The House_Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story

by John Mayer

  ‘Friends, I know how disappointed you’ve all been that after my court case in London, I chose not to come straight over here from the airport and instead went home to Edinburgh. I apologise for that. Now, I’ve heard it said that my hesitancy bordered on cowardice and I suppose there may be an element of truth in that. But be assured, since our first hint that these letters were coming, your plight has never left my mind. I didn’t come to The Calton because I had no magic wand to wave. No legal Latin I could spout to make it all go away. I don’t mind telling you, I had nothing then and, to a large extent, I still have nothing to offer you as a long term solution. But what I do have is you. Every one of you. I want to assure you that I may be the recently installed Baron McLane of Calton but I’m still your Brogan McLane. It’s that ‘your’ part that makes me who I am. So here’s my promise to you tonight. Right here and right now, I’m going to begin to look more deeply into this decision of the mighty Glasgow City Council. But before doing that from over in Parliament House I want to say something very important.

  You are not the first in The Calton to suffer injustice. I don’t mean as individuals. You’ve all known plenty of injustice in your own lives. I mean collectively. As many if not all of you know, John Page, Alexander Miller and James Ainsley, lie here under this forgotten boggy piece of ground. To those of us in The Calton who know a thing or two, those names are immortal. They live on because they paid the ultimate price when trying to stand up for justice for the people of The Calton.’

  Turning and looking at the shameful way the ground had become derelict, McLane stabbed out his finger as though to release a bolt of lightning:

  ‘Shot! Shot and killed in 1787 by the British Army for standing up to capitalists who were about to reduce their wages and bring in cheap foreign textiles; as though their workers were little wheels that could be turned on and off in any machine. Shot! Shot down in cold blood. And from whom did the Army take their orders on that day? Yes! None other than the body of men who now call themselves Glasgow City Council.

  And that wasn’t the only injustice that’s led to death in The Calton. Far from it. It wasn’t so very long ago, in 1899, that at their factory machines while working away on a normal day, no less than twenty nine girls were killed when a huge brick factory wall that had been flung up for maximum profit, fell on them and instantly killed them all. Friends, it doesn’t take very long to tell that story, but it took the rest of many lives to feel the injustice that was wreaked on twenty nine families that day. Children grew up without mothers. Young husbands grieved for years and for some elderly parents, it was just all too sad and they dropped down dead at the news.

  Well now, in your time … Sorry, make that in our time, the ultimate injustice is now upon us. Glasgow City Council wants to demolish The Calton, and put up shopping Malls on either side of a new motorway extension. All this is to cost untold millions and perhaps even as much as one billion pounds. And among all that spending, you can be sure that plenty will find its way into pockets that already strain under the weight of year upon year of backhanders. Now as you’ve gathered, I’m not sure exactly how we’ll fight this, but we’re going to. And we’re going to start tonight. Friends, I now ask for silence because Young Father Flaherty here has something to say.’

  Raising his right hand above head height, Young Father Flaherty blessed the crowd before turning, lifting his cassock and asking: ‘Brogan, can I have the thing?’

  From inside his coat, McLane produced a rolled piece of canvas or parchment; in the fleeting moonlight, it was hard to say exactly. The crowd couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, but when unrolling this thing, McLane pointed to his right and their two heads nodded. Holding his staff high, the priest took long steps until he was right in a corner. Pressing his staff into the stones, he spoke a liturgy which no-one but McLane quite heard. Turning and again taking direction from McLane, Young Father Flaherty counted out forty steps to an adjacent corner where he repeated the process. When he and McLane were satisfied that all four corners had been accurately identified and marked by the priest’s staff, Young Father Flaherty tip-toed to the centre of the ground.

