Parly Road: The Glasgow Chronicles 1 (41 page)

  “Ah clocked that fat pal ae yours in the street earlier, by the way,” Skull said tae Johnboy.

  “Ye mean yer fat-arsed swimming buddy?” Johnboy retorted.

  “Whit? The fat basturt didnae droon efter diving in wae Baby’s woollen trunks dragging him tae the bottom then?” Joe asked, laughing.

  “Did ye see they mates ae his wearing they Corporation bathing trunks? Bloody funny, that wis.”

  “Did ye clock him, or did he clock you, Skull?” Tony asked.

  “We clocked each other at the same time.”

  “Where aboot wis that?”

  “When Ah wis heidin alang Kennedy Street, heiding doon tae youse.”

  “So, he saw ye wae the egg boxes?”

  “Well, Ah widnae hiv goat away wae sticking them up ma jersey.”

  “Did he see where ye wur gaun?”

  “Naw, he gied me a body swerve.”

  “Ur ye sure noo?”

  “Aye, Ah’m sure. Why?  Whit’s the problem?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hiv ye no noticed how Fat Boy always seems tae turn up when ye’re no expecting it?”  Joe asked, as a blood curling shriek shattered the stillness fae wan ae the boys farting aboot oan the raft, as it righted itsel, tae the relief ae everywan sitting oan tap ae the oil drums.

  “Well, he’ll gie the baths a wide berth fae noo oan, that’s fur sure,” Johnboy mused, sitting wae his knees up, his chin resting oan them.

  “Naw, bit, did we no clock that fat arse ae his the day the stash goat nicked?” Joe asked, looking at them, as everywan’s eyes lit up wae interest.

  “Ah cannae remember seeing him. Ah still think it wis Johnboy or wan ae they Proddy pals ae his that robbed us,” chipped in Skull, looking across at Johnboy, smiling.

  “Ye did see him. He nipped intae the sweetie shoap beside oor school oan St James Road. Ah remember ye shouting something at him when we wur oan the horse and cart,” Johnboy said, remembering. “Ye don’t think he’s goat something tae dae wae oor dosh being nicked, dae ye, Tony?”

  “Ah don’t know. Ah widnae put it past the fat basturt. We need tae keep oor eyes oot fur him fae noo oan.”

  “Why don’t we jist get a haud ae him or wan ae his mates and we’ll soon find oot?”

  “Skull, he didnae clock ye coming oot ae the cabin, did he?”

  “Ah doubt it. It wis at the Dobbie’s Loan end ae Kennedy Street where Ah clocked that fat arse ae his stomping towards me.”

2.00 P.M.

“Check who Ah kin see wobbling towards us?” The Sarge said, tossing his empty fish and chip wrapper oot ae the car windae.

  “Lovely!  Who?” Crisscross asked, taking the last ae his fingers oot ae his gub, efter hivving been sucking and licking the salt and vinegar aff ae them fur the past two minutes.

  “Oor wee special undercover agent.”

  “No The Singing Canary?”

  “The very wan.”

  “Where?”

  “He’s jist crossed the road, coming towards us, behind that Barrs’ lorry, up aheid.”

  “Aye, Ah’ve goat him. Ah wonder whit he’s been torturing the day?”

  “We’ll soon find oot.”

  “Hello there, Alex,” Crisscross said, oot ae the passenger side windae.

  “Hello Cr...Ah mean, sir.”

  “Whit ur ye up tae?”

  “Nothing. Ah’m jist gaun tae meet ma pals.”

  “So, whit’s happening then?” The Sarge asked, leaning across Crisscross tae see the whites ae the wee fat sly fucker’s eyes. “Come closer, where Ah kin see ye. That’s better.”

  “Ah saw that wee baldy wan aboot an hour ago.”

  “Skull?”

  “Aye, and he wis carrying a couple ae big egg boxes.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Ah don’t know. He wis heiding doon towards St James Road.”

  “Whit’s doon there that he’d be humphing a couple ae egg boxes tae?”

  “Ah don’t know.

  “Did ye follow him?”

  “Naw.”

  “Why no?”

  “Cause him and his mates took oor towels and trunks aff ae us when we wur at the baths yesterday.”

  “Wis that no yer chance tae go o’er and knock fuck oot ae him the day, seeing as he wis oan his lonesome? He’s a wee skinny runt compared tae you.”

