died the previous year ae cancer, so talking tae him hid been a non-starter. She’d mentioned her frustration tae her boss, Sammy ‘The Rat’ Elliot, the crime desk sub-editor, before she’d started her second day’s shift doon in the archive dungeon earlier, efter he’d telt her that the exhumation ae Mr Tell’s body up at Lambhill Cemetery wisnae a story efter aw, and that the polis hid confirmed that whit hid killed the coal merchant hid indeed been a massive heart attack.
“Ye’re wasting yer precious time doon there in the archives. The kind ae stuff you’re efter wid’ve been suppressed, so it wid’ve,” he’d squeak
ed at her.
“Suppressed?”
“No reported oan. Ye kin blame that Showgirl crowd fur that. At wan time, they hid everywan doon here and up at the TV studios at the tap ae the hill, running fur cover wae aw that nonsense ae theirs. Something hid tae be done, so the stupid hairys wur blanked.”
“Blanked?”
“Slung a deafy. Anything that wid gie them an excuse tae cause trouble fur people within the establishment, especially regarding sex, drugs and who wis trying tae shag who behind the scenes, wis supressed fae the public…fur their ain good, mind ye.”
“Bit, whit’s that goat tae dae wae a young poliswummin being raped in a lavvy in a polis social club at two in the morning, efter an illegal lock-in?”
“Pearl, Ah thought ye said ye wur smart? So, be smart and stoap asking stupid questions. Anything that wis deemed detrimental tae the established order ae things here in the toon wis banned. There wis a gentlemen’s agreement…there still is, so you watch how ye go aboot things. Hamish, the editor, put his hee-haws oan the line fur you, so he did,” The Rat hid reminded her, before telling her tae get back tae work.
Gentlemen’s agreement? She’d yet tae meet a gentleman, apart fae Johnboy, Tony and that da ae hers, since she’d been back in the toon, she thought tae hersel, as she wiped the surface ae the desk in front ae her, before humphing across another two big volumes, filled wae the 1974 editions.
“Shit!” she screamed, looking aboot in panic, as the ashtray full ae fag ends suddenly burst intae flames fae her last stubbed-oot fag.
She quickly spotted the red fire bucket and ran across and grabbed it by the handle, nearly dislocating her shoulder. It wis full ae sand. Efter three trips, leaving a trail ae the stuff oan route, she managed tae smother the flames by creating a wee ashtray grave, before finally settling back tae start on that year’s first printed edition at the start ae the book. Geraldine Baker, wan ae the lassies who worked in casualty up at The Royal, hid finally goat back tae her.
“Susan McFarlane,” she’d declared doon the phone line.
“Whit aboot her?” she’d stupidly replied, caught aff guard.
