The Incredible Rise of a Gorbals Gangster Read online

  “Awright,” he said to Malky, “If we were both actors in a true life situation, who do you think could play us in a movie?”

  Malky laughed. It was an absurd question but he enjoyed the banter with his pal.

  “Ah think James Cagney would be good as you,” he said to Johnny.

  Johnny smirked, “Yeah, but he’d have to have a Scottish accent, maybe change his name to Johnny McCagney. And who do ye think could play you?”

  Malky replied instantly, “Humphrey Bogart, he’s the man, nae bother at aw.” They started to laugh loudly. Johnny said, “Malky McBogart and Johnny McCagney, sounds good to me.”

  Johnny’s brother Joseph entered the room wearing his school blazer, which instantly suggested that he was a cut above, more intelligent, than most of the other boys in the area.

  “Hey bampot wi’ your posh blazer, who dae ye think could play us in a Hollywood movie?” Johnny shouted to his brother.

  “Easy peasy,” he replied with a massive grin, “Laurel and Hardy, a right pair of idiots who’ve got ideas well above their station.” A pair of bumbling buffoons like Laurel and Hardy? Johnny could see that Malky had been slightly wounded by the humorous remark and if it had been said by anyone other than his younger brother, he would have got a beating. Malky finished his tea and said, “Got to go boys, got to see a man about a dog.”

  After Malky and Joseph left, Johnny thought about the cheeky remark. Maybe his brother had been right, perhaps they were just a couple of idiotic buffoons. A pair of numpties who had delusions of grandeur. The thought began to make him feel slightly dizzy, also the dull pain in his back did nothing to help things. He decided to get out and breathe in the fresh air of the Gorbals stage.

  He walked down the stairs of the tenement and went into the back court. There was a shabby-looking man there singing, “It’s a long way to Tipperary.” He was a back court singer who sang until people threw money from their tenement windows, usually a few coppers at a time. He actually had a fine voice. Johnny put his hand into his pocket and threw the man a few pennies. He knew the singer would be grateful as it would provide enough money to buy a couple of pints at the end of a hard day in concert. “Thanks pal.” The singer said, “Any requests?” “Aye,” Johnny replied, “Get tae fuck.” The singer gave a weak smile and made off to the next back court.

  The fresh air and the singing had boosted Johnny’s mood considerably. The throbbing on his back seemed to subside. Suddenly he felt very hungry, enough, as he would say “Tae eat a scabby donkey between two bread vans.”

  He entered a dingy cafe in one of the back streets, which laughingly called itself a “restaurant.” He was unsure about the hygiene of the place as a manky-looking woman with a fag in her mouth, took his order, “Big plate of mince and tatties, two slices of bread and a mug of tea.”

  The woman was back a few minutes later with his order. When she put the plates on the tables some of the fag ash fell from her cigarette onto the bread, giving it a streak of grey. He also noticed that the woman’s fingernails were dirty, with black ingrained dirt underneath them.

  “Anything else ah can get ye son?” she said in an irritating voice. But Johnny decided to be diplomatic, he had an urge to tell her to “go and get a good wash” but he stayed silent and tucked into the mince and potatoes. It was delicious, just what the doctor ordered. While eating he thought about the dubious hygiene of the place. The waitress was manky but what about the cook? What the hell did she look like? It was a matter he did not wish to concentrate on. The cook was probably a filthy-looking bastard as well, but certainly knocked up a good plate of mince. When he finished the meal, Johnny was taken by surprise. The manky waitress, who was in her 60s, sat opposite him, “Nae charge for the mince son, it’s on the house, ‘cause we know who you are.”

  “Oh, aye missus, “Johnny replied, “Who am I then?”

  She smiled through broken teeth, “You’re that boy fae Crown Street, the leader of the Cumbie gang. Am ah right or am ah wrong?”

  Johnny smiled with some mince stick in his teeth, “You’re right, missus.”

  “Oh, that’s good son. Ah wonder if ye could do me a wee favour?”

  So, this was the reason she had not charged him for the dinner. He put his knife and fork tidily on the plate before saying, “And what is this wee favour?” The waitress changed her expression from mock friendly to deadly serious.

