Parly Road: The Glasgow Chronicles 1

by Ian Todd

  “Well, it’s a surprise fur ma maw.”

  “Calum, ye’re only bloody fifteen.”

  “Aye, well, that’s why Ah need tae take ma lessons at this time oan a Saturday night. This’ll be ma fourth wan.”

  “Ah’m no happy. How long will ye be?”

  “Three quarters ae an hour.”

  “Ach, well, if it’s fur that wee maw ae yours, who am Ah tae deny her, eh? Ye’ll miss the cutting ae the cake and a wee game ae Bingo, bit oan ye go, and don’t be long.”

  “Ah won’t. Cheers, Pat!”

  8.55 P.M.

  “Let’s heid doon past The McAslin Bar, Crisscross,” The Sarge said, sitting wae two fish suppers oan his lap and a bottle ae Irn Bru clenched between his feet.

  “Yer word is ma command,” Crisscross replied, as he cut across Parly Road intae St Mungo Street and then right intae McAslin Street.

  “Wid ye look at aw they haufwit eejits staunin oot there, lugging in. It’s like bloody craws waiting fur crumbs. Did ye manage tae get an invite fur Sally?”

  “Naw, The Big Man wisnae wearing it. Ah think it wis probably because you and him fell oot. Ah saw her earlier oan and she said that her and Sister Flog wur gonnae try and wangle their way in jist before the music kicked aff.”

  “Hing oan a minute. Stoap the car…Jim! Jinty! Whit the bloody hell ur youse pair up tae, staunin there withoot yer hats oan?”

  “Aw, Hellorerr Liam. We’re jist listening tae the music. Bloody stoating singer that lassie is. The boy’s pretty good at backing her oan some ae they songs tae.”

  “Whit’s wae the hats aff the nappers?”

  “Aw, jist in case The Inspector turns up. It wid help us tae nip up the close withoot him thinking it wis us.”

  “Well, we noticed ye, ya plonker, ye.”

  “Ah, bit ye’ve goat eyes like a bloody hawk, so ye hiv. So, whit ur youse two up tae?”

  “We’re aff tae hiv oor tea.”

  “Ach, well, ye know where we ur, if ye need us. Catch ye later. Ah think the Bingo’s aboot tae finish and the music’s coming back oan. We’ll jist nip back tae get oor place beside the door before some basturt steals oor spot. Ah’ve telt Tiny, who’s oan the door, tae keep oor pitch fur us.”

  “Right, Crisscross, left up Taylor Street and right oan tae Ronald Street. Jist park hauf way doon the street oan the right haun side and we’ll tan these suppers before they go cauld.”

  9.00 P.M.

  “Any sign ae Calum yet, Johnboy?” Joe asked, as he slid the fourth box doon tae Johnboy.

  “Naw.”

  “Keep gaun o’er tae the landing hatch and listen. He should be here any time noo.”

  “Aye, Ah’ve been gaun o’er tae it every couple ae minutes. There’s been nae sign ae him yet.”

  It wis jist then that they nearly lost the box full ae doos that Joe hid slid doon tae Johnboy, as well as jist aboot shiting themsels. It wis jist as well Johnboy managed tae compose himsel and grab the box as it slid past him. Some mad wummin hid let oot a shriek that wid’ve curdled milk.

  “Two fat ladies, eighty eight. Legs eleven, number eleven. Crisscross’s eyes, number wan. Two little ducks, twenty two.”

  “Aarrggh! Hoose! Oh ma God! Oh Jeesusss! It’s me! Ah’ve won!” The banshee wailed.

  “Gie a big doze ae the clap tae the wummin in the uniform, wearing the hat wae the purple bow. She’s jist won the night’s star prize…a Grand Prix GP nine-o-wan transistor radi-oh!” Kirsty howled in disgust intae the microphone, as a sporadic smattering ae haun claps came fae the disappointed guests, and fizzled oot as quick as it started.

  The sound coming fae the pub wis echoing aw o’er the buildings, bit whoever hid won the tranny sounded ecstatic. Johnboy hoped that the doos wid be okay efter that shriek.

  9.01 P.M.

  Calum pushed open the lounge door ae The Atholl. A wee man, wae a moustache, wearing a woollen checked jaicket wae leather patches oan his elbows, horn-rimmed glasses and clutching a clip board wae baith hauns, wis staunin oan a chair shouting at the tap ae his voice above the din ae laughter, singing, glasses tinkling aff ae each other and two wummin hivving a square-go in the corner jist tae his left.

  “It is ma considered opinion,” he roared, “that the government, due tae increased accidents oan the motorways, may introduce a speed limit later this year.”

