The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4 (3 page)

Chapter Four

  The mortuary wis a wee hauf red brick and hauf sandstone squat building which sat adjacent tae the High Court, doon oan the Saltmarket, beside the River Clyde.  Snow hid started tae fall in big white fluffy flakes as The Stalker turned intae Jocelyn
Square and then took a quick left intae the drap-aff point at the back.  He’d intended tae park oot in front, bit Bumper telt him tae keep the car oot ae sight as, knowing their luck, they wur sure tae be spotted by Billy Liar, the local chief inspector, who wis a first class shitehoose and wid kick up a fuss aboot no being telt that he’d a couple ae unauthorised sergeants fae Springburn wandering aboot his patch.  The fact that Chic Thompson, their ain inspector, didnae know that The Stalker wis AWOL and Bumper wis sniffing aboot whilst aff-duty, also meant that keeping oot ae sight wis a wise move.

The building always gied The Stalker the heebie-jeebies and he never felt comfortable darkening its doors.  This occasion wisnae any different tae his previous visits and the haunting voices ae The Everly Brothers, belting oot ‘Ebony Eyes’ made him shiver as they followed the sound alang the dimly lit, tiled corridor tae find Hammy Hamilton, the post mortem technician.

  “He must’ve known ye wur coming,” Bumper said wae a smile, as he pushed open the well-bashed, chipped double doors intae the post mortem room.

  Hammy wis sitting astride an auld metal stool, chomping intae a big breid doorstopper cheese sandwich, surrounded by tin buckets, looking tae the heavens, as they entered the room.

  “Shhhh!  This is the best bit ae the song,” Hammy hissed, before returning tae his heavenward glance as wan ae the Everlys started prattling oan aboot the plane being overdue.

  “Aye, there’s nae rest fur the wicked, so there’s no.  And whit kin Ah dae ye fur, boys?” Hammy asked, as another record drapped oan tae the turntable ae his wee record player and the voice ae Ricky Valance wafted oot ‘Tell Laura Ah love her.’

  “Christ, hiv ye no goat any happy tunes in that stack ae yours, Hammy?” The Stalker asked, shivering.

  “This is happy...fur in here.  The next time The Who bring oot wan that’ll tear the arse oot ae yer troosers, Ah’ll play them.  So, whit ur youse efter then?”

  “Joe McManus, the murder victim fae up in Springburn.”

  “Whit aboot him?”

  “We want tae see him.”

  “Whit fur?”

  “Tae make sure it’s him.”

  “Joseph McManus, male, born 8
th
November 1953, up in the Rottenrow.  Admitted at wan twenty five a.m. oan December the 18
th
1971.  Probable cause ae death?  Multiple stab wounds.  Wid that be him?” Hammy asked, reading aff ae the tap page ae a sheath ae papers.

  “If it’s no, then he’s goat a twin,” Bumper replied.

  “That wis a quick ID, so it wis,” The Stalker said, looking doon at Hammy, who’d jist torn a lump aff ae his sandwich wae they gnashers ae his and wis chomping away tae himsel, wondering whit this pair wur up tae.

  “Aye, wan ae the murder squad boys knew him and phoned across the road tae Central tae get his details.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Like whit?”

  “Like, did he say whether they knew who’d done it?”

  “Right, o’er here,” Hammy sighed, ignoring the question, placing his hauns oan his knees tae help himsel staun up aff the stool.

   As he walked across the room tae the fridges, there wis a sound ae slapping as Hammy’s rubber apron skelped aff ae his yellow welly-booted shins.  The Stalker and Bumper stood tae the side as Hammy pulled the haundle and the fridge door swung open.  The boy wis in the middle fridge ae a stack ae three.  Hammy reached forward, using baith hauns tae get a firm grip ae the trolley.  The lifeless, deid body ae eighteen-year-auld Joe McManus, slid oot ae the darkness and intae the light.

  “He’s no been cleaned up or anything,” Hammy warned them, staunin back tae let them get a better view.

    Bumper walked roond tae the other side, so that he wis staunin opposite Paddy.  The boy wis a bit ae a mess.  His face wis like a grotesque mask wae its lips drawn back in a frozen grimace.  He lay sightlessly, staring intae the void.  Baith ae the sergeants’ eyes zoomed straight tae the wounds oan his neck and side.

  “Fuck, either wan ae those wid’ve probably done him in,” Bumper said, looking closely at the side wound.

  “There wis practically nae blood in him when he arrived.  The neck wound oan its ain wid’ve drained him.  Put that wae the wound in his side, and he wis well-goosed.  The blade wid’ve went through aw his main organs,” Hammy chipped in.

  “And aw the bruises?”

  “They obviously kicked fuck oot ae him either before, during or efter he wis chibbed.”

  “Wis it the same blade that done the damage, Hammy?”

  “Aye, Ah think so.”

  “So, when’s the post-mortem then?” The Stalker asked, no taking his eyes aff ae the neck wound.

