59 Minutes (3 page)

And so it went on. I was a gun for hire. You want in.
I get you there. But mostly I worked with Martin. It was a hell of a time. I
wish I could tell you more. I really do but the clock is ticking.

I was on the up again but on a downward track – if
that makes any sense. I was rising up the criminal world but sliding down the
social scale on the polite side of society.

After a year of lock picking with Martin I wanted to
go freelance. I fancied the lion’s share of the profits from a job - after all
Martin would have fuck all if it wasn’t for me. I’m sure you know what I mean?
So I bided my time, waiting for the right job.

It arrived in the late summer of 1976.

We were working the south side of
Glasgow
as the
west and east were getting a little too hot. The police were on to us and word
was on the street that there was some money in it for anyone that could turn us
in. Forget CSI - it didn’t exist back then - grassing up was far more effective
and some of my fellow thieves would be happy to drop me in it.

Especially those who kept their freedom by dropping
the odd word in the police’s ear.

The south side was proving fruitful and my ten percent
was starting to weigh down the bed. I was in the cash and a happy bunny. Finding
good jobs was easy with the help of one Rachel Score - a pro from the Gorbals
and Martin’s snitch.

Rachel was blonde, over made up, over padded, corseted
to the hilt and wore dresses that promised much if you could just figure how to
release her from them. She let Martin know when houses were going to be empty
and in turn she earned a cut of the take. Martin also paid her a little extra,
in return for some extra marital exercise that Mrs Sketchmore was unaware of.
As to me I never got a sniff of Rachel’s charms. Martin saw to that.

‘Don’t get involved with the tart. She’ll turn on you
in a second.’

That didn’t stop him.

The gigs Rachel found us were easy. On a Friday night
Martin would make a visit to the Gorbals, partake of Rachel, and come back with
an empty ball sack; a full list of all the houses on the go for that weekend in
his pocket.

All was roses and wine until, one weekend, Susan Sketchmore
got her claws in and grounded Martin. In his absence I was despatched to meet
the lovely Rachel with strict instructions to pick up the list and nothing else
- chance would be a fine thing.

I met Rachel in the pre-arranged close only to find
her giving one of her regulars a knee trembler. Without pausing she reached
into her handbag, took out a piece of paper and handed it to me. If her
‘friend’ noticed I was there he never gave a sign. I left to the sound of a
deep grunt as her customer finished his business.

Once back on the street I was tempted to look at the
list but, around me the Gorbals was alive with eyes and ears and it wasn’t
until I got home that I scanned the list of names and addresses.

All, bar one, were alien to me. The familiar name was
David Read.

I knew David’s dad of old. He had been a big customer
of my old engineering company and a man with contacts at Ford. Money was not an
issue but he was a Gorbals man through and through and wasn’t for moving to
some fancy detached house in the suburbs. Over the years he had purchased every
flat in his close. A bit of cash to the council and a front door appeared where
the communal entrance had once been. Then he set about converting the whole
building into the home of his dreams.

The old man had died the year before and David now had
a four-floor house with nine rooms to a floor and more toilets than was good
for a man.

Read’s name was removed from the list - it wasn’t
going to Martin – this one was for me.

I re-wrote the list in my best forged handwriting and
Martin and I spent the weekend emptying valuables from homes.

On the Sunday night Martin called it quits around ten
and told me we should both get going while the going was good. I made my
excuses and told him I was walking into town for a drink. He shrugged his
shoulders and told me to pass by his house the next morning for my share and
left. I waited until he was well gone and then some.

The Read’s house was down near the river and by the
time I got to it, it was nearer twelve than eleven. The front door was flush to
the main wall. This meant no shadow to work in. If someone walked along the
street, I would stick out like a sore thumb. I needed to work quickly and I
needed to be lucky.

I remember standing at the corner of the street
looking at the front door wondering what lay behind it. All weekend we had lifted
cheap jewellery and cash. The jewellery would be fenced by one of Martin’s
friends for a fraction of its worth and for three nights’ work the amount of
cash would seem poor.

I knew that, had I given the Read’s address to Martin
it would have been first and if the pickings had been rich there would have
been no need to scrape away the hard earned belongings of the Gorbals poor
further down the list.

I had to hope that there was a jackpot behind the
door. Not least because I knew my deception would be discovered – Rachel
wouldn’t forget to ask Martin how he had fared with a house like the Reads. All
I could hope for was a score big enough to free me of Martin and set me up on
my own.

That was, is, and always will be my problem. Nothing
was ever enough. I always wanted more and I always wanted more far quicker than
made sense.

In my life I wanted round the corner before I had
reached the end of the street. I wanted over the next hill before I’d climbed
the one in front of me. Tomorrow was too late, today was a touch tardy and
yesterday meant I already had it and didn’t want it anymore.

To add to my drive I felt the world owed me something
for taking my mum and dad away. Some big fucking favour that I was entitled to
call in whenever I needed it. There had to be an upside to losing your parents,
even if one of them had pissed your life away at the feet of horses that were
never quick enough.

As I waited in the still of that night I thought this
is my time. A time for change. Come morning, I’ll be a new person. Fresh out of
the wrapper. The past buried in the dustbin with my last packet of Golden
Wonder.

I remember the wind on my face as if it was carrying a
new soul for me to try on. Wrapping me in a warm blanket of optimism.

I was so right and I was so wrong – a two-edged
simultaneous equation.

