The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4 (26 page)

Chapter Thirty Three

  “Bit, Pat, it’s Christmas Day.  Ye widnae expect me tae be oot and aboot the day, wid ye?  There’s nowan aboot.  Aw the pubs ur shut.  Ah thought aw youse wid be sitting doon, tucking intae something nice,” The Rat snivelled, looking aboot the bare kitchen and failing tae find anything that shouted oot ‘Christmas’ tae him.

  “Sammy, shut the fuck up.  Kin ye no see that Pat’s trying tae think?” Wan-bob snarled at him.

  The Rat fell silent.  The Big Man wis sitting across fae where he wis staunin, in the same ermchair, in the same pyjamas and dressing gown, smoking whit looked like the same cigar, as when he’d been there a few days earlier.  The Rat felt a twinge coming fae his bandaged haun.  It hidnae been throbbing up until he’d been dragged oot ae his bedsit an hour earlier, jist as he wis settling doon tae watch Rolf Harris dae the roonds ae the wards in wan ae the weans’s hospitals, doon in Carshalton in London.  The Rat hid investigated a Lord who wis intae shagging young boys back in the sixties and knew the area well.  He’d jist boiled a tin ae good Heinz’s chicken soup when the knock oan his door hid telt him that a re-run ae The Looney Tunes wis aboot tae commence.

  “Right, Sammy, ye’re wanted.  Get that rat’s arse ae yours intae the back ae the van, as in pronto,” Wan-bob hid cursed, sniffing the air in disgust.

  “The smell’s ma good Heinz’s chicken soup.  Ah wis jist aboot tae scoff it.  Dae ye want some, Bob?” he’d asked, trying tae keep oan the good side ae the gorilla that wis staunin in front ae him.

  “Ye heard the man!  Get yer arse intae gear.  Ah want tae see they horrible wee legs ae yers scurrying, so get a move oan, ya rodent, ye,” The Goat hid snarled, gieing him a slap oan the side ae his lug.

  “Dae ye mind if Ah switch aff the ring under ma soup?” he’d made the mistake ae asking.

  “Ur ye still here then?” Wan-bob hid scowled at him, as The Rat sprung intae action and ran across and switched the cooker aff, before grabbing his raincoat and scurrying oot ae the door.

  “Whit dae ye think, Bob?” The Big Man asked him, ignoring The Rat.

  “Ah think Ah smell a Rat, so Ah dae,” Wan-bob sniffed.

  “Ye widnae be trying tae pull a flanker noo, wid ye, Sammy?” The Big Man asked, taking a puff ae his cigar.

  “Pat, how could ye think that?  Oan ma sister’s weans’ lives, Ah swear that never entered ma brain,” he pleaded, feeling his sphincter stretching back and forth in time wae his throbbing fingers.

  “Ah think this bampot is trying tae play us aff against each other.  Everywan knows ye cannae hiv two masters.  Ye hiv tae end up choosing at the end ae the day,” The Goat said.

  “Pat, Ah swear, Ah spoke tae Tom Bryce doon at The Echo offices last night.  Ah telt him that there wisnae any developments oan the ring front...honest,” he pleaded.

  “So, why hiv ye been avoiding Bob here?”

  “Pat, Ah swear, Ah hivnae.  Ah’ve been oot and aboot fae morning tae night.  Ah’ve been crisscrossing the city, trying tae cross reference the info Ah’ve been picking up...honest tae God.”

  “Right...fae the beginning then.  And don’t fur wan second leave anything oot.  If Ah find oot that ye’ve been haudin back, they’ll find ye wae yer throat cut, back in the sewers, wae nae hauns, feet or face tae yer name.”

  “Please, Pat, Ah swear tae God…this is where Ah’ve goat tae so far,” he whined fearfully.  “Ah managed tae get the lowdoon oan Harris fae wan ae The Gruesome Twosome up in Possil...thirty quid it cost me.  Harris his a string ae convictions the length ae yer erm.  Ah even managed tae get a mug shot ae him.  Aw his convictions hiv been fur hoosebreaking, although it’s been a few years since he’s been up in court.  He used tae be intae screwing big hooses fur classy stuff like candelabras, paintings and, wait fur it...jewellery.  Fae whit Ah picked up fae some ae the wasters in the pubs oan Saracen Street, he’s been dealing in whit Ah suppose youse wid call shite...kettles, cameras, radios...that kind ae stuff.  A gem that Ah did pick up though, wis that he completed two years ae an apprenticeship as a locksmith wae Chubb before he goat done fur hoosebreaking,” The Rat spluttered, looking at the three ugly mugs in front ae him and hoping tae impress them wae his investigative talent.

