The House: Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story (Parliament House Books Book 5)

by John Mayer

  Everyone was talking about having seen the Bishop of Glasgow arrive in a chauffeur driven car and watching aghast as Young Father Flaherty closed and locked the chapel doors. He never locked them, so the Bishop - who never even gave anyone a wave - must have been making more than a social call. In no time at all after he’d left, the Declarator made in Parliament House renouncing the consecration was on everyone’s lips.

  As he pushed open the double doors of the Calton Bar, McLane thought he could smell the despondency. One of the corners of the hand-made poster in the window saying ‘Calton Residents’ Association - Join Here’ was hanging off making the thing look very sorry for itself. The two girls hired for the gathering were gone and once again, Lenny was alone behind the bar. Right at the back of the pub leaning against the wall, Auld Faither had tilted his cap to cushion his head. His eyes were closed and he must’ve been asleep because he didn’t make any sign of welcome to McLane. Over in his alcove, Tucker Queen was in, as was Arab. But apart from only five or six others and himself, that was the extent of Lenny’s business for the day. For a Saturday morning, the place could be described as ‘dead’. Even Lenny’s welcome was lacklustre:

  ‘Aye, Brogan. What’ll you have? The steak pies are yesterday’s, in case you’re interested. But the gravy’s today’s. Joanne and Ababuo away, are they?’

  McLane nodded as he leaned on the bar and looked around: ‘Yeah. A long weekend in bloody Dublin this time. You’d think I was made of money. A pie and a pint please, Lenny.’

  Lenny let the remark about how much a weekend in Dublin for his wife and daughter might be costing McLane slip by. Brogan wouldn’t miss the money and probably didn’t even know how much he was worth in the first place. After pulling the pint and touching each steak pie with the back of his fingers, Lenny chose the hottest one and even went to the trouble of wrapping a fork in a napkin. As he took McLane’s money, he slapped his forehead:

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Jean and Bella were in earlier.’

  ‘Jean and Bella? In here?’

  ‘Aye. They both got letters they had to sign for, but they said they didn’t quite understand what they were about. So they handed them in to me to pass on to you. They’re from you-know-where.’

  Picking down the two brown envelopes from behind the big bar clock, Lenny smoothed the wrinkles out of the missives which had both been opened:

  ‘Do you want me to put these back till after you’ve eaten your pie, Brogan?’

  Waving at his open mouth in an attempt to cool his mouthful of steak and pastry, McLane shook his head. When he’d swallowed, he swigged his beer, put down his fork and slipped on his reading glasses. Knowing the letters would be identical, he took out the one sent to his aunty Bella:

  ‘Dear Ms McLane, We write to inform you that at a meeting of the Council Planning Sub-Committee it was decided that due to the unfortunate events at the last public meeting and in the interests of keeping public expenditure to a minimum, there will be no need for a public consultation on the next step of procedure. You may have noticed that the Council’s workmen have been in your area making marks on buildings. These are nothing to worry about and have been painted on simply to assist those who need precise measurements for civil engineering purposes. The decision mentioned above is a discretionary one pursuant to the Civic Procedures and Processes (Scotland) Act 1968 Section 9 (2) (d) Schedule ‘F’. Should you wish to do so, we advise you take such legal advice as you please: but remember that the Council’s decision is final.’

  Signed:

  pp for Chairman of Planning Committee

  ‘Ms Roylance’ Secretary to Planning Sub-Committee.

  When McLane put down the letter and returned to his lunch, Lenny asked: ‘Is it somethin’ we fight, Brogan?’

  ‘No, Lenny, it’s nothing. Just procedure. I was expecting something like this.’

  Leaning over the bar, Lenny took this opportunity to speak privately to their top man: ‘Ah, good. So, it’s all part of the plan. That’s great. Erm, I saw the painted arrows everywhere. That must mean they’re getting’ ready to start movin’ people out of their houses. I wonder how long it’ll be before we know who’s first to go. Wow, what a thought, eh? So, what’s the next step in the plan, Brogan?’