  “Aye, bit he kin fight like fuck.”

  “Ah’m sure wae your weight and size, he widnae staun a chance.”

  “Aye, bit he’s goat aw his mates.”

  “So, whit else’s daeing wae ye, Alex?”

  “Did ye consider ma request fur a whistle oan a chain?”

  “We spoke tae the inspector. He says we’d need tae get some real good information tae haun o’er a real polis whistle.”

  “Well, er, Ah might hiv something that his a connection wae the egg boxes.”

  “Spit it oot.”

  “Ah heard they’ve taken o’er the Murphys’ cabin.”

  “Who his?”

  “The Mankys.”

  “Nah! There’s no way the Murphys wid gie that up.  Even if they did, they widnae haun it o’er tae they wee toe-rags.”

  “Well, that’s whit Ah heard anyway.”

  “So, whit’s the connection wae the egg boxes then?”

  “They’re used fur shifting aboot piles ae doos at the wan time.”

  “So?”

  “Cabin, dookits, doos?”

  “Oh, right, goat ye.”

  “So, whit else?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Nothing mair?”

  “Naw.”

  “Aye, okay…well, we’ll see ye later.”

  “Will Ah get ma whistle noo?”

  “Ah think ye’re gonnae need mair than that, Alex. Better luck next time, eh?”

  “So, whit dae ye think, Crisscross?” asked The Sarge, wance that fat arse hid twaddled aff intae the horizon behind them.

  “Aboot whit?”

  “Doos, dookits, egg boxes and St James Road?”

  “Ah don’t know, bit let’s hiv a wee shifty roond aboot and check it oot, eh?”

3.15 P.M.

  “Who the fuck ur youse?” asked Tiny, who wis staunin guard oan the door ootside the pub tae stoap nosey basturts being nosey at aw the coming and gauns.

  “We’re the group.”

  “Ah thought it wis Country and Western?”

  “It is, we ur, we’ve arrived,” announced Gareth, as Blair let oot an imaginary drum roll behind him.

  “T’chish!” Blair said tae Tiny, using that wee heid ae his as the cymbal.

  “Whit the fuck’s wrang wae you, ya eejit, ye?” Tiny snarled, glaring at Blair as he stood aside tae let them pass.

  “Oh, er, nothing. Ah’m jist practicing ma stick roll.”

  “Ah’m the roadie,” Sarah May said in the passing.

  “And Ah’m wae her,” Michael, oan bass, added.

  “Right, ye’re o’er there,” Tiny said, nodding tae the far right haun corner where a wee stage hid been set up. “Ye’ve goat hauf an hour.”

  “We’ll need mair time than that. We’ll need tae set up aw the gear first before we even sta...noo, where the fuck did that midget jist disappear tae? Ah wis jist talking tae him,” Hank Williams asked, glancing o’er the tap ae the bar.

  “Gareth, shut yer arse and start setting up. Blair, ye better get ootside and get that drum kit ae yours in before some wee snottery nosed tea-leaf runs aff wae it. Ah think yer best pal, the midget, jist booted it aff the pavement,” Sarah said, as the crashing sound ae the drums came thundering in through the aff-sales hatch.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Blair shouted at Tiny, followed by, “Hoi, ya dirty wee shites, leave they drums alane,” tae the two wee boys who wur knocking fuck oot ae his good snare drum and the flair tom skins wae a couple ae stanes they’d picked up aff the street.

  Elvis wis, meanwhile, staunin in the centre ae the bass drum, yelping tae nowan in particular, as it lay oan it’s side in the middle ae the street.

  “You get the snare and the flair tom, Blair, and Ah’ll get the bass drum,” Sarah said, gieing the laughing gnome, staunin at the door, a dirty look.

  “There’s isnae much room, is there?”

  “Aye, well, jist watch oot wae that bass heid if ye’re swinging it aboot, Michael.”

  “Where’s the cables and mics?”

  “In ma shoulder bag by the bar.”

  “Boys, boys, girl, great tae se...whit the fuck? Whit’s that youse ur wearing?” The Big Man demanded.

  “Whit?” they aw chorused.

  “That gear youse ur decked oot in.”

  “Whit’s wrang wae it?”

  “Youse ur supposed tae be Country and Western singers, no fucking target practice fur hauf ae the shooters in Glesga. When hauf the eejits in here the night get pished, they’ll be bloody aiming fur they bull’s-eyes oan yer shirts.”