I stood at that corner of the Read’s road for an hour
before deciding the moment was right.

I slid along on the opposite side of the street like a
limpet, eyes peeled, ears wide open. A man emerged from a close further down
the street and I froze but he turned away and I saw the cloud of breath follow
him as he hurried against the growing cold.

With a last look up and down the street I crossed to
the door, pulling out my toolkit as I walked.

I had now acquired a regular locksmith’s wallet of
assorted picks and files. I removed one of the picks from the wallet and, as I
reached the door, bent down and slid it into the keyhole. I pulled a second
pick from the wallet and pushed it in beside its brother.

Back then I didn’t know any of the technical jargon
that goes with picking locks. Pins, shells, hubs and plates meant nothing. I
just moved around bits of metal and if I was lucky opened the lock. The street
faded from my mind and all my effort focussed on springing the lock. If someone
came along now it was too late to do anything else but try and open the door
and make it look like I was supposed to be there.

The lock turned out to be a penny drop – my name for
the easy ones. Why penny drop – well when I was scavenging as a kid one of the
favourite scams was to drop a penny in front of someone. When they bent over to
pick it up, me and my mates would rush them, push them over and grab their bag,
wallet, purse, coat – you name it. It was an easy way to earn if you had the
balls and could run.

The lock clicked, I flicked the handle and I was in.

It was dark as sin in that house. I closed the door
and the noise echoed along the walls. Clearly the close was still lined with
tiles. I thought the Reads would have decorated the hall – to make it more like
part of the home but it smelled and sounded like a thousand other closes across
the city.

It was only then that I realised how ill equipped I
was for the job. I had no torch. Martin always brought his along. I had no idea
where to start looking either. Remember this used to be a building that housed
fourteen families over four levels. Where the hell would the bedrooms be -
always a good start point when doing over a house.

But I was in and I wasn’t going back. Strike that - I
couldn’t go back. I either made this job pay or Martin would be over me like a
rash. A little extra cash from this job and maybe I could hire some muscle to
keep him at bay.

I ran my fingers along the close wall as I walked,
feeling the cool of the ceramic surface on my fingers.

I reached the bottom of the stairwell and tried the
first door. It opened easily and, as I stepped in, I could smell the bleach and
fat fighting – the kitchen.

I backed out and closed the door, crossed to the other
side and pushed at another door. My nose caught the whiff of stale cigar smoke
and through thick curtains enough light played to show me that this flat had
been turned into one giant room. I walked forward and felt wood under my feet.
I saw the shape of an armchair near one of the windows and, at the far side, I
saw the glint of something. I walked across the wood and froze. A shape moved
in the dark.

I tilted my head a few inches to the left and the
shape moved again. I froze again. I could make out the rough shape of a man or
a woman. I shifted my head again and the shape’s head copied me and I let out a
laugh. Walking forward I touched the ice chill of a mirror and breathed a sigh
of relief. I traced the mirror all the way to the window and then all the way
back to the far wall. I reached up and I couldn’t feel the top of it. It
stretched all the way to the ground.

I had heard of such rooms in dance classes but I had
never been in one. It took a fair bit of cash to buy someone’s house just to
turn it into a dance studio. I looked over at the armchair and wondered if the
old man used to sit and watch the dancers practising. I shivered – there was
something not quite right with that thought.

I retraced my steps and walked back into the stair
well. I was fascinated by the whole place. Why would someone buy an entire
tenement with all the cost of converting it? It was a massive undertaking.
David’s dad must have really loved the Gorbals.

I started up the stairs hoping that common sense would
put the living rooms on the next floor and, at worst, the bedrooms on the floor
above. If the bedrooms were at the top of the building I was in for a long
search.

At the next floor there should have been three doors
leading off the landing. Instead there was one door right at the top of the
stairs and when I pushed it open there was carpet beneath my feet.

The light was better up there. The three homes on this
floor had been opened up into a huge living area with windows on three sides.
If the dance studio was impressive the scale here was breathtaking.

Here was a man who had a living room the size of three
houses. Around me there was a wealth of furniture and I wondered if it was safe
to turn on a light. I could see some lamps and given the curtains were shut I
decided to risk it and, after some fumbling, I managed to switch on a small
table lamp.

The room hove into view and it was no less impressive
- although I couldn’t help wondering how the hell three families had managed to
live their lives in the space.

The walls were a veritable art gallery of paintings.
In those days I had no idea of the value of such art. I studied a few and
thought I could do better given half a chance and a bunch of crayons. Of course
I was so wrong it hurts.

I crossed the room and scanned for anything of value
and my eyes found a chest with a gold padlock the size of a loaf of bread. It
was the sort of chest that you would expect to see in
Treasure Island
.
The padlock could only mean one thing – jackpot.

I took out my lock pick kit and popped the padlock
with ease. I raised the lid and jewellery shone in the dim light. The chest was
stuffed with it. If it was real I could retire today and six generations of my
descendants would never run out of cash.

It was then that my life took a left turn. I suddenly
knew that I was in the wrong place. I slammed the lid down and locked the
padlock. I sprinted across the room, dousing the light as I went and I was down
and out the front door like the wind across the top of
Ben Nevis
.

As I ran I knew I was in the deep brown stuff. Deep in
the crapper. I knew what I had to do but my guts were churning and I wanted to
be sick.

It was well after
one
o’clock
by then but that made no
difference. I knew where David Read might be and I now knew what he was - and
more importantly what he could do.