The Wummin: The Glasgow Chronicles 5 (17 page)

  “Naw, Ah don’t know whit ye mean, Charlie.  Susan?”

  “I would be honoured, Helen,” Susan hid replied withoot hesitation.

  And that hid been that.  Efter the three ae them hid sat and filled oot the election form, Susan hid asked if she could hiv a few days tae map oot an election strategy oan whit needed tae be done.

  “Take as long as ye want, Susan.  Ah’ve goat a warrant sale tae sort oot fur the beginning ae next week.”

  “Ah think ye need tae let people know whit the score is jist noo, Helen.  We don’t want tae mess aboot noo.  Time is ae the essence, so it is,” Charlie hid warned her.

  “Ach, Ah’m sure noo that you know, then everywan and his blind cat will get tae hear aboot it before the day is oot, Charlie,” Helen hid replied, winking across at Susan.

  “Well, it’s funny ye should say that, bit Ah know exactly the place tae announce it, so Ah dae,” Charlie hid said wae a mischievous smile.

  He’d knocked back the rest ae his dram, before staunin up and putting oan his bunnet, scarf and jaicket. 

  “And another thing, we’ll need a campaign fund.  Here’s twenty two quid tae start wae,” he’d said, taking oot a wad ae notes and putting them doon oan the table.

  “Bit...bit, Ah cannae take this aff ae ye, you being an auld age pensioner,” Helen hid protested, pushing the notes away fae her.

  “Oh, it’s no coming oot ae ma pockets, hen.  Bob Henderson, John McGuigan and masel called a local International Brigade meeting jist before the New year where it wis agreed tae donate fifty percent ae oor funds tae yer campaign.  It wis a unanimous decision, so it wis.”

  “Unanimous?” Susan asked.

  “Well, there’s only three ae us Springburn Comrades left, bit we goat the okay fae the Brigadier, Big Tommy Cochrane, fae Blantyre, who wis oor Political Commissar. Tommy and Jeannie wur great pals before and during their time in Spain.  When Ah telt him it wis tae fund Jeannie Smullen’s niece tae take up the fight against JP, he never batted an eyelid and telt me jist tae go fur it,” he explained, smiling.

  Efter Charlie hid disappeared oan his mission, Helen hid asked Susan whit she thought.

  “When is the warrant sale, Helen?”

  “Ten o’clock oan Monday morning.”

  “Why don’t we officially announce it at two o’clock that afternoon?  That would give us time to put out the word, inviting supporters to turn up and offer their services.  What do you think?”

  “Good, because Ah’ve no goat a clue whit Ah’m supposed tae be daeing, bit it wid gie me time tae think ae the issues that Ah think ur important and that Ah’d want tae highlight during the campaign.  Whit dae ye think yersel?”

  “That’s just what I was going to suggest, Helen.  You’re ahead of the game...that’s good.  We can’t use the Kirk hall here, but I’ll see if Donald can get us a room in the small hall beside the Springburn Public Halls in
Millarbank Street.”

  “Great.  Somehow, Ah don’t think it wid be wise tae take up Charlie’s offer ae booking a room in The Journeyman’s Club tae launch the campaign,” Helen hid said, as the pair ae them burst intae nervous, hysterical giggles.

Chapter Thirty Five

  It hid been a crap week aw roond, The Stalker thought tae himsel, as Bumper slowly crawled through the traffic oan Castle Street.

  “Hoi!  Aye, you, ya bloody numpty, ye.  Call yersel a bus driver?” Bumper shouted oot ae the squad car windae at the bus driver who’d pushed back the wing mirror ae the squad car oan the way past.

  “Sorry, sir, Ah didnae mean it, so Ah didnae.”

  “Any mair ae that nonsense and Ah’ll be efter yer license, so Ah will, ya eejit, ye,” Bumper hollered, clearly enjoying his day release oot ae Springburn.

  The only bit ae good news he’d heard in the last week wis that he’d been promoted fae sergeant tae inspector in spectacular fashion.  Oan the doon side, the papers hid been gaun absolutely doo-lally.  Everywan hid known it wis gonnae be bad, bit this must be whit it felt like when a hurricane struck withoot warning and nowan hid anywhere tae hide due tae the shelters hivving been blown away by the typhoon that hid preceded it earlier.  Aw The Stalker hid been able tae see aw week hid been the black haze ae madness descending aw aboot him and the rest ae the boys in the station. 

