22nd of May, 1976
The first death he ever saw was his father's—Patrick Gallagher, bleeding out on the cobblestones outside Grapes while men shouted and someone's boot scraped through the blood.22nd of May, 1976
The first death he ever saw was his father's—Patrick Gallagher, bleeding out on the cobblestones outside Grapes while men shouted and someone's boot scraped through the blood.
They had been at the local pub; Grapes—a squat, smoke-stained building on Crown Street that Ronan walked past every morning on his way to school. Tonight the door stood open, yellow light spilling onto the pavement. Bodies packed the doorway. Voices carried down the block, rising and falling with each round bought.
His father was a labourer for one of the warehouses down by the Clyde. Came home with his hands calloused, back stiff, shirt stinking of sweat and diesel. But when Tommy McKenzie or Big Davey needed someone who wouldn't back down, they called Patrick Gallagher. He'd put a fist through a jaw or a boot into ribs, then go back to loading pallets the next morning like nothing had happened.
Ronan was eleven. Twelve in three weeks—June eighth, almost summer holidays. Small for his age, all sharp angles and knobby knees, dark hair his ma cut with kitchen scissors so it stuck up odd. Grey-green eyes like his da's, pale skin like his ma's. Skinny—his school jumper hung loose no matter how his ma tried to tighten the sleeves.
That night, his da's hand landed heavy on his shoulder after tea, steered him toward the door. "Come on, boy. Time ye learned how men spend their Friday nights." His ma had opened her mouth, closed it. Callum watched from the kitchen, thumb in his mouth.
The walk down Crown Street took five minutes. His da's grip tight enough to leave marks.
Inside Grapes, the air pressed down—cigarette smoke hanging in layers, the reek of spilled lager and sweat underneath. The jukebox played something Ronan didn't know. No one listened. Men crowded three-deep at the bar, shouting over each other. The walls were covered in blue—Rangers scarves, framed photos, a massive flag hung behind the till.
His da pushed through to the bar. Pulled a folded fiver from his pocket, slapped it down. "Celtic to win. Two-one."
The barman—John Elliot, owner, his family had run Grapes since the thirties—looked at the fiver. Looked at Patrick. "Ye know what kind of pub this is, Paddy."
"Aye. One that takes money, innit?"
Elliot took the fiver.
Ronan stood against the wall near the toilets. Someone had shoved a glass of Coke into his hands. The ice had melted an hour ago. He watched his da at the bar, pint in hand, laughing with Denny and Shug. Watched the way other men moved around him—the space they gave, the way they clapped his shoulder.
The match finished. Celtic won 2-1.
His da collected his tenner, grinning. Counted the notes twice. Then his voice cut across the pub, loud and clear: "There ye go, lads! Even when the ref's in yer pocket, ye cannae buy a fucking win!"
The laughter stopped.
Someone's pint hit the floor. Glass shattered. Then hands were on his da's chest, shoving hard. His da shoved back. A chair scraped. Someone threw a punch.
Elliot came around the bar fast, big hands grabbing collars, shoving bodies apart. "Everyone out! Right fucking now, before I call the coppers!"
The cold air outside hit Ronan's face after the heat and smoke. Men poured onto the pavement, angry voices overlapping. His da stood under the streetlamp, tenner still in his fist.
"Come on then!" His da's voice echoed off the buildings. "Ye want a go? Come fucking try it!"
Ronan's stomach went tight. That feeling again—the one he got sometimes right before something bad happened. Like knowing the teacher was about to call on him, or that Callum had broken something upstairs. But sharper. Colder.
"Da," he said. Quiet. His da didn't hear.
Bodies closed in. Fast this time. No John Elliot to break it up.
Someone's arm came up. Streetlight caught the blade—a straight razor, the kind men kept folded in their pockets. It opened smooth. Came across in one quick slash.
His da's throat opened. Ear to ear. Red spilled down the front of his shirt, black under the yellow light.
His da dropped. Knees hit the cobblestones hard. The tenner fluttered from his hand. His other hand went to his throat, fingers trying to hold it closed. Blood ran through them, hot and fast.
He looked at Ronan. Eyes wide. Mouth working but no sound coming out except a wet gurgle.
