The House_Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story

by John Mayer

  ‘Well! Thank you Brogan, for that very interesting talk. We of course don’t have your legal brain or skills and so to us, your words might seem a little bitty obscure. I’m sure you’ll forgive us for that. But anyway, I’m sure you’ve got it all in hand. Now everyone, please join me in thanking our very own Brogan McLane.’

  But for Young Father Flaherty, Big Joe Mularkey, his mother Jean and a few others, the applause might have been still-born. As it was, it lasted only a few seconds before Lenny started pulling pints and the girls opened the oven; letting the wonderful smell of freshly made steak pies drift among the crowd and out into the street.

  With only a glass of milk in his hand, Young Father Flaherty cupped McLane’s elbow and led him over to Tucker’s alcove. With Big Joe, Arab and Tucker behind, the priest whispered into McLane’s ear:

  ‘Is the situation really that bad? Tell me the truth Brogan. In your heart of hearts, do you really think they’ll demolish it all?’

  Before McLane could answer, a higher authority than any of the men surrounding him came tramping over and barged through. McLane, who’d just started his reply, went quiet. Big Joe Mularkey took a step back. Arab, who’d been about to ask a question, bit his tongue and, pursing his lips, not even Young Father Flaherty had the temerity to challenge this woman who’d lived in the Calton all her life. Stout, steely-haired and over sixty, she was known to every man, woman and child in the place as old Jean Mularkey.

  The look on her face rivalled that of the granite stones of the night before. But knowing her as well as they did, it wasn’t her eyes these men feared. It was her tongue. Pointing her finger right into his face, she spat out her words:

  Brogan McLane! Is that really you? That whole ‘legal this’ and ‘legal that’? Is that all you’ve got for us? Some long winded legal procedure that we don’t understand. Eh? Well, you listen to me, boy. If you think I’m going to stand by and let Glasgow City Council demolish my wee flat, then you’re a fool. I never thought I’d be saying something like this to you, Brogan. It’s like all those years in Edinburgh have eventually turned you into a softy. But I will fight this with all I have and I expect you to help me do that. Do you understand? Now I want … the thing they get … what’s it called? That thing. Oh aye! State Legal Advice. Right?’

  As a small boy, this woman had clipped him on the ear for being cheeky. She’d fed him alongside her own son because they didn’t want to be parted for even the time it took to eat dinner. She’d been his mother’s best friend right to her end with lung cancer, and, though poor most of her days, she’d been the best mother his blood brother could’ve wished for. Now she stood red-faced, proud and angry letting anyone in the Calton Bar hear what she had to say. In reply, McLane had only a pedantic legal correction at his disposal:

  ‘It’s actually called Legal Aid. You have to fill out two long government forms. And it’s only available to those who can’t afford to mount their own legal challenge in …’

  ‘Brogan McLane! Will you just shut up? I don’t care what it’s called. Go and get me those forms. It’ll be my name at the top of this. I’ll lead these people. I’ll put my head on the block; even if you won’t. Now away to Edinburgh with you and bring me back those forms.’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 12

  As they fell behind every door, although longer and thicker than their predecessors, the envelopes were the same colour, with the same plastic window they bore the same official mark in the top right corner and were equally despised. Walking the streets and trudging up each tenement opening, the poor postman, whom some people had known since his arrival in the Calton over ten years before, couldn’t look anyone in the eye.

  ‘Your tenancy being one of the subjects of the foresaid Glasgow City Council Planning Authority Decision which resulted in Statutory Compulsory Demolition Order GLW/CAL/DEMO 2018 (details of which are available if you attend in person at Glasgow City Chambers and present this letter) which Order has since been lawfully executed by Glasgow City Council in Session: you are accordingly entitled by statute to attend a public consultation which the said Glasgow City Council has arranged at their expense in the old Meat Market Buildings on Gallowgate on Wednesday evening at six o’clock. The agenda is open to any questions or concerns which you may have, but you can rest assured that the Council will offer the very best price it can afford for your property. No dogs or other pets are allowed inside the meeting. Should you wish to have a copy of this letter read to you in Arabic, Bengali, Urdu, Turkish or Farsi (or a Translator to be there to assist you in person) then please call Glasgow 312 9076 and one of our helpful staff will take your name. Glasgow City Council prides itself in meeting UK Local Government Standards Directive EU/UK/LocGovt/2009 so please be assured of our very best service and we hope to see you at the …’