  “Haw you!  Aye you, ya diddy, ye.  If that bloody rust bucket touches this car, ye’re booked, so ye ur,” Bumper shouted at the Barr’s ginger lorry driver who wis attempting tae cut across them intae Alexandra Parade. “Right, that’s it!”

  He couldnae be arsed shouting at Bumper tae get back intae the car and tae get him doon tae St Andrews Square before they wur late fur the briefing session wae Daddy Jackson.  He looked at his watch.  It hid been exactly wan week ago that his life hid changed furever.  Some basturt, or basturts, hid blown away wan ae Glesga’s tap gangsters in a perfectly planned murder.  Tam Simpson, a notorious gangster fae across in Possil, hid jist been aboot tae enter his wee secret love nest tae empty they sacks ae his, when somewan hid goat in there first and shot their bolt before Tam goat a chance tae unzip his fly.  Seemingly, it hid been a weekly Friday morning ritual that hid been gaun oan fur quite some time.  Noo, normally, something like that happening wid’ve been welcomed wae ootstretched erms and shouts ae ‘Hallelujah’ within the bizzy fraternity in Glesga, bit things wur never as straightforward as that in the second dirtiest city ae the empire.  In true Glesga style, where crooks seemed tae hiv some sort ae disposition fur dipping their wicks intae ink wells that wid normally be oot ae their price range, Tam Simpson, the deceased gangster, hid been nae exception tae the rule.  His posh shag-piece hid been none other than wan ae the local senior social workers in Possilpark, where Tam and his brother, Toby Simpson, hid been terrorising the local community and hauf the north ae the city fur the past twenty-odd years.  Noo, in sensationalist terms, a story like that wid be liable tae spend a few days oan the front pages before dying a slow death as it travelled through the paper, until it met its end jist before the fitba section at the back ae the paper, only tae be resurrected every noo and again when an accused came tae court or the cheated husband strangled his wife in revenge, before topping himsel.  No in this case though.  As the day ae Tam Simpson’s demise hid worn oan, things hid gone fae bad tae fucking-super-astonishingly bad.  The love cheat social worker hid turned oot tae be married tae none other than a Scottish prison governor.  Everywan up in the cop shoap hid agreed wae the newspaper columnists that week that ye couldnae hiv made something like this up, even if ye’d tried.  Anywan wae any bit ae compassion in them wid, at a push, hiv felt at least a wee bit sorry fur the poor unfortunate souls who hid tae investigate a murky situation such as this, bit the best, or the worse part ae the day hid still tae come tae fruition.  Wance the shite hid hit the fan at a hunner miles an hour oan the Friday morning wae the news that a big gangster hid copped his whack, the big-wigs doon in St Andrews Square hid tried tae keep a lid oan the unfolding Keystone Kops parody.  The Glesga Echo, however, hid hid other ideas and the story, in aw its gory glory, hid popped up oan the lunchtime news.  Anywan watching the news that Friday lunchtime couldnae help bit notice that the newsreader, John Turney, hid been aboot tae come in they pants ae his wae excitement.  The wee smarmy prick hid announced that The Glesga Echo, and it’s leading investigative journalist, Mr Sammy Elliot, commonly known oan the city streets as The Rat, hid been aboot tae publish their four-month-long investigation intae the love triangle involving ‘The Gangster, The Social Worker and the Cuckolded HM Prison Governor,’ starting in the very next day’s edition.  The Stalker hid since heard that even the big-wigs doon in St Andrews Square hidnae known at that stage whit Tam and the floozy social worker hid been up tae.  The heidline story hid been news tae them, alang wae the rest ae the population.  Everywan hid jist assumed that she’d been hit in the crossfire while visiting a client in the same block ae hooses.  While hauf the polis forces throughoot Scotland hid been pishing themsels at the slap-stick carry-oan in Glesga, the piece de resistance ae fuck-ups in the annals ae polis fuck-ups hid taken place at exactly 2.10pm that very same efternoon.  By that time, anywan in a position ae authority, wae any sense, hid awready ducked and run fur cover efter the news bulletin at wan o’clock.  The murder weapon...some kind ae strange trap gun, that hid been used tae blow the brains ae Tam aw across his next door neighbour’s face and doorframe, while narrowly missing any ae his posh shag-bag’s vital organs, hid mysteriously gone AWOL.  There hidnae been a morning, noon or night since, when some newsreader oan the telly, wae some useless wanker ae an expert, hidnae been pontificating or regurgitating shite aboot whit hid been and still apparently wis, wrang and rotten wae The City ae Glesga Polis Force.  Christ, the story hid even made Nationwide, The Stalker sighed tae himsel.  In the canteen earlier, before everywan hid started their shift, Biscuit Smith, wan ae the local pavement pounders, hid quoted oot loud fae the front page ae the Glesga Echo.

