Kingston Bridge

by Ian Todd

  “Aye, hellorerr everywan, it’s Donald Dingle here, wae the latest oan the roads this cauld and frosty freezing morning. So, seeing as Jake his jist stolen ma thunder, we’ll start oan Glesga’s wan and only wonder ae the world, the Kingston Bridge. So far, apart fae the usual ‘Ah cannae afford tae be late’ freaks heiding west, traffic is starting tae build up, coming in tae the city, wae the traffic starting tae hit the M8 oot there in Costa Del Cumbernauld, wae a steady build up heiding towards the Toonheid interchange. The few polis oan the ground tell us that it’s treacherous oot there and awready there’s been a few wee prangs oan the slip roads coming intae the flow ae traffic at Easterhoose and Springburn Road oan Castle Street. The new named cooncil, that everywan keeps furgetting the name ae, hiv telt us that although the roads hiv been salted, mind and keep in low gear. Anyway, keep yer feet aff the brake and mind and keep yer distance. Ma name’s Donald Dingle and Ah’ll be back shortly wae a wee update,” Mr Traffic announced, as Rose Royce’s ‘Car Wash,’ cut in oan cue.

  6.15 AM

  “Ah’ll jist leave yer dug box door wide open tae gie ye mair room, Mr Broon,” Senior Prison Officer Marshall said, tipping his hat before moving oot ae his line ae vison.

  “So, whit dae ye think then?” Charlie asked him, gieing the lapels ae his Gieves and Hawkes suit jaicket a wee tug fae the wee narrow dug box across the corridor fae him.

  “Whit dae Ah think? Ye look tae me as if ye’re jist aboot tae heid aff oan some wee mystery gusset-sniffing mission, so ye dae, insteid ae taking that wee Black Maria doon tae Her Majesty’s very ain High Court Justiciary building oan The Saltmarket, that’s whit Ah think,” Wan-bob growled, as the baith ae them chuckled, as Shaky Milne, the auld cancer-ridden dying pass-man, arrived wae their well-fired rolls and square sausage.

  “There ye go, champs. They rolls wur specially baked less than an hour ago fur youse by the boys in the kitchens, so they wur,” Shaky beamed, haunin them o’er.

  “Ach, ye’re a bloody saint, so ye ur, Shaky,” Wan-bob said, lifting wan ae them up aff the chipped enamel tin plate and biting intae it.

  “Right, Ah’ll jist go and get ye yer teas,” he said, disappearing fae sight.

  “It’s a pity we couldnae get wan ae Big Bella’s wee tarts up tae hiv a wee sesh wae Shaky, before he pops his clogs, so it is. He’s been right good tae us since we arrived in this shithole,” Wan-bob acknowledged, taking another bite.

  “Ah’ll hiv a word wae that glaikit looking SO Marshall, before we heid aff. Ah’ll make it worth his while, so Ah will. Seeing as Shaky his free movement across here in the gatehoose, Ah widnae think it wid be aw that difficult fur him tae hook up wae wan ae her lassies in the lavvy through in the waiting room during a busy visiting session.”

  “Aye, well, mind and tell the wee prick we promise no tae fuck aff wae that wee shitty Morgan F2 sports car ae his again,” Wan-bob scoffed, starting them aff again, as Shaky arrived wae a big white plastic mug ae tea in each haun.

  6.30 AM

  “Right, Collette, hen, up ye get. We cannae keep breakfast waiting fur the likes ae you, ye know,” Miss Ratchet, the psyche sister growled impatiently, waiting at the door fur a response. “James…Collette?” she shouted louder.

  Efter no getting any response, she fearfully moved closer tae the figure underneath the blanket oan the bed.

  “Whit the…” she exclaimed, efter lifting the blanket up and looking doon at whit she instantly recognised as the cushions fae the chairs through in the day room, jist as the bottom ae the psychedelic coloured curtains fluttering across at the windae, caught her eye.

  “Oh ma God!” she screamed, efter swishing the curtains open and being confronted by a big hole in the wire mesh and an even bigger wan in the middle ae the windae frame, before she aboot turned and ran oot intae the corridor and pressed the alarm button oan the opposite wall.

