59 Minutes (5 page)

I remember being surprised at how quiet the streets
were. I had always imagined
London
to be a 24/7 sort of place but around us the streets
were more alive with rubbish than people.

We reached an industrial district and got out of the
taxi. George took a battered A to Z from his pocket and orientated himself
before plunging us into a maze of canyons created by warehouse walls. For
twenty minutes we wandered, sometimes backtracking until Tony pointed at a
small two storey building. George nodded and we crossed the road, all the time
keeping our eyes open for signs of life.

There was a double door to the building - I didn’t
need to be asked and went straight to work on the lock and cracked it in
seconds. A set of stairs faced us, leading up to the second floor, and my
services were required again at the top.

We stepped into a barnyard of a place. Steel columns
stretched into the distance like soldiers on parade. In between the columns
there were long stretches of workbenches, each attended by row upon row of
stools. At the far end there was a small smattering of offices and we made for
the last one.

It was locked but, before I could pull the locksmith’s
kit from my pocket, George picked up a block of wood from a nearby table and
put it through the glass in the door.

Inside I was faced with a steel door on the far wall,
not unlike the one in the bookies that I had cut my teeth on. I set to work and
once inside I had expected to find a safe but, instead, the room contained rows
of small boxes built into the wall, floor to ceiling, each with its own
keyhole. I had never seen inside a bank vault but I thought this is what the
safety deposit room would look like.

I asked which box we were after and George shrugged
and told me to do them all. I gasped - there were easily two hundred boxes and,
outside, the light was moving from night to dawn.

I started on my left and it took a few minutes to pop
the first one but once I had the measure of the locks, the rest fell with ease.
Even so it took over an hour before George called Tony over and examined the
contents of the latest box I had opened.

They removed what lay inside and told me to call it
quits and we made for the exit and this is when the world went south.

As we exited the office the first sign of trouble
barrelled into the work area in the shape of four men, three armed with
crowbars and one with a sawn off baseball bat. They were at one end of the
workspace and we were at the other.

As soon as George saw them he reached into his coat,
took out the package from the safety deposit box and handed it to me.

‘That way,’ he pointed to a fire escape. ‘We’ll take
care of this.’

I didn’t argue. The intruders were eating up ground
between us like cheetahs on heat. I put my head down and ran. Behind me there
was a brief silence and then a grunt as wood connected with flesh and bone.

I hit the fire escape door at full tilt but in the
seventies quick release fire doors were still to be introduced, and I bounced
off it - ending up on my backside. The noise behind me was racking up and I
grabbed a quick look see.

George and Tony were holding centre stage. George with
a cosh that I knew he kept in his jacket and Tony with a lump of two by two he
had ripped from a table.

I returned my attention to the door, realised my
mistake, flipped the door handle and was gone. Dropping down the metal
staircase onto the alley below I struggled to get my bearings, so I mentally
flipped a coin and began running.

Soon I was swallowed by the warehouse labyrinth and,
after a while my energy levels fell off, forcing me to drop to a walk. I was
heaving in air but still kept some pace on. It took me an hour to find my way
back to the main road and another twenty minutes to get a cab.

My instructions were simple. If we were split up we
were to meet up at Euston Station and if no one was there I was to jump the
first train to
Glasgow
.

Euston was quiet. It was over an hour until the first
train was due north and I bided my time by wandering between the toilets and a
side entrance - trying to keep a low profile.

With five minutes to go there was still no sign of
George and Tony and I boarded the train bathed in sweat.

I breathed deeply as it pulled out of the station.

The journey was long and full of questions but no-one
to ask them of. When the train pulled into
Glasgow
I headed straight for Craig Laidlaw. I took him to
one side and told him what had gone down. I handed him the package and he told
me to ‘fuck off’ for a while.

Three days later
London
invaded
Glasgow
.

I never saw it but I heard plenty. Some of it is now
legend. Bar fights, street brawls, one on ones and even shooters. The guys from
London
were good and well used to a fight but this was home turf for Mr Read and
before the day was out the
London
gang had turned tail and fled.

I was summoned to a rare meet with the victor. He told
me I had done well. I thought I had turned chicken by running - go figure.
George and Tony were on their way back up - a bit of a mess but they would
live.

London
was
pissed off, Mr Read was basking in it all and I was dying to ask what was in
the package that had kicked all this off - but I didn’t have the nerve to ask.

As it turned out I didn’t need to. Mr Read reached
into his pocket and took out the small cloth pack that I had carried from
London
. He
opened it up and the world was full of glinting light.

Diamonds, dozens and dozens of diamonds lying in the
palm of his hand. I knew nothing of their value but the smile on Mr Read’s face
told a story. He reached into the pile, picked out two and handed them to me.

‘Joey will sort you out when you want to trade them
in.’

He patted me on the head like a kid, wrapped up the
gems and was gone. I was twenty five and I felt like a ten year old. I had just
been handed near on a grand’s worth of diamonds.

It was time to move on.

My step into the big time was not an easy one and I
could fill the remaining time we have together with stories of woe and times
that were hard. Of how I had to struggle to rise above the mob and sacrifice my
every want and desire as I strove for a brighter future. I could but I won’t.
I’ll keep to the real juice.