  “Bloody hell…listen tae this,” he’d shouted oot tae everywan.  “It says here that sales ae ‘The Laughing Polisman’ record in Glesga hiv soared and the song is oan the verge ae making the national pop charts.” 

  Seemingly, the majority ae the sales hid been clocked up across the record coonter ae Woolies, doon oan Argyle Street.  The paper claimed that the store hid sold 10,000 copies oan the first and second day ae opening efter the New year.

  “Ah know ye, ya fuckwit, ye,” Bumper shouted at the back ae the departing Barr’s lorry as it crawled past them intae The Parade, as he slipped back intae his seat.

  “Fin, ur ye bloody enjoying yersel or whit?” The Stalker snarled, staring at the sergeant beside him.

  “Y’know, it’s funny ye should ask that, Paddy, bit tae tell ye the truth, Ah’m hivving a right rare auld time, so Ah am.”

  “Well, whenever ye’re done fannying aboot, kin ye get me doon tae ma greeting meeting in wan piece and oan bloody time?”

Chapter Thirty Six

  JP stood at the kitchen sink and shut his eyes.  He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.  He repeated his breathing exercise, only this time, he exhaled mair slowly, coonting steadily up tae ten.  He felt himsel relax.  The quack hid telt him he hid tae calm himsel doon or he widnae see the coont oan the big night.  JP knew that everywan present in the hall at The Journeyman’s Club oan Tuesday hid recognised that Charlie Mann hid no jist taken the wind right oot ae his sails, bit hid successfully kicked him in the auld ging-gang-goolies in front ae aw his ain people.  Despite his best breathing efforts, he could still feel the blood drain fae his face as he thought back tae the launch.  It wid’ve been funny if it wisnae so bloody irritating, he cursed tae himsel.  He wis sixty nine years auld, gaun oan seventy, bit when that snivelling wee prick, Charlie Mann hid announced that Helen Taylor wis planning tae staun against him, JP hid wanted tae throw himsel doon oan tae the flair and scream and howl like a demented wean who wanted its dummy tit, so he hid.   He’d silently coonted seventy people in that hall, wan fur every year he’d been alive, yet when her name wis mentioned, he’d felt as if there wis only himsel and Charlie Mann present.  Everything and everywan else in the room hid jist disappeared.  It wis as if JP and Mann hid been hurled back intae the midst ae time, tae a bygone age.  Deep doon inside ae him, JP hid always known that it wid, wan day, come tae this…that history wid eventually end up repeating itsel.  The signs hid always been there o’er the years wae Taylor and aw her shenanigans, aggressively opposing the warrant sales back in the Toonheid, despite everywan’s best efforts tae clip her wings.  She jist widnae take a telling.  Things hid goat worse, particularly since he’d moved up tae Springburn. He remembered his heart hid sunk when he’d come across Taylor and Mann, hinging aff ae each other’s erms, laughing, as they walked up Springburn Road the morning efter he’d moved intae his new hoose.  A week later, wan ae the hoosing boys hid phoned him up tae tell him that Taylor hid put in a complaint, demanding tae know why he’d goat wan ae the ground flair, newly-built maisonettes, seeing that she knew aboot forty people who’d been oan the waiting list fur nearly ten years.  It hid also been at this time that Mann and they two hauf-wit pals ae his, Henderson and McGuigan, hid decided tae keep the pot simmering rather than let sleeping dogs lie.  He blamed Taylor fur stirring things up. Mann hid even hid the audacity tae try and block his membership ae The Journeyman’s Club a week efter he’d settled intae his wee hoose.  Mann must’ve known fine well that he hid nae chance ae blackballing JP, bit that clearly hidnae been the purpose ae the exercise in the first place anyway.  