One Hundred And Twelve Days

by Ian Todd

  Chapter Forty

  “So?” Snappy asked, as Tony entered Johnboy’s living room, taking his jaicket aff oan route tae wan ae the seats across at the windae, as everywan looked at him.

  “So, the basturt isnae convinced we’re no pulling a flanker.”

  “Aye, well, there’s a surprise. He always wis a paranoid prickly fud, so he wis,” Ben said, eliciting wee smiles fae everywan, at the understatement ae the year.

  “Aye, bit whit dis that mean, Tony?” Snappy persisted.

  “It means we hiv tae get involved…oan oor ain terms, mind ye, as agreed,” he quickly added, before Snappy could come back at him.

  “How deeply involved this time?” Simon asked.

  “Jist us and that young team ae theirs. He promised they gorillas ae his wid staun by oan the side-lines.”

  “Ah’ll fucking believe that when Ah see it,” Peter scowled, looking roond at everywan.

  “Whit aboot Papa McGregor and they mad brothers ae his?” Jake asked.

  “Papa’s name came up, as expected, bit Ah managed tae kick that wan intae the long grass…fur the time being, at least.”

  “How heavy ur they expecting us tae be?”

  “Well, he disnae want us tae start a war, no wae the trial looming in the distance,” Tony shrugged, catching the bottle ae Irn-Bru that Pat slung across tae him.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, whenever we clock any ae the basturts, we batter fuck oot ae them.”

  Silence.

  “Whit aboot being oot and aboot at nights?”

  “We’re allowed intae the toon centre.”

  “Whit if they’re carrying?” Snappy wanted tae know.

  “Fur fuck’s sake, use yer loaf, Snappy. If wan ae they basturts pulls oot a knife, shoot the basturt,” Tony growled, as everywan, including Snappy, laughed.

  “Ah’m jist asking before you start moaning like fuck that we’re too heavy, ya Atalian greaser, ye!”

  “Aye, well, let’s hope it disnae come tae that. Remember, it’s jist meant tae be an in-and-oot job. If it’s somewhere oot ae the way, then ye kin take yer time and dae it right. If no, jist make sure there’s something fur them tae take hame tae show Papa.”

  “He disnae think the big boys will get involved then?” Johnboy asked.

  “He made oot that he wis hivving tae be persuaded, bit he isnae daft. He knows it wis The McGregors that plugged the inspector, tae bring the heat doon oan everywan oan this side ae the river. He also knows he fucked up getting shot ae Black Pat McVeigh and the others, although he disnae seem too bothered aboot that. Seemingly, they’d been noising him up fur a while and it wis a good excuse tae deal wae them.”

  “Telt youse,” Baby Huey chipped in.

  “Fuck’s sake, whit wid we hiv done withoot ye, Baby,” Simon said, getting mair chuckles.

  “So, whit’s he saying aboot The Goat?”

  “Like us, he thinks that pair ae pricks, Campbell and Grey, jumped the gun and let loose oan The Goat, withoot being sanctioned fae higher up. This will make it much mair difficult fur us, so it will. If we go o’er the tap and the big boys fae across in Govan start tae get involved, then we’ll probably get the blame, so we will. The main danger fur us will be if they reach a compromise wae each other and decide tae sacrifice us tae save face, using the hash heist as the excuse fur why the trouble started. The two sides will be watching everything that’s gaun oan, so try and avoid any ae the younger family members themsels. It’s that younger crowd, the same age as us, that we’re targeting.”

  “Aye, bit we’ve goat businesses we need tae attend tae,” Pat reminded everywan, bit looking across at Jake. “That makes us vulnerable. Aw it’ll take is fur wan ae they basturts tae walk intae wan ae the shoaps or the carpet warehoose and let fly and that’ll be us.”

  “Let other people run the shoaps, Pat. That’s whit they get paid fur. There’s nae need fur us tae be staunin there, welcoming the customers wae a happy smile. Ah’m sure there’s a lot ae other stuff fur ye tae be getting oan wae,” Simon slung in.

  “Ah’m jist saying.”

  “Whit we’re daeing here is conducting a phoney war…”

  “Uh, oh, here it comes,” Jake chimed, as everywan burst oot laughing.

  “As Ah wis aboot tae say, before being rudely interrupted by a fucking haufwit, who thinks he knows everything aboot trendy clobber, is that this is a phoney war. We know that the big boys want tae get tore right intae each other, bit nowan wants tae be the wans tae kick it aw aff. The fight’s gonnae take place amongst the young teams like us…under the radar ae the plods. The bizzies hiv tae believe that the assaults ur doon tae the usual gang warfare that’s gaun oan aw o’er the toon. The main thing is no tae get lifted. As Ah’ve said, any skirmishes need tae be an in-and-oot job.”

