2nd of September, 1976
They turned onto Morrison Street. The street was narrower than Crown Street, lined with tenements that looked ready to collapse—brick facades stained black from decades of coal smoke, windows cracked or boarded up, washing hanging limp between buildings. A few shops huddled at street level, metal shutters pulled down even though it was still afternoon. The pavement was broken, puddles reflecting grey sky. Smelled like bins that hadn't been collected and something sour underneath. A couple of men stood outside a chippy, smoking, watching the car pass with dead eyes. Further down, a group of kids kicked a ball against a wall, the rhythmic thud echoing.
"Where d'ye reckon he'll be?" Tam asked, craning his neck to look down the street.
"There's a pub doon the end. The Goldhorn. Has a pawn shop next door." Davey kept his eyes on the road, jaw set. "Sounds like the sort of place this fucken cunt would work oot of. Makes shiftin what they stole from ma uncle's shop dead easy."
It didn't take long for them to get to the pub. It looked like most of the bars in the Gorbals—squat brick building, windows grimy with years of smoke and dirt—except for the large horn mounted above the door, jutting out like a ship's figurehead. The gold paint had long since flaked away, leaving bare metal underneath, brown with rust. Next to the door was a wooden sign thats words had long since faded.
The car stopped in front, engine ticking as it cooled.
They got out, doors slamming one after another. The street was quiet here, just the sound of wind rattling a loose shutter somewhere and distant voices from the tenements above.
"Let me dae the talkin," Davey said as he walked in front of them, adjusting his jacket.
They pushed open the door and made their way in.
The pub was empty except for a guy behind the bar—middle-aged, thin, wiping down glasses—and a guy leaning against the wall next to a door that led to another room. The air smelled like stale beer and cigarette smoke. A few chairs were stacked on tables. No music playing.
"Pub's closed, lads. Come back in a few hours." the barman said, his Irish accent soft around the edges, not harsh like Tam's. He didn't look up from his glass.
"Not here tae wet oor whistles," Davey said, voice carrying across the empty room. "Here tae see Mick Dolan."
The man who'd been leaning on the wall stepped forward, pushing off with his shoulder. He was a large man, taller than Bam even, with red hair and a thick red beard that covered half his chest. Arms like tree trunks, hands that could palm a man's head. He wore a work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing forearms covered in scars.
"Don't know who you lot are, but Mick's no seein anyone," he said, his accent different—Scottish but further north. Highland maybe, or Aberdeen way.
"Well, tell him Grant Davies is here tae see him aboot his uncle's store," Davey said, not moving, not backing down.
The big redhead stared at them for a long moment, eyes moving from Davey to the rest of them—taking in their ages, their clothes, probably deciding if they were a threat. Then he grunted.
"Wait here." He turned and disappeared through the door, closing it behind him with a heavy thud.
Shuggie walked over to the bar, leaning against it with both elbows. "Sure ye can't serve us a pint while we wait?"
The barman stopped cleaning the mug he was holding, looked up at Shuggie—really looked at him, taking in the cocky grin, the blood still on his jacket collar—then went back to wiping the glass without saying a word.
Shuggie shrugged, not bothered, and pulled out his cigarettes.
A few more moments went by. Ronan could hear voices behind the door, muffled but sharp. Someone wasn't happy. Then the door opened again. The big redhead stepped through, holding it open.
"Alright, come through. Mick says he'll talk to ye." His tone suggested Mick was doing them a favor.
They all moved to walk through the open door when the doorman raised an arm, blocking the way. "Not all of yous. Just this one." He pointed at Davey.
Davey glanced back at them, then nodded. "Hang back, lads. Shouldnae be a minute." He walked into the back room. The doorman closed the door behind him with a solid click.
Ronan and Bam moved over to sit at a table near the window, Ronan sparking up a cigarette and Bam staring out at the grey street, watching nothing in particular. Tam sat with Shuggie at the bar, the barman still ignoring them, wiping down the same spot over and over.