  “Er, excuse me, Jimmy. Dae ye know The Driving Instructor?” Calum asked a passing drunk.

  “Aye, son.”

  “Kin ye pass oan an important message?”

  “Aye, Ah kin that.”

  “Kin ye tell him that we’re ready fur the boxes tae be picked up?”

  “Ah kin indeed.”

  “Ur ye sure ye know who Ah’m talking aboot?”

  “Aye, Ah kin see him sitting jist o’er there, son.”

  “Thanks, ye’re a pal.”

  “Nae problem, son. Ur ye sure ye don’t want tae join us fur a wee swally?”

  “Naw, Ah’m watching the clock. Cheers!”

  9.05 P.M.

  “Here, wis that no The Big Man’s runner…whit’s his name?”

  “Calum Todd.”

  “Aye, Calum. Wis that no him whizzing by us doon the bottom ae the street, alang St James Road?” Crisscross asked, munching intae the tail ae his haddock.

  “Wis it? Ah didnae see anything.”

  “Ah’m sure it wis.”

  “He’s a funny boy, him. Dae ye no think so?”

  “How dae ye mean?”

  “Aw that running aboot like a big glaikit beanpole.”

  “Whit’s wrang wae that? At least it keeps him oot ae trouble and fit intae the bargain.”

  “Aye, Ah know. Don’t get me wrang, Crisscross, bit, look at aw the other toe-rags aboot here…stealing, thieving, ripping the lead aff ae the roofs, screwing people’s gas meters, breaking intae shoaps.”

  “So?”

  “So, dis it no strike ye as a wee bit wee queer?”

  “Whit dae ye mean?”

  “Ye know?”

  “Sarge, running aboot tae keep fit disnae mean ye want tae perch oan yer girlfriend’s brother’s arse.”

  “Hiv ye ever clocked him running aboot wae a hairy?”

  “He’s jist wan ae they clean living dafties. Ma Sally wis wondering if we should approach him tae see if he’d maybe be interested in joining The Sally Army as a cadet.”

  “Ach, well, don’t say Ah never warned ye. If ye’re born here and ye’re no a conniving, sleekit, wee thieving basturt, then there’s something wrang wae ye. Pass me that bottle ae Irn Bru.”

  9.07 P.M.

  Johnboy thought he’d heard movement coming fae the landing. He nipped o’er and peeked doon through a slit in the hatch and could see Calum’s face staring up at him. He lifted aff the cover.

  “Aw right, Calum?”

  “No bad, Johnboy. How’s it gaun?”

  “Fine.”

  “Right, pass me doon a box. They’re oan their way.”

  “Right. Watch oot when Ah pass ye it doon. The doos will aw slide towards ye.”

  “Nae problem. Ah’ll see ye fur the next wan in five minutes fae noo.”

  “Right,” Johnboy said, covering the hatch o’er the hole again wance Calum hid box number wan safely oan the landing.

  9.10 P.M.

  “Who likes Patsy Cline?”

  “Us!” everywan in the bar screamed back.

  “Right, this is a wee song that Daisy his asked me tae sing tae Bill tae show her love and affection fur aw the years she’s hid tae put up wae him,” Sarah May said tae hoots ae laughter.

  “She wisnae saying that last New Year when she cracked open ma heid wae a pair ae fire tongs,” Bill quipped loudly, tae cheers and whistles.

  “That wis because his false teeth fell oot and woke me up while he wis trying tae hiv his evil way wae me when Ah wis asleep oan the couch. When Ah sussed oot it wis him and no Sean Connery, Ah let the horny auld git hiv it,” Daisy shouted, tae howls ae la
ughter.

  “Christ, Daisy, ye’ve even goat The Bad Habit and that Fat Sally Sally wan in stitches, so ye hiv,” Helen laughed intae Daisy’s lug.

  “And wae they sweet words ae endearments, this is ‘Walking Efter Midnight’ by the late, great, Patsy Cline,” Sarah, the pie flinger said intae the microphone.

  9.15 P.M.

  “Psst! Johnboy!”

  “Whit?”

  “The basturt’s no turned up.”

  “Whit?”

  “Ah’ll need tae nip back doon tae The Atholl tae see whit the score is. Whit time is it?”

  “Quarter past nine.”

  “Right, here ye go, take this box ae doos back up.”

  “Fur fuck’s sake, Calum!”

  9.17 P.M.

  “Did ye see him, Sarge?”

  “Who?”

  “Calum?”

  “Where?”

  “He’s jist fucked aff back up St James Road, in the direction he came fae ten minutes ago.”

  “So whit?”

  “Ah’m jist saying.”

  “Ye said that ten minutes ago.”