  “Tit fur tat?”

  “That’s probably whit it’ll turn intae. They won’t be sitting oan their arses while we’re ladling intae them,” Tony agreed. “So, mind how ye go aboot yer daily business, as Pat The Expert his jist stated the obvious.”

  “Don’t be fucking patronising towards me, ya smug Atalian knob, Gucci,” Pat harrumphed. “Ah know mair than whit you or the rest ae youse gie me credit fur.”

  “Aye, ye’re right, Pat. Sorry, Ah furgoat who Ah wis talking tae there,” Tony retorted. “It wis Snappy Ah wis talking aboot.”

  “Up yours, Gucci!”

  Chapter Forty One

  “Right, ya bunch ae clatty basturts. Which wan ae youse, sick, perverted deviants, tossed yersels aff intae that sock ae mine again, while Ah wis sleeping?” The Stalker demanded tae know, staunin o’er by the door, wan sock covering his left fit, the other wan, dangling oot fae between they fingers ae his, as the other three burst oot laughing.

  “Well, don’t look at me,” Teddy Bare sniggered.

  “Nor me,” Shane Priestly scoffed.

  “Aye, ye know whit they say, Paddy? Those that bleat the loudest, eh?” Dave McGovern slung in, looking across at the other two.

  “Youse basturts ur fucking disgusting, so youse ur,” The Stalker growled, marching across the room and plapping his arse doon oan tae the seat he’d taken ownership ae, scowling.

  Everywan turned and looked across at the glass observation windae, as the sound ae keys unlocking the barred gate reached them.

  “It’s jist the jakey bed-maker,” Dave McGovern said, as the auld pass-man swept by the windae in the direction ae the dormitory, gripping the handle ae a mop o’er his shoulder.

  “Excuse me, sir?” The Stalker shouted, running across tae the windae, rattling they knuckles ae his aff the glass, trying tae get the attention ae the screw, haudin that spunky sock ae his up in front ae him.

  “Whit is it, McPhee?” The Screw shouted back through the glass. “Whit’s that?”

  “It’s wan ae ma socks, so it is. Ah need a clean wan.”

  “Ye goat a clean pair last Friday. Ye’ll jist need tae wait until next Friday, like everywan else.”

  “Bit wan ae these basturts shot his load in it, so they did.”

  “Tough…wear it inside oot,” The Screw shouted, sniggering, turning and walking away, remembering tae lock the gate before strolling towards the dorm, tae keep his eyes oan the auld pass-man.

  “Ach, fur fuck’s sake, Paddy. Put yer sock back oan. It’s only spunk, so it is. It’s supposed tae be good fur athlete’s foot,” Dave McGovern said, as the others sniggered.

  “Aye, it’ll maybe sort oot they rancid toes ae yers,” Teddy Bare added.

  “Ah cannae take much mair ae this,” The Stalker mumbled, marching back tae his seat and picking up his Gideon’s Bible.

  Chapter Forty Two

  Pearl sat nervously watching The Rat read o’er her newly written job application. The first wan she’d haunded in a few weeks earlier hid seemingly gone AWOL.

  “AWOL?” she’d asked doon the phone efter he’d telt her tae resubmit a new wan efter claiming that he couldnae find her original.
r />   “Aye. There wisnae a job then. We jist get shot ae any shite we don’t need that’s lying aboot,” he’d grumbled.

  She noo regretted embellishing the second wan. Whit if they came across the first wan? She wondered if he’d pick up oan the porkies she’d added tae the second CV tae make her investigative journalistic skills sound even better.

