The Incredible Rise of a Gorbals Gangster

by Colin MacFarlane

“What’s that?” Johnny enquired,

  “Green kryptonite. When he faces that, it makes him weak and could even kill him,” Joseph said in a matter of fact manner.

  Johnny instantly thought of McCoy,” Some people are like that. They can make you weak then kill you. The Gorbals is full of the bampots.”

  Joseph laughed, “You’re right enough. Superman widnae last two minutes in the Gorbals. There’s more baddies here than in any comic.”

  Friday morning soon came and Johnny turned up at the parish house at the agreed time of 9am. He was greeted at the door by the priest who said “a slight problem had arisen with an elderly widow” and Johnny should carry on with the painting while he had an audience

  Johnny got on with the work in hand, painting the stairs. The priest went into the main living room with the elderly woman. While he painted, he could hear their conversation clearly.

  The widow said to the priest, “Father, I just want to go to Heaven, but I need to better myself. What can I do?

  The priest consoled her in a soft Irish accent, “Be a good Catholic and go to mass as much as you can. I am sure you will be ok, you look like Heaven material to me!” She giggled at the remark. But Johnny could tell it was the laugh of a nervous uncertain elderly woman. She replied, “Oh thanks, father, another step away from Hell. Mind you, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions!”

  The priest consoled her further, sure he was a spiritual expert, “Just keep on the road to righteousness and you’ll be fine. In fact, you will end up dancing in heaven with the angels.”

  In a way, Johnny had been a bit disappointed by the old widow’s revelations he had hoped she had had some scandal or even a few masturbation tales to tell.

  After she left, Johnny got stuck into the painting and found it quite exhilarating. It was as if he was painting his troubles away. He even began to sing some Irish Catholic songs, “Hail Gloria Saint Patrick, the saint of our isle….” He worked laboriously all day with two short breaks for tea and was finished at 5pm. The robbery would have been over by then and there is no way he could be connected to it.

  When he finished painting the priest looked at his work and said, “That’s a fine job you’ve done my boy, well done. I am proud of you, the Catholic Church is proud of you and the Pope, if he knew, would be proud of you.” He then made a sign of the cross and blessed him.

  Johnny headed along Ballater Street euphoric that he had been blessed, he needed all the luck he could get. Also, crucially, his alibi had been sorted, it was cast iron.

  But what about the robbery? Had those numpties managed to pull it off, or had it unravelled like a ball of wool?

  Chapter 3

  ROBBERY

  Johnny had checked the TV and local news for any mention of the robbery – nothing. Maybe it had not gone ahead and the numpties had backed out. He was just ready to head to kip at 10pm when suddenly a newsflash appeared on STV. The announcer had a grim solemn face – the kind of face they wear when royalty or a famous person has died. The newscaster was a pretty young woman aged about 25 with long black hair.

  He was sure he had met her somewhere and perhaps even shagged her after visiting one of the more upmarket dancehalls in Glasgow.

  Maybe it was the Barrowland Ballroom. As she talked in posh broadcaster tones he was convinced it was the little educated bird he had met at the Barrowland, a few years back, who told him she was studying English at Glasgow University.

  After a few dances and a winching session they had sex in one of the dark lanes in the Gallowgate. It was a quick stand up shag and how she moaned in her middle class way!

  On the telly she looked nervous and shuffled her papers in front of her as if she was dealing with a very important story. She continued, “A Jewish businessman was shot on the way to the bank in the Gorbals this afternoon. It is believed he fought off several attackers who tried to grab a bag of money. It is thought the bag contained a week’s takings of around £10,000.

  “The businessman, Mr Ivan Solomon, aged 70, is an ex concentration camp internee. He came to Glasgow in the early 1950s and started up a successful wholesale business in the Gorbals area of Glasgow.

  “He is said to be in a serious condition and fighting for his life in the Southern General Hospital, Glasgow.”

  She was then handed another piece of paper and added, “News just in. Police have released a statement saying several men have been arrested in connection with the robbery. They are being held at South Portland Street police station in the Gorbals.”

  The camera panned in. It was definitely that wee bird from the Barrowland! But then the shock of the news sunk in. Four arrested. Who got done? Who got away? Johnny went over to the kitchen sink and threw some cold water over his face.

