The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4 (25 page)

  As the SO wis unlocking the cell door, he’d turned and noticed that the other prison officer hid taken up residence oan wan ae the bare wooden chairs beside the steel gate.  The clatter ae the automatic door locking mechanism being set by the SO, tae stoap the door fae being locked fae the inside, presumably tae prevent a hostage situation, hid brought him back wae a jolt.  When the SO hid stepped aside, tae allow him access, the prisoner, Taylor, hid been sitting oan the pipes at the far end ae the cell, underneath the windae, wae baith erms stretched oot oan either side ae him, legs crossed o’er at the ankles wae his hauns resting oan the pipes, looking towards the cell door.

  He wisnae whit The Reverend hid expected.  In fact, he hidnae been too sure whit tae expect, efter speaking tae Sandy Mackay, bit the inmate sitting looking at him hid seemed harmless enough…even angelic.  His ginger hair wis cut short and hid a parting oan the left haun side ae his heid.  His face wis a pasty white wae a small sprinkling ae freckles across the bridge ae his nose that ran up tae the side ae his temples.  His sky blue eyes, underneath almost white eyebrows, gazed up at him wae interest.  He wis wearing the usual blue striped shirt, grey troosers and black shoes, the same as the other inmates.  The Reverend hid quickly looked aboot the cell.  It wis completely bare...stark...apart fae a solitary chamber pot in wan corner and whit looked like the inmate’s grey jumper, sitting folded up in the corner under the pipes.
The SO hid disappeared, leaving him tae it.

  “Oh, er, Merry Christmas, Taylor.  My name is Reverend Christopher Marion,” he’d said.

  “Is it?”

  “Oh, er, I’m so sorry...that was a bit insensitive of me.  How could it ever be merry in here,” he’d apologised, involuntarily shuddering, looking aboot the cell again.

  “Naw...Ah mean...is it Christmas?”

  “Yes, it’s Christmas morning.  I’ve just come from delivering a service to some of your fellow inmates.”

  “Ah wisnae too sure if it wis yesterday.  Ah thought Ah heard Silent Night being sung in German yesterday or the day before, although Ah wis probably imagining it, so Ah wis.”

  “No, no, I don’t think you were.  We’ve had a German choir in the parish this past week, up until yesterday tea-time, before they had to go back to Hamburg.  They were going around the parish to the homes of parishioners who were sick or too invalided to attend church.  I’m sure that’s what you must have heard.  Do you mind if I go and grab a chair?”  he’d asked, receiving a non-committal shrug.

  He’d then gone back oot intae the corridor.  The two prison officers hid been sitting up beside the steel gate.

  “Would it be possible to get a chair please?”

  The two ae them hid jist blankly stared at him fur a few seconds, before the SO nodded tae his colleague, who’d stood up and carried the chair that he’d been sitting oan back towards the minister.  By the time he’d re-entered the cell, the prisoner wis staunin up wae his back tae the wall, wae wan knee bent and the heel ae his left fit resting oan the tap pipe.  The Reverend hidnae been expecting this turn ae events and hidnae been too sure whit tae dae...whether tae sit oan the chair or tae remain staunin.  His brain hid started racing, before he made his decision.

  “Won’t you join me and have a seat?” he’d asked, placing the chair in the middle ae the cell and sitting doon.

  The prisoner hidnae moved.  He’d stood facing him, without saying a word.  Christopher Marion hid been an intelligence officer in the British Army during the war and the situation he’d noo found himsel in hid brought back memories ae his role, wance the fighting hid stoapped.  He’d suddenly found himself sitting doon, in a disadvantaged position, wae the prisoner staunin up, looking doon oan him.  In his interrogation training in the army, he’d been warned tae ensure, at aw costs, no tae haun o’er the positional advantage ae power tae the prisoner, yet here he noo wis, daeing exactly whit he’d been trained no tae dae.  He’d wondered if Taylor knew the theory and hid intentionally instigated the situation.  He’d always believed that his army experience hid made it easier fur him tae accept the appointment tae come and preach in Polmont Holy Church.  He’d been made aware a number ae times at his interview wae Lady Polmont, that part ae his pastoral duties wid be as minister fur the nearby borstal institution.  Although a different role fae the wan that he’d performed in post-war Germany, he’d felt well-placed tae spread the word ae the Lord tae young delinquent offenders, incarcerated in a place such as Polmont.  It hid proven tougher than whit he’d expected, despite the wonderful support ae Lady Polmont, the chairman ae the local visiting committee.  He’d suspected that it wid be a challenge tae start wae in developing a relationship wae the inmates, but he hidnae anticipated that the prison officers wid dislike…even hate him…jist as much as the inmates did.  He knew that the inmates and prison officers alike called him Creeping Jesus behind his back and that he ministered in a no-man’s vacuum where, although he wis there, nowan actually seemed tae see him.  He’d looked across at the inmate in front ae him.  He hidnae moved or volunteered tae speak, bit hid jist casually stared back at him.  He’d quickly decided tae break the ice by separating himself fae the environment…tae try and cross the divide between them by showing empathy and understaunin and tae then take it fae there.  God knows, he couldnae hiv jist sat there, facing the prisoner, saying nothing.