  6.40 AM

  “The long and winding ro-ho-hoad,” Big Derek Robertson wis jist howling at the tap ae that voice ae his, alang tae Paul McCartney oan Radio Clydeside, when the back end ae the tanker suddenly gied way and spun roond, crashing intae the barrier oan his right haun side. He tried slamming his boot doon oan tae the air brakes, bit nothing happened, as the sole ae his right fit hit the flair wae a dull thud and the vehicle bounced aff the metal crash barrier before careening sideways alang the carriageway, in the direction ae Charing Cross, before flipping o’er oan tae its side. He didnae know how long he’d been knocked oot fur, probably only a few seconds. It hid been the face ae somewan above him, shouting above Paul McCartney’s bleating voice, asking him if he wis awright, looking doon at him wae an ootstretched erm, that brought him tae his senses. He wisnae sure he could move until he smelled the strong odour ae the hydrofluoric acid reaching they nostrils ae his.

  “F…fuck! R…run!” he gasped, heaving himsel up and using the steering wheel as a step, as the guy up tap held open his cab door fur him tae scramble oot ae. “Run like fuck, mate, it’s poison…it’ll kill ye if it touches yer skin,” he wheezed, as him and the guy jumped doon oan tae the tarmac and ran waving their erms towards the drivers who’d stoapped behind him and wur noo staunin waiting, beside their open car doors wondering whit tae dae, as a tailback started tae congregate behind the stationary cars in the middle ae the bridge.

  6.50 AM

  “Good Morning, aw you lucky listeners. That wis ‘Drove Aw Night’ by Roy Orbison fur Wee Maggie McLennan, up there in Springburn, who didnae receive a Valentine’s Card oan Saturday. Don’t worry, hen, there’s always next year. Meanwhile, there’s a box ae chocolates winging its way tae ye. Ma name’s Jumping Jake Flasher, and ye’re listening tae Radio Clydeside oan medium wave, two-five-wan and ninety-five-point-two FM. Remember, if you or a pal didnae receive a Valentine’s Day Card oan Saturday, then gie us a wee bell oan 041 331 4278, and if Ah call oot you or their name, live oan air, then there might be wee box ae oot ae date Cadbury’s Milk Tray chocolates heidin your way. Right then, Ah’ll jist haun ye across tae Mr Traffic Jam himsel and find oot whit’s been happening oot there oan the roads this morning.”

  “Aye, hellorerr, everywan. This is Donald Dingle, Glesga’s favourite traffic correspondent again. We’ve jist hid a wee emergency alert fae the polis, asking motorists tae avoid the Kingston Bridge, if ye’re heiding north and eastwards across the Clyde fae the west. Try and seek oot an alternative route. Ah’ll jist haun ye aw back tae Jumping Jake Flasher and Ah’ll get back tae youse aw in a wee while if Ah hear any mair updates fae the boys in blue, so Ah will.”

  7.00 AM

  “Sorry, Mr Broon, bit you and Mr Hastie ur tae travel in the wee van, the same as youse did oan Friday, so youse ur,” SO Marshall apologised, nodding towards the four armed bizzies, staunin beside the wee Black Maria, being dwarfed by the bigger Paddy Wagon in the yard facing the gatehoose.

  “Aye, well, Charlie, here we go again, son. Ah quite like hivving a wee hudgie in they cramped ancient wee fuckers,” Wan-bob said tae his co-accused pleasantly.

  “Aye, it takes ye back, so it dis, right enough,” Charlie replied, turning tae the SO. “Right, jist remember, that fifty Ah’ve jist slipped ye is the first instalment. She’ll gie ye the other fifty efter she comes oot ae the lavvy in the visiting room next Tuesday. You jist make sure that poor auld Shaky gets a full ten minutes wae her. Hiv ye goat that?”

  “Don’t you worry aboot a thing, Mr Hastie. If the cancer disnae kill him before then, Ah’m quite sure yer wee tart will,” The SO promised, as Charlie grunted, before walking towards the Highland skulks, lolling aboot the back door ae the open van.

  7.15 AM

  “That wis the new wan by Asleep At The Wheel, wae ‘Get Yer Kicks Oan Route 66’ fur Hannah Thompson, oot there in Yoker, who didnae receive a Valentine’s Card fur the fifth year in a row. Don’t worry, hen, we’re only jist haufway through the decade, so there’s time yet. Meanwhile, there’s a box ae chocolates winging its way alang Great Western Road tae ye. Ma name’s Jumping Jake Flas
her, and ye’re listening tae Radio Clydeside oan medium wave, two-five-wan and ninety-five-point-two FM. Remember, if you or a pal didnae receive a Valentine’s Day Card oan Saturday, then gie us a wee bell oan 041 331 4278, and if Ah call oot you or their name, live oan air, then there might be wee box ae oot ae date Cadbury’s Milk Tray chocolates heidin your way. Right then, Ah’ll jist haun ye across tae Mr Traffic Jam himsel and find oot whit’s been happening oot there oan the roads this morning.”