  “Hey maw just going out tae get a Daily Record,” Johnny said to his mother who had also been watching TV with his brother.

  “Be careful what you’re doing Johnny, there’s a lot of dodgy people out there at this time of night in the Gorbals. Some of them have even got guns now according tae that report.”

  Johnny smiled and shrugged, “Maw, who would want tae shoot me? They’d probably miss anyway – ah’m too fast for those bampots!”

  Johnny’s wee brother Joseph laughed, “Aye, faster than Superman and a speeding bullet!”

  Johnny left the top floor flat in Crown Street and hurried down the tenement stairs. Nearby, Peter the paper man sold the Daily Record from 10pm every night, Monday to Friday. In Glasgow you could buy an early edition of the next day’s paper at that time.

  Peter, a shabby looking man in his 60s, wearing a greatcoat and bunnet, stood there come rain or shine hawking the paper surrounded by his nightly cronies, mostly old men of a similar age. They loved to stand around, gossip, and argue the night away.

  When Johnny approached Peter there were about 15 old men “the bunnet brigade” milling about. Johnny asked for the paper and Peter replied, “Terrible carry on at Gorbals Cross today. An auld Jewish guy got shot. It’s even made the front page headlines.”

  Johnny looked at the headline: JEWISH BUSINESSMAN FIGHTING FOR LIFE. SUSPECTS ARRESTED.

  Johnny shook his head in bemusement but feigned ignorance. “Aye, you’re right Peter, terrible carry on. Any idea who the guys are?”

  Peter nodded and gave Johnny one of his glares. He had a knack for knowing everything that was happening in the Gorbals. “A wee bird told me that a couple of your pals might be involved.”

  One of his bunnet brigade chimed in, “Ah heard on the grapevine that one of them got away. The polis are still looking for him.”

  Johnny kept up his pretence of ignorance, “This place is getting like Chicago.”

  Peter replied, “It’s worse than Chicago, all the young guys here think they’re Glasgow’s answer to Al Capone, but they’re just cardboard gangsters.”

  Johnny, clutching his paper, ran back up the tenement stairs with gusto. A thousand thoughts came into his head. But two questions lingered in his mind. Who got caught? Who got away?

  He on his bed and sighed. It was a sigh of relief that he had not joined the hapless gang of Gorbals robbers. He put his head on the pillow and he could hear violent shouting from drunks outside staggering along Crown Street. “Ya dirty swine ye. Ah’ll kick yir baws.”

  In other parts of Scotland people listened to birds chirping in the trees or the sound of waves on the seashore. But in the Gorbals there was only the noise of drunks whose lives had gone down the drain.

  Johnny closed his eyes and dreamed of better days.

  The next morning, he was awoken abruptly by loud noises.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! “Open up! Police!” Johnny at first thought it was a dream or part of a nightmare. His mother, looking distraught, shouted “Get ready quick son, the polis are banging at the door.” Johnny leapt out of bed and quickly put his gear on. But then he could hear the door being kicked in and was faced in the lobby with six big policemen who rushed at him, bundling him to the floor. />
  “Fuck off, filth,” he shouted and spat at them. It was quite a mighty spit. The yellow gob cascaded over several of the officers. “Bastard!” one of them shouted as he wiped the mucus from his face.

  Another policeman shouted, “Johnny McGrath we are arresting you on suspicion of armed robbery.” He then gave the usual polis patter of not having to say anything, blah, blah, blah. As he lay on the floor Johnny thought talk is cheap, but polis talk sounded cheaper.

  For a few moments he felt frightened but this gave way to anger. He had been right, they were determined to fit him up. A fall guy for the numpties!

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” he shouted, “Ah’ve done nothing, you’ve got the wrong man.”

  They handcuffed him and marched him out of the flat

  Johnny’s mother was crying. She wailed, “Oh, what have ye done now son?” Joseph just stood there in his pyjamas grimacing; had seen worse things happen to Superman in one of his numerous DC comics.