  “That irritating humming noise.  What is it?” he’d opened up wae.

  “Whit noise?”

  “It sounds like some sort of engine.”

  “Oh, that?  I think it’s the central heating boiler pumping the water through the pipes.  The only time Ah’ve ever heard it wis oan ma first day in here...until noo.”

  “What?  Is this going twenty four seven?” he’d asked.

  “Ah think so, bit ye get used tae it and then ye don’t hear it anymair.”

  “Er, I’m so sorry about your friend, Smith,” he’d said.

  “Ur ye?”

  “Yes, you must be terribly concerned,” he’d replied, glad that his tactic appeared tae be working.

  “So, whit wis it that actually happened…tae Silent then?” Taylor hid asked politely.

  “Well, I’m not too sure what occurred that led to the stabbing, but I’ve been assured this morning that he’ll pull through and hopefully make a full recovery...you’ll be glad to know.”

  “So, dae they know who done it then?”

  “Oh, the investigation is still continuing with everyone who was present in the pallet shop at the time.  I’m sure the police will eventually find out who the culprit was,” The Reverend hid said supportively.

  He couldnae be sure, but he thought that the prisoner’s face hid turned even whiter than it hid been when he’d first appeared in the cell, if that wis possible.  The boy hid seemed tae be holding it together pretty well, even though it hid been clear that he’d been trying tae conceal his emotions.

Chapter Thirty Two

  Harper knew he wis taking a risk, bit he hid tae get oot ae the hoose.  He unzipped the hooded army surplus jaicket that he’d bought oot ae the Army and Navy shoap doon in the High Street jist before he’d gone underground.  He nipped back up the stairs fae the basement and peeked oot ae the windaes at the front ae the hoose before daeing the same at the back.  He’d broken intae the hoose in Coltpark Avenue, up in Bishopbriggs, a few days earlier, efter wandering aboot Petershill Road fur hauf the day, waiting tae see if he could catch a haud ae Tony Gucci.  He’d clocked the two Springburn sergeants sitting in the Black Maria at the corner ae Bedlay Street. He hidnae been sure if it wis him that they wur efter, bit he’d decided that he wisnae gonnae hing aboot tae find oot.  He’d waited in wan ae the closes oan Springburn Road and hid then nipped oot, jist before the forty five bus tae Colston arrived.  He’d been doon tae his last two bob, efter haunin o’er wan and a tanner tae the bus conductor.  He knew it wis probably jist his imagination, bit he’d felt as if everywan oan the tap deck wis eyeing him up as they passed the polis station oan the left, heiding towards Bishopbriggs. 

  That sister ae his hid nearly hid a heart attack when he’d turned up at her door that morning.  Things wurnae looking good at aw.

  “Harper?  Oh ma God!  Whit the hell ur ye daeing here?” Jean hid wailed, fear in they eyes ae hers.

  “Ah’ve jist come tae wish yersel and the weans a Merry Christmas, so Ah hiv.”

  “Whit, at five o’clock in the morning?”

  “Is that the time?  Oh, sorry, Ah didnae realise that it wis that early,” he’d lied.

  “Did anywan see ye arrive?” she’d demanded, scurrying across tae peek oot through the side ae wan ae her curtains, tae see if there wis any movement, her eyes straining through the freezing mist and the orange glow ae the street lights doon oan Stonyhurst Street below.

  “Apart fae a couple ae scabby auld mongrel dugs letting rip at me, naw.  Why?”

  “Harper, they’ve been turning the whole ae Possil upside doon, trying tae find ye, so they hiv.  Christ, if ye’re caught in ma hoose, we’ll aw be done fur,” she’d screeched in a low voice, running baith her hauns through her hair as she hauf ran through tae the hall tae put the chain oan the lock ae the ootside door.

  “Jean, who’s been looking fur me?  Whit ur ye oan aboot?”

  “Look, Harper, Ah don’t know whit ye’ve done, bit whitever it is, haun yersel intae the polis.  They’ll protect ye, so they will.”