  “Bit it’s oor good ‘Who’ tops. We’re Mods.”

  “Ah don’t gie a flying fuck if ye’re fucking cods fae the fish and chip shoap across the road. Ye’re no wearing they shirts the night. Ah’ll lose aw ma street cred. Where the hell ur yer cowpoke hats?”

  “They’re no shirts, and oor cowboy hats don’t go wae oor ‘Who’ tops.”

  “Ye’re bloody right there, pal. Youse hiv goat two and a hauf hours before ma guests start tae arrive. When Ah come back in an hour, Ah don’t want tae see anything that resembles a fucking dart board or something aff the wings ae a spitfire anywhere in this pub. Ah want tae see a bunch ae cowboys and a nice wee cowgirl oan that wee stage in that wee corner at seven forty five sharp. Hiv ye goat that, amigos? Noo, where the fuck is that Sandy Shaw when ye need her?”  The Big Man snarled, walking towards the swing doors.

5.15 P.M.

  The street hid started tae get crowded roond aboot hauf four. At first it wis jist aw the weans in the area
alang wae Elvis and his pals.  Then aw the maws arrived, followed by some ae the das who’d met their payments oan time and didnae still owe The Big Man that week’s money. Tiny started tae arrange the brass pole barriers either side ae the door across the pavement tae the edge ae the street, tae the sound ae ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ fae the crowd, who wur congregating, watching everything that wis gaun oan wae interest. The red ropes being looped through the hooks ae the poles goat a similar response. It wis when Tiny disappeared and arrived back two minutes later, humphing a red runner carpet oan his shoulders fae the direction ae the stables and started tae roll it o’er the piles ae dug’s shite sitting in the middle ae the pavement between the
pub entrance and the kerb, that the crowd started tae clap and get aw excited.  A wee snottery-nosed lassie nipped under the rope and ran across and flattened a lump ae shite wae the soles ae her sandshoe that could be seen raising the carpet up like a wee red molehill, tae the appreciated cheers ae everywan oan either sides ae the ropes.

  “Father O’Malley, if I’m not mistaken, isn’t that our good red runner and brass stands that were stolen from the chapel entrance two Sundays ago, just before Cardinal O’Flynn arrived to take mass?” exclaimed Sister Flog, twirling her crucifix aroond oan its long beaded chain in her left haun.

  “Yes, I believe that is the very runner, Sister Flog. God certainly uses mysterious ways to help out our neighbours, to be sure.”

  “So, what are we going to do about it?” she demanded, hitching up her long habit, as Elvis and a scabby mongrel dug brushed past her, in hot pursuit ae a snottery-nosed five year auld who’d been tormenting them wae a melting iced orange Jubbly
in his haun.

  “I’m sure God will make sure that it arrives back, via the City Cleaners, of course, once I’ve spoken to Pat’s mother at mass tomorrow.”

  “Oh, oh, here comes the competition. Don’t look now.”

  “Faither O’Malley…Sister Flog, how ur ye baith daeing the day?”

  “Oh, fine, Sally. How are things with yourself now?” Sister Flog asked, surreptitiously making a sign ae the cross behind Sally’s back.

  “Ach, fine and dandy, apart fae Ah’m oan a mission tae try and recoup ma losses.”

  “Yes, we heard that you had an unfortunate break-in.”

  “Aye, well, jist another ae God’s wee challenges that he throws oor way every noo and again, eh?”

  “So, what brings you and the other lady Salvationists up here?” the priest asked her.

  “Well, we knew there wid be a crowd ootside, so we wanted tae make sure the good people hid their chance tae contribute tae Africa’s loss.”

  “Wonderful, I’m sure they’ll give with glee.”

  “So, ur youse invited tae the bash the night?” Sally asked them.

  “No, Mrs Molloy was hoping Father O’Malley would have got an invite from her son, Patrick, but we believe that it’s mostly close family members who are attending tonight. And yourself?”

  “Naw, Ah’m in the same leaky ship as yersels. Ma Crisscross put in a word fur me, bit as ye said, it’s a full hoose. Ah’m gonnae nip doon later oan, jist as the group goes oan tae try and blag ma way in wae that wee can ae mine. Ye’re mair than welcome tae join me, Sister Flog. Ah hear they’ve goat a really famous Country and Western group belting oot aw the auld wans.”