  Johnny was bundled down the tenement stairs. Outside in Crown Street a big Black Maria was waiting for him. Although it was early morning a large crowd had formed. As he was being thrown into the police van he heard a female shouting, “Johnny! Johnny! Leave him alone, ya polis bastards!” He looked over his shoulder, it was Cathy with tears and mascara running down her cheeks.

  For a few moments his anger subsided and a warm feeling came over him. At last he knew that she really loved him.

  He was taken to Glasgow Central Police Station, near Glasgow Cross, told to remove his belt and shoelaces and put in a cell.

  The cell was a depressing affair. A little concrete bench, a rancid looking, stinking toilet bowl and a small barred window that had meagre sunlight coming through.

  So, this was how innocent men ended up. Hung drawn and quartered for doing fuck all!

  A turnkey looked through the peep hole every 15 minutes to check on him. “Go and fuck yourself” Johnny shouted,” And get me a blanket, it’s freezing in here.”

  After about an hour in the psychological wilderness the cell door opened and two plain clothed CID men came in.

  “Hi Johnny,” the bigger of the two said in a friendly voice. Johnny thought he had the same patter as a Gorbals social worker. The other CID guy was smaller and seemed to have a twitch when he spoke in a harsh voice. Johnny knew the game they were playing. The tall guy was Mr Nice and the smaller fellow Mr Nasty.

  Mr Nasty said in an aggressive tone, “Look, ya bastard, we know who you are, a chib man who takes liberties. But if you co-operate with us it will make your life a lot easier.”

  Johnny decided to play them at their own game.” Awright, I’ll co-operate with you. Ah’ve got nothing tae hide.”

  The CID men both said unison, “Good.”

  Johnny was led from the cell to a nearby interview room. He sat down at a table with Mr Nice and Mr Nasty facing him. There was a policewoman sitting nearby taking notes. It made Johnny feel important. A somebody in a land of nobodies.

  The interview began with Mr Nice. “We have information you were the mastermind behind the robbery.”

  “The mastermind behind a robbery? Johnny replied, “The last robbery ah committed was when ah took two bob from ma brother’s piggy bank.”

  Mr Nasty began twitching at the insolence, “We know you are the fucker behind it. We had an undercover officer watching you.”

  Johnny replied nonchalantly to wind Mr Nasty up further, “An undercover polis? What under the blankets in my bed?”

  Mr Nasty began to twitch even more, “Don’t be funny, ya c**t. We had a good eye on you when you met up with your gang in the Mally Arms planning the robbery. You were looking at the plans on a table in the lounge.”

  Johnny replied, “I popped in for a pint of piss, met the boys by chance in the lounge.”

  Mr Nice grunted but Mr Nasty got angrier, “Look, smart arse, we can do this the hard way or the easy way. Which way do you want?”

  “A Milky Way,” Johnny replied.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Johnny explained “Ah’m starving, nae breakfast. Pop out to the shops and get me a Milky Way.

  This was the comment that broke the camel’s back, Mr Nasty began to twitch at a tremendous rate and he made a fist as if he was going to strike Johnny. He would have done so but remembered the policewoman was in the room talking notes.

  “I’ll fucking Milky Way you, sonny boy,” Mr Nasty exclaimed. Johnny knew he had gone too far and tried to diffuse the situation. “The bampots that you caught red handed are the guys you should be turning the pressure on, no’ me. So, charge me or let me go, twitchy.”

  Mr Nice and Mr Nasty left the interview room and Johnny was taken back to his cell. A couple of hours later the turnkey opened the door and said, “You’re free to go.” No apologies, nothing.

  Johnny walked out of the police station towards the Gorbals but he was surprised that Mr Nice and Mr Nasty had released him. When he got back to his house it all became clear.

  His mother was there with a big smile on her face, “Awright, son, so you are a free man then?”

  “Aye maw, ah can’t understand why they let me go so easily.”

  His mother laughed, “I’ll tell you why. I went round to the priest’s house and we both went to the police station and said on the day of the robbery you had spent the whole day painting his parish house. We also had an elderly widow who said she saw you at the house at the time of the robbery.”

  “That’s true maw,” Johnny replied.

  “It really is a miracle, backed up by the Pope’s right-hand man in the Gorbals!” his mother joked. His quick release did seem like divine intervention, but in reality it was his Gorbals’ street cunning and forward planning that had performed the miracle.

