One Hundred And Twelve Days

by Ian Todd

  “Aye, that’s whit yer pal, Pearl Campbell, believed as well.”

  Silence.

  “Johnboy. Ye need tae seriously make up yer mind. Ah’m leaving…with or withoot ye. It’s your choice. Ah’m no gonnae beg.”

  “Senga, Ah’ve telt ye. Ah love ye. Ah want tae be wae ye. Whit mair kin Ah say?”

  “Ye kin say that ye want tae be wae me, irrespective ae where we end up.”

  “And, as Ah’ve awready telt ye, Ah’m jist oot ae the hospital and need a bit ae time tae come tae terms wae ma current situation.”

  “Ah’m looking fur serious commitment.”

  “And ye’re getting it. Ah’ll be feeling better in a few weeks’ time when we kin talk aboot it mair.”

  “That pal ae yours will dae everything tae make sure that disnae happen.”

  “Naw, he won’t.”

  “Oh my God, Johnboy! Look at that big bird sitting oan the fence pole, there,” she exclaimed.

  “Whit, the feather variety?”

  “The Feathervariety? Is that whit it’s called? Ah’ve never heard ae wan called that,” she said, leaning forward in the seat staring at the bird oan the way past, as he smiled. “You must think Ah’m bloody stupid, Johnboy Taylor,” she turned and shouted at him, slapping him oan the side ae the heid.

  “Whit?” he laughed.

  “Ah mean, could you live oot here?” she asked him, looking oot her side ae the car towards Cardross and the boats coming and gaun oan the wide expanse ae the Clyde.

  “Well, considering Ah spent the last two and a hauf years looking at the four brick walls ae an eight by five feet cell, somehow Ah’m sure Ah’d manage.”

  “Naw, bit dae ye know whit Ah mean? Look aboot ye. If Ah’m tae become a community nurse, it means we could…in fact, it’s almost certain, that we’ll be oot in the sticks somewhere. God, it’s so beautiful,” she sighed, as ‘Summertime’ by The Zombies wafted oot ae the speakers. “Ah mean, whit wid ye dae wae yer time? Ah suppose ye could get a job painting and decorating.”

  Silence.

  “Whit?”

  “Where the fuck Ah’m Ah gonnae get a job painting and decorating oot in the wilds?” he scoffed.

  “Okay, so whit dae you propose then?”

  “It won’t be bloody well painting and decorating, that’s fur sure.”

  “Bit, it’s a trade.”

  “So?”

  “Okay, whit then?”

  “Ah don’t know…Ah’ve been thinking aboot daeing a bit ae writing.”

  “Writing? Writing? Christ, ye should speak tae Pearl. Nowan will employ her and she’s been daeing it fur years noo.”

  “No that kind ae writing. Ah’m talking aboot a book…or something.”

  “Johnboy, ye’ve goat a good trade behind ye. Use whit ye’ve goat and ur good at.”

  Silence.

  “Ah read wance that everywan’s goat a book in them. Fae the shite Ah’ve read o’er the years, it disnae seem that hard.”

  “Okay, Ah’m sorry. Ah didnae mean tae sound negative, bit honestly? This is the real world, so it is. We’ll hiv tae live. Ah’m lucky if Ah come oot wae thirty quid a week jist noo, so Ah am.”

  “Money won’t be an issue.”

  “And Ah’ve warned ye, Johnboy. Ah’m no prepared tae live aff immoral earnings.”

  Silence.

  “A book…aboot whit?” she eventually asked him, breaking the silence between them.

  “Ah’m no sure…maybe a love story,” he replied, initially straight-faced, before the baith ae them laughed. “Whit?”

  “You writing a love story? Christ, is that no a wee bit ambitious coming fae the guy who telt me that he fancied me since he wis five years auld and his only noo jist goat his act thegither tae dae something aboot it?” she asked, as they baith cackled.

  “Hoi, less ae the bloody cheek. Fur a while in the jail there, Ah wis researching whit love wis aw aboot, remember?”

  “Ah know a good title. How aboot, The Longest Love Story Ever Told?” she asked, trying, bit failing, tae keep her face straight.

  “Produced and directed by George Stevens. Me, Tony, Paul and Joe skipped in tae The Odeon tae see it when it first came oot in 1965.”

  “Eh?”

  “The Longest Story Every Telt. The story ae JC. The place wis packed oot wae aw these priests and nuns. Fuck, we stood oot like sore thumbs, so we did, before eventually getting slung oot the side door oan tae oor arses in the lane efter wan ae the local Toonheid priests recognised us and turned us in,” he said, smiling. “They wur aw making the sign ae the cross at us as we wur being dragged oot, shouting ‘He gets crucified at the end.’ The basturts.”