  Sammy Elliot, The Rat, and current crime desk sub editor ae The Glesga Echo, hidnae changed much since she last saw him back in early seventy-two, when she’d been working fur Mary Marigold, wan ae the tap journalists in Scotland up until the day she’d gone hame and hung hersel. The Rat hid jist come back fae America…and hid walked intae his auld job…Mary’s job. Mary’s man, Benson Flaw, wis still the paper’s motoring columnist. She’d done a wee bit ae homework and hid heard that he wis noo married again wae a few snappers under his belt. He’d married some titled lady or other, clearly no falling intae the trap ae hitching up wae a smelly fae the tenements the second time roond. She’d been brilliant, hid Mary, efter they’d shoved her aside and made her ‘Scotland’s foremost female journalist,’ wae her ain column ‘Fur Wummin, Aboot Wummin.’ Pearl hid been her gofer, running messages doon tae the wee paper shoap next door fur her fags and bars ae chocolate, as well as daeing research fur the column in the paper. She’d been as rough as a badger’s arse wae that tongue ae hers, bit she’d hid a style, aw ae her ain, in a man’s world. Her and Helen Taylor, Johnboy’s ma, hid goat oan like a hoose oan fire efter Mary hid interviewed her a day or two before the election where Helen hid gubbed that auld crusty basturt, JP Donnelly, up in Springburn in a Corporation election. Everywan knew that it hid been Mary that hid swung things away fae him efter she’d written a brilliant article entitled ‘Tales Ae A Broken Winged Dove Who’s Noo Flying High.’ Pearl still hid a copy ae it saved in a scrapbook somewhere. It hid destroyed JP’s political comeback and hid catapulted Mary intae the big league as a famous female journalist, winning posthumous awards efter her death fur her articles oan wummin. As well as the sales ae the paper shooting through the roof, Mary Marigold hid also managed tae prise open the creaking doors ae Scottish journalism that allowed a few female journalists intae the ‘wolf’s lair dens’ that hid been denied them fur generations. It hid been Mary that hid set Pearl oan the rocky path ae journalism. Pearl hid always dreamt ae being the new Mary Marigold. She knew she’d hiv tae watch her Ps and Qs wae the scurrying beastie sitting across the desk fae her. He hidnae changed in ugliness wae the passing ae time either, she noted. A face that ye could chop sticks wae, pencil thin moustache, thin cruel lips, wae two protruding yellow buckteeth, taking people’s eyes prisoner whenever they came across him. Ugly as sin, as that ma ae hers wid say. She noticed the hallmark manky raincoat hinging up o’er by the glazed door that hid clear glass walls oan either side ae it. She wis dying tae ask whit the point ae the frosted glass wis, bit thought better ae it.

  “Ah want ye tae come doon fur an interview…there’s a temporary position that needs filled,” he’d squeaked at her. “If ye’re interested, that is?”

  “Temporary?” she’d replied in shock, as she’d covered the moothpiece ae the new phone, shushing her ma up, as she’d stood in the middle ae the living room flair wae a wooden spoon held up tae her gub, singing alang tae Tony Bennett’s ‘San Francisco’ that wis blasting oot ae the radio.

  “Aye, temporary,” he’d hissed doon the line.

  She’d been too shocked tae reply. She couldnae get the words oot ae her mooth tae tell the ratty basturt that she wis oan her way.

  “Let’s call it a probationary period,” he’d added, clearly thrown by her hesitation, jist as she’d found her voice.

  “How temporary?”

  “Until the end ae January.”

  “Whit happens at the end ae January like?”

  “Look, ur ye interested in the job or no?” he’d snarled.

  “Er, aye. When dae ye want me tae start?”

  “Get yer application doon here the morra and if it looks okay, ye kin start oan Monday.”

  “Ah’ve awready sent wan in.”

  “It’s gone AWOL. Ah cannae find it. There wisnae a job then. We jist get shot ae any shite we don’t need.”

  Efter he’d explained whit AWOL meant, he’d hung up. She’d hid tae phone him back two seconds later tae check that it wis a journalist’s job he wis offering her and no similar tae the wan she’d hid back in Mary’s day.

  “Oh, fur God’s sake,” he’d squeaked. “Aye, it is!”

  She gied him a wee friendly smile, as he glanced up at her, before moving oan tae her previous experience sheet. Ignoring her friendliness, his eyes drapped doon oan tae the double-sided page.

  “Ye exposed a gang ae cattle rustlers up there in the Highlands?”

  “Aye,” she replied, her red curls dancing in tune wae that nodding chin ae hers.

  He hated gingers. Too temperamental, he reminded himsel. And hers looked real.

  “And a senior cooncillor that wis gaun aboot, getting a bunch ae dithering auld age pensioners tae let him become the executor ae their wills, before convincing them tae leave everything tae him?”

  “Aye, that wis me.”

  “Christ, it says here that ye smashed a sex ring involving the local vicar, a sheriff and a polis sergeant who wis preying oan a bunch ae vulnerable spinsters fae the congregation,” he gasped, looking up at her, as she nodded modestly. “Ye’re no some kind ae man-hating lesbo, ur ye?” he demanded tae know, unashamedly leaning tae the side and checking oot her curved arse before settling they beady eyes oan tae they pert tits ae hers, facing him fae across the desk.