  “So?” Wan-bob asked.

  “Is it no obvious?” he stupidly replied.

  “It wis that obvious, none ae us goat it, ya prick, ye.  Spit it oot.  This isnae ‘Open The Box,’ wae Michael Miles,” The Goat shouted, gieing The Rat a threatening look fur trying tae make oot they wur haufwits.

  “Oh, er, right...sorry.  The hoose that wis broken intae across in the West End hid its back door lock picked,” The Rat replied, keeping his face straight, bit getting some comfort fae the effect he’d hid oan the faces in front ae him.

  “Carry oan,” The Big Man said encouragingly.

  “And another thing...Harris lives in a tap flair flat in Mansion Street, which is bang in the middle ae the nice wee come-and-go triangle ae Saracen Cross, Hawthorn Street and Bilsland Drive.  Ah don’t know if it wis intentional oan his part, bit it gies him easy access fur nipping in and oot ae the area, withoot being spotted.  Ah’ve spent the last two days freezing ma hee-haws aff, hinging aboot the closemooths, waiting fur him tae turn up, bit it’s a hard place tae keep tabs oan anywan.”

  “And?” The Big Man asked, looking across at him.

  “And nothing...at least, nothing ae him.”

  “Whit’s that supposed tae mean?”

  “It means that, while he hisnae been back himsel, Ah’ve clocked the polis, some ae The Simpsons’ henchmen and a couple ae young boys, aw sniffing aboot looking fur him…and Ah’m no talking aboot choir boys either.”

  “Dae we know who they ur?”

  “Ah lost them the first day, bit managed tae pick them up the next, efter Harris’s sister telt me she wis gonnae get the polis oan tae me if Ah didnae stoap accosting her oan the street or coming up roond aboot her door.  They looked like tickets and hid the swaggers tae go wae it.  Ah followed them across the Cowlairs fitba pitches intae Springburn.  How they never clocked me, Ah’ll never know.  Ah lost them wance they goat in amongst the hooses, bit picked them up again at the far end ae Keppochhill Road.  They disappeared intae a lounge oan Springburn Road called The Jonah’s Tavern.  Dae youse know it?”

  “Whit did the boys look like?” Wan-bob asked, ignoring the question.

  “Hmm, Ah don’t know, jist like any ae the other young thugs that ye see, wandering aboot Glesga, acting like tickets.”

  “Wur they big, tall, fat, thin, black hair, nae hair?  Fur Christ’s sake, they must’ve hid some striking feature or something,” Wan-bob growled, clearly getting irritated.

  “Ah’m sorry, Bob…Ah didnae want tae get too close tae them.  They didnae look that friendly fae where Ah wis tailing them.  They wur smartly dressed and...oh, aye...wan ae them hid oan bright green luminous socks.”

  “The Carpet Blagger,” Wan-bob said, nodding tae The Big Man.

  “Which ae The Simpsons wis up at Harris’s door, Sammy?” The Big Man asked him.

  “Jo Jo Robson visited twice oan the wan day.  Another day, he came back wae somewan else, bit Ah never managed tae find oot who that wis, other than he looked even meaner than Robson did.”

  “Carry oan, Sammy, ye’re daeing fine,” The Big Man said, nodding across tae him.

  “There isnae really much else tae say.  It looks as if Harris his disappeared.  Ah tracked him doon tae a pub called The Auld Hoose
oan Keppochhill Road.”

  “The wan jist across fae Pinkston Drive?”

  “The very wan.  He wis there at shutting time in the efternoon.
 
The last known sighting ae him wis when he wis seen hinging aboot across oan Petershill Road fur a couple ae hours that same efternoon.  Ah’ve goat two different confirmed sightings fae sources that wid swear it wis him.  Efter that…well, the trail went cauld, as Tonto used tae say tae Kemo Sahbee.”

  The Rat knew he wis oan tae something when he saw the eyes oan the three faces in front ae him slightly twitch at the mention ae Petershill Road.  It wisnae that obvious, and widnae staun up in court, bit there wis a definite flicker or slight shift in the focus ae the cauld eyes that hid been staring across at him when he mentioned it.  He’d been aroond long enough tae know that he’d hit the bull’s-eye, bit he wisnae sure why.  He allowed his sphincter tae relax a bit.

  “And the ring, Sammy?”

  “Whit aboot it?”

  “Hiv ye heard anything aboot where it could be?  Any word oan the street oan its whereaboots?”

  “Nothing, Pat…no even a squeak.”

  “Right, Ah want ye tae keep oan the case ae Harper.  He’s oor man.  As soon as ye track him doon, get the word back tae me via Bob here...day or night.  Hiv ye goat that?”