  Lenny was a nice guy and everybody liked him, but he did like to show off from behind the bar. If he had a juicy tit-bit of news, then he’d wait till the moment was right and - one by one - tell every man in the bar; privately of course.

  Lifting his plate and his drink, McLane nodded his head up and down quite deeply. Turning towards Tucker, he swallowed a piece of steak and replied: ‘Oh it’s all legal, Lenny. All legal. So I’d need to send you to law school for a few years before you’d understand. I just need a word with Tucker over there. The pies are fine, by the way. The gravy’s great.’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 21

  Mr C passed the servitor in the corridor without so much as acknowledging his existence. In the lift, he looked again into his leather bag. His folded royal blue velvet gown was right at the bottom. On top of the gown lay a long black tin box containing his orange sash and tie: the top of the box was marked LOL Bridgeton in gold lettering. The one-page intimation from the Scottish Legal Aid Board that Mrs Jean Mularkey and Mrs Isabella McLane had been granted funding to oppose Statutory Compulsory Demolition Order GLW/CAL/DEMO 2018 was safely tucked into a side compartment.

  Just as every day his arrival and departure time never varied, every first of the month his routine never varied. Even his pace along the corridor, coming out of the lift and walking across Glasgow’s George Square, never varied. Mr C didn’t just like routine; he lived his every waking moment by it. He’d realised from an early age, that only by tightly regulating his life in that way, could he wait out the many years it would take to achieve the plan he’d formed lying awake burning with anger one very long night, long ago.

  If the bus taking him from City Council HQ in George Square to Olympia Street in Bridgeton was late, he’d adjust his routine by deducting exactly the same number of minutes from the next phase: and roast the members of the Transport Committee the following morning.

  Along the way, from the top of the bus he would notice if a shop window was unlit whereas the month before it had been lit. He noticed if the traffic lights took longer than usual or if the drains were failing to cope with heavy winter rain. Mr C noticed everything, because the way to success for his life-plan lay in knowing about the little things that made people’s lives that bit easier or harder. That was how to get elected and stay elected.

  As always, he was first to arrive. As the bus drove away, he checked the condition of the building across the street. Had there been any significant damage, then of course he would’ve been sent a report. But he nonetheless liked to check for himself. In truth he liked to bathe in its austere stone, iron barred windows and castellated roof. He checked the nine small dark panes of glass on either side of the high arched doorway. All panes and their protective iron bars set into the red sandstone were intact. Above the roped-stone archway, the larger smoky black panes in the upper windows were similarly intact. And of course, the words carved into the stonework proudly saying ‘Olympic House’ could never be erased. After completing his inspection of the imposing frontage, Mr C always brought himself to attention as he raised his eyes to the flag of Her Majesty’s United Kingdom fluttering high in the cold evening breeze.

  There had been a time when everyone in Bridgeton either was or knew someone who was a member. Some even put their unborn child’s name down in order for them to get seniority pro-tem over their friends when their time came. But although times had changed to some extent, it was still true that in the West of Scotland, the brotherhood of the Loyal Orange Order had their hands firmly on the levers of political power.

  Alone upstairs at his desk writing up last month’s Minutes, from the corner of his eye he noticed the first set of headlights pull around as a car took its spot in the car pa
rk at the rear. Seconds later came another two; one right behind the other. After signing by his title ‘Master of Lodge’ at the bottom, he lifted the blotter and rolled it hard over the ink. He could now hear the others chattering in the atrium below. The cut glass accents of tonight’s guests from Edinburgh were well known to him and Mr C was secretly very glad to hear them.

  In order of seniority, they stood before him. Seven men all wearing orange sashes draped over their shoulders and ties bearing their own Orange Lodge number. Passing along the line, he shook each hand in turn: their thumbs touching his top knuckle while he splayed his four fingers into two and tapped their pulse points. Up in this grand candlelit room, around them, the hallmarks were indeed impressive. Highest of course, was a replica of the Crown worn by King William of Orange as he inspected the troops at Oldbridge, County Meath in Ireland in 1690. Below it, the purple arch over the lectern proudly sported the Union Jack and Loyal Orange Lodge flags. The lectern itself bore the massive leather bound bible given to them in 1798: the same one that was read by Grand Master James Wilson before the Battle of Diamond against a ragbag of bog fenian bastards. Opened at the Book of Habakkuk, that great bible symbolised that those who came through the front door and up the ranks of this Lodge spoke the one evangelical truth.