  Outside in Crown Street, there was a large poster declaring “Help the police.” Someone had written in a felt pen below it “Kick fuck out of yourself!”

  Chapter 4

  WANTED MAN

  He needed to know the full story behind the robbery. And when you are out and about, you are in with a shout. As soon as he left his tenement there were a lot of familiar faces around. But none of them would be able to furnish the information he needed.

  He turned the corner and coming out of Murray’s newsagents in Old Rutherglen Road was Tam the Bam, a guy in his 40s, who was always in the know. “Hi Tam, what’s the score wi’ the robbery? Who was involved and who was lucky enough to get away?” Tam took a deep draw of his fag and said, “The usual suspects, Mad Brian, Alex, Peter and Irish Chris. There were two other guys, a fella I don’t really know, Joe McCoy and a getaway driver called Sam McGlinchy. He’s got a reputation for being a great car thief, he was the one that got away, and mind you he did have the title getaway driver!”

  “The polis have been all over the Gorbals, day and night, searching his regular haunts, the pubs and bookies and aw that, but ah heard he was hiding out in Castlemilk.”

  Castlemilk was a huge sprawling estate, a few miles away, and would be an ideal place to hide if the police were after you. Johnny thought of Sam McGlinchy, he did not know him that well and they had only met a few times. Sam was a baby-faced guy in his 20s with fast patter who had built up a reputation from the age of 14 for stealing cars from all over the place.

  He had once pulled up in a shiny new Volvo and asked Johnny and his pal if they fancied “A wee day trip to the Ayr races.” Johnny had been game for it but his pal refused point blank saying he had something on and didn’t have the time to go all the way to Ayr.

  As he thought of this the two policemen who he had encountered before at Gorbals Cross approached. Their footsteps seemed once again to be in synchronisation. The taller of the two, the officer with the Highland accent, looked Johnny in the eye and said, “Ah heard you got lifted for the robbery of the auld Jew. But they let you go after your priest friend came on the scene.”

  Johnny laughed, “Aye, your bastard CID pals tried tae fit me up but ah had a roc
k solid alibi.”

  The other policeman joined in, “You must have known something about it, McGrath, because you’re a right fly man.”

  Johnny winced, “Aye, too fly, too shrewd tae be fitted up by you people.”

  He walked off showing the policemen an air of contempt. He racked his brains, who the hell would know where McGlinchy was hiding?

  Suddenly it came to him, McGlinchy’s cousin, Rab Buchanan, who was a Corporation bus conductor. He lived in Eglinton Street, not far from the Laurieston pub. Johnny went to the tenement and knocked on the door. Buchanan’s wife, a stout lady in a bathing robe and curlers, looked nervous, “Rab’s no’ here, he’s on the buses all day, number 48 service. Wait around for a while at the bus stop outside the Coliseum Cinema and you might just catch him on one.” She gave a nervous, cough before saying, “What dae ye want him for anyway?”

  Johnny played it cool, “Oh nothing really, just tae catch up about the auld days.”

  She was suspicious, closing the door with a bang as he headed to the bus stop. Johnny did not really know her that well but one of his pals said that she had a kind face, the kind of face you would like to kick in.

  There was something in her manner that made him suspicious, was she hiding something from him? Or was it just that time of the month?

  Johnny had known Rab Buchanan for years. They had often played football in the backcourts of Thistle Street. Buchanan had been an excellent football player and even had trials for his beloved team Glasgow Celtic. But a knee injury at 17, and turning to lager, brought his aspiring career to an end. In fact when Buchanan went out, people often reminded him he could have been the next George Best. Johnny laughed to himself, “The next George Best, when it comes tae the bevvy!”

  It wasn’t a bad day to wait for a number 48 bus. At least it wasn’t raining, it was a bit breezy and the sun was out. There was a 48 bus about every 20 minutes. Johnny waited patiently. The first bus, no sign of Buchanan. The second, no sign, the third, no sign. He was about to give up when he saw another 48 coming his way with the front declaring the destination as Househillwood. It was several miles away, a good half hour journey. Like Castlemilk, it was a huge sprawling council estate which accommodated the overspill of tenement dwellers from Glasgow.