  “Aye, nae problem, Pat.”

  “Right, Bob, drap Sammy back aff in the toon,” The Big Man said, taking a deep puff ae his cigar and sitting back comfortably in his ermchair.

  Efter being blindfolded and tossed aboot in the back ae the van fur three quarters ae an hour, The Rat wis back in his bedsit, jist in time tae catch the start ae Jimmy Saville drooling o’er the young lassies and announcing that this wis the Christmas Top Ae The Pops Special 1971.  He wis still trying tae figure oot whit the significance ae Petershill Road wis as he stirred his good Heinz’s chicken soup.  The whole atmosphere in the room hid changed when he’d mentioned it, or hid it been at the mention ae the ned wearing the luminous socks?

Chapter Thirty Four

  “Reverend, is there something wrong?” Lady Polmont asked.

  “Oh, er, no, not at all, Lady Polmont.  The turkey is beautiful and the Brussels sprouts are cooked to perfection,” The Reverend replied, as the concerned faces ae the great and the good looked towards him, while seated aroond Lady Polmont’s dinner table in Polmont House.

  “Well, please do not be afraid to say, Reverend.  I thought I caught your face turning a whiter shade of pale,” she replied.

  “Ah believe that’s a song title ae a famous song, Lady Polmont.”

  “What is?”

  “A Whiter Shade ae Pale.  I believe some pop group hid a hit wae it in the pop charts, back in the 1960s,” The Provost replied.

  “Really?” Lady Polmont said, hoping that inviting John Robertson, the local butcher and recently appointed provost, wisnae too distressing fur her guests, efter the death ae Sir Malcolm, the previous holder ae the post.

  The Reverend felt like throwing up.  He wis only hauf listening tae whit Mrs Bingham, vice chairman ae the borstal visiting committee wis saying oan his left...something aboot rosehips.  He wisnae sure if she wis referring tae the plant or the syrup.  It hid jist dawned oan him whit he’d stupidly done.  The boy...Taylor...hid been unaware ae the stabbing incident involving his friend.  Drat!  How could he hiv been so stupid?  Unless the prison staff hid informed the boy...which wis doubtful...how wis he tae know?  The oppressiveness ae the place that he’d felt when he’d entered the solitary block, alang wae the obvious reluctance ae Taylor tae engage wae him, hid made it difficult fur him tae communicate.  He tried tae remember whit exactly it wis that he’d said noo.  He’d jist assumed that the boy awready knew aboot the stabbing as he hidnae shown surprise when he’d mentioned it...or hid he?  The role reversal, where he’d ended up sitting facing and looking up at Taylor, who’d been staunin throughoot their conversation, looking doon oan him, hid unnerved him.  It hid happened so quickly, but hid it been opportunistic oan the part ae Taylor...an experienced offender?  When he’d sat in the cell, there hid been nae hint ae aggression, only a bemused curiosity oan the part ae the inmate.  Whit he’d perceived as hurt, sadness and concern fur his friend when he’d raised the stabbing incident, he noo realised hid probably been anger towards him, firstly fur bringing him the bad news and secondly, maist likely towards the system as a whole.  He tried tae rationalise the advice that he’d received fae Sandy Mackay, the senior social worker, who’d tried tae persuade him tae avoid visiting Taylor in the first place.  He looked doon the table at Lady Polmont and at the faces eating aroond the table.  He truly believed that Lady Polmont felt a genuine concern fur the welfare ae the prisoners in Polmont, but whit exactly wis she...they...actually achieving?  When young offenders wur sentenced tae borstal, it wis called borstal training.  Whit evidence wis there that young men, maistly fae the inner city slum areas ae Glesga, wur actually being trained or rehabilitated in these institutions?  Hid his time in applying his faith tae those maist in need been in vain?  If he wis tae ask himsel, in aw honesty, whit he’d actually achieved in the three years that he’d been daeing missionary work in Polmont, wid he be satisfied wae his reply?  The very fact that he wis avoiding the answer oan this day, ae aw days, no only challenged the validity and justification ae his presence before the people sitting aroond this table, bit ae those who lived and worked in the institution itsel.  Wis he there under false pretences?  He felt as if a sledgehammer hid landed oan his heid and heart.  His wife ae twenty seven years hid died four years previously.  They’d hid nae children.  Her death hid hit him extremely hard.  When the Bishop, who knew ae his time working wae prisoners efter the war in Germany, hid suggested that he apply fur the Polmont parish, he’d at first dismissed the suggestion oot ae haun.  Efter four months ae being accosted daily by elderly spinsters wae apple tarts and baked pies, which hid been piling up in his kitchen uneaten, he’d made up his mind.  The Bishop hid welcomed his change ae heart.  The post hid still been vacant.  He’d found oot later that there hidnae been a single application fur the posting, despite it hivving been widely advertised in Scotland and in the missions abroad.  He’d believed the Bishop when he’d informed him that he wis the right missionary fur the job as the person wis expected tae be dynamic, God-fearing and humble towards his fellow beings. 