  “Johnboy, kidding aside. Ur ye seriously talking aboot trying tae write a book?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So, whit’s it aboot?” she asked again.

  “Ah telt ye. A love story.”

  “Aye, bit no aboot us?”

  “Why? Dae ye no think oor tale his the makings ae a good love story?”

  “Ah thought there wis supposed tae be romance in a love story?”

  “Okay, it took a wee while, bit we goat there in the end, didn’t we?” he asked, as Senga smiled.

  “Ach, Johnboy, ye’re such a charmer, so ye ur,” she laughed, leaning o’er and kissing his cheek.

  “Oh, in case Ah furget, Ah need a shot ae a cat.”

  “Ah’m sorry?”

  “Ye heard me. Ye couldnae ask wan ae yer nursing pals if they could gie me a shot ae wan, could ye?”

  “Johnboy, ur you pulling ma leg?” Ye’ve jist been talking aboot how much ye love me and noo ye’re oan aboot a bloody cat. Whit the hell ur ye wanting a loan ae a cat fur?”

  “Ah’ve goat mice…in the walls ae the flat. They sound as if they’re wearing tackety boots. Ah couldnae hear them before, because ae your squeals and screams,” he replied, face deadpan.

  “Ah don’t squeal and scream, ya lying toad, ye!” she squealed, blushing.

  “Oh, right. So it isnae you then? Christ, Ah wis gonnae ask Ben or Snappy fur a shot ae wan ae their hold-up gags that they use tae keep people quiet when they’re robbing them, so Ah wis, wae aw that racket in that bedroom ae mine when ye’re roond staying.”

  “You’re so embarrassing!” she screamed, laughing in horror. “You hivnae said anything tae they manky pals ae yours, hiv ye?”

  “Aboot whit?”

  “Johnboy, you’re horrible!” she scowled petulantly. “That’s horrible. Ah’ll end up wae a complex noo.”

  “A complex?” he asked, exaggerating his surprise, as the baith ae them laughed.

  “Stoap it!”

  “Anyway, furget yer passionate screaming. Back tae the cat?”

  “Johnboy, who gies somewan a loan ae their cat? Why kin ye no get a shot ae Young Plumb, Simon’s cat?”

  “Ah asked him. He refused point blank…he gied me a shot ae the car as compensation fur the knock-back.”

  “There’s no way anywan’s gonnae allow their cat tae be loaned oot. Christ, Ah’d be scared tae leave ye in charge ae a gold fish. Ye’d probably lend it tae somewan.”

  “Well, kin ye ask aboot anyhow?”

  “Ah think we’ve still goat a few moose traps in the flat.”

  “Ah don’t want a moose trap. Ah need a cat fur a few days. Mind you, since you hivnae been aroond, the place his gone deathly quite at night noo, so it his,” he said, changing the subject before she could respond. “Right then, noo that we’re well oot ae the toon, let’s see whit this baby’s made ae, eh?”

  He glanced in his mirror, before turning tae look at her wae a mischievous grin oan that face ae his, as he drapped a gear and pressed his feet doon oan the accelerator ae the powerful 7.2 litre engine and the car leapt forward like a rocket.

  “Johnboy, nooooo!” she screamed.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  “Afternoon, Sergeant,” Roseanne Cardone, the forensic pathologist quipped sarcastically, turning tae look at the newco
mer, as she lifted Timothy ‘The Goat’ Moffat’s heart oan tae the scales.

  “It’s Inspector,” Hammy Hamilton, the wee mortuary technician reminded her, as he leaned across and scribbled doon the figures oan the sheet that wis attached tae his clip board wae an elastic band.

  “Oh, yes, Jean did say that the both of you had been promoted. And not before time too,” The Pathologist said, as her detective sergeant looked across and smiled at her.

  “Aye, sorry. Ah wis held up,” Wilma apologised, noting the second haun oan the wall clock behind the pathologist confirming tae her that it wis exactly ten o’clock in the morning, as John Leyton’s biggest hit, ‘Jonny Remember Me,’ as if oan cue, drapped doon oan tae the turntable ae Hammy Hamilton’s wee record player across in the corner. “So?”

  “Ah kin confirm that he’s as deid as a Dodo, so he is,” Hammy interrupted, getting in there, as the three wummin smiled at the interruption.

  “So, whit wan wid’ve been the fatal shot?” Wilma continued, looking doon intae the open cavity ae the gangster’s empty chest, before noticing whit looked like his shredded lungs sitting in a stainless-steel dish beside the gangster’s feet.