  Choosing the Prayer of Consecration composed by Pope Leo the Thirteenth and raising his staff to its highest, Young Father Flaherty prayed in a whisper heard only by God above and Baron McLane of Calton standing by his side:

  ‘May the blessing of Eternal God be upon this place to sanctify it and keep it Holy: For Ever. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  While pointing to each of the four corners and to the earth below, his voice had steadily become stronger until he finished. Turning to the congregation, Young Father Flaherty bowed his head in unison with every one of his flock. With every pair of hands clasped and every tongue whispering the Hail Mary, he again raised his right hand above head height and blessed them all.

  The whole congregation watched with tears in their eyes as the two men shook hands and embraced warmly on what was once again Holy Ground. Turning and making a fist, McLane punched the air and wearing a smile a mile-wide, cried out:

  ‘Well friends, this ground lies right under their proposed motorway extension.’

  Whoops of laughter broke out. Husbands who hadn’t kissed their wives in many a long year now picked them up and whirled them round in joy. It took several waves of his hands to get their attention, but eventually he did:

  ‘And there’s more! Turning to Young Father Flaherty, McLane held out both hands: ‘Father, am I right in thinking that it would take an Act of the Scottish Parliament to annul this consecration?’

  After clasping his hands softly together, Young Father Flaherty tilted his head: ‘Or a Resolution of the Ecumenical Court in Rome.’

  To more whoops and skirls, it fell to McLane to raise the cry: ‘Let the fight back begin!’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 10

  The ring tone of the front door bell sounded every bit as polite as the voices of the people who shared the magnificent space around Glasgow’s Belmont Circus. They didn’t live in one of the two central four-floor houses, though it had long been his parents’ deepest wish that they could. Sheltered from the noise of the uncouth masses passing on the main Great Western Road and equally from prying eyes in tenement buildings by the tall trees growing in their private circular garden, their three-storey townhouse adjoined one of ‘the fours’. To the front, in the early morning sunlight, the pale sandstone blocks took on a beautifully understated elegance: while the rough granite stones at the back easily kept out the winter wind and snow. But what gave the Circus its true grace was the perfectly proportioned first floor windows that, behind black glossy French Balcony iron railings, rose from floor level to nine feet high.

  Only once a week did he open the front door; preferring the rear door which led through the ‘Residents Only’ private copse of trees and down to the bank of the River Kelvin. From there it was a short walk to the subway station and an anonymous ride to the station for the Chambers.

  Out on the wide stone landing, eight steps up from the street, stood a serious looking young man in a brown coverall coat who’d obviously brought the large van bearing the legend: McCall Cleaning Services. Because the Circus wasn’t a short cut to anywhere and nowadays its entire length, front and back, was watched by CCTV cameras, no-one but the residents ever passed by. The Residents’ Committee had even drawn up a list of approved vehicle numbers and the young man’s van was on that list.

  It was his first time coming to this address, and all the way from the laundry, he’d subdued his nerves by reciting again and again the procedure for an Apprentice meeting a Master when away from the Lodge. With his heels touching and his feet at ninety degrees facing East and South, as the door opened the young man looked into the face of his Master and said the sacred two words of recognition: ‘Tubal Cain’.

  Nodding his approval, the Master offered his hand. As he reached out, the Apprentice made certain that his thumb touched his Master’s first knu
ckle. When the Master split his four fingers into two and touched the top and bottom of the young man’s wrist, their respects had been paid and it was time to do business.

  Without a word being said, the young man bounded up the white marble stairs to the top floor, where in a small room that seemed to be used for nothing else, three industrial sized black plastic bags sat waiting. He’d been warned about the stink but he hadn’t been told about the moaning. From behind a closed door at the other end of the landing, he was sure he heard a woman’s voice groan as though retching from the bottom of her belly. Behind the door a television was blaring, but in the spaces between canned laughter, the retching became unmistakable; and it was peppered with the worst smoker’s cough he’d ever heard. Lifting the heavy bags onto his back, the young man made sure of his grip before descending the stairs; making sure the bags didn’t touch any of the gold framed paintings.

  Checking the time, the Master watched as the van drove away. Picking up what had been his father’s leather Gladstone bag, the Master closed the front door and took his weekly walk along the Circus towards the river.