  Lesser items too adorned the walls. The sash presented by the Rev. Ian Paisley on his visit nearly forty years before hung in a glass frame. Framed too was the photo of members of the Military LOL taken before the Battle of the Somme. Less conspicuous was the plaque presented by a Glasgow Chief of Police over a hundred years before and bearing a silver heart engraved with the name and membership number of every one of his successors right up to the present day.

  With every man now adorned in his orange fringed sash, proceedings could begin. Taking his place up three steps and standing immediately under the arch, the Master announced:

  ‘Before me I see loyal Marksmen, in ranks purple and black. Having shaken all of them by the hand, I now testify them to be men of stout heart and true faith. Brothers. To our Brother from the Houses of Parliament Loyal Orange Lodge in London I say welcome. To our Brother from Glasgow Central LOL I say welcome. To our Brothers from Parliament House LOL I say welcome. And to our Brothers who have come from Zurich and Geneva LOL I say welcome. Welcome all. Now, as I have spake the truth to God above, you may spake the truth to me.’

  With sashes folded away and whisky glasses in hand, around the table the atmosphere lightened. At the end sitting in the widest and tallest oak chair, the Master opened the Agenda:

  ‘Brothers. May I take it that the Minutes of last month’s meeting are agreed as true and accurate?’

  The three Brothers who’d been at that meeting nodded their agreement.

  ‘Thank you. Tonight we have only one item on the agenda and that is of course the matter of how to handle these bog fenians in the Calton. I should say for the benefit of our Brothers from Zurich and Geneva that our Brothers in the British Government in London have already approved of all aspects of the motorway extension. However, these fenian scum seek to stand in the way of the Mall Development aspect of our plans.’

  Without having to be told, each guest knew why he’d been invited and what his part would be. The Brother from Glasgow Central LOL would be the Sheriff Court Judge who’d hear the case which would soon be brought by McLane on behalf of his fenian whore relative and her pal next door. One of the Brothers from Edinburgh who was a QC would be instructed as legal counsel to oppose McLane in the Glasgow Court. Sitting in the same court, as the assigned judge for local authority orders, the other Brother would hear and rule on any appeals brought to Parliament House. The Brother from London would act as liaison with the Brother Chief of Glasgow Police and if necessary, the Brother Lord Advocate in Edinburgh. And last but not least, the Brothers from Zurich and Geneva would provide the investment funds which would make every man at this table considerably richer than he already was.

  After only about ten minutes of discussion, the Master rose and invited the others to do the same. In silence, they gathered around a black iron cauldron and linked arms. From his bag the Master brought out the single sheet of paper bearing at the top the words Scottish Legal Aid Board and in the text the reference to Statutory Compulsory Demolition Order GLW/CAL/DEMO 2018. Pinching the corner of the paper between finger and thumb, as though to touch it any more would contaminate him, with his free hand the Master flicked a switch. Through holes around the middle, red hot flames shot into the cauldron. The Master raised his eyes to Heaven, whispered a few personal words and then looked down to his Brothers in arms:

  ‘Brothers, as I spake the truth to God above, you will now spake the truth to me. What shall I do with this?’