  “Well, ma granddaughter is often playing across the road but she and the other weans are complaining that an auld stoat-the-baw is turning up offering them sweeties.”

  If one thing got on Johnny’s wick it was a stoat-the-baw. He had encountered a few growing up and experience had taught him they had to be subjected to instant, merciless punishment. When one paedophile approached Johnny and his pals when he was aged about 10, a gang of the older guys had almost kicked him to death. The waitress walked over to the window and pointed out, “Look there he is now talking tae the kids.” Johnny rose from the table and looked, out of the window. There was a grey-haired man in his early 70s talking to the children and handing them sweets. He looked like a retired accountant type, they usually did. In Johnny’s experience there seemed to be a plethora of elderly middle-class men from the suburbs like Hillhead or Giffnock turning up in the Gorbals with dubious intentions towards children.

  Despite the throbbing in his back, Johnny could feel his energy return. He walked towards the elderly man. On seeing this, the man’s face drained of blood and he moved off a few hundred yards away near a pile of rubble. “Hey you!” Johnny shouted, “What are ye doing hanging aboot and giving weans sweeties? Ya dirty auld bastard ye.”

  The man froze with fear, like a rabbit stuck in the headlights of a car. He looked at Johnny and tried to cover his tracks. “Oh, I was only being friendly,” he said in an accent that gave away his lower middle class roots. “Friendly? Ah’ll gi’ ye friendly, ya pervert,” Johnny shouted and pulled a fork out that he had been eating with in the restaurant.

  He stuck it underneath the man’s jaw. It stayed there firmly until the elderly man collapsed onto the ground with blood gushing everywhere. Johnny left him in a pool of blood and quickly made off. There were no spectators, more importantly no witnesses. The fork from the restaurant might be a giveaway but the waitress would not be providing any information to the police.

  He stood at the corner of Crown Street and Old Rutherglen road, watching the traffic come and go. After about ten minutes he heard the sirens of an ambulance and a police car heading in his direction. They turned into where the man had been stabbed with the fork. Johnny could see from a safe distance, the stoat-the-baw being placed onto a stretcher with the fork still stuck underneath his jaw. The ambulance rushed off to the hospital with sirens blaring.

  The excitement of the attack had made the throbbing in his back almost disappear. But when Johnny got back to his house, he had another throbbing, in his belly.

  He sat on the toilet and felt sick as the poisonous mince gushed out of his system. It was the worst case of food poisoning he had ever experienced.

  “A good deed never goes unpunished,” he muttered to himself as the flow of diarrhoea continued like a waterfall.

  Chapter 27

  ABERDEEN

  Once the throbbing in his back (and belly) had dissipated, after a week or so, Johnny felt well enough to once again submerge himself in the Glaswegian subculture. A trip had been arranged from an Irish dominated pub, Derry Treanors, to a Celtic cup match against Aberdeen FC in the Granite City. Three buses were leaving with mostly Irish labourers and a smattering of Johnny’s cronies. Malky, Alex and Chris were on a bus to greet Johnny as he boarded. They were all clad in Celtic gear, big green and white scarves and some wearing Celtic jerseys.

  In the past, Johnny had been a diehard Celtic fan. He grew up watching outside right Jimmy Johnstone, and the swerving skills of this player almost took his breath away. Indeed, when Celtic were the European Cup winners in 1967 it made most of the lo
cal Catholic inhabitants of the Gorbals feel as if they could go out and conquer the world. The players who had won the cup in Lisbon, summed up what every Glaswegian should be – gallus and fearless.

  From an early age that’s what Johnny aspired to be, gallus and fearless to a point where people looked up to him. He loved the word gallus, meaning having a superior style with attitude. The word gallus seemed gallus in itself. The boys were certainly acting in a gallus fashion. They had chipped in for a large carry out – several bottles of cheap and strong South African wines – Eldorado, Lanliq and Four Crown. Malky and Chris passed around the bottles and cans of Tennent’s lager which they all slugged from. Johnny usually avoided the cheap wine, but made an exception for football matches.

  The other passengers on the bus, all Celtic FC Irishmen to the core, were operating the same drinking system. In fact, most of them seemed half-cut before they got on the bus. As the cheap wine soared through his veins, a soothing, contemplative emotion came over him. At times cheap wine could be your best pal and at other times your worst enemy, landing you in jail.