  “A murder incident report is being written up across at Central as we speak.  Ah wid say that that’ll arrive back here first thing in the morning, so by the time the forensic pathologist gets it, the post mortem will probably be sometime in the morning.”

  “Will you be in attendance?”

  “Ah’ll be assisting, as per usual.  Why?”

  “Because wan ae us will gie ye a phone the morra tae find oot whit the cause ae death wis,” Bumper replied.

  “Er, let me see.  Maybe Ah kin save ye a phone call, lads.  Noo, this is jist a guess oan ma part, ye understaun, bit how aboot…multiple stab wounds?” Hammy suggested, wan eyebrow lifted, as The Stalker and Bumper heided fur the door, tae the jolly dulcet tones
ae Twinkle, singing ‘Terry.’

Chapter Five

Digger Day Wan

  Johnboy hid been in the digger before.  In fact, since the age ae ten, he hidnae been in any place where he hidnae ended up daeing some time in solitary fur wan thing or another.  It never really bothered him as he jist saw it as part and parcel ae being inside.  The main thing wis tae get yer heid sorted oot as quickly as possible and tae get intae a wee rhythm ae how ye wur gonnae spend yer days.  The first thing he needed tae dae wis tae sort oot the domestics, which widnae take up too much ae his time, seeing as he wis sitting wae his arse plapped against the brick wall ae an oblong brick box.  There wid be nae pacing up and doon.  Wance ye started that, it wis aw doon hill fae there.  Secondly, he’d need tae get his fitness regime gaun.  A hunner sit-ups, a hunner press-ups and running oan the spot until he knackered himsel oot, first thing in the morning and jist before the chow arrived roond aboot hauf four.  Noo that he’d goat that sorted oot, he looked aboot the cell. It always took him a few days tae get used tae the silence or the usual hum fae the heating system somewhere in the building, which wis always jist near enough tae noise ye up when ye wur lying there, trying tae keep yer sanity in check.  A dripping tap wis a piece ae piss compared tae some ae the noise-ups he’d suffered in the different diggers that he’d been in o’er the years.  Hivving said that, this place wid definitely win the noise-up league, hauns doon, nae questions asked.  He’d been lying oan his back wae they heels ae his feet resting oan the two central heating pipes that came oot ae the wall underneath the windae.  The pipes ran fae left tae right, or right tae left, whichever way ye looked at it, fae wan wall tae the other, at the bottom ae the windae wall.  Hivving never been in the other cells in the digger, he assumed that the pipes travelled through them aw.  He’d sometimes heard eejits talking, maistly wans that hidnae done any time in the digger, saying that tae survive, ye hid tae look oan it as a battle ae wills between yer brain and whitever it wis that wis daeing yer heid in while ye wur in the chokey. They’d harp oan aboot the fact that ye hid tae learn tae control and focus yer mind intae believing that the noise ae the nearby generator or central heating system that wis daeing yer heid in wis actually jist the same as listening tae yer favourite hit record, or a sound that made ye feel happy, like yer ma asking ye if ye wanted another big dollop ae mince oan that empty plate ae yours, or a big stoating bird asking ye if ye wanted yer Nat King Cole…again.  Fucking know-it-aw fud-pads, he thought tae himsel.  He turned his thoughts back tae the real noise-up at haun.  He listened intently fur a couple ae minutes.  There wis a definite rhythm gaun oan.  Sometimes it sounded like the wheels ae a train clicking and clacking, or in this case, smashing and crashing, although he wisnae sure if it wis intentional by the pricks that wur causing it.  Sometimes it sounded like African drums and then at other times, it sounded like nothing mair than a noisy racket.  He opened his eyes and looked up at the windae, which wis seven or eight feet up oan the wall above him.  It hid rusty wire mesh covering the bars, which he could only see as shadows through the tiny pin-heid sized holes that wur trying tae let the light in.  He rolled o’er and stood up, too quickly, waiting fur the wee floating, firework things tae stoap dancing aboot in front ae his eyes.  There wis nothing different or unusual aboot this place tae whit he’d been in before, other than the size ae the cell.  Wan bare digger cell, wae a moulded concrete plinth bed in wan corner, always under the windae, opposite a bare door that hid a spy-hole in it and a light bulb, submerged intae the wall and oot ae reach, high above the door, wis the same as the next.  The only moveable object, apart fae himsel, wis the plastic chanty pot that wis sitting oan the flair fur him tae dae a pish or shite in, oot ae sight ae the spy-hole, in the corner, beside the door.  He turned aroond and faced the windae wall.  The noise wis the loudest he’d heard it, so far, and it wis only day wan.  He could picture aw the boys in the shed.  If his memory served him right, there wur aboot a dozen steel-framed, welded pallet tables, wae two boys allocated tae each table.  Two times twelve made twenty four ae the basturts, aw gieing it laldy.  Fur tools, a crow bar wis shared between each pair ae boys and a claw hammer wis signed oot tae each wan first thing in the morning.  Some pallets wid need a total rebuild while some jist needed a replacement spar tae be eased intae the gap where the bust or broken wan hid been removed.   Whit aw the pallets hid in common when they came intae the shed wis that they wur gonnae get a severe gaun o’er by some noisy basturt wae a claw hammer in wan haun and a clutch ae four inch nails in the other.  

