Katy's Men (34 page)

THREE

Despite
dark
mutterings
from
older
people
on
all
sides
about
‘the
daft
cantrips
of
young
folk’,
there
was
still
something
of
a
carnival
air
in
the
crowded
Greenock
streets
as
barefoot,
snotty-nosed
wee
lads,
and
daft-wi-freedom,
newly-released-from-work
mill-girls
marched
towards
the
sound
of
drums.
However,
them
aside,
the
main
crowds
were
of
sullenly
hostile
people
and
Etta
noticed
that
every
small
shop
she
passed
was
firmly
closed,
shuttered
and
in
some
cases
even
boarded
up.

Perhaps ma father was right after all
.
Mibbe Ah should hae taken the longer way hame and kept clear o the town centre streets
.
At
this
thought
and
about
to
change
her
mind
and
dart
down
a
side
street
to
head
towards
the
seafront
Etta
found
herself
caught
up
in
a
crowd
which
swept
her
almost
to
the
gates
of
Bridewell
Prison
itself.

Marching
away
from
the
Bridewell
was
the
eighty-strong
company
of
militia
having
delivered
their
five
political
prisoners
into
the
bowels
of
Greenock
prison.
As
they
attempted
to
move
through
the
now
heaving
streets
of
Greenock,
verbal
abuse
increased
in
volume
and
stones,
sticks,
and
even
iron
bars
were
thrown
at
them.

Now
thoroughly
frightened,
Etta
and
Aggie
were
borne
along
like
so
much
flotsam
and
jetsam
by
the
crowd
which
was
now
trying
to
block
the
street
in
front
of
the
militia.

A
command
was
shouted
over
the
hubbub:
“Fire!
Fire
over
the
heads
of
the
crowd.”

In
horror
Etta
saw
rifles
pointed
not
into
the
air
but
level
with
the
ground
and
saw
the
muzzle
flash
and
heard
the
sound
of
the
volley.

All
round
Etta
men
and
women
dropped
like
stones.
A
boy
of
about
eight
fell
wounded
onto
the
already
blood-stained
cobbles.

Etta
grabbed
hold
of
Aggie
and
in
a
blind
panic
they
sought
some
means
of
escape.
But
hemmed
in
as
they
were
there
was
no
immediate
path
open
to
them.
At
a
second
volley
of
rifle
fire
Aggie
lurched
free
of
Etta’s
grasp
and
fell.

“Oh,
Etta!
It’s
ma
legs,
Ah
cannae
move
them!”

Aggie
screamed
and
Etta
looking
round
for
someone,
anyone,
to
help
her
was
aware
that
the
crowd
which
only
minutes
before
had
been
a
dense,
closely-packed
mass
of
humanity
had
thinned
dramatically
as
those
still
physically
able
had
fled
the
scene
after
the
second
round
of
gunfire.

Feebly
trying
to
drag
Aggie
along
the
street,
Etta
felt
a
tug
at
her
elbow.

“
Listen,
if
Ah
carry
yer
friend
can
ye
manage
to
get
yerself
safely
round
to
the
next
street
and
away
from
this
bloody
scene?”

Etta
nodded
at
the
young
workman.
In
shock,
she
almost
giggled
at
the
thought
that
the
swear
word
bloody
was
for
the
first
time
ever
in
her
hearing
being
used
in
exactly
the
correct
way.
Aggie’s
legs
were
covered
in
blood
and
she
had
touched
the
wounds
then
trailed
her
fingers
over
her
face
so
that
this
too
was
smeared
with
blood.

“Come
on,
woman!
The
mob’s
going
to
try
to
storm
the
gaol.
They
might
get
the
political
prisoners
out,
but
God
only
kens
what
other
rogues
and
rapists
might
get
free
in
the
stramash.
Let’s
not
waste
any
more
time.
We’ve
got
to
get
the
hell
out
of
here.”

He
lifted
Aggie
and
over
the
top
of
her
tousled
hair
said:
“Ma
name’s
Hector
–
God
knows
why
ma
mother
called
me
that
–
but
ma
friends
call
me
Torrie.”

Etta
stumbled
her
way
along
the
cobbled
street
after
their
saviour
to
a
carter’s
yard.
There
Torrie
placed
Aggie
on
a
handcart.

“This
is
ma
place,”
Torrie
said.
“We
can
wheel
yer
friend
home
once
the
streets
round
here
quieten
down.”

FOUR

On
her
way
to
work
on
the
following
Monday
morning
Etta
reflected
that
she
was
one
of
the
lucky
ones.
She
was
alive,
while
others
lay
in
the
mortuary
after
the
massacre;
she
still
had
legs
that
obeyed
her
bidding
unlike
poor
Aggie
whose
lifeless
limbs
would
confine
her
to
a
wheelchair
or
a
bed
for
the
rest
of
her
days.