  “Aye, hellorerr, it’s me, Donald Dingle, again, Scotland’s favourite traffic correspondent. Jist a wee update oan the situation oan the Kingston Bridge. There’s been a serious accident, so there his. A tanker wae a full load ae poisonous liquid gas his overturned, smack bang in the middle ae the eastbound section ae the bridge. Glesga City Polis ur asking everywan tae avoid the bridge…repeat, aw drivers are warned tae avoid Kingston Bridge this morning. Traffic is building up oan the south side ae the M8. Please try and leave the motorway and carry oan wae yer journey via Govan and Tradeston, if ye kin. Follow the directions fae the polis oan the ground oan how tae exit the motorway. Ah’ll be back wae mair updates as they come in, so Ah will.”

  7.30 AM

  “Stoap, ya basturt, ye!” PC Jackie Hyde shouted, jist managing tae jump oot ae the way ae the sliding van, as it slid past him oan tae the other line ae stationary traffic, crashing intae the middle ae a double decker bus.

  “Whit the fuck’s gaun oan here?” his partner, Rodney Rose gasped, using the bumper at the back ae the squad car tae gie him height tae look up North Hanover Street towards Cathedral Street.

  The horizon fae right tae left up beside McDonald’s furniture store hid a stripe ae multi-coloured cars and buses sitting stationary. Between where him and his partner wur staunin, he could see that baith lanes ae North Hanover Street, North Fredrick Street, John Street and Montrose Street, alang towards the High Street, wur jam packed wae cars trying tae edge oan tae a traffic crowded George Street.

  “It’s the same across in Cochrane Street and St Vincent Place. Look,” Jackie Hyde said, pointing across the square. “Whit the hell’s gaun oan?”

  “Who knows? Ah’ll jist go and radio in…we’re gonnae need a bit ae a haun doon her, so we ur,” PC Rose advised, jumping aff the bumper, jist as a fight broke oot between the van driver and a bus conductor.

  7.40 AM

  “Whit’s the score, Jackie?” Assistant Chief Constable John Sinclair asked Superintendent John Bower, heid ae the city’s traffic division, freshly back in post efter being wrongfully accused ae being the notorious Silver Arrow.

  “In America, they call it Dog Day Efternoon. Here, it’s jist plain auld chaos, so it is,” the superintendent replied. “It’s only twenty tae eight, bit the whole ae the city centre is becoming gridlocked, so it is. It’s starting tae spread oot in aw directions tae. There’s been scuffles reported between drivers sitting stationary oan the Tradeston side ae the M8. Springburn Road at Castle Street’s at a staunstill and Great Western Road, as far oot as Anniesland Cross, his stoapped moving. Ah’ve goat the boys oot in Cumbernauld trying tae divert the traffic coming intae the city, aff ae the motorway, bit it’s like sticking yer finger intae a dyke, so it is. Dae we know whit chemicals it wis carrying?”

  “Hydrofluoric Acid or Hydrogen Fluoride as it’s commonly known.”

  “Whit, the stuff they put in water tae stoap yer teeth decaying?”

  “This stuff wid rot yer teeth in seconds, so it wid. It’s highly toxic and dangerous seemingly. The fire boys ur meeting jist noo tae plan how they’re gonnae try and tackle the tanker. They’ve jist confirmed that it’s leaking oan tae the tarmac ae the bridge.”

  “And the driver?”

  “Him and a motorist that wis traveling behind him hiv been whipped aff tae hospital. Ah’m no sure ae their condition.”

  “Christ, this is gonnae be some day, so it is. Hello?” he barked, picking up the phone. “Right…right…right. Look…naw, listen tae me, Jack. Only allow cars intae the tunnel if there’s a steady flow…aye, baith ends…motor bikes ur fine tae. Try and keep them moving away fae the city centre and the bridge. Ah don’t know. You’re the man oan the ground, fur Christ sake!” he shouted, slamming the phone back oan the receiver. “Honest tae God. Where the fuck dae we find these people?”

  7.45 AM

  “Ye kin fuck right aff, ya big tadger, ye,” Wan-bob growled. “Ah’m no getting oot and walking. It’s up tae youse stupid cunts tae get us tae the court oan time, so it is.”

  “We’re at Glasgow Cross, Mr Brown. It’ll only take us a few minutes to walk,” The big armed chookter bizzy sergeant skulk pleaded soothingly.

