by Ian Todd
Chapter Four
Monday, 16th February 1976.
11.45 PM.
“We’re sorry to interrupt this programme, but news has just reached us of an explosion in a city centre casino in the West End of Glasgow tonight. The explosion, which happened approximately twenty-five minutes ago, has totally destroyed the front of a building, reported to be The Capstan Club, one of the city’s most upmarket and prestigious gambling clubs. We can now speak to our reporter, Simon Geddes, who is at the scene. Simon, can you hear me?”
“Yes, John, I can hear you loud and clear. I’m standing at the corner of Sauchiehall Street and Elgin Street, near where The Capstan Club casino is situated about fifty yards further along the street. From where I am, I can see what was the entrance to the building, whose facade has now totally disappeared, along with two of the large Georgian windows on the second floor that face on to the street. The large rooms on the inside of the building are now exposed. I can also confirm that there are people injured, but have no confirmation as yet of any fatalities. As I’m speaking, there are people being attended to, lying on the pavement, being comforted by ambulance crews and others. Three ambulances have just sped passed me out on to Sauchiehall Street, presumably heading towards Glasgow Royal Infirmary, with another two just newly arrived. The street itself is crammed full of police cars and fire engines. I’ve been informed that an army bomb disposal vehicle arrived on the scene approximately ten minutes ago. Police have just cordoned off both ends of Elgin Street. I tried to speak to Chief Superintendent Sam Bison, head of the city’s Serious Crime and Intelligence Unit, who arrived on the scene barely five minutes ago in the company of Chief Superintendent Bob Mackerel, the man in charge of the two murder squads in the city and who we believe has just come from the reported shooting earlier in Montague Avenue, not far from where I’m now standing. Both senior officers refused to speculate on whether they believe the explosion was as a result of a bomb or perhaps gas mains. Chief Superintendent Mackerel rounded on Pearl Campbell, The Glasgow Echo’s chief crime correspondent, after she asked whether the police superintendents believed that the shooting earlier and the explosion here in Elgin Street were connected. She also challenged the murder supremo on what she referred to as a typical sexist comment regarding female emergency responders. Our cameraman, Bob Tillis, was able to capture the exchange between the pretty young journalist and the rebuke from Chief Superintendent Mackerel. This is what the chief superintendent had to say.
‘People hiv been seriously injured here in Elgin Street and ur noo being attended tae by the brave men ae the emergency services. At this stage, we don’t know the cause ae the explosion. We cannae confirm if anywan his been killed. Enquiries ur and will be continuing well intae the night and fur the foreseeable future. We expect the media tae play its part in assisting us in whit is gaun tae be a very distressing time fur oor emergency services and the families ae people who may hiv been caught up in the explosion. Speculation at this time is unhelpful and only adds distress tae those involved. When Ah said men, Ah should hiv said the men and wummin ae the emergency services. Fur a journalist tae staun here and challenge ma interpretation ae whit Ah meant, at this time, is totally inappropriate and should be condemned. This isnae a game aboot men and wummin and who is daeing whit.’
And there you have it, John. From where I’m standing, it’s quite clear that there are a number of female members of the emergency services here on the ground, attending to the injured.”
“And in your opinion, Simon, has anyone you’ve spoken to made a connection between the explosion in Elgin Street and the events in Montague Avenue earlier?”
“Police we’ve managed to have a word with, both along in Montague Avenue and down here near the city centre, have remained tight lipped. It’s believed that a major shareholder of The Capstan Club is Mr Robert Brown, who was sensationally freed from the dock of The High Court earlier today, after the charges against him of having had a young nurse murdered were dropped. The nurse had apparently overheard damning evidence that could have implicated Mr Brown and his colleagues in a number of crimes, including murder, in an emergency ward up in Stobhill Hospital back in March 1974. No-one here is prepared to confirm whether Mr Brown, a successful businessman and philanthropist, who has given thousands of pounds over the years to his favourite charities, was in the casino tonight, when the explosion occurred. Both chief superintendents disappeared behind the police cordon after Pearl Campbell ignored Superintendent Mackerel’s rebuke and pressed him on whether tonight’s events were in any way connected to the assassination of two of Glasgow’s most notorious gangsters, Papa McGregor and his right-hand man, Victor Ruth, who were both shot dead inside the West Café on Govan Road just after eight o’clock this morning.”