Then he coughed. Blood sprayed. Hot droplets hit Ronan's face, his lips. The taste flooded his mouth—copper, salt, something else underneath. He didn't move. Couldn't.
Boots pounded away. Voices shouted, distant. Someone's glass smashed. The streetlamp hummed.
His da's hand slipped from his throat. More blood poured out, pooling on the stones around his knees. His eyes stayed on Ronan's face—confused, shocked, like he was asking a question.
Then the light went out. Just stopped. His da's body tilted forward, caught itself, tilted again. Fell.
Ronan stood there. Blood cooling on his face. His da's body on the ground, one hand still reaching toward where the tenner had fallen.
The man with the razor was gone. The others were gone. The street was empty except for Ronan and the body.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The blood smeared.
His chest felt tight. His throat hurt. His da was on the ground. His da who'd carried him on his shoulders when he was small, who'd taught him to tie his shoes, who'd probaly bought him that Coke tonight and told him to stay close.
Dead over a tenner and some words.
His da had been loud. Had been big. Had won his bet and men who called him when they needed muscle.
Now he was on the ground. Throat open. Eyes empty.
The man with the razor—Ronan hadn't even seen his face clearly—had walked away.
Ronan looked at his hand. Blood on his palm, dark in the streetlight.
The tightness in his chest twisted, turned into something else. Something cold and hard that settled in his stomach and stayed there.
It had been so pointless. So fucking pointless.
His da could've walked away. Taken the tenner, gone home, been there tomorrow morning. But he'd stayed. Kept talking. Kept pushing.
And now he was meat on the stones.
It didn't matter how loud you were. Didn't matter if you could drink anyone under the table or win every fight in the pub. Didn't matter if you were big or small, strong or weak, if you had money in your pocket or holes in your shoes. Rich or poor, hard man or soft—none of it meant a damn thing in the end.
Dead was dead. Cold meat on the stones. Nothing left but memory and mess.
The one doing the killing—the one who stayed calm, pulled the blade, and walked away clean—had the real power.
And power was all that mattered.
Ronan turned and walked home. Left his da on the cobblestones. Someone else could deal with it.
His ma was going to scream. Callum was going to cry. The coppers would come around asking questions.
But Ronan's head was clear now. Cold and clear.
He'd learned something tonight. Something true.
His da had died for nothing. For a tenner and his pride.
Ronan wouldn't make the same mistake.
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They had been at the local pub; Grapes—a squat, smoke-stained building on Crown Street that Ronan walked past every morning on his way to school. Tonight the door stood open, yellow light spilling onto the pavement. Bodies packed the doorway. Voices carried down the block, rising and falling with each round bought.
His father was a labourer for one of the warehouses down by the Clyde. Came home with his hands calloused, back stiff, shirt stinking of sweat and diesel. But when Tommy McKenzie or Big Davey needed someone who wouldn't back down, they called Patrick Gallagher. He'd put a fist through a jaw or a boot into ribs, then go back to loading pallets the next morning like nothing had happened.
Ronan was eleven. Twelve in three weeks—June eighth, almost summer holidays. Small for his age, all sharp angles and knobby knees, dark hair his ma cut with kitchen scissors so it stuck up odd. Grey-green eyes like his da's, pale skin like his ma's. Skinny—his school jumper hung loose no matter how his ma tried to tighten the sleeves.
That night, his da's hand landed heavy on his shoulder after tea, steered him toward the door. "Come on, boy. Time ye learned how men spend their Friday nights." His ma had opened her mouth, closed it. Callum watched from the kitchen, thumb in his mouth.
The walk down Crown Street took five minutes. His da's grip tight enough to leave marks.
Inside Grapes, the air pressed down—cigarette smoke hanging in layers, the reek of spilled lager and sweat underneath. The jukebox played something Ronan didn't know. No one listened. Men crowded three-deep at the bar, shouting over each other. The walls were covered in blue—Rangers scarves, framed photos, a massive flag hung behind the till.
His da pushed through to the bar. Pulled a folded fiver from his pocket, slapped it down. "Celtic to win. Two-one."
The barman—John Elliot, owner, his family had run Grapes since the thirties—looked at the fiver. Looked at Patrick. "Ye know what kind of pub this is, Paddy."
"Aye. One that takes money, innit?"
Elliot took the fiver.