  Filing in to the area where once hundreds of people worked, with their coats wet, their feet dragging and their faces solemn, the few dozen or so tenants who thought it might be worthwhile coming, sat near the middle of the rows of red velvet covered seats which a Council van had delivered during the day. On a quickly constructed platform which still bore a few torn stickers saying ‘The Rolling Stones - Sticky Fingers Tour’, sat three people whom no-one had ever seen before. Two were men and there was a woman who looked like a man. One of the men had a desk in front of him on which there were piles of papers while the other two just sat on chairs. On the stroke of six o’clock, the woman, who looked about fifty and was wearing a two-piece tweed suit, rose to her feet and clapped her hands. Putting on a pair of thick black glasses, she raised her papers and read:

  ‘Thank you all for coming to this public consultation on the operational aspects of the Statutory Compulsory Demolition Order GLW/CAL/DEMO 2018. That’s a big mouthful, isn’t it? So this evening, for short, I’ll just call it the Order; if that’s alright with everyone. My name’s Priscilla and with me tonight I have Jeremy and Xander. Now, we won’t take much of your time tonight; I can see everyone’s a bit wet and it’s not too warm in here - sorry for that.’

  She paused for effect, but the small crowd, the nearest of whom was about thirty feet away, sat still as though painted on a wall.

  ‘Anyway, we’re here because exciting things are happening to your locality. Your Council has decided that the old worn-out tenement houses of the Calton should make way for a brand new pair of ‘On and Off Ramps’ for the motorway: which as everyone knows, is the most important economic generator in the city. These will be surrounded by new and exciting Malls; some of the names never before seen in Scotland - or in fact anywhere in the UK.’

  Before continuing, the woman did a little wiggle before winking and almost whispering: ‘So great new shopping opportunities, ladies. That’s what we want - right?’

  She couldn’t tell, but her glibness and complete lack of understanding about the Calton had begun to boil the blood of more than a few in her audience. But being oblivious, she charged on:

  ‘We have some really exciting companies in this PPP - sorry, that’s Public Private Partnership - and we have you to thank for making this happen. We’re here tonight to reiterate that we’ve got some lovely new homes for you to rent at rates not too much higher than you’re paying now.’

  Her second pause met with the same non-response as her first.

  ‘Ahh Hhmm. Right. As I was saying, these new flats I was talking about are just down the river - only twelve miles away - They’re actually quite lovely, with river views - some of them - and none of those draughty old common stairs and dirty bin areas which attract vermin. Yuck! No-one wants that nowadays; am I right? We actually have a video of the area - if anyone would like to see it - perhaps later, or it’s on show in the City Chambers - two days a week in the mornings. Now I want you all to be aware that this isn’t happening tomorrow. Oh no. The law demands that proper consultations, just like this one, be held so that you’re all kept well informed at every step of the way. I should tell you that the area I’ve just mentio
ned is a very diverse one. You’ll find lots of new friends from many distant parts of the world such as Bangla … and Pakist… Well, actually, plenty of places. Very nice people, they are… I’m sure.’

  The woman lowered her glasses and was turning her page when the first sign of life stirred in the audience. Big Tommy Sorkin the baker had heard enough. When he got up and began to shuffle up the aisle, the woman called after him:

  ‘Sir! Sir! There’s actually quite a bit more to hear.’

  Without turning his head and with a flap of his hand, Big Tommy said nothing. Only those on the platform didn’t know that he had to be up at three o’clock in the morning to fire the ovens, make the dough and bake the bread: just as his father and grandfather did before him.

  ‘Right. OK. Moving on. Actually, I can skip down the agenda if people feel they’d like to leave early. It’s up to you. This is absolutely your consultation. Your chance to put any questions you want to us … your elected representatives. I’m on the Planning Committee and our Council executive is here at the desk.’