  “Aye, well, he’s obviously worked oot a wee street circuit. Ah wonder if he’d let me join him wan night when Ah’m oan the early shift.”

  “Ye’d need tae catch him first. Every time Ah see him, he’s always running aboot aw o’er the place, like a man oan a mission, so he is.”

  9.19 P.M.

  “Therefore,” the wee man wae the broon elbow patches, who wis staunin oan the chair, screaming at the tap ae his lungs shouted, “the safety aspects ae a pedestrian anticipating an emergency stoap fae an oancoming vehicle is slim. However...”

  “Hoi! Hoi!” Calum screamed.

  The place came tae a staunstill. Even the two mad wummin in the corner stoapped pulling the hair oot ae each other’s heids tae see whit aw the commotion wis aboot.

  “Put up yer haun if ye’re the driving instructor,” Calum yelled at the drunken booze-up. “Ah don’t fucking believe this,” he groaned, as forty seven guys and two wummin put their hauns up in the air.

  “Right, Ah don’t know which wan ae youse Ah’m efter, bit Ah’ve goat a stack ae boxes piling up, so kin ye get yer arses in gear and get doon tae ye know where, and pick the fucking things up.”

  9.22 P.M.

  “Before ye say anything, Crisscross. Ah’ve jist clocked him again.”

  “He’s bloody fit that wan. Ah wonder whit time it wid take him tae cover a mile?”

  “Six and a hauf minutes.”

  “Hmm, he’s a young whippet and he kin shift like shite aff ae a hot shovel.”

  “Aye, he might be young bit tae dae it in less time, ye’d need professional coaching. The way he runs…like a big pansy…he widnae know whit a coach looked like. If ye asked him whit a coach wis, he’d probably think ye wur talking aboot a Corporation bus.”

  “Whit the hell wis that?”

  “Whit?”

  “Something jist rattled aff ae the tap ae the car.”

  “Ah never heard anything.”

  “Right, Ah’ll take a look.” Crisscross said, opening his door.

  “Whit is it?”

  “It looks like wee tiny bits ae slate coming aff the roof above us.”

  “Ah’m telling ye, the quicker these tenements ur pulled doon, the better. They’re aw falling apart.”

  9.23 P.M.

  “Psst! Johnboy!”

  “Aye?”

  “Haun doon the box. They’re oan their way.”

  “Ur ye sure?”

  “Aye, bit listen…tell Tony and the boys that there’s a squad car sitting jist below them oan Ronald Street. It’s goat that big dunderheid ae a sergeant sitting in it wae that skelly-eyed twat, Crisscross. Tell them no tae worry though. They’re jist sitting eating something oot ae the chippy and guzzling a bottle ae Irn Bru.”

  “Right, here ye go, Calum. See ye in a minute.”

  “Right, Johnboy, that’s five. Three mair tae go. His Calum arrived back tae get the boxes?” asked Joe.

  “Aye, bit he says Ah’ve tae tell youse that there’s a squad car wae that big sergeant and Crisscross sitting in it, jist doon oan the street fae where youse ur.”

  “Fuck, dae they know we’re here?”

  “Naw, they’re hivving their tea.”

  “Right, Ah’ll pass it oan. Haun me another empty box. That group ur bloody good, so they ur. Hiv ye been listening tae them?”

  “Aye.”

  9.25 P.M.

  “Coo-ee, Da, Ah’m o’er here,” Fat Sally Sally shouted, waving the Grand Prix GP nine-o-wan above her heid, trying unsuccessfully tae get JP’s attention while he’d his two eyeballs two inches fae Gina’s glistening bosom.

  “Ah cannae believe that ugly fat cow won that tranny,” Helen said tae Daisy.

  “Ah know. There’s nae justice in the world. Look at the pair ae them. Pat says they wur supposed tae be gaun roond at the break wae their cans and then pissing aff. They hivnae budged aw night and the two ae them ur as pished as a pair ae drunken priests.”

  “Thank ye…youse ur aw very kind. This is a song fur aw youse ladies oot there by Kitty Wells, called ‘It Wisnae God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels.’ Don’t be shy noo and please join in.”

  “Aw, Ah love this wan,” Helen shouted across tae Jimmy, as the whole ae the pub burst intae song.

  9.55 P.M.

  “Right, Johnboy…tell Calum he kin go efter this wan. Tell him Tony said he’ll see him o’er the next few days.”

  “Right.”

  “Gie’s up that alarm clock…Skull wants it.”

  “Whit fur?”

  “Christ knows.”

  “Here ye go.”

  “Ta.”

  “Psst, Johnboy? Gie’s the next wan doon.”

  “Here ye go, Calum. This is yer last wan. Tony says he’ll see ye o’er the next few days. Thanks fur helping us oot.”

  “Nae problem. Youse ur welcome.”

  10.00 P.M.

  “How ur ye gonnae get the bar aff the front ae they cages, Skull?” Tony whispered tae him.

  “Ah clocked a tool box. Ah’ll jist go and see if there’s a jemmy in it. Hing oan a minute. Bingo!”

  “Nice wan, Baldy!”

  “Right, Ah won’t be a tic.”

  Skull hid the bar aff in less than ten seconds flat. The nesting box doors wur noo goosed and wid need replaced, bit who the fuck cared. He gently lifted oot the three big Horseman Thief Pouters, wan at a time. They didnae even blink, bit insteid jist glared at him as if tae say ‘Right, oan ye come, ya big prick. We’re ready fur anything.’ At least, that’s whit Skull telt the boys the next day. He’d also said that he now knew whit it felt like tae touch the arse ae royalty and that he knew fine well that he’d never get another opportunity tae repeat it as long as he lived.

  “Where’s the alarm clock?” he asked Tony.

  “Here ye go. Whit the fuck dae ye want wae that?”

  “Whit time did ye say ye wanted us up at the cabin the morra morning?”

  “Aboot hauf eight.”

  “Right, if we’re up at that time oan a Sunday, so ur they big fud-pads, Shaun, Danny and Mick. Set it fur eight thirty tae gie them time fur their breakfast before they come tae visit.”

  “Christ, ye’re some boy, Skull. Right, here ye go.”

  “Ta. Ah’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Aye, okay, Ah’ll get the Horsemen o’er tae the exit loft. Don’t fuck aboot noo, Skull. We’ve goat whit we came fur. Ah’ll be back in two minutes.”

  Skull set the clock doon oan the flair at the far end ae the loft, as far away as he could fae the hatch door that led doon intae the hoose below. Using baith hauns, he heaved up the hatch and peered doon. He crept doon the stairs and began wandering slowly fae room tae room, looking aboot him as he went. Sometimes he stoapped tae touch a curtain or the quilt oan a bed or tae lift an ornament and peer at it. He picked up a black and white photograph ae three smiling wee boys wae their pa
rents. He thought the photograph hid maybe been taken up in Alexandra Park as they wur aw staunin by a boating pond. He recognised the boys as Shaun and the twins, Danny and Mick. He spent a few seconds looking at the shrine the brothers hid set up oan tap ae a sideboard tae their ma and da, who wur obviously pan-breid. A black and white photo ae two grimacing adults wis in the centre ae a frame wae a wee collage ae family snaps surrounding it in a circle. The frame hid a set ae rosary beads embedded behind the glass. RIP wis embossed oan the bottom ae it. Skull thought aboot his ain life and the state his da wis in and whit could’ve been, before turning away. He slowly sauntered through tae the kitchen where he came across a big ashet steak pie, sitting oan tap ae the cooker, its layer ae uncooked pastry covering the tap ae it, jist waiting tae be shoved intae the oven the next day fur the Murphys’ Sunday dinner. Skull spent a few seconds surveying it. It wis a big stoating family-sized wan. He didnae want it tae go tae waste oan they Murphy pricks and decided tae add a bit ae flavouring tae it. He lifted it doon oan tae the middle ae the kitchen flair, gently lifted away the layer ae pastry oan the tap ae it, before drapping his troosers and shiting right in the middle ae the stewed beef. He spread it evenly wae the back ae a spoon fae the cutlery drawer, while humming ‘Ah Goat Ye Babe’ by Sonny and Cher, before gently patting the pastry back in place and replacing the pie back oan tap ae the cooker, where he’d found it. Efter another couple ae seconds ae humming away, admiring his handiwork, he washed the spoon in the sink, put it back in the cutlery drawer and nipped back up the stairs tae the loft.

  “Christ, ur ye no aboot done yet, Skull?” Tony hauf whispered through the boxes.

  “Aye, Ah’m coming.”

  “Right, well done. Let’s go!”

  The music wis still blasting oot fae the pub. It wis getting dark as Tony pulled Skull up tae the tap ae the roof beside him.

  “Whit the fuck’s that?” Tony hissed at him.

  Before Skull could answer, Tony saw him clutch at his troosers which wur aboot tae end up aroond aboot his ankles. As Skull tried tae stoap them fae falling doon, the jemmy Skull hid taken as a wee souvenir, clattered oan tae the slates and shot doon the side ae the roof and disappeared o’er the edge ae it intae Ronald Street.

  10.05 P.M.

  “So, how did it go, Calum?” The Big Man asked.