It was late August and the Scottish summer had been
the usual mix of pish and rotten. I was recovering from a late one at the
Griffin
- my
new pub of choice and witness to a quiet night out to celebrate a nice haul
from a job in
Edinburgh
.

The next morning I was sitting nursing my head
thinking that the share from the
London
job would put a nice dent in my mortgage when the
doorbell rang. I rose expecting to find the postman trying to force fit an
unwanted catalogue into my letterbox. Instead I found two men, neither of whom
I had laid eyes on before, standing on my doorstep.

They were polite and well dressed and I guessed them
for Jehovah’s Witnesses. I told them I was Buddhist but they politely smiled
and asked if they could come in. I refused and the smaller of the two reached
into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gun.

I let them in.

They asked for a cup of tea and I felt it would be a
wise move to acquiesce and returned ten minutes latter with two brews and a
plate of digestives. They sat and sipped the tea without a word.

I waited, assuming there was a point to the visit. I
wasn’t unduly worried about the gun. If they had intended to kill me the job
would have been done by now.

‘Do you enjoy working for Mr Read?’

The man with the gun’s accent was laced with a
southern lilt.

I didn’t answer.

‘Smart kid,’ said the other. ‘Nice tea as well.’

The man with the gun leant forward.

‘We have a proposition but there’s no going back once
you’ve heard it.’

Cryptic. My interest was piqued.

‘Do you want us to go on?’ said the gunman

‘Depends?’

‘It is in your interest,’ said the other.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yip,’ said the gunman.

‘Then proceed.’

‘Good,’ said the other.

A right Laurel and Hardy double act.

‘You’ll be aware of the little incident that took
place recently in relation to some unwarranted activity in
London
by your
Mr Read. Well we represent a business that is looking to expand into
Scotland
. We
foresee a small opportunity in this neck of the woods and our clients feel that
the recent unpleasantness could have been easily avoided. We are looking for
bright capable people who could help us.’

It didn’t take Einstein to figure out what kind of
business they represented.

‘We are aware of the standing of Mr Read, and his
activities represent a bit of a barrier to our expansion plans. We know you are
a loyal employee of Mr Read and…’

He looked around the room.

‘… you seem to be doing ok.’

He made the words ‘doing ok’ sound like ‘doing shite’.

‘Our client,’ he continued, ‘has given us permission
to make an offer for you to join our firm. You would become our number two in
Scotland
and
report to the new head of Scottish affairs. In return we will cut you in for a
share of the total Scottish pie. Five percent to be exact. With a following
wind we expect to clear one million in our first year.’

I did the maths as the gunman sat back to let me take
this in. I had just been offered fifty thousand pounds a year as if it were a
packet of soor plums from the corner store. I had enough sense to keep my mouth
shut. For all I knew this was some bizarre loyalty test by Mr Read.

‘We don’t expect an answer right away but it may help
your decision to know that Mr Read will be heading for some choppy waters. He
would have been well advised to stay clear of the capital. Our offer is valid
for twenty four hours and you can get me on this number.’

He threw a card across the table. It was blank save
for a
Glasgow
phone number.

‘We would also look upon any conversation with Mr Read
or his associates about this meeting as an unwise act on your part.’

With that they got up and left. I stared at the card
wondering what the hell that was all about.

To say I was confused was a major understatement. I
was hardly a king pin in Mr Read’s organisation and, as such, I suspected that
the visit might indeed be a test of some sort.

I decided to phone Craig Laidlaw. I had no idea what I
was going to say but I needed to start somewhere – you don’t turn down a fifty
grand until you’re sure the offer is a turkey.

Craig was in a bad mood. That is to say his usual
mood.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ he growled down the line.

I asked if there were any more jobs coming up as I was
thinking of taking a short break. Craig laughed at this.

‘Off for a shag in
Spain
?’

I laughed back.

‘No jobs I know of but there is some weird shit going
down.’

I asked what, but he wouldn’t elaborate.

‘Let me check with the boss before you start packing
the condoms.’

The phone rang an hour later.

‘The boss said he wants no-one out of town for the
next couple of weeks.’

I asked why?

‘Something
is
going down but that’s all I
know.’

He was lying. Craig was Brutus to Caesar and knew a
damn sight more than he let on.

‘What about a trip doon the watter?’ I asked.

‘Zip.’ he said. ‘Get the message. Nothing. Not even a
night at the pictures. Stock up on art mags and curry, and stay put until I
call.’

Things were looking interesting and I had no intention
of staying in doors, so I set the answer machine and put on my jacket. The
machine could be operated remotely from another phone. If Craig phoned I would
know and could get back double quick.

I headed for the only person I could think of.

Martin Sketchmore’s face was a picture when I swanned
up to his front door. He had only just returned after his forced absence of
leave. One of Mr Read’s cronies had told me he was back home.

He slammed the door on me but I hung on to the
doorbell like a leech until he gave in and let me in. I didn’t bother with
small talk and told him what had happened (minus the monetary offer) and he
looked at me with his head at an angle that must have hurt.