  “You’ve got all these qualities in spades, Christopher.  You’re dynamic, sensitive and God fearing,” the Bishop hid beamed at him.

  His thoughts turned back tae Taylor.  Wid The Reverend’s supposed dynamism hiv been picked up oan by somewan like him?  He knew that practically aw the inmates belonged tae wan denomination or the other, bit very few actually practiced their faith.  He admitted tae himsel that he wis envious ae the numbers attending mass each Sunday.  The Catholic boys, despite their lack ae Christianity towards their peers, did pay homage tae their religious roots by at least turning up each Sunday.  He’d coonted thirty three boys in attendance at Father Martin’s service the previous Sunday.  He wisnae too sure how honest Taylor hid been wae him.  When he’d asked Taylor whit Christmas meant tae him, he’d hid tae look into the boy’s eyes tae see if he wis pulling his leg or not.

  “It’s jist another day tae me, so it is,” he’d replied.

  “And Baby Jesus?”

  Silence.

  “Family?  What about your Family?  Most families celebrate Christmas together and even though they may not realise it at the time, they’re actually celebrating the most significant event that has ever happened in this world.”

  “Well, seeing as Ah’ve never really spent Christmas at hame, at least, no that Ah kin remember, that is, Ah couldnae tell ye either way.  Ah’d imagine the only time ye’d hear Jesus Christ’s name being mentioned oan Christmas day in oor hoose, wid be when that ma ae mine wis shouting at ma da fur making an arse ae something.”

  It wisnae whit Taylor hid said that hid surprised him, bit the matter-ae-fact way in which he’d said it...aff the cuff.

  “So, your family doesn’t celebrate Christmas then?” he’d asked him.

  “Ah never said that.  Ah said Ah hidnae spent Christmas at hame fur donkey’s years.”

  “So, where did you spend your Christmases then?”

  “In the jail, approved schools, remand homes...that kind ae thing.”

  “But, they must have celebrated Christmas...surely?”

  “Who?”

  “The institutions and the staff that ran them...the types of food that would have been served up to you, such as Brussels sprouts, mashed turnip, chicken and Christmas pudding.  Did any of that mean anything to you?”

  “It meant a change fae hivving tae clean other people’s boots...being gied the crappiest jobs in the place.  Whit it never done wis stoap us fae being subjected tae petty rules or being ordered aboot and telt when tae eat, sleep, wash or go fur a slash.”

  “But, surely being put in these places for wrong-doing meant that discipline had to be observed and that part of being there was to follow the rules?” he’d made the mistake ae asking.

  “Reverend, Ah never asked ye tae come in here tae pay me a wee visit.  As far as Ah’m concerned, ye’re an uninvited guest.  It wid never enter ma heid tae come roond tae yer hoose and start tae slag ye aff, especially you being a stranger, jist because Ah don’t like whit Ah hear or believe whit comes oot ae yer mooth, so it widnae.  If Ah remember right, it wis you that came tae me, so if ye don’t like whit ye’re hearing, well...” Taylor hid said, leaving the question ae whit The Reverend should dae next hinging in the air.

  It hidnae been said threateningly, bit Taylor hid made his point...loud and clear.  The Reverend hid found himsel oan the back foot, apologising profusely.  He hidnae been too sure if it hid perhaps been because ae the novelty ae actually hivving a real conversation wae wan ae the less needy inmates...at long last, that hid caused him tae challenge Taylor.  Of course, Taylor hid been right.  Who’d invited him in?

  “Oh, er, well, I must go.  It’s been lovely having this conversation with you, Taylor.  I’ll leave you in peace.  Perhaps we can have a chat another day,” he’d said, wanting tae bite aff his tongue at the hollowness ae the words that wur echoing aroond the bare cell.

  And wae that, he’d stood up, picked up his chair and walked oot ae the cell.  Taylor hidnae uttered a word, although he’d felt those blue eyes oan his back as he exited the cell.

  “Of course, I blame the birds myself, Reverend.”

  “What?”

  “The birds, Reverend.  I was just saying that something should be done about the birds eating all the rosehips.  Surely someone could do something, don’t you think?  Are you sure that you’re feeling alright, Reverend?” Mrs Bingham asked, looking at him wae concern.