  “The back of the skull.”

  “Wid he hiv survived the blast tae his back?”

  “Hmm, maybe, but he would have been in a wheelchair if he had. He was already unconscious by the time the second discharge inflicted the large depressed skull fracture to the back of his head, causing the fatal brainstem injury. There were clear signs of decerebrate and decorticate posturing alongside violent contractions of all extensor muscles of his body which resulted in biting and laceration of his tongue and lips from the first shot.”

  “So, he wid’ve still been alive at that point then?”

  “Taking into consideration the residue from the firearm, alongside the blood and smatter on the pavement and cobbles in the lane,” The Pathologist said, nodding tae the colour photographs sitting oan the table beside the detective sergeant. “He would still have been hyperventilating at this point. You’ll notice that he was lying slightly on to his left-hand side. His left lung had aspirated just over half a pint of blood into it before the fatal shot to the skull.”

  “Aye, Ah wis the first ae the murder squad tae arrive oan the scene, so Ah saw fur masel. So, it wis definitely an execution then?”

  “Whoever was responsible for discharging that sawn-off shotgun, would have been aware that your Mr Moffat wouldn’t be walking out of that lane,” The Pathologist agreed.

  “So, whit dae ye think then?” Jean asked, as the wee waitress laid doon their fish and chips oan the table in The Fish Plaice alang the street oan The Saltmarket.

  “Anything else Ah kin get ye, girls?” the waitress asked. “Tomato sauce maybe?”

  “Naw, naw, that’s fine, hen,” Wilma replied, picking up a chip and blowing oan it before popping it in tae her gub, as Jean droont her haddock in malt vinegar. “Ah think there’s a war aboot tae kick aff. That’s whit Ah think.”

  “Between who?”

  “The obvious wid be between The McGregors and Wan-bob Broon’s crowd, bit…”

  “Bit?”

  “Well, nowan could find a connection between The McGregors and Black Pat McVey and Streaky John’s murders.”

  “So, ye think the damages ur being inflicted by the bears oan this side ae the river?”

  “Maybe. If they kin find Willie Commotion or John The Haun, they’d be able tae tell us.”

  “Aye, well, Ah widnae haud yer breath oan that wan. When wan ae these gangster types disappears in Glesga these days, it tends tae suggest he’s haudin up a block ae multi-storeys somewhere, so it dis,” Jean replied, as she rubbed her eyes wae the knuckles ae baith hauns and yawned.

  “Ah remember Ah stupidly done that, so Ah did.”

  “Whit?

  “Ended up wae vinegar in ma eyes efter rubbing them when Ah’d been eating chips. Freaked Ronnie and Wee Morag oot wae aw the howling Ah wis daeing.”

  “That’s nothing. How aboot this wan? Ah’d been eating chips soaked in vinegar and rubbed wan ae ma eyes wae the tip ae that finger ae mine. Christ, Ah thought Ah’d blinded masel in ma good eye, so Ah did. And the agony?”

  “Sore?”

  “Sore? Ah’d been at ma sister’s wedding and goat aff wae the best man. We grabbed a poke a chips oan the way up the road. Ah wis practically legless efter coming oot intae the fresh air. We wur staunin in a doorway winching. Ah could feel that hard-on ae his bursting through his troosers while his haun wis snaked up the back ae ma good dress, groping that arse ae mine. Talk aboot gagging fur it? It wis when Ah tried tae pick aff wan ae ma false eyelashes that wis hinging aff ma good eye, that ma finger dabbed ma pupil. Christ, whit a fright Ah gied him,” Jean said drily, as the pair ae them aboot pissed themsels laughing, as the heids ae everywan sitting aboot them, aw swivelled roond tae see whit the joke wis.

  “So, whit happened? Did ye still, er… dae the business?”

  “Ur you bloody joking? The dirty basturt drapped me aff in a taxi up at The Royal, so he did,” Jean replied, as Wilma jist aboot fell aff her chair again, covering her mooth wae her haun. “When Ah turned tae thank him fur escorting me up tae the hospital efter paying fur the taxi, Ah wis staunin there oan ma lonesome, watching him and Jim Clark, the taxi driver, disappearing up oan tae Castle Street in search ae the chequered flag. He left fur South Africa a couple ae days later. It wis pretty obvious whit he wis efter aw the time, so it wis.”

  “Oh Jean, hen. That’s bloody funny, so it is.”