  Using his own key, he opened the old Service door, pulled back the iron scissor gate and stepped inside. This old lift was a dear and trusted friend. Its whine was always the same, as was the time it took to ascend. Inside, on the way up, for a few seconds in the mornings and evenings he could whisper his secrets out loud, think of those incredible Russian girls who, for a few dollars a month, would do anything he commanded into his webcam and not have to listen to her incessant coughing and moaning.

  Closing and locking his office door, he went through his ritual of slipping his jacket onto its hanger, switching on the kettle and going through his messages, deleting each one after only a few seconds. Glancing from behind his drapes, he looked down into the typing pool below; hoping for a peek down a blouse or two.

  When they’d come from the City Architect’s Office with it, he’d cursed himself that he hadn’t foreseen how big it would be. He’d just assumed it would sit on the end of his desk; but it was so large that it had to be specially assembled in the ante-room. Two old desks had to be sent for to accommodate it and he hadn’t liked the look of the three young people who’d come to do the assembly. One was even a girl. But now that the scale model was here, he was getting used to it.

  After blowing over his morning tea, the Chairman of Glasgow City Council Planning Committee ran his finger along the ribbon of white cardboard road that curved over some old buildings which were coloured in red as though the mark of Cain itself was painted on the rooftops. Delineated by five roads and a street, the rest of the District too had been painted red at his request: he’d given no reason for this most unusual illustration and no-one had dared ask for one.

  Making the sign of a gun with his hand, the Chairman pointed at an address, dropped his thumb, then turned away and took a sip of his tea.

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 11

  In all his long years serving the Calton community, Young Father Flaherty had never been in the Calton Bar. Not because he didn’t drink, he did plenty of that. His one and only reason was that he knew his presence would put a damper on the atmosphere; when men just wanted to wash away the cares of the day or engage in a little bit of business which, done in front of the priest, would’ve made them feel guilty. However, this morning was a special case. This morning, to stay away after the events of the night before, would’ve been plain churlish.

  Arriving together on this bright Saturday morning, their Baron McLane of Calton and Parish Priest were afforded the same dignity as though the visit was from the chairman of Celtic Football Club himself. Lenny had opened up the ‘back bit’ so that the bar tripled in size, he’d specially cleaned out the beer pipes and ordered a hundred more steak pies from big Tommy Sorkin’s bakery next door. Even the back door into the lane had been opened so that what was being said inside might be relayed to those who couldn’t get in.

  Among the adulation, slaps on his back and talk of how the Holy Father himself would’ve been proud of their own Young Father Flaherty, as McLane shook hand after hand, he began to feel the return of that uneasiness which had sent him home to Edinburgh instead of coming here straight from Glasgow airport. In its time, the Calton had seen some wondrous sights. The 1967 parade of those footballing legends, the Lisbon Lions, fresh from winning the European Cup was of course the highest moment in their long history. When the team’s open top bus stopped outside the Calton Bar and the whole team waved at those packed onto the pavement, the very stones they stood on had become Holy Ground. That was followed by the time Jackie Kennedy herself had asked to see The Calton and waved to the boys in the doorway of the bar as she was driven by. Then of course, there was the elevation of their own wee Brogan McLane to the lofty height of the House of Lords and the title of Baron McLane of Calton.

  This morning, all of those heady heights seemed to be in the air and every man, woman and child among them felt the glow of being part of the community that would fight Glasgow City Council for the prize of this run-down bit of Glasgow called The Calton.

  To the chairman of this meeting and the big man sitting to his left, the two extra barmaids who were pulling pints and pouring whiskies as fast as their nimble fingers could manage, brought back exactly the same memory. It was just a momentary look between them and not everyone present would remember. But the two girls Lenny had brought in at short notice had the same build and colouring as the barmaids who’d worked in the Calton Bar thirty years before: and who’d been so brutally robbed of their wages and winnings from a horse race by that scum who was lucky not to have been fed to the Atlantic Coast sharks for his crime. It was truly remarkable that they resembled so closely the dear departed Agnes McLane and her inseparable pal Jean Mularkey.