“Okay, Simon Geddes, our reporter at the scene of a mystery explosion in Elgin Street, in the heart of the West End of Glasgow. It’s now coming up to midnight and we’ll be back with more on this story, as well as a catch up on the latest developments on how Scotland’s biggest city is returning to normal after a serious accident closed the Kingston Bridge and brought Glasgow to a standstill. We’ll now hand viewers over to our colleagues in London, so they can find out what’s happening nationally and elsewhere in the world tonight. My name’s John Turney and you’ve been listening to The Evening News, down here in Queen Margaret Drive, headquarters of BBC Scotland.”
Chapter Five
The white-tailed eagle gracefully soared in fae the west, efter hivving jist drapped fae a thousand feet, breaking the surface ae the white shore-bound waves ae The Minch, as they surged towards Achmelvich beach. It barely acknowledged the hungry, protesting, black-heided gull, as the sea trout struggled violently in its talons, whilst it used its seven-fit wide wingspan, still dripping wae water, tae propel itsel back up oan tae the thermal, heidin in the direction ae the ramshackle shack and dilapidated caravans oan tap ae the grass-covered, exposed rocky incline, that wis noo fast looming up in front ae him. Before dipping his wings and turning north, leaving Lochinver in the distance behind him, he caught sight ae the excited, barking collie dug, leaping aff the small boat as its bow
ran aground underneath the white surf. The Wild Man quickly followed, slinging an orange sealskin bag o’er his shoulder as he went, baith leaving two sets ae fitprints in the wet, virgin sand, as they heided towards the shack, sitting tae the left ae the caravans oan their right. The eagle momentarily considered gaun full circle tae investigate. The shack wis always a good source fur scraps, especially during the winter storms, bit the relentless struggling in its talons reminded him that there wur other hungry mooths waiting tae be fed. His curiosity ever alert, he veered east, slightly inland, wae Vestey’s Bay oan his left, tae investigate the noisy newcomers at the crofthoose. It wisnae the humans he wis looking oot fur, bit the cat. He’d been raking through wan ae the midgie bins at the side ae the hoose a week earlier at dawn, when it hid landed oan his back. A struggle hid ensued, as the baith ae them hid tumbled in amongst the contents, before noisily toppling the bin o’er. It wis only when the bare-arsed human hid arrived oan the scene screaming and shouting, that the cat hid loosened its grip and he’d been able tae escape, bit no before gieing it something tae think aboot wae they razor sharp talons and hooked beak ae his. Since then, he’d steered well clear ae the crofthoose. He knew by experience that humans wur dangerous and needed avoiding at aw costs. He’d nearly fallen foul ae them a few times in Lochinver when he’d been raiding the bashed, galvanised waste bins at the back ae the fish processing factory. He glanced doon, searching, scanning the terrain. The cat wis never far away fae the noisy human. He regularly spotted them thegither, foraging oan the shoreline or crouching oan tap ae the hill, looking doon oan tae Vestey’s Bay. He’d taken a cat wance before, a kitten, bit never the size ae the wan that hid attacked him. Efter soaring o’er the slates ae the crofthoose, he spotted movement. The cat wis lounging wae its front paws crossed o’er each other oan the edge ae the corrugated shed roof. It
wis looking up at him, its tail swishing fae side tae side. He took another quick glance back at the building, before catching the thermal again, gaining height, tae continue oan his journey north across the barren, desolate rocky landscape tae the nest oan the cliffs ae Clachtoll, leaving Canisp and Suilven behind him, almost hidden in the dark shadows ae the black leaden sky.
Chapter Six
“And whit’s that supposed tae be?” Johnboy demanded tae know, cursing himsel fur no anticipating something like this.
“Whit dis it look like?” she replied offhandedly, trying tae make it sound as if the object ae his attention could’ve always been there, fur aw anywan knew.
“Well, Ah know it’s a typewriter, bit whit’s it fur?”
“That, Johnboy, is fur you…call it a present…fae me and the dedicated staff ae Lochinver doctor’s surgery, tae the Highlands maist notorious author,” she replied lightly, staunin oan the other side ae the table fae him, as the pair ae them looked doon, studying the contraption, sitting there, looking totally oot ae place, as Mr Hopkins gied it a wee tentative, suspicious sniff. “It’s been sitting in a cupboard collecting dust since they introduced they new fancy electric wans.”