  In the audience, a few grumbled words were exchanged, but none that the woman could understand. Flicking over the page, she got a little excited:

  ‘Oh yes. How could I forget? With all this change coming to the area, there will be new and exciting opportunities for employment. We can help you write a curriculum vitae - Does everybody know what that is? It’s like a life-map on which we can see at a glance where you studied or … Anyway, Application forms can be had - again from the City Chambers - and there are … oh, plenty of jobs for those with the appropriate skill sets. Does anyone want to know more about that aspect of things?’

  The woman on the platform was now speaking a language the Calton people didn’t understand. So this time, about twenty five shuffled out. Among those left was a row of about seven women, all in their sixties; every one born and bred in the Calton. From one end of a row, two of them stood and walked forward. Pointing up at the woman on the platform, old Jean Mularkey narrowed her eyes and drew breath. Beside her, smaller, rounder and raging with anger, Bella McLane’s red face would've lit up the River Clyde on a foggy night. With real venom in their voices, clenched fists and withering looks in their eyes, between them they issued what, in a court of law, would be called a ‘direct threat to bodily injury’:

  ‘Look, Mrs Cilla, or whoever you are, I’m Jean Mularkey from the Calton.’

  ‘And I’m Bella McLane!’

  Pointing behind themselves to their remaining friends, Jean was first to spit out her words:

  ‘What you’ve seen tonight is just a wee taste of who we are. There are thousands of us and we stick together. You see, we know bullshit here in the Calton when we smell it - and man oh man - have we smelled it tonight. Now I’m only goin’ to say this once! We intend to fight you. We’ll fight you every inch of the way. We’ve got a lawyer - and a very good one - on our side. And he’s - right now - arrangin’ for me to get Legal Aid. So the next time you see me, lady, will be in a court. If you think you can come along here on a cold night, make a stupid speech about skill sets and makin’ new friends twelve miles away who’re Bangladeshis and Pakistanis, you’ll need to think again. I for one have enough friends here - in the Calton. I don’t know how much public money it’s cost to put on this wee charade, but it’ll cost you plenty more before we’re done. Don’t underestimate me, lady, I’ve eaten and shit out better than you in my time. Now fuck off with your bits of paper and your stupid words or I swear I’ll come up there and fling you out of the fuckin’ building myself.’

  As her temperature rose, more and more of Jean and Bella’s friends had gathered around and began dragging them by the arms up the aisle. Looking back over her shoulder at an empty old Meat Market with three open-mouthed Glasgow City Council people on a stage, Bella broke free, marched back down to the platform, pointed up at Priscilla and cried out:

  ‘We’ll find you. You fucking bitch! We’ll find where you live and we’ll demolish … we’ll burn down your house! Wi’ you still in it. Eh? How do you like that?’

  While the Council official at his desk tried to note down her every word for later reporting to the police, Priscilla clutched her little bundle of papers to her chest and had visibly begun to shake with fear.

  At the door, Jean Mularkey, now violently struggling with her friends and blazing with anger, fired her final shot of this opening skirmish: ‘Brogan McLane QC. He’s Bella’s nephew. Have you heard of him? Well you’re gonna hear from him - and me! So you can take your consultation and shove it up your fucking knickers. Ya bitch! We’ll find you! Mark my words. We’ll find out where you live!’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 13

  Being led by his three sponsors, all cloaked in red silk and white ermine gowns, to the cheering and waving of Procedure Papers around the whole House, with a glad heart and broad smile the newly elevated Baron McLane of Calton slowly made his way towards the ancient woolsack between the feet of Government Front Benchers and the broad table on which legal counsel kept the Bills sent from Another Place. There, in front of the enormous golden throne, which only Her Majesty The Queen ever used, sat the Lord Chancellor of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Rising, he bowed knowingly to the sponsors.