Etta
choked
back
a
sob
as
she
sidled
past
‘Plum
Duff’
and
mentally
braced
for
his
usual
snide
comments
about
her
appearance,
her
timekeeping
and
even
the
disputed
quality
of
her
work.
For
the
first
time
ever
‘Plum
Duff’
after
a
quick
glance
at
Etta’s
tear-stained
face
contented
himself
with
a
regal
wave
in
the
direction
of
her
work
station.

Despite
her
relief
at
escaping
the
normal
verbal
onslaught,
Etta
could
not
resist
muttering
under
her
breath:
“A
body
would
think
Ah’m
some
kind
o
eejit
that
still
disnae
ken
her
way
aboot
this
damned
place.”

But
accursed
place
or
not,
it
still
provided
the
pittance
of
her
wages
and
Etta
knew
there
was
nothing
else
to
do
–
her
heart
breaking
or
not
–
but
to
roll
up
her
sleeves
and
get
on
with
her
work.
While
she
worked
skilfully
enough
with
her
hands
she
could
not
control
the
turmoil
of
her
thoughts
as
she
relived
the
hideous
scene
of
Saturday’s
massacre.

In
her
mind’s
eye
she
could
still
see
the
boy
as
he
lay
dying
in
the
gutter,
his
head
covered
in
blood;
the
woman,
herself
wounded,
cradling
him
and
saying
over
and
over:
“Jamie,
lad,
hang
on.
Yer
mother’ll
be
here
soon.
Hang
on,
Jamie.”

But
above
everything
else
it
was
the
piteous
cries
of
Aggie
until
she
lost
consciousness
when
Torrie
finally
laid
her
in
his
handcart.
Etta
could
feel
the
hot
colour
rising
to
her
cheeks
at
the
memory
of
the
reception
she
and
Torrie
got
from
Aggie’s
mother.

“Ah
blame
ye,
Etta
Gorton.
Oh
aye,
it’s
all
doon
tae
ye.
If
ma
Aggie
hadnae
been
cavortin
aboot
the
toon
wi
ye
she’d
hae
been
hame
hours
ago.
Walkin
on
her
ain
twa
guid
legs,
no
gettin
dumped
on
ma
doorstep
like
a
bundle
o
auld
rags.”

Etta
was
still
reliving
the
bitter
hurt
of
this
unjustified
accusation
when
she
became
aware
someone
was
talking
to
her.
Jean
Jackson,
a
waif-like
woman
of
indeterminate
age,
having
a
miserable
life
of
her
own
seemed
to
thrive
on
hearing
about
the
miseries
of
others.

“Ah
was
just
saying,
that
was
an
awful
thing
tae
happen
tae
yer
pal,
Poor
Aggie
...
and
was
it
just
the
one
leg
that
got
hurted?
Or,
God
forbid,
was
it
baith
o
them?”

Etta
glared
and
refusing
to
discuss
details
said:
“Aggie’s
lucky
tae
be
alive
–
in
fact,
we
both
are
and
for
yer
information
Aggie’s
safe
at
home.”

Jean
nodded
but
never
one
to
be
put
off
persisted:
“Aye,
but
ye
havenae
telt
me
naethin.
Was
it
the
one
leg
or
the
pair
o
them?”

Struggling
to
keep
her
composure
Etta
gave
a
grim
smile
and
through
gritted
teeth
said:
“What
Ah
am
tellin
ye
is
this:
any
finer
details
ye
might
wish
tae
ken,
ye’ll
just
need
tae
ask
poor
Aggie
hersel.”

Jeans’
face
brightened.
“Here
noo.
That’s
a
helluva
guid
idea.
Thanks
very
much.
Ah’ll
just
come
wi
ye
the
nicht
when
ye
gae
roon
tae
visit
Aggie.”

Etta
opened
her
mouth
to
protest
but
Jean
was
already
walking
away,
stopping
only
to
call
over
her
shoulder:
“Richt,
well,
Ah’ll
see
ye
at
the
corner
o
Sugarhouse
Lane
at
aboot
seven
o’clock.”

On
the
point
of
cancelling
such
an
arrangement,
the
thought
occurred
to
Etta
that
perhaps
it
wasn’t
such
a
bad
idea
after
all.

Safety in numbers and all that sort of thing
.
Mrs Ross will hardly bawl me out again
,
especially in front of Jean
.

As
Etta
approached
the
corner
of
Sugarhouse
Lane
in
good
time
for
her
appointment
with
Jean
Jackson
she
was
not
surprised
although
somewhat
annoyed
to
find
that
the
bird-like
waif
of
a
woman
was
already
there
and
impatiently
tapping
her
booted
foot
on
the
cobblestones.