“Bit, Ah hivnae started writing anything…yet” he admitted lamely, glancing suspiciously across at her.
“Exactly. That’s why Ah used the word notorious…notorious fur talking aboot writing nothing aboot everything. Noo’s yer chance tae get oan wae it and prove tae the masses, including yersel, that ye actually kin write if ye only put yer mind tae it.”
“Ach, you’re bloody well at it, so ye ur,” he snorted dismissively, wae a shake ae that heid ae his.
“Whit?”
“Ah don’t know how tae type…Ah widnae even know where tae start,” he scoffed wae a flick ae his haun, as the cat decided it wis safe enough and started rubbing the side ae his chin against the edge ae it.
“Ah’ll teach ye. It’s easy wance ye get started.”
Silence.
“Whit noo?” she asked, trying tae contain her exasperation, while bracing hersel fur the fight tae start proper.
“Fur your information, Ah wisnae intending tae type…Ah’ve awready telt ye. Ah brought a couple ae thick, lined writing pads wae me fur that. Remember?”
“Did ye? So, where ur they then?” she wanted tae know, looking aboot, starting tae piss him right aff noo.
“Ah don’t know…somewhere in wan ae the boxes up in the spare bedroom.”
“Ah’ve been through maist ae the boxes up there. Ah never came across any lined pads.”
“Aw, fur Christ’s sake. Excuse me fur being Mr Furgetful…Mrs Perfect,” he retorted. “Ah meant wan ae the boxes through beside the washing machine.”
“Ah never came across any lined books through there either.”
“Believe you me, they’re aboot here somewhere,” the cornered rat harrumphed dismissively.
“Look, furget the writing pads. Use the typewriter. It means ye’ll be able tae see how the book will look as ye’re writing it, so ye will…like a real author,” she added fur good measure.
Silence.
“See you.”
“See me, whit?”
“Ah’m no sure aboot this, y’know,” he scowled, annoyed at himsel, still wondering why he hidnae seen a move like this coming.
“Ye’re no sure ae whit?”
“You. Forcing ma…”
“Haun?” she interrupted, wan eyebrow lifted.
“Naw, no ma haun,” he snipped back at her. “It’s you…forcing me intae starting something that Ah’m no quite ready fur…”
“So, ye wurnae ready and noo ye ur,” she informed him haughtily, starting tae sound like that ma ae his.
“Look, it disnae work like that, so it disnae.”
“Whit disnae work like that?”
“This…you…an effing typewriter wae keys oan it.”
“Why?” she challenged him, folding her erms across her chest, fair chuffed that she’d managed tae get in there quick and put him oan the defensive first, fur a change, which didnae happen very often these days.
“Why? Because it’s aw up here, so it is. That’s why,” he mocked her, tapping the side ae his heid wae his forefinger, looking at her the way Ernest Hemmingway probably looked at aw they stupid mere mortals, who didnae understaun how great authors like him went aboot their business.
“So, aw ye need tae dae is let the juices flow doon in tae they idle fingers ae yours and away ye go.”
“See, ye jist don’t get it, so ye don’t. Fur a start, Ah’d need paper…something tae type oan,” he hit her wae, changing tack quickly, looking tae send her packing before this shite goat oot ae haun.
“Ah’ve brought a packet hame wae me…in fact, two packets…jist in case ye run oot.”
“And whit happens if Ah get stuck when ye’re at work…like, if Ah cannae figure oot how tae work the bloody thing, eh?”
“Ah goat an instruction book that came wae it as well,” she hit back triumphantly, fighting tae keep the glee oot ae that voice ae hers. “Jist in case ye goat stuck…when Ah’m at work, like,” she mimicked, trying no tae smile, knowing how much ae a sensitive artist he could be when cornered.
“Typewriter ribbon,” he hauf shouted in that ‘Goat ye!’ tone ae voice, the wan that he always hit her wae, when he wis aiming fur the knockoot blow. “Whit happens if Ah run oot or the bloody thing snaps, eh?”
Tae show her that he wisnae oan the defensive and tae gie him a wee breather while he collected his thoughts, he gingerly reached across and fingered the white enamelled keys wae the pads ae his fingertips, trying no tae appear too smug, as Mr Hopkins adoringly looked up at him, admiration beaming oot ae they scarred, beady eyes ae his.