Naw, the wee loser hid wanted tae make a statement...cause a bit ae bother...keep his miserable name oot in the open...tae remind people that despite his age, Charlie Mann wis still a rebel.  A bloody rebel withoot a clue, that’s whit Charlie Mann wis and always hid been, as far as JP wis concerned.  In the days following the hijacking ae his launch, JP hid gone o’er the interruption in his mind, weighing up the damage, if any, bit hid always come tae the same conclusion.  The Three Comrades could nae mair affect the ootcome ae the Keppochhill by-election any mair than the Tories or the Liberals could the last time roond.  Mann wis farting intae the wrang end ae a wind tunnel.  JP hid learned long ago never tae take anything fur granted.  He knew that a weeping sore could become infected and inflamed and turn intae a gaping wound.  Charlie Mann wis nothing bit an irritant.  He’d thrown doon the gauntlet…in public.  The auld prick hidnae hid the guts tae throw his ain hat intae the ring...bit there wis nae surprise there.  JP wid bloody squash that uppity cow, the same as he’d splattered that Auntie Jeannie ae hers aw o’er the pavements ae the Toonheid, thirty six years earlier in 1935.  In the thirties, the nurse hid hid a real team behind her, supporting her, putting in the leg work.  Noo, there wis a worthy opponent…a real threat…wandering aboot the slums every efternoon in that Florence Nightingale ootfit ae hers, dishing oot free healthcare tae aw the flotsam in her ain time, before the snappers came hame fae school, urging aw the wummin tae get oot and get involved.  It hid been a real close shave.  He remembered at the time being relieved that at last, the election day hid come upon them.  Another few days and she’d hiv walked it.  How she’d managed tae get the living dead, especially the wummin, oot tae vote, he’d never been able tae figure oot.  Naw, Helen Taylor wisnae in the same league as Jeannie Smullen, bit he widnae let himsel get too complacent though.  The bitch clearly hid the same anti-men-anti-authority attitude that that auld scheming auntie ae hers hid, bit this time, it should be a walk in the park compared tae the fight he’d hid oan his hauns against the Independent Labour Party back then.  Mind you, he could be daeing withoot this.  He’d been glad that everywan hid kept their calm.  At wan point oan Tuesday, he’d thought a skirmish wis gonnae erupt efter a few ae his supporters hid made a move tae evict Mann fae the hall.

  “Charlie, piss aff and go and bury yer heid in somewan’s hauf empty pint glass, ya auld jakey, ye,” Harry Fisher, the butcher, hid snarled.

  “Ah’m as entitled tae be here as any ae youse ur, so Ah am.”

  “This is a private meeting, so it is,” Willie Peg-leg hid shouted tae the auld basturt sitting up the back, puffing oan that roll-up ae his, clearly enjoying the attention.

  “If ye want me tae shift, ye’ll need tae come and shift me yersels, so ye will,” Mann hid taunted.

  “Look, people, let’s no play this auld hauf-wit’s game.  Ah’m well aware ae his auld disruptive tactics.  We aw know whit the score is wae him.  Peter here will make up the lists and divvy up the tasks that we need tae be getting oan wae.  There’s a bundle ae leaflets up here oan the table fur youse tae take away and start distributing roond the doors.  Don’t be shy noo…there’s plenty mair where they came fae.  When we meet again oan Monday, we’ll get somewan oan the door tae keep the shite fae the soles ae oor shoes oan the mat ootside, where it belongs.  Thanks fur coming and showing yer support.  Let’s get oot there and show the good people ae Keppochhill and Springburn that they’re no furgoatten aboot and that when Ah’m back, entrenched in George’s Square, they’ll soon be reaping the said benefits,” JP hid declared o’er the sound ae a snorting guffaw emanating oot ae the mooth ae the auld hauf-wit sitting in the back row.