  “Aye, Ah suppose it wis oan reflection. Bit at the time, Ah wis bloody raging, so Ah wis. Ah hidnae hid sex since that Big Alex Douglas two-timed me wae that wee slut fae forensics five months earlier. Ah met Boabby, the best man’s brother, no long efter that. He wisnae as good looking as that basturt ae a brother ae his, bit he knew his way aroond in the sack. Whit aboot you?”

  “Me? Christ, even when Ah hid a man, the only pumping Ah wis getting wis filling a bottle up wae breast milk. Ah’m finished wae men. Too much hard work.”

  “Ach, don’t say that, Wilma. There’s somebody jist roond the corner, so there is.”

  “Who’s gonnae take somewan like me oan wae two weans…wan ae them as fouled mouthed as a drunken sailor? Naw, Ah’m goosed in the man stakes fur a while noo, so Ah am.”

  “Naw, ye’re no. Look, why don’t Ah get Boabby tae set ye up wae wan ae his pals? They’re aw ugly as sin, bit a good laugh.”

  “Naw, furget it. The weans hiv tae come first. And anyway, when wid Ah ever get the chance tae go oot wae the shifts we dae?”

  “Well, if ye change yer mind.”

  “Whit’s happening wae that wee violent thug fae The Springburn Peg?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “He’s still denying he stabbed the boy, despite hauf a dozen witnesses clocking him daeing it. He’ll be gaun doon fur life. And you?”

  “Ah jist managed tae tie up the pair that stabbed that Mr Fisher ootside The Saracen Arms up in Possil. They’ve admitted it. It means Ah kin concentrate oan Honest John McCaffrey’s case.”

  “Whit aboot this latest wan then?”

  “The Goat? Nah, that’s getting passed oan. That’s being shunted across tae The Black Butchers investigation. The only reason we’re involved jist noo, is because Ah wis first oan the scene alang at the lane. If Ah kin clear up Honest John’s murder, then we’ll maybe get some ae the juicier wans like him in the future. Look, Ah’m gonnae hiv tae go. Ah’ve arranged tae meet up wae Marybell Raminsky, the sergeant alang in Pitt Street.”

  “Whit dis she want?”

  “Ah’m no sure. The last time Ah spoke tae her wis when Ah wis hivving a look at The Mankys’ file. She never said anything tae me then.”

  “Ye don’t think it’s anything tae dae wae Lesley Bare, dae ye?”

  “Ah doubt it.”

  “Well, jist remember, that’s aw done and dusted wae noo. Ye’ll no be able tae go back tae it efter passing oan th
e case file tae the procurator fiscal’s office.”

  “Aye, Ah know,” she replied, pursing her lips, remembering that she still hidnae goat back tae Pricilla Presley.

  Chapter Thirty Five

  “Ah fucking telt youse, we should’ve goat in there first, so we should’ve,” Snappy growled, breezing intae the living room.

  “Ah cannae remember him saying that. Kin any ae youse?” Jake asked everywan.

  “Fuck you, Jake,” Snappy growled. “How’s that heid ae yers, Johnboy?”

  “Ma Friar Tuck patch is growing in, so it is,” he replied, touching his wee bristly bald patch, as Snappy lifted Peter’s bottle ae Irn Bru that wis sitting at his feet, taking a skoof oot ae it.

  “Kin ye no use a fucking glass like everywan else?” Peter growled at him. “Who knows where that mooth ae yers his been.”

  “Ask Jean, bit don’t tell her Ah telt ye. So, wis Ah right then?” Snappy asked everywan.

  “We wur jist saying that we better scale things back a bit mair,” Ben informed him.

  “Again? Why? This his goat fuck aw tae dae wae us. Is that no whit we agreed?”

  “They’ll be looking at everywan and we’ll be in there somewhere,” Simon reminded him. “We need tae go caw-canny, so we dae.”

  “His there been any word fae you know who, Tony?”

  “Naw, bit there will be.”

  “So, who’s left in charge then? No that fucking blubbering idiot, Danny Murphy?”

  Silence.

  “That’s who ma money wid be oan,” Tony eventually agreed, tae nods fae the others.

  “Simon thinks he might use this as an excuse tae hiv a go at us, wae Wan-bob and Charlie Hastie sitting up in the Bar-L.” Baby said.

  “Us? We never hid anything tae dae wae The Goat,” Snappy shot back.

  “Ah heard that he wis blasted twice in the back wae a sawn-aff, so he wis,” Pat said, arriving oan the scene. “This is aw we need, so it is. Ah clocked Jimmy Stanton and Grizz Young driving past the shoap oan West Nile Street this morning.”

  “Did they look in the windae?” Peter asked him.