Ronan stood against the wall near the toilets. Someone had shoved a glass of Coke into his hands. The ice had melted an hour ago. He watched his da at the bar, pint in hand, laughing with Denny and Shug. Watched the way other men moved around him—the space they gave, the way they clapped his shoulder.
The match finished. Celtic won 2-1.
His da collected his tenner, grinning. Counted the notes twice. Then his voice cut across the pub, loud and clear: "There ye go, lads! Even when the ref's in yer pocket, ye cannae buy a fucking win!"
The laughter stopped.
Someone's pint hit the floor. Glass shattered. Then hands were on his da's chest, shoving hard. His da shoved back. A chair scraped. Someone threw a punch.
Elliot came around the bar fast, big hands grabbing collars, shoving bodies apart. "Everyone out! Right fucking now, before I call the coppers!"
The cold air outside hit Ronan's face after the heat and smoke. Men poured onto the pavement, angry voices overlapping. His da stood under the streetlamp, tenner still in his fist.
"Come on then!" His da's voice echoed off the buildings. "Ye want a go? Come fucking try it!"
Ronan's stomach went tight. That feeling again—the one he got sometimes right before something bad happened. Like knowing the teacher was about to call on him, or that Callum had broken something upstairs. But sharper. Colder.
"Da," he said. Quiet. His da didn't hear.
Bodies closed in. Fast this time. No John Elliot to break it up.
Someone's arm came up. Streetlight caught the blade—a straight razor, the kind men kept folded in their pockets. It opened smooth. Came across in one quick slash.
His da's throat opened. Ear to ear. Red spilled down the front of his shirt, black under the yellow light.
His da dropped. Knees hit the cobblestones hard. The tenner fluttered from his hand. His other hand went to his throat, fingers trying to hold it closed. Blood ran through them, hot and fast.
He looked at Ronan. Eyes wide. Mouth working but no sound coming out except a wet gurgle.
Then he coughed. Blood sprayed. Hot droplets hit Ronan's face, his lips. The taste flooded his mouth—copper, salt, something else underneath. He didn't move. Couldn't.
Boots pounded away. Voices shouted, distant. Someone's glass smashed. The streetlamp hummed.
His da's hand slipped from his throat. More blood poured out, pooling on the stones around his knees. His eyes stayed on Ronan's face—confused, shocked, like he was asking a question.
Then the light went out. Just stopped. His da's body tilted forward, caught itself, tilted again. Fell.
Ronan stood there. Blood cooling on his face. His da's body on the ground, one hand still reaching toward where the tenner had fallen.
The man with the razor was gone. The others were gone. The street was empty except for Ronan and the body.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The blood smeared.
His chest felt tight. His throat hurt. His da was on the ground. His da who'd carried him on his shoulders when he was small, who'd taught him to tie his shoes, who'd probaly bought him that Coke tonight and told him to stay close.
Dead over a tenner and some words.
His da had been loud. Had been big. Had won his bet and men who called him when they needed muscle.
Now he was on the ground. Throat open. Eyes empty.
The man with the razor—Ronan hadn't even seen his face clearly—had walked away.
Ronan looked at his hand. Blood on his palm, dark in the streetlight.
The tightness in his chest twisted, turned into something else. Something cold and hard that settled in his stomach and stayed there.
It had been so pointless. So fucking pointless.
His da could've walked away. Taken the tenner, gone home, been there tomorrow morning. But he'd stayed. Kept talking. Kept pushing.
And now he was meat on the stones.
It didn't matter how loud you were. Didn't matter if you could drink anyone under the table or win every fight in the pub. Didn't matter if you were big or small, strong or weak, if you had money in your pocket or holes in your shoes. Rich or poor, hard man or soft—none of it meant a damn thing in the end.
Dead was dead. Cold meat on the stones. Nothing left but memory and mess.
The one doing the killing—the one who stayed calm, pulled the blade, and walked away clean—had the real power.
And power was all that mattered.
Ronan turned and walked home. Left his da on the cobblestones. Someone else could deal with it.
His ma was going to scream. Callum was going to cry. The coppers would come around asking questions.
But Ronan's head was clear now. Cold and clear.
He'd learned something tonight. Something true.
His da had died for nothing. For a tenner and his pride.
Ronan wouldn't make the same mistake.
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