Minutes ticked by. The pub was quiet except for muffled conversation bleeding through the door—voices going back and forth, too low to make out words. Then the voices got louder. Sharper. Yelling started—Davey's voice, then another man's, then both at once.
They all stood up, tension crackling through the room. The red-headed doorman looked at them, jaw set, then moved quickly toward the back room.
As he opened the door, Davey burst out, razor in his hand. The blade was open, dripping. Blood covered the front of his shirt, his jacket, splattered across his face and neck.
"Come on, boys! Tae the car!" he yelled, already moving toward the exit at a run.
The doorman took one look at him, then ducked into the room fast, his face going pale.
They all looked at each other for a split second—Tam's eyes wide, Shuggie grinning like this was the best thing he'd seen all week, Bam already moving—then followed Davey at a sprint.
By the time Ronan got out of the pub, bursting through the door onto Morrison Street, Davey already had the car running, engine roaring, black smoke pouring from the exhaust.
"Get the fuck in! Let's go!" He yelled from the driver's seat, voice high and panicked, not the calm controlled Davey from before.
They all jumped in quickly, doors flying open. Tam didn't even have his door closed before Davey shot off, tires screeching on the wet pavement, the Cortina fishtailing slightly before straightening out.
"What the fuck happened, Davey?!" Tam said from the passenger seat, slamming the door closed as the car accelerated down Morrison Street.
"It's sorted," Davey said, jaw tight, eyes on the road. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, blood dripping from his razor onto his lap.
"Sorted?" Tam twisted in his seat to look at him properly. "You're covered in blood, Davey. What the fuck does 'sorted' mean?"
"Means it's handled. We had a chat, things got heated—"
"How heated?"
Davey didn't answer. Just pushed the car harder, taking a corner too fast.
"Davey." Tam's voice went hard. "How. Heated."
The silence stretched. Then Davey's hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles going whiter.
"The fucker admitted it! Said Tommy ordered him tae dae it!" The words came out in a rush, voice rising. "I told him he's a fuckin liar! Tae tell me the fuckin truth or I'd cut him. The cunt just kept fuckin sayin it was Tommy's orders! Told me tae fuck off back tae ma shithole an he wouldnae tell Tommy. Fuckin cunt! Who does he think he is?! He's just some cunt!"
It felt like a pin dropped in the car. The engine roared, but nobody spoke. Even Shuggie, who always seemed ready for a row, looked shaken, his face gone pale.
"Ye fookin did what?!" Tam yelled, twisting in his seat to stare at Davey. "What the fuck is wrong with ye?! If the cunt says he works for Tommy, then he works for Tommy! For fook's sake! He's gonna come for us now! Fook! At least tell me ye didn't kill him?"
Davey didn't reply, just pushed the car harder, taking corners too fast, the engine screaming.
They turned onto a street a few blocks from Crown Street when a loud bang went off from the engine—metal shrieking, something breaking inside. The car's acceleration cut out completely and they coasted to a stop. Davey yanked the wheel, pulling the Cortina up onto the pavement with a jolt.
"Fuck!!" Davey said as he got out, slamming the door so hard the whole car shook. He let out a breath, ran a hand through his blood-spattered hair, then turned to watch them all get out. "Fuck. Alright. Everyone go home an we'll meet at the usual place tomorrow. We'll figure oot a plan then." He nodded to them and moved quickly off down the street, not looking back, still gripping his bloody razor.
"Fook," Tam said, staring after him. "This is bad. Why did the daft cunt have to kill him?" He was asking the wind, not expecting an answer.
"Come on, Tam. Just cause he says he's with Tommy doesn't mean nothin," Shuggie said, but his voice didn't have its usual confidence.
Tam whirled around on him. "Of course it means somethin! Some shitbird bookie doesn't claim he's under Tommy's protection unless he is. Which means Tommy's not gonna be happy. That big red-headed bastard has probably already rung him. Which means he probably already knows." Tam's eyes widened as the realization hit. "Davey gave him his full name. Told him about his uncle. Tommy will know who he is, where he is. Then he'll know where we all are as well. FOOK!"