  Johnboy smiled tae himsel, as a solution tae make life a wee bit mair comfortable fur that brain ae his dawned oan him.  He thought aboot sharing his anti-noise-up plan wae Silent, his partner in crime, who wis in the cell next door, bit he wis so pissed aff wae him fur getting the two ae them intae this situation, that he decided tae let the skinny basturt suffer in silence, and enjoy the racket coming fae the pallet shed ootside their cell windaes.  It wis so simple because it wis staring him in the face, that he wondered why the fuck he’d never thought aboot it before noo.  He knew that as soon as the screws came oan duty in the morning, usually aboot six o’clock, they made ye dump yer mattress, blanket and pillow oot intae the corridor and swapped yer stripy pyjamas fur yer uniform.  They then slung ye back intae yer empty cell, wance ye’d emptied yer chanty pot ae pish doon the cludgie at the end ae the digger corridor.  Ye wur then expected tae hing aboot aw day, until aboot hauf eight at night, when the bun boy, escorted by a screw, came roond wae a mug ae tea and an auld stale bun fur ye.  It wis then that ye swapped yer uniform fur yer pyjamas and goat tae take yer mattress, blanket and pillow back intae the cell until the next morning.  Johnboy decided tae fuck them by gaun oan the night-shift.  He wid sleep aw day and then when he goat his sleeping gear in at night, he wid lie awake, basking in the luxury ae his pish-stained horsehair mattress, wrapped up in a warm flimsy moth-chomped blanket, wae that heid ae his oan a nice saft feathered pillow.  By sleeping during the day, his time wid fly by, and at night, he’d lie, in the stillness ae the night, collecting his thoughts.  There wur three things that he needed tae sort oot first though.  The first thing wis where tae kip during the day?  There wis jist nae comfort tae be hid, lying oan the moulded concrete bed oan the flair.  He’d tried it and hid ended up tossing that way and this way.  He’d tried lying face doon oan it wae his chin over-hinging the feet end ae it, bit his clammy forehead hid kept getting stuck tae the red gloss painted flair.  He’d tried sitting wae his back tae the wall wae his erms oan his knees and his heid oan his erms.  That hid been okay fur aboot twenty minutes and then the back ae his neck hid started tae get sore.  The lack ae comfort tae be hid while trying tae get comfortable oan the concrete bed or flair, always seemed tae be connected tae they erms ae his.  No matter where he lay his body or heid, they erms ae his always seemed tae get in the way and he ended up so uncomfortable that he hid tae keep shifting aboot.  He knew it wid only be a matter ae time before he came up wae a solution tae his wee problem though, as he always came up trumps when he put his mind tae things.  It wis when he wisnae concentrating, or let his guard doon fur hauf a minute, that the shite usually hit the fan and he’d end up sitting where he wis sitting noo...in the digger...wae an eejit next door, mair stupid than himsel.  The screw hid jist been in and taken his metal grub tray away.  The racketeers wur back in the pallet shed, gieing it big fuck wae they hammers ae theirs.  He wis sitting wae his back against the cell door staring intae space when it came tae him.  He knew before he even went tae try it oot that it wid be perfect.  He goat up and went across tae staun, facing the two heating pipes.  He reckoned that the pipes must’ve been running through the cells before they put in the moulded concrete bed in the tap left haun corner ae the cell.  Underneath the bottom pipe, the gap between the windae wall and where the pillow end ae the bed started wis aboot fifteen inches wide.  Looking doon fae where he wis staunin, the space only looked aboot eight inches wide, bit when ye goat doon oan tae yer knees and hid a wee swatch, the gap wis wide enough tae tuck a body intae it.  He lay doon oan tae his left haun side and slid his body intae the gap.

  “Ahhh!” he groaned oot loud, listening tae the echo ae his voice compete wae the hammering fae ootside.

  He wis comfortably wedged between the tap end ae the concrete bed and the pipes, wae plenty ae room tae slip his body under the pipes and then slide his left erm and his left leg up between them and the wall, wrapping them roond it, as if he wis gieing the pipes a hug.  The problem ae where tae put his erms wis noo solved.  He stood up and took aff his jumper and rolled it in tae a wee pillow and put it intae the gap where his heid wis gonnae be.  He couldnae believe his luck.  This wis gonnae be a bloody doddle, so it wis.  Wae his right erm and right leg hooked o’er the tap ae the hot pipes at the front, he shut his eyes fur his first test drive ae his new sleeping arrangements.