  “Listen, Gene Pitney, Ah couldnae gie a fanny’s fuck whether we’re only a few miles fae fucking Tulsa. If you want that hairy arse ae mine doon that road, ye’ll either drive us doon or ye’ll fucking well carry us. We’re gaun nowhere. So, if ye want tae, you jist go aheid and shoot me wae that wee pea-shooter ae yours. Ah’ve goat an arthritic knee, so Ah hiv.”

  “Aye, and ma legs ur a bit wobbly here as well. So, youse kin fuck right aff, so youse kin,” Charlie shouted in support, settling back oan the hard bench, resting his feet up oan the wooden slats in front ae him and Wan-bob.

  7.50 AM

  “Right, where ur we, boys?” The Chief Fire Commander fur the city asked Hector Case, the scene ae incident commander, as he looked towards the road surface ae the bridge. “And who gied the order fur that bloody traffic tae restart heidin west again?”

  “The Polis…Superintendent Bower. Ah tried telling them, bit they said Superintendent Bower wants tae take the pressure aff the city centre and allow the traffic tae go across. He claims that there’s a hunner and twenty thousand cars heidin towards us. He says everything should be okay as long as we warn everywan tae keep their windaes shut.”

  “Is he fucking bonkers? This is liquid Hydrofluoric Acid, fur fuck’s sake. You mind and tell oor boys Ah want them wearing oxygen at aw times, especially anywhere near that tanker,” he growled, praying the wind widnae get up.

  “Fine, sir.”

  “So, where ur we?”

  “We’ve goat two volunteers jist preparing tae take a wee initial swatch.”

  “Ah don’t like this, so Ah don’t. Who ur they?”

  “JJ and Ricky Beard. Baith experienced chemical boys…they’ve done aw the training, so they hiv.”

  “Right, well you mind and tell them Ah’m putting them forward fur a medal, so Ah am. That’ll maybe make them feel better,” the chief said, looking aboot at the traffic. “Ah wish there wis some way we could get they stupid basturts tae stoap honking their horns. It’s fucking deafening, so it is.”

  “Aye, Ah know, sir.”

  7.55 AM

  “Is there some sort ae holiday we don’t know aboot?” Jake shouted fae the pillion, across at Tony’s motorbike.

  “Christ knows,” Tony replied, switching aff the engine, followed a second later by Simon.

  Tony looked across at the front door ae the café, jist visible between the two Corporation buses slowly crawling forward an inch at a time. People wur coming and gaun fae it, some carrying wee white paper pokes, containing their rolls and sausage or rolls and bacon. He looked aboot. He wondered if aw the honking ae horns wis in celebration ae Wan-bob’s genius, bit quickly dismissed that…although nothing wid’ve surprised him aboot that slippery auld basturt. Everything hid been in place by the Thursday morning ae the previous week. Aw that wis required wis the twenty-four hour wait, which hid gied them time tae go o’er the escape route again and address any possible unplanned changes or negative glitches involving the polis. There hid been none that he could think ae, until Simon hid turned up and set the cat amongst the pigeons. The plan hid been tae kill two birds wae the wan stane, by gaun o’er the bank job that Pat, Baby and Frankie Fritter wur daeing later in the morning across in Maryhill.

  “Ye’re no gonnae believe this, bit the morra’s aff, so it is,” he’d announced, smirking at
Ben and Jake’s disbelieving, shocked expressions. “It’s Monday morning noo. Ah’ve jist hid a wee visit roond at the warehoose fae Peter the Plant and Danny Murphy.”

  “Monday?” Pat hid howled, “bit the Maryhill job is oan Monday morning, so it is.”

  “So, we’ll jist hiv tae dae the two jobs in the wan day then, Pat, ya big fucking Jessie, ye,” Baby hid quipped, as everywan laughed.

  “Aye, and we’ll be in and oot ae Govan before youse hiv even turned the key in the ignition ae the getaway car,” Simon hid reminded him.

  “That’s no the fucking point, Simon, ya tadger, ye. That fucking Flying Squad, who’re aw tooled up and oot tae get me, will hiv been alerted tae whit youse hiv been up tae across oan Govan Road earlier. Ah say we tell Wan-bob tae fuck right aff. He cannae go aboot changing plans at the drap ae a hat. Whit aboot us, eh?”

  “Aye, he kin and he jist his,” Baby hid reminded him, tae mair laughter. “So, live wae it and gie us aw a fucking break, ya whining beanpole basturt, ye.”