  “So, the polis hiv been looking fur me then?” he’d asked, feigning surprise.

  “There’s the polis, they Simpson wans, a couple ae young wans and a wee horrible smelly man that looks like a rat.  Ah nearly cut his toes in hauf efter he tried tae jam ma front door wae that fit ae his.”

  “Young wans?  Whit young wans?”

  “Christ, Harper, Ah don’t know,” she’d replied, throwing her hauns up in the air, dismissively.  “Ah hivnae clocked them before.  Wan ae them wis wearing lime green socks and the other wan looked really shifty.  In fact, the two ae them looked shifty as hell.”

  “Whit did they say?”

  “The same as the rest ae them.”

  “Like whit?”

  “Like, tell that brother ae yers tae get in touch and that it’s important.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Christ, Harper, Ah’ve jist telt ye...them aw.”

  “So, the young crew…the wan wae the socks…he didnae call himsel Simon by any chance, did he?”

  “Naw, Ah don’t think so.  Aw he said wis that some guy called Tony wanted tae speak tae ye urgently.”

  “He did, did he?  Hmm,” Harper hid murmured, his brain shifting up a gear.

  “Look, Harper, efter whit happened tae Hawkeye, Ah cannae take much mair ae this, so Ah cannae…Ah’m still under the doctor.”

  “And The Simpsons?  Wis it The Simpsons themsels or some ae their heavy squad?”

  “Jo Jo Robson and another wee ugly wan.  Look, Harper, ur ye wanting tae tell me whit the hell is gaun oan?  In fact, don’t bother, Ah’ve changed ma mind.  Ah don’t want tae know.”

  “There’s nothing gaun oan, Jean.  Ah owe a wee bit ae money here and there and Ah’m waiting tae collect a wee bit ae money that Ah’m owed tae pay aff The Simpsons…that aw,” he’d lied.  “Ah’m a wee bit late wae ma repayments, bit it’ll aw be fine wance Ah collect whit Ah’m owed.”

  “That’s whit Hawkeye said.”

  Silence.

  “Look, hiv ye hid something tae eat?” she’d eventually asked.

  “Naw.”

  “Right, Ah’ll make ye a fry-up before the weans waken up,” she’d said, trying tae calm hersel doon.

  He hidnae hung aboot at Jean’s.  Whit hid seemed a good idea in the early hours ae the morning hid started tae make him nervous as time hid gone oan.  Every time he’d heard somewan oan the stairwell or a door slamming up the closemooth, he’d jist aboot jumped oot ae his skin.  Wance he’d sat and watched the weans opening up the presents that he’d brought them fae his safe hoose and Jean hid made up a wee food parcel fur him, he’d heided aff.  He’d gone straight back up tae Bishopbriggs, via the railway line, following the same path that he’d used earlier.  The only dodgy part ae the journey hid been when he’d hid tae leave the line underneath the bridge oan Colston Road that separated Milton fae Bishopbriggs.  Wance he’d climbed up oan tae the main road ae the bridge, he’d quickly nipped alang and turned left oan tae the Kirkintilloch Road at the traffic lights.  Coltpark Avenue wis the second oan the left, aboot a hunner yards alang fae the traffic lights.  There hidnae been much traffic oan the road at that time ae the morning, bit that hidnae stoapped him fae nearly getting run o’er by a big fat flashy fucker in a fancy Roller who’d jumped a red light.  There, sitting behind the wheel, puffing away oan a Winston Churchill cigar, careening left intae Colston Road fae Springburn Road, as if he owned the place, hid been Fast Track Dave.  Harper hid jist aboot shat himsel as the Roller’s brakes wur slammed oan hard and Fast Track managed tae swerve oot ae his way, the front driver’s side wheel mounting the pavement oan the other side ae the road.  He didnae think Fast Track hid recognised him underneath his woollen tammy and the scarf that he’d hid wrapped roond hauf ae his face…at least, he didnae clock recognition fae the beady eyes and that angry snarling face, shouting wordlessly fae behind the blue tinted glass, as it careened away fae him.  He’d made it back tae the hoose in wan piece although that arse ae his hid been aboot in tatters. 

  He opened up his food parcel.  Jean hid done him proud.  Hauf a loaf ae plain breid, a tin ae Spam, a packet ae Jacob’s cream crackers, a bit ae red cheese, two caramel log biscuits...his favourites...a couple ae packets ae digestives and a jam jar full ae milk.  That should keep him gaun, he thought tae himsel, as he switched oan the telly that he’d taken doon intae the basement fae the living room upstairs a couple ae days earlier, and settled doon tae watch Basil Brush.