Ronan knew what that meant. They were fucked. Properly fucked. Tommy McKenzie didn't forgive and he didn't forget. And Davey had just killed one of his earners.
"So what dae we dae then?" Ronan asked, looking between them.
Tam pushed a hand through his hair, cigarette dangling from his lips. "Fook. We do what Davey said. We go home and if we're still all breathin tomorrow, then we see about making a plan. Maybe Tommy will let us work it off." He didn't sound convinced. He gave them a wave and started walking toward home, shoulders hunched, hands shoved in his pockets.
"Well, I'll see yous tomorrow then," Shuggie said with a shrug that tried to look casual but didn't quite manage it. He lit a cigarette, nodded to them both, and headed off in the opposite direction.
Ronan nodded and started heading home, boots quiet on the pavement. The street was empty, just the sound of wind rattling a loose shutter somewhere.(
Bam started walking alongside him, matching his pace, saying nothing.
"Ye alright, Bam?" Ronan asked after a minute.
Bam looked at him and nodded once. "Walk ye home," he said simply, voice deep and flat like always.
"Any reason why? Not complainin. Just curious."
"Owe ye. He would've cut me. Ye stopped it," Bam said, each word deliberate, like he had to pull them out one at a time.
Ronan gave a shrug and they continued in silence.
The walk took about ten minutes through streets Ronan had known his whole life. Past Mrs. Fisher's flat where the washing still hung on the line even though it was getting dark. Past the boarded-up chippy that used to be good before the owner got lifted. The streetlamps were coming on one by one, yellow light pooling on wet cobblestones. A dog barked somewhere, echoing off brick walls. The smell of coal smoke and someone's tea cooking—sausages maybe, or mince. A few people were still out—old Mr. Henderson sitting on his stoop despite the cold, smoking his pipe, giving them a nod as they passed. Two women standing at a close entrance, talking in low voices, going quiet when Ronan and Bam walked by, watching them with careful eyes.
By the time they reached his tenement, the sun was setting, sky gone grey-orange behind the buildings. Ronan started walking up the stone steps to his family's flat, boots echoing in the narrow close. He turned to nod at Bam, who'd stopped at the bottom.
"Cheers, Bam. I'll see ye tomorrow mornin."
Bam nodded. "Will pick ye up," he said before turning and walking off, his big frame disappearing into the growing dark.
Ronan turned and made his way up the stairs, hand trailing along the damp wall, boots echoing in the close. When he entered the flat, his ma was at the kitchen table reading a newspaper, a cigarette between her lips and a glass of whiskey on the table beside her—cheap stuff, the kind that burned going down. She looked up when she heard the door, folding the paper.
"Evening, Ro. Home early then?"
He moved to sit at the table with her, pulling out a chair. The wood scraped against the floor. As much as he would love to keep what happened from her, it wouldn't do any good for her not to know. She'd find out anyway—the Gorbals was too small for secrets.
"Aye, ma. Somethin happened today."
She noticed his tone and put down the newspaper completely, cigarette ash falling onto the table. "Somethin? What sort of somethin?"
He took a breath. "Davey's uncle's shop got robbed an when we went lookin for the ones that did it, we found them. But they said some fella called Mick Dolan put them up to it. We found him at a pub. Davey went in tae meet him an cut him while he was in there. Turns out he worked for Tommy McKenzie."
His ma's face shifted when she heard Mick's name, eyes going hard. "Fookin course he works for Tommy. He's a fookin bookie. Fook! And this fookin eejit mate of yours cut him? Did he fookin kill him?"
Ronan merely nodded.
She leaned back in her chair, hand going to her forehead. "Fook," she practically whispered. "Tommy will want blood. He doesn't let little shites get away with killin his people. What d'ye think happened to the cunt that killed yer da? Tommy doesn't take shite like this lyin down. Fook." She stood abruptly, chair scraping back, and started pacing the small kitchen, three steps one way, three steps back.
