murder.’
‘OK, murder interests me.’ God help me. ‘Where and when?’
‘Tomorrow. At Brown’s Bar in the Gallowgate. Twelve o’clock.’
It was just before noon on Friday. My tram was ploughing through rain-sodden streets. I sat oozing water on the top deck. I peered through the rivulets on the windscreen at the
long stretch of the Gallowgate. Between bomb damage and neglect it was a journey into a dystopia of decay and misery.
I shook myself. I needed to snap out of this mood before it took proper hold and dragged me into the glums. All I needed was a ray of sunshine in January in Glasgow. Which was like hoping for a
ray of sunshine in January in Glasgow. The memory of a hot summer was like a child’s dream.
In theory Hogmanay was over; double bank holiday on Wednesday and Thursday and then back to pit clothes and porridge on Friday. Fat chance. Alba was nursing a sore head and planning on getting a
line from the doctor should any foreman be around to request it. But some hardy editors had managed to get a few skimpy newspapers out. Maybe the Fourth Estate was better practised at revelry.
However, the headlines had turned gloomy again. A US Flying Fortress was overdue at Prestwick. The coal crisis was mounting. And in terms of ill omens, it was hard to beat the news that in
Palestine the Jewish terrorist brigades had found a new way of suggesting we’d outstayed our welcome: flame-throwers.
I wondered about the choice of venue: Brown’s Bar in the badlands of the Gallowgate. A Catholic bar. But then I couldn’t think of a Jewish pub – per se – in Glasgow.
Brown’s reputation surrounded it like a grubby halo. If you knew a couple of verses of ‘The Fields of Athenry’, or fancied sporting the green on a Saturday before an Old Firm
game, this was the place to muster. Get tanked up on a few pints of heavy with your green and white scarved pals. Rev up the vocal cords. And march off with flutes playing to face the old enemy. It
depressed the hell out of me.
I’d thought about taking Duncan Todd along for protection. Not as a policeman, but as a card-carrying left-footer. But I was still in the huff with Todd over Ellen Jacobs. Which was silly;
I was just as guilty. If only I’d taken that phone call. So I travelled alone, feeling like Gary Cooper wondering for whom the bell was tolling, but lacking an Ingrid Bergman to soothe my
worried brow.
I was asking myself why I was doing this. For Ellen? I owed her something. Or for the news story? Really? The rabbi had made it clear that anything that was said by whoever it was I met would
be, must be, off the record. Curiosity? It’s not a good reason to get killed. No one was paying me for this, either. Occasionally I felt someone else was in charge of my mind. Freud’s
conflict between Id and Ego no doubt, though I couldn’t now remember which was which. I just felt hijacked.
I got off within sight of Brown’s. The pub sat squat and ugly just round the corner from Barrowland, the ‘Barras’. I pulled my collar tight up round my neck, jammed my hat
further down and set off into the east wind. Captain Oates heading into oblivion. Was Brown’s preferable? It was closer. And I presumed it was providing a hair-of-the-dog service for its
loyal clientele.
I pushed in the door and was instantly minded to step back out and take my chances in the filthy weather. At least the rain was fresh. The sour smell of Hogmanay beer and fags hung in the air
like mist from a midden. I looked round. A few old boys cheating at dominoes. Others propped at the bar gazing into their pints, wondering where the last three days had gone. In the corner, some
young lads you wouldn’t want to mess with after a few pints on a Saturday night. Especially if Celtic had lost. Or if they’d won. No sign of anyone in a skullcap or tugging at his
prayer shawl.
I ploughed my way through the damp sawdust to the bar, getting taller as I walked on clogged-up shoes. The
‘OK, murder interests me.’ God help me. ‘Where and when?’
‘Tomorrow. At Brown’s Bar in the Gallowgate. Twelve o’clock.’
It was just before noon on Friday. My tram was ploughing through rain-sodden streets. I sat oozing water on the top deck. I peered through the rivulets on the windscreen at the
long stretch of the Gallowgate. Between bomb damage and neglect it was a journey into a dystopia of decay and misery.
I shook myself. I needed to snap out of this mood before it took proper hold and dragged me into the glums. All I needed was a ray of sunshine in January in Glasgow. Which was like hoping for a
ray of sunshine in January in Glasgow. The memory of a hot summer was like a child’s dream.
In theory Hogmanay was over; double bank holiday on Wednesday and Thursday and then back to pit clothes and porridge on Friday. Fat chance. Alba was nursing a sore head and planning on getting a
line from the doctor should any foreman be around to request it. But some hardy editors had managed to get a few skimpy newspapers out. Maybe the Fourth Estate was better practised at revelry.
However, the headlines had turned gloomy again. A US Flying Fortress was overdue at Prestwick. The coal crisis was mounting. And in terms of ill omens, it was hard to beat the news that in
Palestine the Jewish terrorist brigades had found a new way of suggesting we’d outstayed our welcome: flame-throwers.
I wondered about the choice of venue: Brown’s Bar in the badlands of the Gallowgate. A Catholic bar. But then I couldn’t think of a Jewish pub – per se – in Glasgow.
Brown’s reputation surrounded it like a grubby halo. If you knew a couple of verses of ‘The Fields of Athenry’, or fancied sporting the green on a Saturday before an Old Firm
game, this was the place to muster. Get tanked up on a few pints of heavy with your green and white scarved pals. Rev up the vocal cords. And march off with flutes playing to face the old enemy. It
depressed the hell out of me.
I’d thought about taking Duncan Todd along for protection. Not as a policeman, but as a card-carrying left-footer. But I was still in the huff with Todd over Ellen Jacobs. Which was silly;
I was just as guilty. If only I’d taken that phone call. So I travelled alone, feeling like Gary Cooper wondering for whom the bell was tolling, but lacking an Ingrid Bergman to soothe my
worried brow.
I was asking myself why I was doing this. For Ellen? I owed her something. Or for the news story? Really? The rabbi had made it clear that anything that was said by whoever it was I met would
be, must be, off the record. Curiosity? It’s not a good reason to get killed. No one was paying me for this, either. Occasionally I felt someone else was in charge of my mind. Freud’s
conflict between Id and Ego no doubt, though I couldn’t now remember which was which. I just felt hijacked.
I got off within sight of Brown’s. The pub sat squat and ugly just round the corner from Barrowland, the ‘Barras’. I pulled my collar tight up round my neck, jammed my hat
further down and set off into the east wind. Captain Oates heading into oblivion. Was Brown’s preferable? It was closer. And I presumed it was providing a hair-of-the-dog service for its
loyal clientele.
I pushed in the door and was instantly minded to step back out and take my chances in the filthy weather. At least the rain was fresh. The sour smell of Hogmanay beer and fags hung in the air
like mist from a midden. I looked round. A few old boys cheating at dominoes. Others propped at the bar gazing into their pints, wondering where the last three days had gone. In the corner, some
young lads you wouldn’t want to mess with after a few pints on a Saturday night. Especially if Celtic had lost. Or if they’d won. No sign of anyone in a skullcap or tugging at his
prayer shawl.
I ploughed my way through the damp sawdust to the bar, getting taller as I walked on clogged-up shoes. The
Similar Books
