Chapter Three.
At that moment, across the river, in a small pawn shop in a filthy corner of Govanhill, Giddy Allerdyce watched from behind the security grating that protected him and his goods from his customers. That ugly chancer known as Big Skinny had just slid into the shop. Skinny, whose actual name was Gordon Skinner grinned at him. Allerdyce hated the look of the creepy bastard. “Big Skinny” had a fishy appearance, big wet lips, swollen eyes and a skinhead. He was wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a red t-shirt with a Celtic cross on it, which is all Allerdyce had ever seen him wear. Both of Skinny’s ears were pierced dozens of times until each pinna clinked with golden hoops. Despite his nickname, he wasn’t thin, but was tall, over six foot and looked as if he was in his early twenties, even though Allerdyce had heard he was a decade older. “Good morning Allerdyce,” Skinny said.
“Alright?” Allerdyce replied. He couldn’t place the accent, definitely not Glaswegian, Scottish, without a doubt. Allerdyce had heard rumours the bugger came from Dunnoch, in the Pentlands, but that couldn’t be true. No one went in or came out of Dunnoch.
Skinny walked over to the counter and slapped a clear polythene bag on the counter half filled with white powder. “There’s your Charlie. 20 grams uncut.”
Allerdyce swiped his hand over and the bag vanished. “Tommy would have ma guts for garters if he found out.”
Skinner smirked. “Doubt it. I’m not stupid, Giddy. He gets his cut, you and some others were part of the deal we negotiated. Tommy is not who you need to worry about.”
“Straight up?” Allerdyce said, somewhat relieved.
“Aye. We’ve been on good terms the last six or seven years. I did him a favour a while back.” Skinny confirmed.
Allerdyce nodded, there had been rumours about that too. A cousin, so he’d heard, that had went mad. There were conflicting reports, but they all converged around Skinny doing something to sort it out. “So, who should I be worried about then?”
Skinner looked at him as if the man was a moron. “Morton, obviously.”
“Who?” Allerdyce asked, half laughing, thinking of the bakery. He began to lay out notes on the counter. After counting out a thousand in fifties he bunched them up and pulled one of several elastic bands he had round his wrist and stretched it around the bundle. It tightened with a snap. He spun it towards Skinny who grabbed it and stuffed it into his pocket, scowling.
His answer surprised Skinner, but not much. Skinner knew Morton was the puppet master but let Tommy Bryce and the others like run things on his behalf. But it hadn’t been that long since the crew was still notorious. How had they managed to go dark, to make everyone forget they were in charge so quickly? He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Tommy’s not going to cause you any problems. Thanks for the cash. I’ll see you next week?”
Skinner made for the door and Allerdyce called out. “Oh aye, wan mer thing, you know Daft Pete?”
Skinner continued frowning. “Do I look like the sort of person who knows someone called Daft Pete, Giddy?”
Allerdyce shrugged. He thought Skinny might be offended but didn’t care. “You know Mental Dunkie.”
“Knew, No-one has seen Dunkie since that trouble with Harper last year. Besides, mental is not the same as daft,” Skinner sighed.
“How?” Allerdyce replied.
Skinner gazed at him as if he did not believe what he’d heard. “How? Because in Dunkie’s case it meant he was violent psychotic, not someone who is just stupid, which is how I assume Daft Pete ended up with such a soubriquet.”
“Ah whit?” Allerdyce replied.
“Jesus, Giddy. Read a book, it means nickname,” Skinny shook his head. How did these numpties stay out of jail, he wondered.
“Whit did ye no jist say nickname fur?” Giddy complained.
Skinner shook his head, the conversation was pointless. “What do you want to tell me about Daft Pete?”
“Aye. Daft Pete, he’s a junkie. Came in here the other day with this weird thing and Davy Collier telt me you like weird shit, so I thought of you.”
Skinner could have taken offence at that had he been so inclined but he was still trying to get back on his feet after the last run-in with Morton, so it was best not to piss off loyal customers. “Whit sort of weird thing are you talking about?”
“I dunno, some kind of lamp, looked auld and expensive. The chancer wanted five grand for it though so I told him to fuck off. The weird thing wis that it didnae seem tae have any power source. It was lovely, like an upside-down chandelier on a gold base, aw intricate an’ shit. You want me tae get if fur ye if he comes back in?”
“Five grand, for a lamp?” Skinner sneered.
“He’s a smackheid, I’ll talk him down. How much you willing to pay?”
Skinner knew better than to ignore such things. His rise to the top wasn’t going to be achieved by merely hiring a bunch of thugs, he needed power, unearthly power if he was going to challenge the likes of Morton and The sisters. Unearthly powers were not explicit, they came as hints, coincidences, hidden paths that you had to follow. There was a reason it was called occult. “Tell him you’ve got an interested party. Depends what it’s worth.”
Skinny walked out the shop at the same moment Brian strutted out of the Antique dealers with a cocky swagger and a wide grin stretched across his face. Rupert exited behind him and remarked, laughing “Don’t go spending that all on sweets now!”
“I’ll no.” Brian replied, forcing a chuckle. “Prick.” he added, muttering to himself.
Daft Pete waited for Brian with a look of anticipation. He watched the old guy slide into a black BMW, with a personalised registration RTB 1. “Who’s the auld poofter?”
“Our customer, Pete,” Brian answered.
Pete’s eye’s widened from the heavy-lidded, half-conscious look. “Aye? It’s sorted?”
Brian nodded. “Aye, we goat a deal.”
“Brilliant. How much?”
“Three grand. I tried fur mere but they wurnae havin’ it.” Brian lied.
“Three? You said you wurnae takin’ less than five.” Dete protested.
Brian scratched his nose and sighed. “Fuck off Pete, you wur willin’ tae take fifty fuckin’ quid. I needed shot of it, besides 3 grand’s no bad. If you don’t want your cut, I’ll keep it.”
“I didnae say that, did I?” Pete replied, his voice in somewhat of a panic.
“Come oan. There’s a pub roon’ the corner, I’ll gie ye it in there, I’ll even get a few pints in, ma treat.”
“Sweet.” Pete responded.
They headed onto Byres Road, where students swanned about talking in recently affected west-end accents. Pete thought some of them would be ripe for a good mugging, if he hadn’t been so well off. They walked into the pub “Curlers”, by the Underground station and Brian strode over to the bar, while Pete negotiated the tacky carpet to find a table by the window. Moments later Brian walked over with a pint in each hand, doing a little celebratory half-waddle/half-dance.
“Drink up.” He said, as he slapped the glass on the table next to Pete.
Pete took the glass and gulped down while Brian counted out the notes. “Fifteen hunner quid. No bad fur a mornin’s work eh?” He asked.
Pete nodded as Brian handed over the cash. “You’re a good lad Bri.”
“I telt ye, I’m no a rip aff merchant.” Brian answered before taking a drink. “Let’s get hammered, eh?”
“That’s no’ like you.” Pete said. “Whit’s up?”
Brian shook his head. “That lamp, man. Glad I’m fuckin’ shot of it.”
“Me too, fifteen hunner quid, eh?” Pete said, raising his glass.
“Aye, definitely, but that’s no whit I meant,” Brian responded after taking another drink.
“Whit d’ye mean ‘en?” Pete asked.
Brian frowned, looked at the wet circle of the pint glass left behind on the varnish of the table. He ran his fingers through it, smearing it away and then looked into Pete’s eyes. He took a deep breath and then sighed. “That hoose we robbed...”
“You robbed,” Pete corrected.
Brian leaned over and quietly, confessed: “Aye, well that room, there wur three bodies in there.”
Pete laughed. “Bullshit.”
“I’m serious, mate. Straight up. The place wis stinkin’ an’ there wur two deid guys sittin’ on this boggin’ couch. Another wan wis against a wa’, guts hingin’ oot,” Brian insisted.
Pete wasn’t buying it. He took another drink and smirked. “I think ye might’ve mentioned it before noo.”
“I wis tryin’ tae blot it oot. When I wis in ther’ I felt like I was gonny freak oot, so I just focussed oan nabbin’ the lamp. Wance I wis oot, I jist wanted tae dig in, forget aw aboot it.” Brian said.
“Aye, right.” Pete scoffed.
“I’m fuckin’ serious!” Brian yelled. He looked around, knowing he’d raised his voice too much. He leaned back and repeated, quietly this time, “I’m serious, there were three deid cunts in there, rotten, stinkin’ corpses.”
Pete’s eyes widened. “Fuuuuck, you are serious.”
“Aye.” Brian said. He was pained even remembering, it was written all over his face. “that’s no the worst of it. See, there wis somethin’ else in that hoose, somethin’ doonstairs, I could sense it.”
“Sense it?”
“Aye. Dunno how, it wis like a weird atmosphere like I wis bein’ watched. Real creepy. So then that fuckin’ lamp, the light chinges colour, goes a bit red or orange.”
“That’s fuckin’ weird.” Pete replied.
“Aye, you know whit else wis weird? The auld poof that bought the lamp telt me is was called a ghost lamp, an’ wis said tae change colour in the presence of evil spirits.”
“You don’t believe aw that shite dae ye, Bri?” Pete asked in a voice that suggested he was unconvinced one way or another.
Brian shrugged. “Didnae, noo I’m no sure.”
“Aye, well fuck it, we’ve goat the cash, the rest is none of oor business, right?” Pete offered.
“I guess,” Brian said and drained his pint. “Ye want another?”
Pete didn’t like that idea, the itch was already at him. “Tae tell you the truth I’d rather get this doon our neck an’ go an see Slater, that last stuff was gemmy.”
Brian smiled. “Nae messin’ aboot wae you Pete, eh?”
“Whit can I say, I like my smack,” Pete chuckled.
“Alright. We’ll get some cans in fae the offies anaw, jist tae be on the safe side.” Brian said.
Pete thought that sounded like a plan. “Since we’re quids in, I’m gonny get an ounce of hash anaw.”
“We could chip in an’ get a nine bar. Sell it in quarters tae the wee wankers in the park.” Brian suggested.
Pete thought that over. “Nah fuck ‘em.” he decided.
Brian shrugged and finished his pint. “Drink up an’ let’s get the fuck oot of here before it gets filled wae students, I fuckin’ hate students,” Brian said.
“Who disnae?” Pete asked, draining his pint. “Right, let’s go.”
Comments
Post a Comment