  “Me? A lesbian?”

  “References?” he continued. “Ah don’t see any,” he scowled, looking under the previous experience sheet, gripped between they yellowing manky long nails ae his.

  “Aye, well, Ah kin expla…”

  “Ah’ve jist come aff the phone tae the editor ae The Morayshire News, a Mr McPhail, so Ah hiv,” he informed her.

  Silence.

  “And whit did ye think he said when Ah asked aboot a reference?”

  Silence.

  “No only is he refusing tae gie ye wan, bit he also said that despite him repeatedly asking ye, ye never produced yer Diploma in Journalism that ye claimed ye’d sat, so ye didnae. Here it is. Diploma in Journalism fae Jordanhill College back in seventy-three. Ah never knew Jordanhill did a diploma in journalism, especially fur seventeen-year-aulds,” he lied tae her, no hivving a clue whit courses Jordanhill offered students.

  “Aye, well, ye see…”

  “Mr McPhail also said that ye wur lippy, verbally abusive and refused point blank tae take direction fae him. He also went oan tae say that ye hid an inflated regard ae yer skills as an investigative journalist. So, whit hiv ye tae say tae that then?”

  “Well, fur start, Ah did expose a gang ae rustlers and a fraudulent cooncillor. The fact that the paper refused tae print the story hid absolutely nothing tae dae wae me, despite aw ma good work. There wis a bunch ae the local establishment worthies perching oan vulnerable spinsters, bit the bast…bugger again refused tae print ma story.”

  “And the diploma?”

  “Ah never claimed that Ah’d hid a Diploma fae Jordanhill. He put they words intae ma mooth, so he did.”

  “So, why is it in yer current application then?”

  “Force ae habit. Efter a while ae being hassled by him, it jist became part ae who Ah wis. Look, Mr Elliot, Ah’m a good journalist. Ah know how tae sniff oot a story, so Ah dae. Despite whit that auld prehistoric croc thinks and says, Ah’m diligent and hard working. Ah’m wan ae these people that hiv worked masel up fae the bottom. There won’t be many people in here that kin claim that, Ah’d bet. Ah kin get access where nowan else could,” she’d pleaded.

  And that wis the problem, The Rat cursed tae himsel, scowling at her. He again wondered whit the connection tae Wan-bob Broon wis. Wis she the result ae a burst johnnybag ae his, fae back in the fifties, or a
wan night stand ae wan ae his heavies?

  “Sammy? Don’t bother tae sit doon. Ye’re no gonnae be here long enough,” Peter The Plant hid scowled at him roond in The Horseshoe Bar the previous Wednesday.

  “Oh, right, bit ye wanted a wee word Ah believe?” he’d stupidly asked.

  “Aye. Take this piece ae paper wae the phone number oan it. It’s her maw’s phone number.”

  “Whose maw?” he’d asked, stupidly biting again.

  “Pearl Campbell. She’s a young journalist. A good wan by aw accoonts. Wan-bob wants that Irish Brigade investigated,” he’d declared, as The Rat jist aboot shat himsel there and then, at the mention ae The Irish Brigade.

  “Bit, er, we’re awready investigating their corrupt practices. We’ve been reporting oan aw the polis suspensions this past wee while, so we hiv,” he’d bleated.

  “Sammy, shut the fuck up and listen. That crowd hiv been pumping aw the wee rookie bizzies in the toon two minutes efter they’ve arrived at the front door wearing clean knickers.”

  “Bit, there isnae a story there. Readers urnae interested in that kind ae stuff. Hamish, ma editor, wid block it fae being printed, so he wid. There’s a, er, understaunin aboot allegations like that.”

  “Aye, bit there’s a gory murder in there as well, so there is. Ye’re no trying tae tell me that sex and murder don’t sell, ur ye? Wan-bob wants this tae be big. He wants they heidlines changed fae aw the shite that ye’ve been punting aboot aw these so-called gangsters. This is nineteen seventy-five. There’s no such a thing as a fucking gangster in the toon noo, so there isnae. They aw died aff in the fifties and sixties.”

  “Bit…”

  “Teddy Bare.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s an inspector fae up there in Pitt Street. He’s up oan a murder rap fur daeing in his wife, who wis also a bizzy, or she wis. She’d uncovered a polis sex ring efter being passed a note claiming aw sorts ae shite aboot how aw the inspectors in the toon wur riding aw these wee rookies. Start wae him. He’s yer main lead. Wan-bob wants sleaze, sex and murder between noo and the end ae January.”