  But it was almost a perfect day, Johnny was with his pals and fellow Celtic supporters who were all psychologically bonded together. One of the Irishmen began to sing Off to Dublin in the Green, “Oh I am a merry ploughboy…” Johnny joined in enthusiastically and the wine had given him the strange inclination that perhaps he should join the IRA and be a soldier that would fight for the cause.

  There were shouts of “Up the IRA...our day will come,” and “Fuck King Billy.” It was real tribal stuff, Fenian banter which made Johnny feel at home among his own. Apart from the songs, the bus was full of jokey banter. Chris said, slugging from a large bottle of Eldorado, “Ah hear Rangers have bought a submarine, there are twenty thousand leagues under the sea and they’ve got a chance of winning one of them!” He had heard a lot of these crude jokes before but in his semi wine-sodden state he laughed at them as if he had heard them for the first time

  In his mind, this was solidarity. This is what gave most of them, with meaningless lives, a meaning. A good song, a good bevvy and a joke with his Fenian pals was all that he needed to feel contented. The love for Cathy made him feel contented in a different way. His mother’s love, at times, also made him content. But with the boys, it was a different kind of contentment, a gallus contentment, if you like.

  As the bus trundled along the highway, Johnny looked out of the window and scanned the countryside. It looked beautiful, a different world from the Gorbals. A world of farmers, sheep, horses and cows, far away from the grim reality of the dingy and filthy streets of Glasgow. Johnny looked over to Malky. The cheap wine made his pal resemble a madman. His eyes had taken on the look of a lunatic, which he probably was anyway. Johnny also noticed that Malky’s nose began to get redder and redder by the minute. He knew from past experience that the cheap wine made Malky’s nose glow in the dark.

  The wine affected the boys differently. While Johnny (this time) felt content, Malky was aggressive and was looking for a punch up with any fool that got in his way. Chris became a bit solemn and subdued when too much vino took over. Alex would go through a metamorphosis. He came up with such erratic and wild behaviour that often surprised and even shocked Johnny. One time they had been in a pub, near the High Court, when a couple of middle aged gangsters walked in, all suited and booted, after being cleared of attempted murder. Johnny had seen a photo of one of the gangsters in the Daily Record.

  He was definitely not a guy to be messed with. But after being on the cheap wine all day, Johnny was mortified when Alex walked up to the gangster as he sat at a table in the pub, slapped him on the back and shouted, “You’re just a cardboard gangster. Ah could bend you no bother!” It resulted in Alex being thrown through the air like a rag doll and being given a kicking in the bar with tables and glasses flying everywhere.

  But Johnny had not intervened. Not because he was scared but because he realised on such occasions Alex had to be punished for his eccentric behaviour. He was mad but certainly not bad.

  Suddenly Alex shouted on the bus, “Long live the Pope!” This was a surprise because Alex had been brought up as a Protestant and Johnny was sure he did not even know who the Pope was. He was just being controversial, it was part of his nature. Even his mother admitted, “Alex is never satisfied until he’s causing trouble.” They were almost on the outskirts of Aberdeen, and sitting at the back of the bus, when a large fellow came from the front to join them. It was John the Irishman from the Portland Dancehall.

  The Irishman sat next to Johnny and talked quietly, “Have you had a think about ma offer?” Johnny at first pretended not to understand, “What offer was that?”

  “To join the cause.”

  “Aye, ah’ve been thinking about it, in fact it crossed ma mind a few minutes ago.”

  The Irishman smiled saying, “Well, we need guys in the IRA who don’t just think but act.”

  Johnny understood immediately, “Ah know what you mean, but what exactly dae ye want me tae dae?”

  The Irishman laughed, “That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

  Johnny grinned and took another sip of the red wine, “Awright, so when can ah find out then?”

  John replied, “After the match when we get back tae the Gorbals. Meet me at the dancehall and I’ll show ye. Take a couple of your boys with you.” Johnny nodded in agreement and asked the Irishman what he thought the score would be. The Irishman thought for a few moments and said, “Two nil tae Celtic, nae bother, us Fenians always win!”