  As one, the Brothers growled: ‘Burn it in Hell as they shall burn in Hell who oppose us. Burn it! Burn it! Burn it!

  ~~~o~~~

  End of Part Three

  Part Four : A Brotherhood of Strangers

  Chapter 22

  The new expected reality of life as they knew it coming to an end was inevitably seeping into every consciousness. They’d formed the Calton Residents' Association and Brogan had said he’d fight this Demolition Order in court in any way he could; but it was written all over his face that he didn’t hold out much hope. After the green arrows had inflicted the first scars on their buildings, the children walked more slowly to school. Those men without work gathered for longer on the street corners. In every house in the Calton, less coal now burned in the grate. In Black’s the Butcher’s shop the women bought less meat but more potatoes and onions from wee Isa Kennedy, the Grocer’s widow. In the bakery, Big Tommy Sorkin had laid off his apprentice: the price of cooked meat pies being an expense too far when surely there were bigger unforeseen expenses coming.

  Lenny, of course felt the pinch most deeply. Glasgow City Council had raised their property taxes year upon year without a care as to where the money might come from to pay them. And to make matters worse, the Council and the police were now working hand in glove to find those who made cheap home-made hooch and punish those who sold it.

  As the late afternoon rain hammered down the big front window, obscuring the frontage of the Calton Bar, inside it felt cold and, for the first time in their lives, some even thought the atmosphere unwelcoming. When someone opened the double doors for a moment too long, several men turned to scold him for letting in the cold. With one nod of apology, a stranger pushed the doors shut behind him, rubbed his freezing hands together and let most of the rain falling from his coat form a puddle near the door.

  As Lenny pulled the man’s pint and put the last one of yesterday’s pies on a plate, he eyed this man who seemed to be looking around at the few faces playing dominoes and reading the racing paper. Knowing perfectly well that he’d never seen this guy in his life before, Lenny asked:

  ‘Local, are ye?’

  When the guy grabbed his pie and took a hearty bite, Lenny could tell that this was a working man well used to being in pubs that sold pints of strong beer and hot steak pies to other working men:

  ‘Local? Oh aye. Ye’ could say local. Not far, ye’ know.’

  Nodding silently in return, Lenny’s face told every man in the bar that this stranger had just told them his first lie.

  ‘Awful day out there. It’s so dark, it’s more like night. Have ye’ come far?’

  ‘Naw. Ah, just got off the bus at the wrong stop. The rain’s that bad I couldn’t see out the bloody window.’

  Every local from the Calton could tell in hail, rain or snow, exactly where they were in the city and the idea that rain on a bus window might obscure their view to the extent that they’d miss their bus stop in the Calton, was simply preposterous. Figuring that he was the Calton Residents' Association front line in getting information out of this guy, Lenny danced on:

  ‘Ye’ll have heard about what the Council’s doin’.’

  Between mouthfuls, the guy replied: ‘Well, aye. It’s all over the News and I
saw a big feature about it in the paper at the weekend. I see they’ve even scribed the Ordnance Survey marks for the City Engineers.’

  No-one around here used the word ‘scribed’. Only a handful of people in the Calton who’d heard Brogan talk about them knew the words Ordnance Survey, but they’d rolled off this guy’s tongue as though he said the phrase every day. At that, Lenny leaned under the bar, picked out a fresh white towel and threw it over his shoulder. It was act done by barmen the world over, but in the Calton Bar, it was also a simple sign that left no room for error. At the end of the bar, Arab downed the remains of his beer, buttoned up his coat and left without saying a word to anyone.

  Another pint and a large whisky later, sitting in the alcove one up from Tucker Queen’s and facing the front door, the stranger still hadn’t made his move. But in that time the pub’s clientele had swelled with about twenty five men; who all seemed to know each other while none knew this ‘local stranger’. When Arab returned and held open the door, the stranger began drumming his fingers on the table and darting his eyes, perhaps counting how many men stood between him and the door. When in came Big Joe Mularkey, it was as though a light went on in the stranger’s eyes.

  Without having to be told where this guy was sitting, Big Joe half-glanced his way before leaning on the bar; keeping one eye on him in the mirror behind the optics. Arab stood by Big Joe’s side while Lenny, leaning so close to Big Joe that their faces were almost touching, presented his report. Picking up their drinks, Big Joe and Arab strolled over and sat down: Arab walling the guy in, while Big Joe sat opposite. Looking deep into this man’s eyes, Big Joe’s quiet politeness masked an obvious power to snap his fingers and make this frightened soul disappear up the dark Argyleshire coast and into the furious Atlantic ocean: