And that’s when it left me, as quickly as it had come. I fell to my knees and threw up until there was nothing left to heave and only my tears fell on the bear’s dead eyes.
There is little left to tell.
I found myself back at the stockade later that day, but there was naught left but a smoking ruin. I found Bald Tom’s pack, and the materials to write this memoir, but that was all that was left to show for our time there.
Now I mean to head for Fort William Henry, and thence back to you dearest Jennie.
But, God help me, the hair belt squirms in my pocket even now.
I feel the call of the wild.
I sat in the gloom, lost in thought until George came back.
He had a little man with him. I could smell him from all the way across the room… a mixture of stale tobacco, old beer and cheap after-shave. His clothes looked like he’d been sleeping in them for weeks, and the sole of his left shoe flapped against the floor loosely as he walked in. He looked terrified, cringing like a whipped dog beside George who had a tight grip on his shoulder.
“Tell the man here what you told me,” George said.
“You promised a beer,” the little man whined.
“After the story,” George said. “Start at the beginning this time.”
The wee man looked like he’d been kicked, but his eyes were full of flashing excitement as he started his tale.
“I went to the bookies this morning. Well, actually, I got up out of bed first, if you want to start at the beginning?”
He smiled at George. George scowled back, and the wee man started again, quickly.
“I only went in to get the wife’s winnings you see… she always backs the grays, and for once it came in. Only second mind, so it was just a tenner. She only backs the grays because her mother told her they were lucky. If they’re lucky then I’m a monkey. She’s lost hunners o’pounds over the years on them lucky horses. I remember the time…”
“Jimmy. Keep to the point,” George said. “The longer it takes, the further away that beer will be.”
The wee man now looked like he might burst into tears.
“OK. OK. I’m getting to it.”
A good storyteller practices his tale. At first, when he tells the story, he sounds like your dad ruining his favorite dinner table joke for the hundredth time.
“Oh wait...did I tell you the horse had a pig with him?”
But gradually he begins to understand the rhythm of the story, and how it depends on knowing all the little details, even the ones that no one ever sees or hears. He knows what color of trousers he was wearing the day the story took place, he knows that the police dog had a bad leg, he knows that the toilet block smelled of piss and shit. He has the sense of place so firmly in his mind that even he almost believes he's been there. Once he’s done all that, he tells the killer story, complete with unexpected punch line.
Then there’s the Wee Jimmy method… scatter information about like confetti and hope that somebody can put enough of it together to figure out what had happened to who.
The wee man looked me in the eye.
“The place was empty. Now I thought that was funny, it being just before the first race of the day at Kempton Park and all. I jist didnae realize how funny it was.”
George sighed heavily.
“Beer, Jimmy. It’s going to go flat unless you hurry.”
“OK… cutting to the chase boss. The door was lying open, so I went through the back. There was a lot of money on the table… but I never touched any of it, honest. I was too busy looking at the body. It was Archie Moore, the bookie himself. Jist lying there on the floor, face doon in a pile of blood. He was exasperated.”
“What?” I asked.
George laughed.
“He means eviscerated.”
The wee man nodded.
“Aye… that as well.”
“Archie Moore… out in Anniesland?” I asked.
Jimmy nodded.
“And what about his partners, Sad Sam and Itchy Nose?”
Jimmy shrugged.
“Nowhere to be seen. Maybe it was them that exasperated him?”
George took Wee Jimmy away to get him his reward, and I tried to dredge up all I knew about Moore, McCann and Rodgers Bookmakers. It wasn’t much. They were dodgy, but they were bookies, in Glasgow, so that was almost a given.
I used to know bookies premises intimately. My Granddad worked in one, back when the cops turned a blind eye to unlicensed betting in dingy upstairs rooms of pubs. It was one of my first introductions to the adult world. When I was seven my Gran let me deliver his lunch on Saturday mornings. I’d climb the dark stairs with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, never knowing what I’d find. Some days it would be packed with bodies, smoke and cursing, other days it would be quiet, and almost empty. But always there were those few desperate creatures betting their last pound on a long shot.
And the desperate ones were still around today…they would always be around. Bookies are predators…I’ve always known that. Now that one of them had been taken down, I couldn’t bring myself to give a shit.
George came back.
“Sad Sam and Itchy Nose… would they be capable?” I asked.
“Of murdering Archie Moore? Naw. He was the gravy train. They were just along for the ride. I have a feeling we both know what did this.”
I nodded. My mouth suddenly felt dry.
“If McCann and Rodgers are still out there, then it’ll be after them.”
“Aye. And maybe they’ll get exasperated as well.”
We both had a chuckle at Wee Jimmy’s expense, but my heart wasn’t in it.
“It was my fault George. The lad was a client… so I need to get him back in one piece.”
“I can find them… if you like?” George said.
Again I nodded. I knew the favors were piling up now, but it was too risky to do my own legwork on this one. Plus, George had eyes and ears all over the city.
“Aye,” George said, saying what I was thinking. “If we’re going to lure the lad back to us, we need some bait.”
The rest of the day passed slowly. The big man in the armchair snored, and I stared at the television, trying not to think too much. In truth, after three hours of daytime programming, I was incapable of rational thought.
Crawford woke up, scratched his balls, and farted. He yawned… and clutched at his chest as pain hit him.
It took him a few seconds to realize where he was, and a few after that to remember what had happened to him.
“It wasnae a dream,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Oh shit. It wasnae a dream.”
“No,” I said softly. “Wee Squinty here really did save your life.”
He looked at me, and nearly smiled.
“Try not to make a habit of it, eh?”
I gave him a smoke and we lit up.
“Anything on the news about… about…”
“The Hound of the Baskervilles? No. There’s plenty about me though.”
“None of it good I hope?”
“No. None of it good.”
“Derek,” Crawford said, and he had tears in his eyes. “I…”
“Oh for fuck’s sake big man, don’t go soft on me… not after all these years. I need somebody to hate.”
He smiled, but the tears were flowing. Any minute now he was going to want a hug, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready for that.
Luckily George saved me.
“We’ve got them in the cellar,” he said. “Do you want to talk to them?”
He led me down into the chamber below the bar. I stopped on the stairs. I’d been down here before, in less welcoming circumstances. There was a case where I had some information that George needed. He’d had me brought down here, and had his men try to beat it out of me. All they got was the satisfaction of putting me in the hospital for a week. And George developed a strange respect for me that I’d been trading on ever since.
George saw my
hesitation.
“Don’t worry Derek. My days of getting you beat up are over… at least until the next time you’ve got something I need.”
He laughed loudly, and it echoed around us as we descended and entered the chamber.
Besides beer barrels and plumbing, there was little but a rough-hewn wall and flagstone floors. A bar table had been brought down, and two men sat on stools, nursing half-empty glasses of beer.
Sad Sam McCann had been aptly named. He might dress like a rich businessman, with a Saville-Row suit, polished shoes and Italian silk tie, but his hangdog expression rarely varied. He was in his fifties, but looked a lot older… mainly due to the fact that he hadn’t been seen to smile since nineteen seventy-three. He always looked like he was about to burst into tears, and today was no exception.
“Welcome to the Twa Dugs gentlemen,” George said. “It might not be the classiest pub in town, but tonight, just for you, we’ve booked a private room.”
“It’s not exactly the Ritz, is it?” Sad Sam said, looking around.
“It’ll do for me,” the little man next to him said. “Whoever did for Archie will no’get through those walls.”
Itchy, or Rab as he was known to his mother, was a small weasel of a man of indeterminate age. He had the knack of always looking shifty. And that was never more evident than when he was in trouble.
With Rab, that was most days.
Itchy Nose was equally well named. He poked at his nostril with an index finger, and rummaged around for a bit. Then he dipped the finger in his beer and sucked it. I didn’t know whether to be disgusted or amused.
“We brought you here to keep you safe,” George said.
“Aye,” Sam said sarcastically. “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.”
George put his hand on his heart and smiled.
“Sammy boy. Are you calling me a liar?” he said softly.
Sam backed off fast. George’s reputation was known all across the city. He wasn’t a man to cross… even on his good days.
“Tell you what,” George said. “We’ll get a couple of beers in, and we’ll have a wee chat. No need for any unpleasantness.”
“No need at all,” Itchy said, nodding his head like a cheap toy on a car back seat.
George had a couple of beers brought down from the bar, and we joined the men round the table.
“Are you sure we’re safe here?” Sam asked George.
George nodded.
“Safest place in Glesca. Even the coppers won’t get you down here.”
I lit a cigarette so I wouldn’t have to watch Itchy having a rummage up his other nostril.
Once I got it going it was time to go to work.
“Tell me about Mark Turner,” I said.
Then all we had to do was sit back and watch the cabaret.
Itchy got the ball rolling.
“He came to see us last Tuesday.”
“No,” Sad Sam interjected. It was Wednesday.”
“Tuesday,” Itchy said. “I remember, I won a fiver on the 3:15 at Ayr.
Sad Sam didn’t respond. But his expression got more hangdog. He was one-nil down, and he wasn’t happy.
Itchy continued. He had a smile on his face now…but he still looked shifty.
“Archie found the lad first. Archie was working a con… he brought the lad up from England to see a horse. After we got paid, Archie did the old switcheroo and sent him one that was only fit for the knackers yard.”
“And how much money changed hands?” George asked.
“Thirty grand,” Itchy said.
“No… more like forty,” Sad Sam replied.
Itchy pulled something from his nose, looked at it, and flicked it away across the cellar floor.
“I’ll give you that,” he said. “I was thinking about another wee job we were doing…”
“Away ye go you daft bugger,” Sad Sam said. “You wouldn’t know a job if one fell in your lap.”
“Naw,” Itchy replied, “I suppose I’ve been too busy shagging your wife to be working for all those years. That must be why I’m going deaf…it’s all that screaming she’s been doing in my ears.”
If I hadn’t known that Sam’s wife died ten years ago, and that Itchy held the other man up at the funeral, I might have expected Sam to be offended. But it was a running joke between them, and one that caused them great amusement when it was overheard by someone not in on it.
“And Turner came back up looking for you three?” George asked, trying to get them back on track.
Itchy started prodding around in his nose again.
“We put in a late night in the office last night,” Sam said. “We’re expecting the VAT man so it was time to get creative with the paperwork. I went home early and got spruced up…”
“Spruced up?” Itchy said laughing. “Is that what you call a change of shirt and a clean pair of underpants? You need to get that incontinence seen to … either that or let me sit down wind.”
“Just let me tell the story,” Sam said, “And we can discuss your hygiene habits later. We’ll tell the mannie here about yon collection of nasal pickings in your cupboard.”
“Those are capers,” Itchy said, laughing.
“So you say,” Sam replied, trying to keep a straight face himself. “But they look like bogeys to me.”
“You might be right after all,” Itchy said, “They’re certainly salty enough.”
I took a long sup of beer to avoid laughing. Once I started I might not be able to stop.
“Lads,” I said. “Can we get back to Mr. Turner. Did you see him this morning?”
Itchy was busy with his nose again, so it was Sam who replied.
“No. We had a meet set up… and Itchy and I were late.”
“Was it just this morning,” Itchy said with a sob. “It feels like a week ago.”
The small man drank more than half of his beer in one gulp, and went quiet, staring into the dregs.
When he started to speak, it was in a whisper.
“I knew something was wrong when I smelled the dog.”
“It wisnae a dog,” Sam said.
“Course it was… and a wet dog at that. I’ve been in the shower with your wife often enough to ken the smell.”
The joke fell flat. Nobody spoke, and Itchy went back to inspecting his nostrils.
“Sam?” I said, quietly. “What happened?”
The older man looked at Itchy, then back at me.
“Fuck knows,” he said. “Archie was just lying there… his insides on the outside. We did a runner. The next thing I knew George’s boys are leading us here.”
“Was it him?” Itchy asked. “Was it that wee bugger Turner that did for Archie? Is he coming for us?”
I had come to get answers, and all I got were more questions.
George led me away to one side.
“They don’t know anything.”
I looked over to where Itchy was trying to get a whole finger up his nose.
“It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that they’re here. And if they’re here, the lad will come for them.
George lit a cigarette from the butt of his previous one.
“And then what?”
I didn’t have an answer to that.
But I was working on it.
By early evening we had set the trap.
It wasn’t difficult. George’s cellar proved, as expected secure, and its walls were thick stone. All we had to do was find a way of getting our quarry down there.
It involved some fancy carpentry on the trapdoor in the bar but, as usual, George knew a man who would do the job quickly.
I spent the rest of the afternoon keeping my head down and avoiding the television as the bang of hammer on nails echoed through the building. Crawford missed it all. He slept the sleep of the unjust in the armchair and sent out snores that attempted, almost successfully, to drown out the banging. When seven o’ clock came round I left him to it and joined George and a hand-picke
d group of regulars in the bar.
George, Sad Sam and Itchy were in a booth in the corner, out of sight of the main door. George waved me over and pushed a beer at me.
“Park your arse son,” he said. “And have a drink. This could take a while.”
“No’too long, I hope,” Itchy said in between nostrils. “The missus will have my supper ready.”
“Anytime you want to leave,” George replied. “You ken where the door is.”
Itchy looked like he might burst into tears.
“So what’s the plan?” Sad Sam asked.
“We have a few beers, and see what happens,” George said.
“That’s it?”
“That’s all you need to know.”
In truth, George and I had spent some time on a plan of action, but neither of us was too happy with it. A few beers might make it seem like a better idea.
A look around the room told me that George had got the first stage right. The crowd around us was made up of faces I knew; all men I wouldn’t want to meet up a dark alley at night. But they were the ideal lads for what we had in mind.
“Good crowd in tonight,” I said, and George laughed.
“It’s what you might call a private party,” he replied. “And your friend the Black Elf isn’t invited.”
Itchy perked up at that, and he even pulled his finger out of his nostril for long enough to talk.
“You ken the Elf?” he said to George. George in turn motioned over the table to me.
“Derek here had a run in wi’him earlier.”
Itchy didn’t look impressed.
“I kent his faither,” Itchy said. “Jock Fraser fae Clarkston. He thought the sun shone out of his backside… said he could dae magic and shit.”
The wee man went back to rooting up his nose.
“Fucking magician my arse,” Sad Sam said. “I saw him at the Pavilion years ago. He was pissed as a fart and killed yon wee rabbit in his hat.”
“No,” Itchy said. “He was the real deal. He levitated Jimmie Dunlop…six feet in the air. I was there.”
The Midnight Eye Files: Volume 1 (Midnight Eye Collections) Page 50
