On the day my mum died I was freezing my knackers off behind the City Bakeries. ‘the Nose’ found out at ten in the morning but didn’t send anyone to tell me until after three — hence ensuring that I had collected the day’s takings.
The funeral was small and depressing. I paid for the best of coffins and a do at the Partick Halls. There were twelve of us in a space built for hundreds. The following day I handed back the keys to the hovel that had been my home since birth and, with the help of ‘the Nose’, obtained a deposit on a small flat off Hyndland Rd in Glasgow’s west end.
I had stepped on to the property ladder.
Six months later ‘the Nose’ joined my mother in Maryhill cemetery.
He died in a fire.
As I stood outside the shell of his house a policeman, with the hint of a smile, told me that ‘the Nose’ was no more. What the policeman didn’t tell me was that ‘the Nose’ had, prior to being burnt alive, been divested of both hands, his genitals and a large proportion of his face.
‘the Nose’ had been in debt to people far uglier than himself for more cash than he could ever pay back. There’s irony in there somewhere.
‘the Nose’ had met his match and I was out of a job.
The next few months were hard. As soon as word got round that ‘the Nose’ was history a range of suitors came to call on my customers. I was on my own and my competition came with a heavy mob attached. I tried to keep some of the customers but in the end I lost them all. The new boys on the block simply wiped a percentage of ‘the Nose’s’ slate clean and they were suddenly heroes. I was booted off my patch and fell back on what little savings I had.
In the scheme of things my next move could have been smarter but I was badly missing spare change in my pocket and, when Michael gave me the name of another contact I went along for the ride.
This time it wasn’t loan sharking. It was lower than that.
I was a look out.
My first job was keeping watch for a local gang on the back lot of an old disused bus station. I was there to ensure that the gang could carry out their various escapades without fear of being caught. It was down to me to give them the few vital seconds to make good an escape when the law, or other interested bodies made an unexpected appearance.
For my pains I would catch a pay packet of three quid for the job. I moved into ‘look out’ land and, on a good week, I could pull in six jobs. It kept me in beer and fags.
It was then that I discovered I had more than a small gift for breaking and entering. It wasn’t something I had ever tried but it was something that I would excel at.
I stumbled upon my talent when Jimmy Call, the leader of my new gang, turned his attention to the local betting shop and the safe that squatted in the premise’s back room.
Rumours had abounded for years about the amount of money that lay in that little grey treasure trove. The fact that it had sat untouched for more than ten years was down to the evil bastard who owned the bookies — one Malcolm Smillie, a man of little compassion.
Jimmy hatched a plan to do over the shop and make off with the safe. It was a crazy plan from the start. At its best it would seriously hack off Malcolm and at worst we would all end up in the canal wearing the latest in heavyweight body bags. But Jimmy was short on the smarts, cased the joint for over a week and announced that the back door was the weak point — everyone knew weak points were not the issue but this passed him by.
On the day of the job, Andy Hall, the gang’s break-in wizard, was caught stealing a car and was out of the equation. Jimmy decided to go in anyway and I was roped in to help cart the safe away while Jimmy’s wee brother, John, took on the look out duties.
I stood back and watched as Jimmy tried to use the lock pick that Andy had given him. Getting nowhere quick he changed tack and took an axe to the door but, after half an hour, the back door showed no signs of budging. Metal doors are pretty effective barriers to entry.
In frustration Jimmy threw the lock pick away and for reasons that were pure serendipity, I picked it up and asked if I could have a go. The gang laughed but Jimmy said he didn’t care so I tried my hand.
To tell you it felt right from moment one is an understatement. It felt great. As soon as I poked the wire into the key hole I knew I was on a fresh road. It just felt perfect. Like an extension to my hand.
I twisted and turned and the clicks of the levers being worked were Mozart playing in my ears. I hadn’t a Scooby what I was doing but after a few seconds the lock popped open. Jimmy swore for ten seconds before pushing past me and into the back shop.
It would have been nice if my first job had been a success but it wasn’t to be. True, the safe existed but it was bolted securely to the concrete floor and would have taken ten men ten days with a pick axe each to even worry it. On top of this there was a sign, taped to the front of the safe, which read:
‘Jimmy. If you are reading this, I’d think about taking a holiday — permanently.’
We all ran and three days later we heard that Jimmy was in the Southern General with an assortment of broken bones.
Shit happens like an evil dose of the runs when you play with the big boys.