Gordon Ferris - The Hanging Shed

‘A’right, pal?’

‘Aye, fine. You?’ I asked.

His eyes stopped and focused, sort of. ‘You polis?’

What was it about my personal aroma? ‘Not now. Used to be.’

He looked triumphant. ‘I kent you were polis, sort of. You’re no’ from roon here.’

‘Kilmarnock. But I live in London now. Just visiting a pal.’

‘Oh aye. Need anything while you’re here? A wee set-you-up for your holidays?’

‘What’ve you got?’

He sat down opposite me and lit a fag. ‘Whit do you need?’

‘The same stuff as Hugh Donovan.’

His smile dissolved and his eyes started their St Vitus’s dance again. ‘Who the fuck are you, pal? You are the fucking polis, are ye no?’

‘What would the polis want with you? Donovan’s for hanging. They got what they wanted. I was just reading in here’ – I tapped the paper, certain that my new friend hadn’t been – ‘that he liked a wee hit now and again. It didn’t take too long to work out where he might be getting it. So I thought I’d try out a couple of places round here. Seems I got lucky.’

‘Maybe you are. Maybe you’re not.’ Suspicion had set his body jangling like a plucked harp. He looked round and signalled to his buddy to come over.

His pal was older and steadier. His left ear had a lobe missing and the scar ran on to his cheek. He sat down and inspected me. ‘What’s going on?’

‘This yin’s playing smart, so he is. He’s no’ from around here. Wants the same as Hugh Donovan, so he says.’

‘Does he now. Would that be your face melted or your neck stretched?’

‘That’s a good yin, Fergie.’

‘Shut up.’ Fergie kept his eyes on mine and waited for my reaction.

‘I was thinking more of some pain relief,’ I said rubbing my leg. ‘Shrapnel.’

‘We can make it hurt even more, if you’re pissin’ us around.’

‘Look, if you don’t want the business, forget it. You came to me.’ I studiously picked up my paper and pretended to read. I heard the snick just before I could move. The blade of a flick-knife sliced up through the paper and left it hanging in my hands in two bits.

‘You’re not a reader then,’ I said.

‘What do you want? Specifically,’ asked Fergie.

‘The hard stuff, the Big H. What’s your price?’

‘Introductory price is a quid a shot.’

‘Quality?’

‘The best.’

‘How do I know?’

‘You don’t. Until you try it.’

‘Fair enough. One hit.’ I began to dig into my pocket.

‘Not here. In there.’ He jerked his head towards the toilet. He got up and walked towards it expecting me to follow. His crosseyed pal sat grinning at me.

‘You don’t get twa invites,’ he said.

I got up and walked after him, rolling up my sliced newspaper as I went. I pulled the door and went in. There was a second door in front of me.

‘In here,’ the voice called.

I pushed through the second door into a white tiled room with a trough running at an angle along two of the walls and into a gutter. The stink of urine stung my nostrils. Fergie was waiting, back to the far wall, hands in his pocket. Behind me I heard the first door open again. I tightened my tube of paper between both hands and moved further into the fetid room. As the second door began to open Fergie made his move. He drew his right hand out of his pocket. It held a black stub. He pressed the side. It snicked open. The knife gleamed bright and sharp in the dull air.

Fergie’s eyes slid off me to the man behind me. I turned in time to see his pal raise a clasp razor and make his strike. I swung my rolled-up paper in a fast uppercut. Roll a newspaper tight and, point first, you have a tube as strong as iron. It took him right in the windpipe. His eyes bulged and he made a strangled gasp. The razor fell from his hand. He was dropping to his knees, gurgling, as I swung back to Fergie. The shock was clearing from Fergie’s face and contorting into anger.

‘Ya fucker ye!’ His arm sliced through the air at my head. I flung my left forearm up against his. I got lucky. Sort of. I hit his wrist. The knife popped from his numbed hand, glanced off my forehead and clattered to the tiles. I followed through with my trusty tube. It caught him on the side of the head, just by the ear. He tumbled against the wall and fell to his knees. I knew it wasn’t a killer blow. So I stepped forward and kicked him in the belly as hard as I could. He doubled up on the piss-wet floor, floundering and sucking for air. I drew back my foot to kick his head in then stopped.

‘Who do you work for?’ I changed my aim and kicked him in the kidneys. He jerked and writhed.

‘I said, who’s your boss? The next one’s your ugly face!’

He waved at me, gasping. ‘You’re. Fucking. Dead. Pal. You. Know. That.’

I stood back. I stamped on the hand that was wandering towards the knife. He squealed. I kicked the knife away.

‘Tell me who your boss is.’

His face was engorged with rage and pain. ‘You’ll find oot soon enough, ya bastard!’ I raised my foot so he could see the row of good metal tacks.

‘Slattery. Dermot Slattery. That’s who! Ask anybody around here. You’ll soon ken who you’ve messed wi’.’

A name. A name I recognised from before the war. One of the top gangs in Glasgow. Let’s see where it took me. I dropped my now bent newspaper and inspected the other man. He was choking to death. I leaned over him and ripped his collar and tie open. I pulled his head back to clear his broken air passage. It might do for a while. Something wet was dribbling into my left eye. I touched my head and found blood seeping down my face. I stuck my hankie on it.

‘Call an ambulance for him, Fergie. And tell Slattery I’d like a chat. Tell him I’m an old friend of Hugh Donovan. The name’s Brodie.’

I swung out of the doors and into the pub. There were expectant faces. Their stares changed to puzzlement and then turned away as I walked through them. A few began to head towards the exits. So did I. Outside I got my bearings and began to walk towards the address Samantha Campbell had given me. It was north of the Clyde, in the smart West End. A world away from the Gorbals slums.

It was ten o’clock when I found myself outside a terraced three-storey Georgian house in the commanding heights of Kelvingrove Park. A fine pile for a lawyer. I’m not the jealous type. But I imagine that the rise of Sam’s family to this magnificence was a shorter journey than mine from Kilmarnock’s tenements to… well, where, exactly? A rented flat in London? I bet she never needed a bursary to get to her academy far less another one to go to university. I bet she slotted in as nice as ninepence to the social whirl at Glasgow. Born hearing the right accents. Growing up seeing the right manners. Wearing the right clothes. No, I wasn’t jealous. Not much.

What I was, was exhausted from the climb up the slopes. My head hurt and the pie and beer were sitting uncomfortably together. There was one faint light in a second-floor window. I climbed the three steps and used the big brass knocker. There was nothing for a long moment and then the door swung open. She inspected me for a second before standing aside.

‘You look like you need a drink, Brodie.’

We sat on facing leather armchairs in a room filled with books. If ever I came into money, I’d have a house with a library. I’d sit there in my smoking jacket, with a good whisky in my hand, reading my way through the lot, starting from the top left.

She’d stoked up the fire and a warm glow dappled the room. Lumps of the real thing filled the scuttle. She must bribe her coalman. The book she’d been reading lay face down on a small table beside her. Rider Haggard, Ayesha. Her specs lay on top of it. I held a cold cloth against the cut in my head. The bleeding had stopped and the swelling was going down. In my right hand I fingered a heavy cut-crystal glass of good Scotch. My stomach felt easier. The pie and beer mix had succumbed to superior force. I’d just finished my story, and she’d just taken a big gulp of her own whisky. I like a girl who likes fine Scotch and takes it with water, not ginger.