Gordon Ferris - The Hanging Shed

‘Got anything to eat here, pal?’

‘Pies. The wife heats them up. Be ready in about ten minutes.’

‘That’ll do the job, fine. I’ll start wi’ the one and see how it goes.’

I whiled away the time with the racing horoscopes until a steaming plate came over the counter. It held a round mutton pie, sweating and drowning in its own juices. Its sides sagged under its own internal conflict.

‘Sauce?’ the barman asked and plonked down a bottle of brown.

Surprisingly the pie tasted better than it had any right to. Maybe it was the sauce. Maybe it was nostalgia. I even contemplated a second one; this could be a long night and it was better to have some ballast on board, even at half a pint a time. I didn’t want to be rolling into Sam Campbell’s house singing ‘Glasgow belongs to me’. Not the first night. Instead I got the man in conversation while the pub was still quiet. This was going to be delicate. I was relying on people’s relish for discussing a hanging.

‘Did you know this fella Donovan, the one that’s to hang for killing that wean?’

He stopped wiping some smears on to his glass. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘I used to know him. He ran about with a pal of mine.’

‘Does that make him a pal o’ yours?’ There was an edge to his voice.

‘Naw. No way. I just saw him about.’ I wondered if tonight I’d beat St Pete’s record for denying his friend.

The barman didn’t look convinced. ‘See if he was, then yon’s the last drink you’ll taste in here. I’ll no serve any pal of that murdering bastard in this establishment.’

‘I don’t blame you. The guy was obviously a bampot. Did he look the type? I mean were you surprised?’

‘You’re not the polis, are you? Ah thought all this was by?’

I wondered if the smell of the uniform ever leaves you?

‘No. But you’ve got a good eye. I used to be. Here in Glasgow before the war. Now I work in London. Reporter.’

‘Christ, no’ another one! They’ve been round here a dozen times.’

‘This is personal. I’m just up visiting my mother. I was curious. He looked a normal sort of fella when I last saw him. They say he was badly burnt?’

The barman looked around and then leaned over the bar at me. ‘Like a horror show. Poor sod. I suppose it turned him. Nae excuse, mind.’

‘But he was a regular?’

‘Oh aye. He’d sit through in the public. Quiet in the corner. Never any bother. Kept his hat doon. Didnae want folk to see his face. Nae wonder. My wife couldnae handle it. I had to serve him.’

Now came the hard questions. ‘Did he ever talk to anyone? Any friends?’

He shook his head. ‘No’ what you’d call friends exactly.’

‘Fill me up. Will you take one yourself?’ I pushed my glass over to him.

‘I’ll put one in the tank. A wee goldie. For later. Thanks.’

‘But he had some acquaintances?’

He leaned even closer. ‘There’s always guys selling stuff roon’ here.’ He tapped his nose.

‘What sort of stuff? Fags? Meat…?’

‘A’ that. But if you want something special…’ He drew himself back. ‘Anyroad, I’ve telt you enough. I don’t know you from Adam.’

‘Fair enough, friend,’ I said. ‘But look, I’ve got a wee habit of my own. D’ye ken what I’m saying?’ I tapped the inside of my arm. ‘If you know anywhere I can get hold of some stuff, I’d make it worth your while.’ I took out a ten-bob note and laid it on the counter. ‘That’s for the pie and your own drink. Keep the change.’ I made to go.

‘Hing on, pal.’ He signed me to come closer. ‘If you can wait till the morn’s night, there might be somebody who can help. Different nights, different pubs. He comes by here on a Thursday. Regular as the coalman. About seven. OK?’ He gave me the heaviest wink I’d seen since Max Wall at the Windmill.

I did my best to return the wink and went looking for Hugh’s other pub in case it was its turn to be visited tonight. If I had no luck there I could come to the Mally Arms tomorrow night for a pie and a hit.

Doyle’s bar at Gorbals Cross was scarcely more salubrious. But the clientele seemed less likely to fall down with consumption. The beer seemed less watered too. Maybe there was a connection. I decided to play this differently. People are always ready to talk to you in Scotland. Strangers will wish you a good morning so they can comment on the weather before getting on to the important stuff like football. Women will strike up an intimate discussion about varicose veins on the bus with perfect strangers. Put that same propensity in a pub, add alcohol and time on their hands, and you’ll get their life story in a flash.

It was just after seven o’clock and I gazed through the fug looking for some likely candidates. I discounted the wee men dressed in their shabby work clothes stopping in for a snifter before facing their pale wife. I ignored the tables where there was a steady clack and slide of dominoes. I was looking for someone whose clothes were less frayed and slept in, who slipped round the room stirring the little groups like a breeze through trees, going about his dirty business, eyes swivelling. No one fitted the bill.

I sat down to wait with an abandoned copy of the Daily Record. I read it cover to cover. It didn’t take long. Ink and paper was still at a premium and the Record was down to a dozen pages. So I read it carefully, especially the reports of local crimes, to get a feel for this mean city. Nothing much seemed to have changed since I was last patrolling the streets. The gangs were still in charge of the East End but seemed more organised and less given to mass razor battles just for the fun of it. Chief Constable Percy Sillitoe had taken them on and given them a good hiding in the years before the war. Sillitoe’s Cossacks earned a justly feared respect with their mounted baton charges against rioting Orange marchers. But the gangs hadn’t gone away. They’d metamorphosed into organised criminality; protection rackets their speciality.

Today’s paper reported that internecine feuding had resulted in petrol bombs through windows and three men’s faces being slashed to ribbons in a pub fight. No wonder the police had to be such hard men. There was no quarter asked or given out there. I never had any problem with meeting force with force. It was the only response gangs like the Norman Conks understood and responded to. But the unbridled power assumed by the police led to a widespread cavalier attitude to the application of the rule of law. Some units began offering their own insurance policies against raids by their fellow officers. Others took backhanders to avert their steely gaze from illegal gambling, knocking shops and smuggling through the port. It wasn’t what I joined for. It wouldn’t pull me back. Call me naive.

I turned back to the news. Four men had died at a party in the Blackhill scheme; industrial alcohol had been the drink of choice. A child had gone missing in Govan. I hoped for a happier outcome than for poor Fiona’s wean. And just reading the paper reminded me that I needed to get into the local archives and see the reporting coverage of Hugh’s trial. I wanted to get a feel for the case. It was hard coming at it cold. The newspapers would tell me what we were up against trying to win an appeal. They would also chronicle the police procedure day by day, within the limits of reporting constraints.

I sensed a different current in the bar. I looked up and saw two men sidling up to people, saying a few words, getting a head-shake, and then moving on. Twice a transaction took place. I waited at my table by the wall, half engrossed in the paper. I looked up when a shadow fell across the table. He was young, badly shaven, with crossed, jumpy eyes. He nodded at me.