were back to work. Monday I was told on the phone. It cost me twenty pence to find that out. I don’t have twenty pence to spare — how bad are things when you can’t afford to make a 20p phone call.
One of my roommates — Charles — or ‘the Stink’ as he is affectionately known — and I use the term ‘affectionately’ in the loosest possible sense — told me to try the web.
I blanked this idea. I’m ashamed to say I must be the least web literate person in the UK. For most of my time in prison there was no internet access — the web revolution passed us all by. When they did install it, we were restricted in where we could surf and I just couldn’t be arsed. I did try to Google Dupree once but to no avail and never went back.
There is an internet terminal in the hostel and I’ve asked one of the kids if they can find out who the owner of The Lame Duck is but he wants a packet of fags for his trouble so I told him to piss off.
I’ll wait until Monday and do the physical thing and visit the council.
Chapter 24
Saturday January 5 th 2008
A bad night last night. I went for a walk about eight o’clock to clear my head. I met a few of my inmates on the steps of the hostel and they were off to get slammed up in the Necroplolis — the soon to be dead drinking with the long dead. I declined. Things are bad but not that bad — ‘the Stink’ offered me a bottle of meths two nights ago and the smell alone made me gag. I’m determined to avoid that path but something in the back of my head tells me that all paths lead that way.
The hostel sits just off High St in a run down part of the city. Back in the eighteenth century this was the centre of Glasgow and the area just across the road from where I sleep is known as Merchant City — harking back to a day when the city was king of the trading towns. I’m not a kick in the arse away from where I first met Mr Read. They say what goes around comes around.
On the other side of the hostel is the ‘Barras’ — Glasgow ’s perennial market — ‘If you can’t get it there — you can’t get it anywhere’ — a direct quote from my old man. I decided to wander through the ramshackle maze of buildings that make up the market — all closed up for the night. On the edges a few pubs ply their trade but last night it was hard to imagine the buzz that the area creates when it is in full flow.
As a kid I loved coming here. The men on the stalls selling crockery at prices that seemed unreal. The smell of cooked sausage smothered in tomato sauce. The sound of music through tinny speakers hung to an outside wall by a length of clothes line.
There was a magic in the place that seemed to vanish as I got older. Did the place just get seedier or did the cynicism that comes with old age just see the place for what it really was?
I had stopped for a fag, one I had been saving since tea time, next to one of the buildings that hosts the stalls. The shutters were down all around and the street outside was deserted save for the rubbish that the wind was playing football with.
I heard them before I saw them. The thumping bass beat of dance music echoing from the windows and walls around me. There were six of them. All hooded up and all on a mission. I was clearly the target from the get go. They had no fear — music racked up — inviting attention. I’d been that boy and knew what was coming, so I dropped the cigarette and moved away.
Three more appeared at the other end of the street and I was caught in a classic pincer. I looked around for a way to escape but there was nowhere to go.
Twenty five years ago I would have known these boys and they would have known me. Now I was no more than a jakey ripe for a beating. I tried to talk to them but the hoody with the beat box simply racked up the volume. This wasn’t a time for a chat — it was a time to get down and dirty on the tramp.
I didn’t take the beating lying down. I can still handle myself when the need is on but sheer numbers were against me. Even so I surprised the first three by decking them and decking them hard. It caused the others to pause and reassess their strategy but numbers and booze-filled bloodstreams gave them brave pills, and they laid into me.
I curled into a ball and tried to focus on when it would be over.
The three I had laid out came to, joined in and, if it hadn’t been for the distant wail of a police siren, I suspect I might have been joining my mates in the Necropolis as a more permanent member of the area.
I lay for ten minutes after the assault squad ran off and assessed the damage. I’d had enough kickings in my time to realise that a few bones had been broken. My ribs hurt and my left hand was limp — one of the bastards had dropped from a full six feet and crushed my wrist between his knee and the ground. I staggered to my feet and headed for the Royal Infirmary. It was less than a mile away but it still took me an hour to get there. Mostly because I needed to stop to hack up blood.
They kept me in overnight, strapped my ribs and put a plaster on my wrist. I had a restless night but it was free of the smell of ‘the Stink’ and breakfast in the morning was hot and free.
The hospital wanted me to report the attack to the police but I declined. I might have been gone for a couple of decades but there will still be some police who remember me from days gone by and I want to stay out of their way until I figure the Lame Duck/Stevie thing out.
I was discharged with a supply of painkillers and an appointment to come back in a week.
The strange thing about the whole affair was not the beating. I’m more intrigued by the fact they knew my name.
Chapter 25
Monday January 7 th 2008
Stevie is in sight. I worked my way through the black hole that is local authority bureaucracy and discovered that the licensee for The Lame Duck was one Stephen Mailer. He may or may not be the owner but there was an address for him and I scraped enough to jump a bus and pay a visit.
He lives in Bishopbriggs on the north of the City. It is a real two day camel ride by bus and when I got there he wasn’t in. His home is a terraced house that doesn’t suggest he is a pub entrepreneur of note. I hung around for an hour or so but to no avail.
I decided to try again in the early evening in case he was working — so I duly stretched a cup of coffee to breaking point in the nearby ASDA and went for a walk — in the main to take my mind off the fact that I had no money for food.
Around seven I headed back to Stevie’s house but it still showed no signs of life. I thought about leaving a note but decided against it. The beating has sparked up my warning radar.
I headed back to the hostel and got the young internet geek to find me Stevie’s phone number on the web. This was done for free — no cigarettes — just the threat of bodily violence.
Gordon Brown
59 Minutes
Thursday January 10 ^th 2008
So Stevie exists, is alive and well and running a pub in the nether regions of Easterhouse. I phoned him two days ago and he agreed to meet in town. I suggested the Mitchell Library — to avoid the embarrassment of meeting in a pub or cafe and not having the cash to buy a drink.
I’m not big on libraries. My reading tends to be The Sun and the Daily Record and if I’m in the mood for intelligent debate I dip into the Herald. I’ve probably read six books in my entire life and most of them were forced down my throat at school. As such the ‘Mitchell’ was a bit of a wonder to me.
I waited for Stevie in the old section — a grand Victorian affair that was built when libraries were almost places of worship. High vaulted ceilings, grandiose frontage and an entrance to grace a palace.
Stevie arrived bang on time. A tall slim man with hair that looked like it had gone by the time he was thirty. He wore a pair of battered jeans and a sweat top with the words Strathclyde University emblazoned across the