“Whit, ye mean these?” she sang pleasantly, smiling, making it sound like an afterthought, as she dipped her haun intae her bag, which wis sitting oan the table and lifting oot two individual packets ae typewriter ribbon wheels.
Silence.
“Right, you’re bloody at it, so ye ur!” he cursed, snatching they fingers ae his back aff the keys.
“Whit?” she exclaimed, sounding hurt, eyes widening, exaggerating her disapproval that he’d even think fur wan second that she wis trying tae get wan o’er oan him.
“This,” he growled wae another dismissive sweep ae that haun ae his. “Ye’re jist trying tae bloody noise me up, so ye ur.”
“Noise ye up?” she hooted in wonder, aw pretence and subtly thrown tae the wind noo, sounding like the real jezebel that he knew she wis. “Naw, Johnboy, Ah’m jist trying tae help ye oot…let’s call it a wee bit ae encouragement, if it’ll make yer conscience feel better.”
“Ah’m bloody well telling ye, ye jist don’t understaun…”
“Whit?” she demanded, cutting in, mid-sentence, failing miserably tae conceal her glee noo.
“Writing’s no like that…ye cannae jist…”
“Naw, Johnboy,” she swiftly retorted, interrupting that shite ae his again. “Writing is like that. Ah hiv tae sit and write reports aw the time oan a daily basis. It’s easy wance ye get started. Aw ye hiv tae dae is get that heid ae yers doon and get oan wae it, so ye dae.”
“Being an author is different fae writing some stupid report, so it is.”
“How wid you know? The only report you ever wrote wis a hunner lines saying, ‘I must not do,’ fur upsetting poor Olive Oyl, back in St David’s.”
“Five hunner,” he reminded her.
“Eh?”
“She hit me wae fifty extra every time Ah upset her, up tae a maximum ae five hunner in any wan day, the angry auld witch,” he confessed, remembering painfully and automatically flexing they fingers ae his, as the baith ae them couldnae help themsels and burst oot laughing.
“Look, Ah’m telling ye right noo, Johnboy Taylor, this is crunch time, so it is. Ah’m no prepared tae hiv an idle man moping aboot the hoose aw day while Ah’m oot working. It’s ma day aff the morra. Ah picked up a box ae me
ssages fae the Spar that’s oot in the boot ae the car, including plenty ae eggs, breid and milk. As ae the morra, you’re back tae school. There will be nae music oan the go either. Ah’m gonnae sit here aw day…and night, if need be, and teach you how tae operate that typewriter, whether ye like it or no. Five hunner lines?” she spat dismissively. “The problem wae Miss Hacket and aw they other teachers, wis that she wis jist far too lenient wae aw youse wee manky-arsed toe-rags.”
“Ah beg your pardon,” he accused her gruffly, exaggerating how hurt he wis at being called a toe-rag.
“Ah’m telling ye, Johnboy, that lug ae yours is gonnae get clouted every time ye attempt tae put up a pathetic excuse as tae why somewan as special as you cannae be arsed learning tae type,” she warned him, demonstrating the violent intent tae come, by raising that right haun ae hers, as the baith ae them laughed and the cat rolled oan tae his back, mooching fur a wee scratch ae they sensitive nipples ae his.
Chapter Seven
“Now then, gentlemen, we’ve come to the last agenda item of tonight’s meeting. Number 11. The refurbishment and extension of The Lochinver Memorial Hall,” Heckie MacLeod, chairman ae the recently formed Lochinver Community Council said, looking roond the faces at the table, before continuing. “As everyone knows, the ground on which The Memorial Hall has sat for the past one hundred and fifty years, was taken over in March of last year by Assynt Development Holdings. Of course, the news that the land was to be sold to the highest bidder came as a surprise and dare I say, quite a shock, not only to myself, but of course to everyone sitting around this table. Fortunately for us, and the community as a whole, the company that purchased the plot is owned by the family trust of our esteemed treasurer, Mr Robert Hamilton, Laird Of Lochinver. I think it’s fair to say that after the community failed to come up with the seven thousand pounds required to purchase the extensive grounds from The Vestey’s Trust by the deadline, having a local family purchase this prime development plot, rather than some central belt development company, whose only interest would have been to make a profit, we as a community, are indeed most fortunate,” he intoned, nodding across tae the treasurer, as everywan roond the table showed their appreciation by rattling the tap ae the table wae their knuckles. “Perhaps you’d like to say a few words, Mr Hamilton, sir?”