  Lord Berryhill took the lead and spoke for the sponsors: ‘Lord Chancellor, this fine day we bring a newcomer to vest himself in our old ways. My lord, we have presented to legal counsel his Letters Patent which are duly super-scribed by Her Majesty and beg indulgence to breach this procedure so that the newcomer may be admitted to this House.’

  After duly bowing to the LC, Lord Berryhill took a step back into line with his fellow sponsors. The packed Strangers’ Gallery above had never before contained so many men with earpieces and bulges in their jackets. The House Conservative, Labour and Cross benches were similarly packed full; because the word had gone round London like wildfire, that the man who’d saved the whole country from treachery and devilish interference with the votes in the Scottish Parliament on national independence and the fate of Britain’s thermonuclear weapons was today receiving his just reward.

  With his customary lightness, the Lord Chancellor panned his eyes around the ancient Upper Chamber of Her Majesty’s Government, waved his hand slowly at head height and called out in his softest voice: ‘Hear Ye’ Hear Ye’. I call upon this newcomer to make himself known in this House.’

  Up in the Gallery, Joanne and Ababuo gripped hands, pressed their lips together as tightly as possible and fought back tears of pride as McLane stepped forward and bowed.

  ‘I, Baron McLane of Calton answer that Call.’

  Taking a nod from the Queen’s legal counsel that the Letters Patent were genuine, the LC bowed to Baron McLane of Calton, stepped forward and shook his hand. Leaning in, he whispered into McLane’s ear: ‘Damn good show up there. An awful business. But damn fine show on your part.’

  As the Lord Chancellor and Baron McLane separated, the Queen’s legal counsel stepped forward, bowed and handed McLane the day’s Procedure Paper. Just as in Parliament House where a handshake from the Dean of Faculty is enough to admit a new member, McLane was now admitted to the House of Lords as a non-political peer and could take his seat on the cross benches. House tradition demanded that he vote on the next available Motion, which had been carefully chosen on the topic of more infrastructure improvement to agricultural land and some financial assistance to flood victims in the south east of England; and was bound to pass unanimously. After only a few more minutes of polite debate, the Lord Chancellor called: ‘The House will now divide. The Ayes to the left, the Nays to the right.’

  There being no Nays, McLane joined the slow shuffling procession through the Aye Lobby and, as he passed the Government Whip, was duly tapped on the shoulder. He had now voted on his first Motion and could retire to celebrate with his family.

  Nodding and bowing, mouthing his thanks and returning the occasional wave, Baron McLane of Calton left the Chamber of the Ho
use. Striding down a long marble corridor lit by daylight coming through high stained glass Coats of Arms, McLane acknowledged the bows of passing servitors dressed in morning coats, black waistcoats and white bow ties. His highly polished black Oxford shoes made the same sound they always did and, as McLane paused for a servitor to open a weighty oak door, the whole ‘back of the House’ experience felt exactly like being in Parliament House in Edinburgh.

  Standing in the Robing Room which was even more grand than that in Parliament House, as he was being disrobed, McLane tilted back his head, closed his eyes and let the warm sunlight fall on his face. Listening on automatic pilot to the requests of the Robers to turn this way and that, McLane wasn’t recalling the simple ceremony he’d just gone through, nor the fact that, as Scottish National Security Commissioner and a member of the House of Lords, he could now influence government policy in a way restricted to the very few. Instead, McLane allowed his mind to drift back to a similar sunlit day a little over thirty years before. And there it was. The desk in Calton Secondary School at which he and Big Joe Mularkey sat side by side for three long years. Pale, wooden and cheap to mass produce, it bore the scratched names of every boy who’d leaned on it for decades before him. One day just before going home, as the pupils were noisily closing books and the girls were slapping boys’ hands for reaching up their skirts, the teacher, Mr Thomson, had whacked his wooden pointer on his own desk, bringing them instantly to silence. Tomorrow, he said, they had to come back five minutes early from dinner time. Pointing his finger, he’d emphasised that their faces should be washed, their hair be combed and even their fingernails should be clean. A visitor was coming! And he wasn’t just any old visitor. He was a Lord and a Member of the Upper House of Parliament. Indeed, he was the Secretary of State for Education.