Ronan watched her pace, his stomach going cold. He hadn't known his da's killer had been dealt with. He'd assumed the bastard was still breathing, still walking around Glasgow free. If Tommy was willing to kill someone who'd killed one of his men even when they'd mouthed off and gotten themselves killed, then they were properly fucked. No working it off. No second chances.
"Alright, this is what we're gonna do," his ma said, stopping to point at him. "Yer gonna fook off to yer room and fookin stay there. Only leave it if Cal cries. Ye watch him. I'm goin down to the phone box and see if I can speak to Tommy. Maybe he'll let ye live cause of yer da. If not, then I have to see if ye can go to Dublin and live with me brother." She gave him a glare, eyes hard. "I'll make sure ye don't get yer eejit head caved in whether ye like it or not."
Ronan just nodded. What could he say? It wasn't his fault, not directly. He didn't think Davey would be that stupid. He was always so composed, so controlled. But then again, he didn't really know him all that well, did he? A few weeks running jobs together didn't tell you what a man would do when his pride got hurt.
His ma downed the glass of whiskey in one go, throat working, then grabbed her handbag from the bench and left the flat without another word. The door closed with a solid thud.
Ronan moved to go into his room but stopped and went to see his brother instead. Callum was asleep in his cot, tiny chest rising and falling, thumb in his mouth. He was only just a little bit over a year old. The last good thing his da had left them, his ma would say. When Ronan was young, he'd always wanted a sibling. Someone he could play with on the street and teach everything he knew. Now, he just wanted his brother to grow up happy and healthy. Wanted to make sure little Cal would have the opportunity to do whatever he wanted to do. To be whatever he wanted to be. Not end up bleeding out in a gutter over nothing. He gave him a kiss on his forehead, careful not to wake him, and went to his room.
He took off his jacket and hat and hung them on the wall, then laid down on his bed and waited, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the tenement—footsteps above, voices through thin walls, someone's radio playing.
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"Ronan Gallagher, wake the fook up."
He shot up from his bed, heart hammering, and looked at his ma standing over him. He must have fallen asleep. The room was dark except for the light coming through the doorway behind her.
"Sorry, ma."
She let out a breath and sat down on the edge of his bed, the springs creaking under her weight.
"So how did it go?" he asked, voice rough from sleep.
"I spoke to Tommy. He's gonna come here in the mornin and have a chat with ye. Said that he'd already heard about what happened and due to yer da's work for him, he's gonna let ye explain what the fook happened. He said that if he doesn't like what he hears, then he'll let ye go live in Ireland but ye can't come back." She shook her head. "Don't worry about that for now. I want ye to think long and fookin hard about what yer gonna say to him. My advice is to look after yerself. Tell him the truth."
He nodded. "I will, ma. I had already decided I wasnae goin doon because Davey wanted tae go on a revenge mission before we went tae the Goldhorn. I just didnae think he would dae it like that." The regret was thick in his voice.
His ma put her arm around him, pulling him close. "I know, Ro. I know. I know yer not that thick. That's why I didn't want ye runnin with some fookin gang. They do shite like this." She stood and headed for the door, hand on the frame. "Go back to sleep, Ro. I'll make sure yer up early to use the wash. If ye can convince Tommy to let ye stay, he might find some work for ye if yer lucky."
"Hey, ma," he said before she could close the door.
She turned to look at him, silhouetted in the doorway. "Yeah, Ro?"
"Thank ye. And sorry for bein a shite son."
She shook her head. "Yer not a shite son. Yer young. Let's just do what we can to make sure ye can become old enough to learn from it."
She closed the door softly, leaving him in darkness.
Ronan lay back down, staring at the ceiling he couldn't see. Tomorrow morning, Tommy McKenzie would come. The man who ran the Gorbals, who his da had worked for, who'd had his da's killer dealt with. The man who didn't let people kill his earners and walk away.
Ronan had watched his da bleed out over a tenner and his pride. Had learned that power belonged to the one who stayed calm and walked away clean.
Tomorrow, he'd find out if he'd learned that lesson well enough to survive.
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