  He rose and shook hand with Johnny and the rest of the boys. They all showed respect for the Irishman except Alex who laughed and sneered as he walked away. “Ah think you’re heading for a knee capping, Alex,” said Malky.

  Chris agreed, “Don’t fuck wi’ that fella, he could make you disappear faster than Harry Houdini. For fuck’s sake Alex, only you could insult the head of the IRA and get away wi’ it.”

  Alex took another slug of what was left of his Eldorado wine bottle, “The IRA are too scared of me, they know ah’m fucking insane.” The boys laughed at the remark but could sense there was some truth in it.

  They were not far from Aberdeen city centre when suddenly a drunken navvy stumbled past them in a state shouting, “Ah need a pish now.” He began to urinate heavily at the back of the bus.

  The urine began to flow down the aisle, splashing on Alex’s shoes.

  Alex rose and smashed his wine bottle over the navvy’s head. He collapsed onto the floor in a puddle of pish.

  The boys left the bus and strolled towards Aberdeen’s ground. Johnny liked the feel of Aberdeen. He had never really been before, just once as a kid, and had hazy memories of it. As they walked through the streets, albeit in a wine-sodden state, Johnny liked the fresh air which was far fresher than the Gorbals. He was also impressed with the pretty buildings and the pretty young ladies. He noticed they were different from the wee herries he had grown up with. As the girls passed him, they did not avoid eye gaze but gave a brief smile in his direction. He felt aroused by them, and the general ambience of the Granite City. Ironically, there was a bar in the Gorbals with the same name. But it certainly differed from the atmosphere of the real place. It was full of drunks and ugly women who would have put Aberdeen to shame.

  The Aberdonians had a different reputation to the people of Glasgow. Glaswegians had a reputation for being rough and uncouth whereas people from Aberdeen were said to be more timid and very careful with their money. The standing joke was, “What’s the emptiest place in the world? Aberdeen on flag day.” In the event Celtic played well that day with Jimmy Johnstone showing with his swerves and dribbling why he was such a legend. The Irishman had been right, Celtic beat Aberdeen 2-0 heading for the final of the Scottish Cup at Hampden Park in Glasgow, which is not far from where they all lived. The boys all got back to the bus feeling exhausted but elated. The drunken navvy was still unconscious in the puddle of pish, but he was certainly sti
ll alive as he snored heavily.

  Johnny and his pals all had a kip until they arrived back in Glasgow. Still exhausted, Johnny bade his pals farewell and headed to his tenement. What a day! What a bevvy! What a victory for Celtic! The IRA could wait for the moment. He was going to bed for a well-earned rest. A sleep that would take him away from the absurdity of his life in the Gorbals.

  Chapter 28

  I.R.A

  A message got to Johnny that he was to meet the Irishman not at the Portland dance hall but at a tenement in Thistle Street which was only a few minutes way from where he lived in Crown Street. As he walked towards the tenement, he noticed there was a large car parked outside. It was an incongruous sight as most of the people who lived in Thistle Street never earned enough money to buy a car. Well, a Dinky perhaps.

  As Johnny approached the close, he had a quick glance at three men who were in the vehicle. All had ruddy faces and thick hair, this was usually a sign that they were all Irish guys. The Gorbals guys tended to look thinner and paler, the Irish had that certain look about them.

  As he passed the car, the ruddy-faced man at the wheel gave him a smile and a nod as if to say, “We know who you are, we know where you are going.” Johnny climbed the tenement stairs and three rats scurried past him. In a strange way he thought it somewhat of an omen, he always thought that the number three had been lucky for him, just like the betting joke he had heard from his pal, Manny.

  At one time he had three birds on the go, he had scored three goals in his first schoolboy football match and had a minor pools win by using combinations of the number three. So, in his mind, three rats were good. He knocked loudly on an old battered Victorian door. It had a nameplate on it saying “McCafferty”. He heard slow footsteps and the door opened. It was an old Irish woman with white hair wearing a pinny. She gave Johnny a suspicious look before saying, “Can ah help ye son?” “Aye,” Johnny replied, “Ah’m here tae see the big fella.” She smiled and welcomed him in saying, “We’ve been expecting you.”