  With Young Father Flaherty seated to McLane’s right and Auld Faither next to him, every other seat was taken according to pro tem. When the rest of the bar was packed to well beyond the fire code and the crowd had settled down, McLane straightened the few blank sheets in front of him, coughed and looked to his right.

  Nodding as would any judge on the Parliament House bench to the Lord Justice General of Scotland, Young Father Flaherty rose and raised his right hand. In the single second it took for him to draw breath, every head bowed:

  ‘Father in Heaven, standing before You, one by one we confess our sins and ask for Your absolution. Father, we ask that You hear our prayer this morning in Jesus’ name. Lord, today we gather here in this old public house and in the streets outside to ask for Your help in advancing our cause; which although just, is in its infancy and facing a mighty foe. Father, we ask that You guide the hand of our trusty leader in this cause. He is of course a Calton man well known to You. Lord, we ask that You give him the mental strength to do Your work here in our old community. And give us all the strength we need to assist him in all the endeavours that lie ahead. For we ask these things in Jesus’ name. Amen.’

  The crowd’s ‘Amen’ was so softly spoken that it came out like cotton wool: but behind that fluffy façade there was a steely resolve in the voices that could’ve supported the roof above.

  Getting to his feet and pausing, the way he did before making a jury speech, McLane looked around the crowd. Every face packed close to another wasn’t just known to him; together they were the very fabric of his life before moving to Edinburgh. There was wee Jean Tillyburn, at forty-five, now a grandmother and the first girl he ever kissed. Near the back was big Jessy Muldoon, who only the year before had nearly lost her son for an extra ten years because of that idiot Advocate who turned out to be a traitor. At the side, standing on a chair and leaning up against his alcove wall, Tucker Queen had been his friend since they’d rolled about the streets together, playing at all sorts until their mothers called from the front window for them to come up, get washed and go to bed for school in the morning.

  McLane cleared his throat. Only a few in that packed meeting could detect that cough as hesi
tation disguised in the clothes of a physical need. Tucker’s eyes flashed towards Big Joe’s, while one or two others sniffed or dragged their hands through their hair. The Brogan McLane they knew didn’t hesitate. Not for a second:

  ‘Friends, may I first of all say how gratifying it is to see you all here this morning. It says a lot about a community when it can turn out in such numbers at such short notice. Last night as we marched, your singing reminded me of the civil rights marches of the 1960s in America. When Young Father Flaherty asked me about the legality of consecrating ground, I have to say I didn’t know that area of law in great detail, but I …’

  As McLane spoke, Big Joe casually looked over at Tucker whose head was bowed and the whisky glass in his hand was empty. At the end of the bar, Arab and his woman were kind of furrowing their brows and quietly looking in a questioning way at each other. McLane had moved on to Churchill when the first audible signs of unrest were heard and by the time he was telling them about blood, toil, tears and sweat, people outside were openly asking when he’d get to the point.

  ‘And so, the process will be that there’s firstly a public hearing, which will be held here in - or at least, close to - the Calton, where questions can be asked. If necessary, that will be followed by what’s called a Planning Enquiry. There are various ways in which a Planning Enquiry can arise, so anyway, after that, if there’s a point of law in dispute, then we can appeal to a judge in Parliament House. That’s called Judicial Review of Administrative Action. Only in exceptional circumstances is it possible to go to the top judges in the Appeal Court in Parliament House. I’ve never appeared in that particular forum, but I expect …’

  When he finished there was no Hurrah! No thunderous applause and no tears of joy. Some people near the back door filtered out and the crowd outside too thinned to a few left waiting to get near the bar for a drink. It fell to Young Father Flaherty to try to rouse the troops. Getting to his feet stopped everyone in their tracks: