Author: Moreland
Last saved by: LES

LIAM LEDDY

AIDING AND ABETTING
& OTHER TALES

His Fourth Volume of Short Stories

AIDING AND ABETTING

"I know it was him! You know it was him! And you know that I know you're lying through your fucking teeth. We'll get him and when we do you'll be coming along for aiding and abetting. I've never been able to make up my mind which one of you I hate the fucking most. You're both scum. Just different types that's all. Get out of my sight you worthless piece of shit!" 

Dawson positively spat the last sentence out. Tyler rose adjusting his immaculately tailored jacket as he did so. He glanced at his Rolex.

"I take it I can be of no further assistance to you officer. I really must be off anyway. Thanks for your hospitality. I wish I could have been of more assistance in your enquiry but there you have it. My young nephew was nowhere near that disco where the unfortunate youth got stabbed. How could he have been? I've instructed the manager - who happens to be a very close business associate by the way - on no account to let him in to those premises. Far too dangerous for the boy. On my friend's own admission he cannot guarantee the lad's safety. For some reason people seem to think my family are criminals and members of it are targets for all sorts of abuse. The manager will swear to that in court incidentally. But then you've already spoken to him haven't you? I forgot. You told me that when I first sat down. Good afternoon Sergeant."

Dawson hurled his notepad at the door Tyler had just closed behind him on leaving.

"I'll get the lot of you. The whole fucking family. We'll see if your blood is really thicker than your water!”

<><><><><><><>

Other than his uncle and his bookie nobody liked Billy Moffat. People would buy him drinks, laugh at his crude, offensive jokes and tell him what a great guy he was. What they said when he was not around was a different thing entirely. They didn't even fear him as, alone, there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of. What made Billy Moffat anything at all was his uncle's criminal connections. Even his uncle and his bookie only liked him out of a warped sense of duty. His uncle because Billy was his dead sister's only son and the bookie because Billy spent an awful lot of his uncle's money betting horses which had absolutely no chance of winning. Moffat was too heavy for his build, had bad breath and a very bad streak to go with it. He was both sectarian and racist in outlook and although he wore the best designer clothes, still managed somehow to look consistently unkempt. He was also spectacularly unsuccessful with women. A  bully and a coward,  at the age of twenty-eight he had been responsible for two murders and any number of serious, very serious, assaults.  The key word being responsible! Billy was always in the company of extremely violent men employed by his uncle. They despised him too!

There was one thing however about Billy Moffat that made him extremely dangerous. He was a REAL physcopath. He had no feelings for anyone other than himself. Not laughing at the correct moment or laughing at an inappropriate moment was reason enough for a severe beating or perhaps even worse. People who looked at him in the wrong manner were immediately on very dangerous ground.                          

<><><><>

The small, middle-aged man with the gold rimmed glasses arrived on the five thirty five from Euston and walked briskly to the car waiting outside Glasgow's Central Station.

"How are you keeping now? Any better?" enquired the young man in the front seat next to the driver.

The man in the gold rimmed glasses ignored him.

<><><><>

He closed the door behind him and dismissed Tino with a cursory wave of the hand. His uncle looked up from the newspaper spread out on the desk. "Something worries me about the bookie." He knew he had to show respect when asking for favours. He hated doing it but he had to. "The disco manager's scared shitless. He'll be no problem. But the bookie. He's different. Too confident somehow. I don't think he takes me seriously enough. You'll need to speak to him."

The older man stared at him for a second before returning to the newspaper. "No problem."

<><><><>

His nephew had been right. The disco manager knew what he had done in the past to people who had let him down and was indeed scared shitless. There was no need to pay him a second visit. He'd better visit the bookie though if Billy was worried. Fucking family. Got to do everything for them but is it appreciated? He'd get a night's sleep and have a word with the bookie in the morning. Get his reward in heaven. He chuckled to himself at his own joke.

<><><><>

Tyler entered the bookie’s office. He ignored the only other occupant, a cloth-capped man studying form at the rear of the shop and gave the bookie the benefit of his best gangster stare.

"Awright Tony? Everything still sound fur ma nephew? It had fucking better be. The night that eejit goat stabbed he wis wi' you at the dug track wisn't he? That's a' the polis need tae know an' that's a' they're gonnae know intit?" Tyler only used his posh speaking voice for police interviews.

Tony's face was ashen white and Tyler thought for a moment he was going to throw up. He only did that when the small man at the rear of the shop turned round and, removing the cloth cap, produced the gun. He adjusted the gold rimmed glasses and looked cooly straight at Tyler.

"Waant tae huv a wee bet oan that eejit?" 

<><><><>

"You know it will not stand up in court if any of this gets out. Your photograph's still on the chief constable's bedside cabinet and has been since the sixties for the shit you got up to. How long have they given you this time anyway?"

"I'll be lucky if I see the year out according to the specialist but that tosser Tyler disnae know that dis he? He disnae know I'm dyin'. He's too worried he disnae. You take care of yourself Billy and give my love to your mother. She was always my favourite although she gave me up for lost years ago." The small man in the gold rimmed glasses turned abruptly and boarded the train without a backward glance. Seconds later it started to move and they watched it start its journey back to London. The small man sat staring straight ahead of him.

"So that's what he looks like now?" said Tino. "The most important gangster in Glasgow at one time and he comes up to do you a favour?"

"Uncle Albie? He'd do anything for my mother. It's hard to explain. I mean I know what he did back then but I can't help feeling a bit sorry for him now. He really is dying you know. Right sergeant move your arse, we've still got work to do."

"Yessir Inspector. Right away Inspector."

Inspector Billy Dawson and his sergeant headed back to the car. Tyler wasn't the only one with family!

END

WHO’S CALLING?

"Gerry Dale says you're to be in "The Smugglers" in Taylor Street tonight at seven." The line went dead.

<><><><>

People who had no understanding of how to use the telephone had always infuriated Drysdale. They seemed unable to comprehend how much confusion they could cause by launching into conversations with comparative, or even total, strangers without, first, clearly stating their name, and, secondly, explaining the reason for the telephone call in the first place. He'd had one occasion very early on in his career where this sort of confusion had almost cost him his job and he'd learned very quickly from that experience. Most of it could be put down to thoughtlessness and that he tried to make allowances for. Then there was the other kind where the caller's ego demanded instant recognition. But most infuriating of all were the idiots who would come on with the stock opening gambit, "Bet you don't know who this is?"

Of course I don't know who it is. You haven't fucking told me yet. It would invariably turn out to be some fool he'd only met once or another he hadn't seen for twenty years or so. But this was something else again. He tried re-dial but there was no answer. He checked for the last caller but the number had been withheld. The woman's voice had been cultured, if slightly shrill, and the call had unsettled him slightly. He only knew two or three Gerrys well enough for them to phone him and arrange a meeting, and certainly none of them was of sufficient importance in his life to relay a message that he had better be on time anywhere. He double checked with all three in any case, as he only knew one of them sufficiently well even to know his second name. The other two were members of the pub quiz team. It hadn't been any of them. Now the call began to intrigue as well as annoy him. In all probability it had been a wrong number but what if it hadn't? What if it really had been intended for him, for some obscure reason that he'd either forgotten or was still unaware of. Could be important and he knew that he wouldn't really relax until he found out. This was one of the reasons his ex-wife had listed before leaving him for the last time. He couldn't let things go. Sleeping dogs were meant to be left asleep. Too tightly wrapped was the expression she'd used for him at the time. The annoying thing was that he knew she was right but he couldn't help his nature could he? He was naturally curious about anything that was even mildly untoward and all his favourite reading material or television viewing involved unexplained mysteries or phenomena. Things that couldn't be explained. It was as though he enjoyed it even more when there was no logical explanation. He'd just have to wait and see if the caller rang back. It was only four o'clock now. She might ring again but he knew there was little chance of that. There had been a very definite air of finality about the call. Suddenly he knew where he would be at seven o'clock that evening

<><><><>

Drysdale had been in the newspaper industry for many years now and had a reputation as an arrogant, painstakingly diligent reporter who would thoroughly research every word of his reporting for any errors or misquotes long before the article went  to press. He had never progressed beyond the local newspaper nor had he desired to. He had been very happy there and they, in turn, seemed happy enough with his work. He was fussy to the point of irritating most of his peers immensely but he could be relied upon to produce quality work on time. It went without saying that anything Nigel Drysdale put his name to would be word perfect and without embellishment. Fact were facts with Nigel. Often predictably boring but facts none the less. He was a man who would not allow room for any misinterpretation of anything he said or wrote. That was the reason that the incorrect use of the telephone rankled so much with him. He was fastidious in that. Or perhaps just  "too tightly wrapped " as his wife had said before closing the door on her way out for the last time. The call intrigued him however, and he knew he had to be in "The Smugglers" that night at seven.

There could well be some sort of story here.

<><><><>

Nigel made sure that the knot in his tie was  perfect, fastened all three buttons on the expensive Harris Tweed sports jacket, and inspected himself in the full length mirror, pulling sharply on the cuffs and the hemline of the jacket as he did so. He always made sure he went out looking "just so" as his dear departed mother would have put it. The phone rang sharply and very suddenly, startling him. He lifted it nervously.

"Make sure you come alone and be careful you're not followed." The same shrill, cultured female voice.

"How am I supposed to recognise…?"

The line went dead again.

<><><><>

"The Smugglers?" enquired the taxi driver. "In Taylor Street? Right you are then. But if you don't mind unasked for advice, watch yourself in there. Full of villains that place. The influence of the Dale fa…" "Just drive will you please. If the advice is optional I'll opt out." That was another pet hate. Strangers who assumed they had the right to know what was best for you. He really was very "tightly wrapped" as his dear wife said, but Nigel Drysdale would never know that.

<><><><>

Taylor Street was situated in a very badly run down part of the city. Drysdale could virtually smell the animosity from the crowd of youths congregated outside the off-sales a few doorways up from the pub entrance. If it hadn't been for the different colours of baseball caps and expensive track suits they wore they could have been clones. To a man - or to a youth to be precise - they squinted at Drysdale through narrowed eyes, saying nothing, but meaning a great deal. Some of them were leaning against the wall, some standing, some hunched down to whisper to others. Suddenly Drysdale was reminded of a recent documentary he had seen about a family of meerkats, the African mongoose. Those with their backs to him were now turning to stare. He was glad to enter the pub. Until he entered it.

<><><><>

Barbara sat alone in her bedsit waiting, as she did almost every evening, for Drysdale to call to say he would be round. Barbara was, as far as she was concerned anyway, Drysdale's lover. Drysdale had a different way of looking at it.  She had worked for him for years and idolised him. As far as Barbara was concerned the pedestal fit for Drysdale had not yet been built. She lived her entire life in the manner Drysdale thought she should live it and followed his every instruction to the letter. To the outsider, especially her friends  and fellow workers, it was really quite scary to watch. Any conversation would inevitably be steered eventually in the direction where she would the have the opportunity to say, "I'll ask Nigel what he thinks." Or, "I know what Nigel would say" Or most irritating of all. "Let's consult the oracle." The fact that the oracle treated her abominably both in public and privately totally escaped her notice.

When the seven o'clock news came on telly and he hadn't rung the only thought that entered her head was, "He must have something more important to do." 
  
<><><><>

It was the sort of place that Drysdale, or, to be fair, most people, would not be seen dead in. His chosen profession had taken him into some unsavoury hostelries but "The Smugglers" was the pits. Unshaven, foul-mouthed men hurled what they considered friendly banter at each other from opposite ends of the bar which was littered with filthy, empty tumblers. Three drunken women in the corner were singing to each other and an alsatian dog lying in front of the ladies toilet door was doing its level best to join in the chorus. Drysdale felt distinctly  uncomfortable and was just about to head for the door again when his guardian angel appeared at his side.

"I feel perhaps you might feel more at home in the lounge Mr. Drysdale. It is Mr. Drysdale isn't it? Of course it is. We've only met once or twice in the passing, but I've seen your photograph in Barbara's flat. I'm her landlady Mrs. Miller. We often have a natter when I'm round there collecting the rent. Lovely girl. Really lovely girl. My husband works for Mr. Dale. Looks after his other business interests. He's an accountant is Roger and he's doing rather well. Most of it due to the Dale family's flourishing empire. They're both in the lounge deciding how to make more money. I'm just here to keep him company for an hour. Let me take you through. At least I can pour you three some drinks as I'm here. I believe the regular waitress has the night off."

Drysdale could have kissed her. And she was very kissable at that. A very pretty, well groomed blonde with huge brown eyes. Her hair was cropped fashionably short and Drysdale had always liked that style. How come he had never noticed her before was a mystery. He could sense her interest. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on but it was definitely there. He found that fascinating in a woman. He followed her into the lounge but not before he protected himself. Asking Mrs. Miller to give him a second he went over to the young college student type barmaid reading studiously from some sort of text book on top of the bar. He handed her a fiver and told her there was another tenner coming if she would do something for him. He gave her Barbara's number, his own name and strict instructions that Barbara must call the police and send them straight to "The Smugglers" if he wasn't out of the lounge in half an hour. The girl nodded her head feverishly in assent. She'd do it alright, thought Drysdale. How the bloody hell could she read with that racket going on around her. If she could do that she could follow a few simple instructions.

<<><><>

The lounge bar in "The Smugglers" was a complete surprise. He was in a different world. Tastefully, almost luxuriously furnished it was occupied by six men. Four sat apart from the other two and Drysdale knew instantly that the two sitting alone were Dale and Miller. Mrs. Miller disappeared discreetly behind the bar. The man on the far side of the large desk rose and spoke abruptly, "Over here Drysdale. I'm Dale. It would appear we have something to discuss. Or to be exact what is going to happen is this. I talk and you fucking listen."

<><><><>

"My name is Arthur Dale," the big man with the boxer's nose and the piercing gaze rasped in his South London accent. "This is Mr. Roger Miller and seated over there you will see my four younger brothers." He nodded thanks to Mrs. Miller who had just set down a tray of drinks at the side of his beautifully polished walnut desk. "Your newspaper has been a nuisance and a hindrance to my business activities for years Mr. Drysdale, constantly sticking its nose into matters it should steer well clear of. But that is all it has been. A nuisance and a hindrance. That is not why you are here. You are upsetting a member of my family Mr. Drysdale. And that I cannot and will not have. Believe me, my old son, you do not want to upset our Gerry and that's exactly what you're doing." Dale seemed slightly embarassed by the manner in which his South London accent had returned making him sound more like Arthur Daly from the television programme. "Our Gerry can be very nasty. Very, very nasty. You see there is a young lady our Gerry is besotted by, Mr. Drysdale. And apparently you are treating this young lady very badly. Very badly. And our Gerry's not going to allow that to happen any more. That's why all the family are gathered here tonight Drysdale. Have a look behind you. Nice bunch aren't they. Which one's Gerry?"

<><><><>

Nigel Drysdale tried very hard to appear calm and unconcerned as he surveyed the four younger men seated slightly behind him and to the left side of Dale's desk. Turning back to Dale he smiled what he hoped passed for a contemptuous smile. When he replied his voice was more high-pitched than he would have liked. 

"All four would appear to fit the description admirably. Now let me tell you something Mr. Dale or whatever your name is. I do not appreciate being threatened. I take it I am allowed to know the name of the young lady in question?"

"You know the answer to that. Her name is Barbara Bower. She is the only woman in your life and has been for years. All the others got shot of you smartish because you're a grade one tosser." Arthur Dale was starting to show his true personality and Nigel was getting concerned.

"Let's not fall out over a very minor matter Mr. Dale. The woman means absolutely nothing to me. Your brother's welcome to her. She's boring, predictable and stupid. But there is something else you should know before you make any more threats. I'm going to walk out of here unharmed in any event simply because she is boring, predictable and stupid. You see Barbara does every single thing I tell her to do. Most people tend to do that but she excels at it. It's all to do with timing, Mr. Dale. The time I came into your establishment and the time now. The police should be here very shortly."

<><><><>

Ethel the barmaid checked her watch. The man had asked her to phone the number if he wasn't out of the lounge in half an hour. He'd arrived a couple of minutes before seven and as it was now twenty past and as he obviously knew Mrs. Miller and Mr. Dale she'd better do what he asked. She needed that other tenner but she needed to keep her job even more. Pointedly ignoring the fight that had now started at the rear of the pub between two of the drunken women over the alsatian dog she fished the telephone number from the back pocket of her jeans. Fifteen quid just for a telephone call! Better give him another five minutes or so.

<><><><>

"I feel perhaps, Arthur, it's time to hear Gerry's views on Mr. Drysdale's treatment of the young lady concerned." The accountant , Roger Miller, a middle-aged good looking man running to fat said suddenly in a low, cultured voice. Drysdale turned to the four other men in the room sneaking a quick look at his watch as he did so. That was when Mrs. Miller decided to take control of the situation and Drysdale remembered that he had seen her before. Or at least her photograph.

<><><><>

"Let me make it quite plain Drysdale. Nothing is going to happen to you on these premises. You must have encountered my fan club as you arrived. Always hanging around outside the pub. Violent little bastards they are too. Positively evil. They'll do absolutely anything I ask of them. And I've already asked. Of course I encourage them and flirt with them but I have no interest in men as my dear husband knows only too well. I've always been a ladies’ girl and I've had my eye on Barbara ever since she moved into that flat. Gave her my photograph to keep in her purse with my phone number on the back just in case she ever needed to get in touch with me. She never has so far but perhaps I can go round and comfort her after the dreadful and unprovoked assault that will take place as soon as you walk out the front door. Let me introduce myself properly. Geraldine Miller, born Geraldine Dale, but I prefer to be known as Gerry."

The level of hatred in the woman's tone of voice was terrifying. The huge brown eyes had narrowed to slits and from that moment Drysdale was left in no doubt as to who ran the Dale family.

<><><><>

"Hello? Who's speaking?"

"Yes, eh'm, a man called Drygate or something is in the lounge and gave me a fiver and he's going to give me another tenner. Have I got the right number? He gave me your name but I've forgotten it. You're to phone…"

"Oh go away and learn how to use the phone properly. People like you make me sick!"

Barbara slammed the phone down. Nigel would be proud of her.

END

                                     
THE KNOWLEDGE 

He had always seemed to know what people were going to say or do long before they said or did it. He never spoke about it. Who would want to associate with someone who knew their next thought before they did?  What had been intuition when he was young became deadly perception as he grew into his teens. It saved him a lot of bother then as he KNEW, not THOUGHT, what would happen next. There had been a lot of violence at that time in his neighbourhood due to teenage gangs and the like and he had managed to avoid it all. He simply knew when there was trouble brewing and he would leave before it started. Barry wasn't quite stupid enough to believe that he could really read minds. He was slightly more perceptive than most other people, that was all. Slightly more intuitive. But Barry went on half believing he could read people's minds. He didn't realise most people could do it to a certain extent. Sometimes you were right, sometimes you were wrong. It all came down to whether you were right more often than you were wrong. 

<><><><>

Barry had wanted to be a policeman since he was fourteen. No other career interested him. It was his only waking thought for years. That all changed at the age of eighteen or thereabouts, when he met Carol and fell in love. Carol admired the police greatly, but the job was far too dangerous for any future husband of hers to be involved in. Barry was so over the moon when she suggested marriage, it totally escaped his notice that he hadn't foreseen either of these major changes to his life coming. In one fell swoop, or two fell swoops to be precise, Carol had made major decisions for him. He WAS going to be her husband and he WASN'T going to be a policeman. Not a lot of mind reading going on there . Blinded by emotion, Barry went into marriage with his eyes wide shut. But Carol didn't.

<><><><>

Carol and Barry got married for entirely different reasons. Barry was in love. Carol was also in love but only with the idea of being married to someone. Anyone would have done really. Providing he was fairly respectable, fairly presentable in appearance and willing and able to look after her. Barry fitted the bill. He was also prepared to do what he was told with regard to any major decisions that needed to be taken. She knew exactly how to get her own way. It was all done by suggestion at first, repeated hints would follow, a suggested strategy for achieving whatever goal it was she wished to achieve, and finally a kiss on the cheek for Barry for being so clever as to suggest it all in the first place. It worked admirably. But Carol was Barry's only blind spot. In all other matters he retained that deadly perception. Over the years it grew sharper if anything and he eventually took early retirement from a moderately successful career in the civil service. That career had also been suggested by Carol at the outset so all in all she'd been good for him. There had been another change. As time passed she noticed that it became more important to her to be good to him.  It might have taken nearly forty years but Carol too had fallen in love.

<><><><>

"We really should think about some kind of hobby or something now you've got all this spare time at your disposal dear. What do you think? I'll go along with whatever you suggest. Barry? Are you listening?"

They were seated in their slightly old fashioned, but very comfortable, armchairs in their slightly old fashioned, but  very comfortable lounge.

Barry turned his gaze from the open French windows with a clear view of their immaculately tended garden. He smiled fondly at his wife. "Well, there is something I've always wanted to do, Carol."

It came as quite a shock when he told her, but the more she thought about it, the more the idea appealed to her. It was the first time she realised there was a great deal she didn't know about her husband and she found it tremendously exciting.

<><><><>

Part of the reason for Barry's early retirement was his poor health so his long forgotten hope of being able to assist the police in some capacity remained just that. His doctor warned him any unnecessary stress could prove fatal so even the most lowly form of security post was out of the question. And then Carol came up trumps once again.

"Couldn't we help out as some kind of neighbourhood watch? We'd be restricted of course, because of our age and your health but I'm sure we could be of some assistance locally. Most of the young couples round here both work long hours in the city and so forth and I'm sure it would put their minds at rest to know someone's keeping an eye on their property when they're not there. Perhaps they might be willing to pay us in some form or other. I know this neighbourhood's very quiet but we want it to remain that way don't we? We don't want any criminals round here. And you'd be doing your civic duty just as you've always wanted to. What do you think? You could put that observation and sixth sense of yours to good use at long last, just as you've always wanted to. And money's going to be very tight for us from now on. Perhaps they would be prepared to pay a little something or other for our services. It's not as if any of them are short of money is it? Oh come on Barry, let's give it a go!"

He turned from gazing across the street and smiled fondly at her and she knew they were in business.

"I'll start making enquiries tonight." Carol rose from her armchair stiffly - her joints seemed to creak a little more each day - and moved into the kitchen to start preparing the evening meal.

<><><><>

One year later on from the neighbourhood watch idea the change in Barry and Carol's life was considerable. Barry looked and felt fitter and was brimful of confidence. They were popular and well respected in the neighbourhood and both were welcome in their neighbours homes at any time. In fact they had their own set of keys to any number of them. As a result of the trust they'd built up and the new-found friendships they'd established Carol could indulge in her other two hobbies. Baking and a spot of book-keeping.

Barry turned from the window, where he still spent a fair bit of his time just standing and observing the neighbourhood, and smiled. "If you're nearly finished we could always catch the last hour in the pub. What do you say?"

Carol closed her book, stifled a yawn and removed her horn-rimmed spectacles.

"If you want dear. But Barry remember your angina. It's all very nice when the neighbours buy us drinks etc but you know what the doctor says. Still it would be nice and it'll give me a chance to drop off some of the scones and things I made earlier while they're still nice and fresh. It is a lovely night for a walk. I'll just get my coat. I forgot to mention my sister rang from Australia when you were out earlier. She's delighted we're doing so well and we had a good gossip. She's got that video you sent that you said she'd like. She's going to send us some money. Her business is doing well and she's due a lot of cheques and things at the end of the month. She says her phone bill's astronomical. I'm not surprised. Talk the hind legs off a donkey that one."

Barry took the opportunity to give his wife a peck on the cheek as she passed. "You both could. It's the same every time she phones. Still, I love you both and I wouldn't have either of you any other way. Hurry up and get your coat or the pub'll be shut."

<><><><>

"Good night Tony, Pamela and thanks again for the lift home. Love the new car. Well, you've worked very hard for it haven't you? If any one deserves the good things out of life it's you two. Good night and thanks again!"

Carol closed and locked and bolted the front door and went through to the lounge where Barry, ever so slightly the worse for wear, had settled in his armchair near the window.

"Drug dealing bastard," said Barry quietly through clenched teeth. "Who would have thought that in four or five blocks we would have a haulage contractor who imports illegal aliens, a retired terrorist for a publican, a headmaster with an unhealthy interest in young boys and a doctor who's no longer supposed to be in practice. By the way did you get a chance to talk to the new couple who've moved in? I'll go round and introduce myself tomorrow. I noticed he was very full of himself. Must be something going on there. Everybody has something going on."

Carol ruffled his hair and went through to put the kettle on and give her sister a quick ring with some snippets of information they'd picked up during the week. Not the one in Australia. The one in Canada. When the letters arrived she liked the recipients to be confused. She had family all over the world.

Barry sat gazing out of the window as usual. Well at least they weren't getting away with it entirely. Long distance blackmail wasn't legal but it was rewarding. In more ways than one.

END

RIOT

"You 'll no' need tae bother aboot starting anything. It'll be done fur ye. Stand on me. He'll go doon this time. Big style. There's at least three plain clothes in this dance hall tonight. The polis want him bad an' the wiy it's been set up they'll get him. Noo drink yir fucking lager. Ah've never let ye doon yit huv Ah?"

Garvie handed his expensive leather coat to the admiring female barmaid, nodded his best gangster nod to her and adjusted his already perfectly knotted silk tie in the large wall mirror behind her. It was imperative that he be immaculately dressed at all times or he might lose a little face with the well known Glasgow  gang he was in command of. He'd fought for the right to be called their leader off, both with rival gangs and sometimes with ambitious members of his own gang, who'd dared to challenge his authority over the years. There had been some real hard cases amongst that lot but Garvie had taken care of every last one and now nobody questioned his undoubted courage and loyalty. In street fights and pub and dance hall brawls he was always well to the fore, arms and legs flailing, head butting and sword or hatchet flashing when required. In dance halls the bands would continue uninterrupted while the mayhem went on all around them so that the riot itself seemed somehow part of the entertainment. Early seventies Glasgow was like that.

"Ye'd better be fuckin' right wee man. Ah want him aff the streets. He's startin' tae be a right pain in the arse. If the polis don't lift him ah'll make sure the ambulance men dae."

"Don't you take anythin' tae dae wi' it. Ah'm tellin' ye, ah've set it up so he'll get himself lifted. Him an' that shower o' tossers he calls a team."

Maxie was Rab Garvie's second in command and master tactician. Brave as a lion and intensely loyal he could be relied upon in every situation. He stopped just short of Garvie's fighting capability. But not much. He had been Garvie's main rival for leadership at one time and had given Rab the hardest fight of his life. Neither were too keen on a return bout. Particularly Garvie, strangely enough, because he had a sneaking suspicion he might lose it. For some inexplicable reason he had always felt that Maxie held a bit back in that fight. Nowadays it was never discussed and Maxie was actually engaged to Rab's young sister Marie. Removing his stylish navy gaberdine raincoat,  Maxie handed it to the same barmaid. Both then turned at the same time to stare out the forty strong gang ranged along the opposite side of the dance hall reserving their derision for the powerfully built, bull necked  youth who stood, hands in pockets, eyes staring wildly at the two people he hated most on the planet. Andy Brannigan had many enemies but none he hated with the intensity he reserved for Garvie and Maxie. What were they doing coming in here alone? Brannigan's intellect was not his strongest asset. THAT was his undoubted fighting ability. That and his machete.

<><><><>

"It's Marie for Maxie," called the barmaid from the other end of the crowded bar waving to Garvie that his young sister wanted to speak to her husband to be, and not her older brother, on the phone behind the bar. Ellen, the barmaid, fancied Garvie like mad but it certainly wasn't mutual.

"Mair fuckin' orders fur ye wee man. Ah've telt ye before. Yir gonnae end up wi' slippers an' a pipe when she gits ye doon that aisle. Henpecked. Onywiys this is nothin' tae dae wi' her noo. It's between me an' that fat bastard Brannigan. Fuckin' cheek! Tryin' tae chat ma wee sister up. Ah've a good mind jist tae go ower an' gie him a slap the noo." Garvie didn't turn round when speaking from the side of his mouth .

"She worries Rab. In case somethin' happens tae ma' perfect body afore we git merrit."

Garvie turned to stare at Maxie sharply. He was fiercely protective of his young sister and disapproved of any suggestive talk even from her husband to be. Maxie just grinned and went to answer the phone. Garvie folded his immaculately suited arms and leant back against the bar to continue staring contemptuously at Brannigan.

<><><><>

"Listen hen. Ah know fine well whit ah'm daein.' Big Rab trusts me so jist you dae the same. Wan wiy or anither Brannigan's gonnae start somethin' an' he'll no' walk oot ae here the night. It's Brannigan the polis ur eftir the noo an' they know there's only the two ae us in here the night. There's aboot forty o' thae bastards. So if anythin' starts it's them that'll get lifted. Rab's staunin' starin' them a' doon the noo. Ye know whit he's like. Fucking crackers! Wait tae the music starts. The polis ur everywhere by the way."

Maxie chuckled and put the phone back on the receiver.

<<><><>

"Right Ellen. Get yirsel' a drink. Ye're sure he's goat the request slips fur thae two songs an' he knows whit tae say before he plays them. 'Cos he looks a right fuckin' eejit!" Maxie handed the fiver to the barmaid and inclined his head in the direction of the long haired, hippy clad DJ with the fluffy beard and the English accent at the other end of the crowded bar. Maxie and Garvie with their cropped haircuts and immaculately tailored suits despised his type.

"Oh, Clive's alright. He's a very good DJ. He'll play them alright. Along with the request. Just the way you've written it down. Is that another new suit Rab's wearing?"

"Probably. Just make sure he plays the request at the interval when the band takes a break."

<><><><>

Even although Ellen knew Garvie and Maxie were both mental she was still very surprised by the audacity of it all. As the exceptionally good soul band trooped from the stage, sweating heavily and to thunderous applause, Clive took his seat on the podium looking very much under the influence of some chemical or other as always and started his set as he usually did, with the peaceful "Albatross" by Fleetwood Mac to settle the crowd. Maxie put his hand on Rab's shoulder and shouted into his ear above the still noisy crowd.

"Gie him five or ten minutes tae he starts daein' the requests Ellen says."

"He looks as if he's in a different fuckin' time zone fae us. Ah hope you know whit ye're daein' wi' that clown. Ah widnae send him fur a message never mind gie him wan tae dae."

"It'll a' work oot fine. Ellen telt me at the bar she's spotted at least seven polis in here that she knows for sure. Ah've only seen three but she's goat a better view back ther'."

"Snow White an' the Seven Dwarfs," muttered Garvie. He disapproved of Ellen and her generous ways with her ample charms.

As some of the crowd began to become affectionate with each other to the haunting "Hey Jude" by The Beatles Clive lowered the volume slightly and head inclined to one side said very softly into the microphone.

"After the next track ladies and gentlemen, I've got the request spot as usual. Listen out for your name now. You may well be in there. Who knows?"

"Here we go Rab," hissed Maxie

<><><><>

Being from Somerset and fairly new to both Glasgow and its underlying, festering gang culture Clive was totally unaware of the fact that the first track he played was the official battle anthem of Rab and Maxie's notably absent cohorts. The volume was deafening as Creedence Clearwater Revival belted out "Bad Moon Rising" with its unmistakeable opening guitar chords. The dance hall fell deathly silent when Clive, as instructed, hit full power at the  precise moment where John Fogerty, their superb lead vocalist, sang, "Hope you are quite prepared to die!" On the opposite side of the dance hall spaces appeared as if by magic as chairs were pushed back suddenly and forty or so youths began to congregate around Andy Brannigan. But Rab and Maxie simply stood there, arms folded, both grinning broadly, directly at Brannigan. They still had the other request  to look forward to. 

<><><><>

"And now ladies and gentlemen it's time for me to play your requests. The tracks that mean so much to you because they mean so much to someone else. I know that as always your choice will be very apt and much better than anything I would select on your behalf. Glasgow audiences really know their music. And the first one out of the hat is for….". There was a long pause as Clive adjusted his seat and pretended to rummage about in the request box which happened to be an old biscuit tin. He had his orders and knew exactly what to say. What he didn't know was why! So he improvised.

"This one's going out for Andy Brannigan and the splendid work he does for the girls club he runs. It appears that Andy has quite a few of the girls in the hall with him tonight and Rab and Maxie want to wish him and all his girls continued success in their favourite pastime. Way too strenuous for me, girls. Any way here we go especially for Andy and all his girls. Enjoy! Here come the Spencer Davis Group with. "Keep On Running!"

That was exactly the moment the bottles and chairs started flying and something smashed the huge ornamental mirror behind the bar to smithereens.
 
<><><><>

Currie removed his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes, and replaced them. In all his years as a Detective Inspector with Glasgow police he had seen many gang fights and pitched battles involving the major gangs. He had been involved in some as a younger policeman and had witnessed some horrendous violence. He had to admit however that the mayhem and  destruction  Brannigan and his outfit had been responsible for equalled anything in his previous experience. Leaning back in his chair he stared hard at the teenage gangster as though trying to comprehend his stupidity.

"You know it will be a long time before your friends see you again this time. A very long time. If the barmaid hadn't stopped the bleeding and kept it stopped till the ambulance arrived, he would have died. Attempted murder. Because you fancy his sister. You've got shit for brains you people. Shit!"

"Fuck him. He's been swannin' aboot Glesga fur years as if he is somethin'. Ah showed him whit he is. Fuckin' nothin'. Ah've been waitin' tae get that bastard fur years. If it hidnae been fur his sister Ah wid huv done him years ago. She's goat nae life because o' him. Cannae talk tae anybuddy nor nuthin'. Shows ye how clever he is. Walkin' intae certain trouble. The wee trick wae the music hid nuthin' tae dae wi' it. The minute ah saw him withoot the rest o' the team the night ah knew he wis gettin' it ."

"But you knew we were in the hall. How did you expect to get out? Even I didn't think you woud be stupid enough to start anything when you saw us. That's why you'll never make it as a gangster son. Too fucking stupid."

"Showed him anyway. He'll never raise his hands tae Marie again the bastard. Never."

"Let's go Maxie. Don't be in a rush. You've got plenty of time."

END

A  SMALL WORLD

"Small world isn't it Davie? At the moment it consists of you, me, and this fucking room. Oh and the Dandy Lad here. Keeps himself nice and smart doesn't he? He could be a real ladykiller could the Dandy Lad. If he was interested in the ladies that is. But he only seems to be interested in hurting people who've upset me. And you've upset me a great deal Davie. Now what am I going to do about it? That's the thing. What am I going to do about? I know what HE wants to do about it. One track mind has the Dandy Lad. His name's Raymond by the way. I think it's important you know that. A man's entitled to know the name of the man who's going to put him in intensive care."

Davie gripped his pint glass tightly, terrified to glance up from the racing section of his newspaper. Today of all days. Another week and he and Irene would have  the money. It wasn't her fault her redundancy cheque was late. She'd taken the kids to her mother's  in order to go and see about it again this morning. She was due to meet him here at any moment. After her cleaning job at the priest's house.
"Ah'll need tae ask ye fur another week Mr. Gibson. Ye see mah wife's due…" "Shut fucking up. You've had all the time you're getting. You owe me four hundred quid and that's a lot of broken bones. And you're sitting here drinking fucking beer. No more time you little shit. A lesson now. Outside."

Petrified with fear, Davie sat on his hands to stop them trembling and tried to catch a breath. Eventually he summoned just enough courage to look up and immediately wished he hadn't. Everybody had heard about Gibson's enforcer but those who had been unfortunate enough to meet him never, ever spoke about it. Now he knew why! Davie Sneddon had known and lived with fear most of his life. Certain areas of Glasgow have that effect on people but this guy was something else again. A small and very thin man, he positively radiated evil. Pale green eyes glared at Davie from beneath a livid, purple scar running from his closely cropped hair to his left eyebrow. Deathly pale, with a perfectly groomed goatee beard he might well be most people's conception of Satan himself. He was immaculately dressed in an obviously very expensive leather jacket and perfectly tailored jeans. When he spoke it became clear that the Devil originated from Ireland.

"We'll be after taking a walk then."

His voice was surprisingly low and soft which somehow had the effect of making him all the more menacing. His left hand stroked at the little beard, the right ominously and obviously holding something very sharp in the right hand jacket pocket. It was the typical blade man stance. Absolutely no point in trying to explain to the moneylender and his "tally man" that he'd only borrowed the money to give his two kids a good Christmas and that it hadn't been meant to end up like this. What a fucking mess.

That was when the pub door opened and Irene came in. Followed by two nuns with collection cans.

<><><><>

"I know it's difficult Irene," Father Brady's voice sounded weary over the telephone, "but you really must try to calm down a little. For the childrens sake. So he's in intensive care and the police have just left? I'll be there in ten minutes."

<><><><>

When Irene opened the door to her parish priest she was obviously still very much in shock. Alone in the Sneddons' modest council flat the priest searched for the right words to console the pretty young wife and mother of two. He couldn't find them so asked her if she wanted him to make her some tea. She shook her head and continued to dab her eyes with the sodden handkerchief. Suddenly she spoke in monotone as if unaware there was anyone else in the room.

"He only went to see that man because my redundancy cheque was late arriving and he wanted to give the kids their usual Christmas. Now look what's happened. It's not as if it was even his fault." She suddenly fell silent and raised her eyes to the ceiling as though seeking an answer from above.

"It's no one's fault," said the little priest softly. "Now tell me about the two nuns. What exactly happened?"

<><><><>

After leaving Irene's house the little priest visited the hospital and then headed straight for the local police station to see Sergeant Connell who was also one of his parishioners.

"And that's all she could tell me Bob. Apparently when he refused to come across with any money the enforcer went berserk and produced whatever sharp instrument it was he used and I've just been to see the result. Something really has to be done about these people. And poor Sister Veronica. And of course Sister Theresa."

"I know Father, but we really won't make a great deal of difference if people continue to use loan sharks. It was a Stanley knife incidentally."

The little priest looked slightly bemused for a second and then realised the Sergeant was referring to the weapon used.

"Yes. A very nasty man  is the Dandy Lad. No one seems to know who gave him the nickname. Apparently his real name is Raymond something or other. Now tell me about Sister Veronica," said Connell.

The little priest seemed lost in thought for a second. At last this horrific wounding was starting to make some sort of evil sense. A perverted kind of logic.

<><><><>

"So at least you now know why it happened that way Irene. You have nothing to reproach yourself for. Nothing at all. Just be grateful that Davie is unharmed. I think I hear them coming now."

The front door flew open and Davie Sneddon entered with two giggling children clutching bags of sweets.

"The Father's just been telling me he thinks he knows the reason why that horrible man attacked that other horrible man and not you Davie. Tell him Father."

Davie playfully pushed one of his children to one side and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

"God help the poor sister Davie. I must see her as soon as possible. I only know this through a conversation we had some time ago. She loves her family back home in Ireland dearly and mentions them all by name whenever we speak. There was one thing that troubled her greatly however. A brother who disappeared during the troubles. They had always been very close as children and she would refer to him as Raymond. A "dandy wee lad" she would say. This incident is obviously down to the fact that Gibson's heavy is none other than Raymond himself. You say that Gibson not only refused to put a few pennies in the collecting cans he also pushed the nun to one side. The other man then slashed his face. Is that correct Davie? Raymond it would appear is none other than Sister Veronica's long lost brother. God help everyone concerned in this sorry mess."

"But Father surely the Sister could have identified her brother as the man who attacked Gibson. If he isn't caught this man could kill somebody next. She must identify him to the police." Irene was still in a state over the whole affair and her voice was shrill.

"God knows what happened to this man to turn him into this kind of animal, Irene, but he obviously recognised his older sister, and was not going to stand for her being pushed around. In some twisted way he must have thought he was doing the right thing."

"I don't care Father. He can't get away with this. She must identify him. She must."

“Not just as simple as that, Irene. Sister Veronica's been going blind for many years now and is now totally so. She had no idea she was anywhere near her long lost brother. I will have to tell her of course."

Suddenly Irene felt more confused than ever.

END

                                   
OPEN MIND

Fisher liked to think he was open minded about most things. But this was very, very different. It beggared belief. In this day and age? In this area? A house that couldn't be sold because it was haunted? It had to be some sort of practical joke. An initiation ceremony for the new kid on the block. Either that or his new colleagues were simply grasping at straws in some sort of lame effort to hide the fact that not one of them knew the first thing about the property market round here. They obviously did not know the first thing about Tony Fisher either. Tony had been born to sell. Anything. He just happened to be selling houses, and in the extremely unlikely event that there was anything odd about the premises in Winter Avenue he'd turn it into a selling point. It would be sold before the week was out. He had already told his new employer as much and offered to bet his first month's salary on it. One of the Mr. Taylors of "Taylor, Taylor, and Broadbent, Estate Agents" had seemed quite keen on taking Tony up on the offer for some strange reason. Odd that.

<><><><>

By Tuesday afternoon of his first week in his new job, Tony had arranged three viewings for prospective buyers of the semi-detached house at 38 Winter Avenue. One of the Mr. Taylors was hugely impressed but the other - the gambling one - merely smiled knowingly. Mr. Broadbent had no opinion to offer either way. He had been dead for years. Fisher organised all three viewings for the Thursday and spent most of the Wednesday mulling over which of the three would end up buying the house. He knew, as he always knew, that one of them would. It was simply a matter of which one. Nothing surer.

<><><><>

Before Fisher left for the first of the viewing appointments on Thursday morning Sharon - the receptionist - informed him that Mabel, the cleaner, would still be there and to make sure to bring back her set of keys in addition to his own. Very abrupt was Sharon. He hadn't gone out of his way to be friendly with any of his new colleagues. Why should he? Bunch of prats.

"I'm not here to collect keys from cleaners." The statement was accompanied by a condescending pat on the shoulder as Tony swept out of the office. He was met in the doorway by the more approachable of the two Mr. Taylors. The one who had been impressed. 

"Just bring the keys back son. There's a good lad."

"Certainly Mr. Taylor. Be delighted. Just having a bit of fun. If you can't get along with your new workmates…"

Sharon glared at his retreating back and sniffed loudly. The other Mr. Taylor rose from his desk in the adjoining office and studied Tony's appointments book. He gave his knowing smile and held his open hand out to his older brother to receive his winnings.

"Same old names." He wondered why they even bothered trying to sell the place.

<><><><>

Fisher threw the BMW round the tight bend leading into Winter Avenue and screeched to  a halt in front of number 38. Slamming the door noisily he reached for the keys to the house in the pocket of the expensive designer suit jacket casually slung over his shoulder, and marched up the path leading to the perfectly normal looking semi-detached. The door opened just as he reached it and the cleaning lady emerged. A small, homely looking woman she had a terrified look on her otherwise pleasant, rosy cheeked face.

"They're on the floor in the hall," she said, one plump hand clasped to her right cheek. "I've got to get away from here. I've had enough."

Glancing behind her Tony could see the bunch of keys lying in the hallway where she'd either dropped or thrown them. Picking them up he turned to remonstrate with her but she was gone. He'd make sure she got away alright. He'd make sure she was sacked the minute he returned to the office. Totally irresponsible. Picking the keys up he placed them in the same pocket as his own set. Mustn't upset Sharon. He made his way into the lounge.

<><><><>

After a quick check out of all the rooms in the house he made himself some coffee in the pleasantly laid out kitchen and settled down in one of the armchairs to await the first of his prospective buyers. That was when the very tall woman with the deranged look in her eyes, clad from head to toe in black, emerged from the cupboard beneath the stairs!

<><><><>

"I'm really terribly sorry if I startled you young man. I think it was the cleaning lady who let me in. I'm Linda Brewer, your ten-thirty appointment. I've just completed my tour of inspection. I do hope you don't mind but I arrived way too early.  Incidentally I helped myself to coffee. Certainly haven't seen anything that would put anyone off buying the place. Not yet anyway." She laughed. It was an extremely unpleasant laugh and for the first time in his life Tony Fisher was genuinely afraid. The laugh was disturbing enough but when she turned at the front door Fisher thought he was about to have a heart attack.

"You will make sure to tell them I was here won't you now? I'm afraid very few people believe in ghosts any more."

He sat in the armchair long after she'd gone.  Eventually he stopped shaking long enough to realise that all he had seen was a very scary looking lady. So what? He even recovered sufficiently to realise that he hadn't made any attempt to sell the house to her. 

"You're slipping, Fisher," he mumbled to himself.

The very loud rapping on the kitchen window caused him to jump to his feet kicking over the empty coffee cup. "Bloody Hell!" he almost screamed.

<><><><>

"There isn't anything else we should know about the house is there? I mean something you're not telling us . It's just that you hear such dreadful stories about some estate agents. Telling all sorts of fibs just to get a sale. That sort of thing." 

Kelly Morton and her husband Tom were a handsome, young couple and suitably naïve. Sufficiently recovered from his state of near apoplexy, induced by their frenzied attempts to attract his attention earlier, Tony Fisher looked suitably pained at the very notion.

"Not a bit of it, Kelly. You don't mind if I call you Kelly do you? Other than the fact that it's the biggest bargain we have on our books but then I think you both know that already, don't you Tom? Can't pull the wool over a street wise guy like you can we? Always assuming that we wanted to in the first place. Which of course we don't."

Fisher hadn't recovered quite well enough to be in super salesman mode but he was doing his best. "And of course there have been numerous other offers. Can't give you too much time to make up your mind but I really would like you two to have it. Ideal for you isn't it Kelly?"

"You haven't heard anything about a strange woman seen about here have you?" said Tom quite suddenly. Kelly gave him a very odd look.

"Sorry? Strange woman? New one on me Tom, my old son."

"Just a thought. Well it very much looks as if my wife's got her heart set on it. We'll ring you in the morning after we've had a chat over some dinner tonight. But by the look on my wife's face it will be one sided discussion. I'd be as well shaking hands on it now but I'd better sleep on it anyway. I'll ring you first thing in the morning Tony."

Fisher escorted the young couple, who were both dressed identically in retro sixties gear, to the front door. Closing it behind them he rubbed his hands.

"Done deal! Prats!" he thought to himself.

<><><><>

"It's a bit more than I was budgeting for and  way too big, but it is a nice house and it would do lovely for my retirement."

Archer puffed on his unlit pipe - looking rather like Van Helsing as portrayed in one of the old Hammer films thought Fisher - as they inspected the last room on their tour which happened to be the downstairs toilet.

"Of course it would," said Fisher stopping just short of putting his arm round Archer's shoulder. "and I'm sure a good looking man like yourself wouldn't be short of female company for too long."

Looking slightly alarmed Archer moved quickly into the hallway.

"Have you had many other offers? Anybody round before me today for example?"

"You're the first and I can make sure you're the last. What do you say Mr. Archer? Get it all tied up now if you like. Nobody else interested so far. A real snip." Fisher hadn't forgotten he'd virtually promised the house to Kelly Morton and her husband but he was trying hard.

"Well if there's nothing else I should know about the place, and no one else is interested I'm sure it can wait till the morning. I'll give you a bell then. No need to rush things. I've got all the time in the world nowadays. An eternity seems like, sometimes. I'll be off then. Got an appointment."

"Shit!"  thought Fisher as he watched his last appointment for the day make for the front door.

"Well there was someone here earlier in the week. It just came back to me."

"What did she look like?" said Archer sharply.

It was only much later Fisher realised he hadn't mentioned anything about the sex of the interested party.

<><><><>

Tony Fisher was far from his usual ultra-confident self on his return to the offices of Taylor, Taylor and Broadbent that Thursday evening. The older of the two, who was quite evidently the senior partner although nothing had been said to suggest so, was working alone in his office. From their first meeting his demeanour had spelled out clearly that all major decisions were in his hands.

"Now then Tony, I take it you sold the house to all three and we'll have to sort it all out in the office here. No? Don't tell me you didn't get closure from at least one of them? Let me guess what happened. All three told you they'd be in touch by tomorrow morning didn't they? Don't take it so hard, son. It's happened to me often. People don't come to view the house. They come hoping to view some ghost or apparition of sorts. Been happening that way for a long time. Something strange does happen there every so often. Sit down, have a whisky and tell me all about your visitors."

The older Mr. Taylor produced a bottle of whisky from the bottom right hand drawer of his desk.

<><><><>

"And that's it. The reason we cannot sell the property at 38 Winter Avenue. The apparitions continue to appear at the most inopportune moments. It has been widely reported by the local press and so on although I've never seen anything or even met anyone who has. The rumour persists however and at my age I tend to keep an open mind about such things. With good reason as you shall hear. Now tell me about your prospective buyers."

Fisher, still  very much the sceptic, related the day's events admitting that the first caller was indeed very odd. He described her sudden appearance, her very strange looks and how she had almost given him a heart attack.

"But she was as real as you or I. I'd swear to it on a stack of bibles."

"Unfortunately she is. Linda Brewer is nothing more than a nuisance I'm afraid. Something to do with psycic research at the local university. Nothing more. It's the other two that are the problem."

Surely he couldn't be referring to the Mortons. They were so disgustingly normal. Suddenly Fisher remembered the dated dress sense, and how they had appeared extremely agitated  when rapping on the kitchen window. The question about the strange woman from Tom and the even stranger look from Kelly. He described them both in detail to an attentive Taylor.

"Let me tell you what the local people have to say and about two deaths in the sixties. A young couple approximately their age were brutally attacked in the garden of that house in 1968. Some sort of flare-up at a drunken party. What do you have to say about that young Tony?"

<><><><>

Fisher studied Taylor's face in vain for signs that would indicate that this was all some sort of practical joke and that they would soon be joined by the rest of the office staff who would all have a good giggle at his expense. None was forthcoming.

"I have seen old clippings of the dead couple and I can tell you the description you gave is pretty close to the photographs issued by the police at the time. Another guest let them back into the house but they died in the hallway from their injuries. The murderer was never caught. The name of the couple was indeed Morton. A naïve young couple who happened to be in the wrong place just as some maniac produced a hunting knife. I still have the clippings at home. Tomorrow…."
 
Tony waved a hand to indicate he had very little interest in the clippings. He was now starting to feel nauseous.

"Are you really trying to tell me that I've been trying to sell a house to two ghosts? And hang on just a minute. Why on earth would they want to buy the house in which they were done in. Surely even ghosts are logical. It's some sort of practical…"

"Oh no it's not my young friend. That's why they were at the party in the first place. You see all this has happened before. Why do you think you got the job here so easily? Now tell me about Mr. Archer."

Fisher felt as though he was about to faint.                                         

<><><><>

"I thought he would show up again today," Taylor murmured half to himself. 

"Archer?" Tony realised he really didn't want to know too much about the third caller, half expecting him to be the deceased Mr. Broadbent.

"Don't look so alarmed, Tony my lad. Mr. Archer is no more dead than you or I. His real name is Granger and he's a reporter for the local rag. Always sniffing around looking for another story. That house has earned him a few bob over the years one way or another. He's another reason no one is interested number 38 Winter Avenue. If I were you I'd forget all about today's events and go home and get a good night's sleep if you can. You're obviously a very good salesman and I've got a lot of really good properties on my books that you'll have no problem selling. I'm sure of that. Oh before you go give me back the keys will you? You should have two sets I believe."

Tony just wanted to get home, park the car, and pour himself a "real" drink. He searched all his pockets but could only come up with one set of keys.

"I know the cleaner left them with me. She'd left them lying in the hallway. I meant to speak to…."

"Little rosy cheeked woman ? Not young? That's our Mabel for you. It was Mabel who first told us about a young couple rapping on the kitchen window."

"Thank God someone else has seen them. I'm not going mad then. I'll look forward to having a chat with her when I next see her."

"Shouldn't think so my old son. You see it was Mabel who let the young couple back into the flat way back in the sixties. She was that guest at the party. Only took the job as cleaner to try and get rid of the memory of it all. Drank herself to death years ago. But she's there every morning just the same. Like clockwork. Or so the story goes anyway."

END

LAST BUS

Mary gulped the vodka down and grabbed her coat from the coat stand behind the door leading into the off-sales department of the pub.

"You're sure? You don't want to hang on for an hour or so and I'll give you a lift home? It's no problem Only I've got to cash up first and do a bit of bookwork. Get things ship-shape for this stock check tomorrow."

"No, honestly, George. We'll be fine won't we Pol? We'll make the last bus no problem. Providing Polly gets her skates on that is."

The younger girl smiled shyly at the older, more experienced barmaid. It had been Mary who had been responsible for getting her the pub job in the first place. Polly had badly needed the money and Mary had taken her under her wing and shown her the ropes. She owed her a lot and didn't mind at all that Mary could be a little bit bossy. In point of fact she rather liked it. She'd moved away from her own family years previously and Mary was a bit like a kindly older sister. She soon discovered that she could talk to Mary and that they had a great deal in common. They even shared first names as Polly had only changed hers from Mary to Polly when she had moved to London to start a new life far removed from the old one. She had suffered terribly from her previous experiences with men and needed a new start in life. The older woman understood totally as her own first marriage had been a total disaster. Violent in the extreme. Somebody would have been killed in that relationship and Mary had made sure that it wasn't her. The difference between her and Polly was that it had only happened to Mary once. The younger girl had been the victim of a string of disastrous relationships. Drink, drugs, other women and of course violence. She had needed straightening out badly and Mary had been of tremendous help there. She had helped the younger girl see that no woman need be a victim of any man. The men who drank in the pub laughed and joked with Mary but they were all very wary of her Irish temper and just how far was far enough if she thought for one moment somebody was out of order. Polly idolised her! A lot of the older woman's self-confidence had had started to rub off on the young girl. Mary was no great lover of Margaret Thatcher and her policies - Mary's brother was a miner - but she had nothing but admiration for what she had achieved in a man's world. When Thatcher had won her second general election in 1987 Polly had only been working in the pub for a couple of days but she remembered Mary's words that day.

"I don't like her but you won't go far wrong if you treat men like she does. And you're much prettier!"

That had been the previous year and now Polly had her own comfortable little flat, any amount of boyfriends at her beck and call, and a real friend in Mary. She could tell Mary anything and did. That was when they both found out they had a great deal more in common than their first names. Something from the past. Nightmares they had both shared since childhood and still shared even to this day.

<><><><>

"It's down to drugs you mark my words. Everything is these days."

Sergeant Crosby swallowed the whisky in one gulp, moved his police cap along the bar and coughed loudly.

George looked up from the newspaper spread out in front of him and took the hint.

"Either that or you've got a real maniac running loose out there. How many does that make now?"

"Lost count me old son. Lost interest an' all. They can all kill each other and I wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over it and that's a fact. Bloody scum."

The elderly barman re-filled the sergeant's whisky glass and returned to his newspaper.

"Couldn't agree more with you if it is drug dealers. World would be a much better place without every last one of them. Hope the girls are alright. Can't understand why they didn't wait for a lift from me. That Mary. She's so independent."

"Knows you're a randy old devil more like."

They both laughed loudly, but George's laugh had a hollow ring to it. The sergeant gulped his second whisky down and lifted the cap from the counter.

"One for the road?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

George turned to fill the glass again and hide the distaste that was written all over his face.

"There you go Ted. On the house as usual."

God how he hated the police!

<><><><>

Mary and Pol both shivered in the cold November blast as they neared the end of their twenty minute walk to catch the last bus.

"And we've definitely got enough money between us for that car now?" Polly asked for the thousandth time.

"With a good bit left over. Don't worry. This is definitely the last time we do this. You can write it down in your diary. November the ninth. The last time we had to catch the last bus."

Polly hugged herself with excitement. This time next week they'd be driving home. She owed it all to Mary of course. When Mary decided something was going to get done it always worked out just the way she planned it. The tips from the pub had all been carefully stashed away but it had been her idea about the prostitution. That was where the real money had come from.

<><><><>

The very tall man stood alone at the bus stop, seemingly impervious to the biting wind. He could see the two women approaching in the distance and clutched the briefcase tighter. His heart started to pound and his head to swim in anticipation.

"Trollops," he said to himself the plastic handle of the briefcase almost slipping from the palm of his hand with sweat. "Here come the trollops," he repeated inwardly.

<><><><>

George made his rounds of the empty pub. One last check to make sure everything that should be switched off was and that the alarm was switched on. Interesting theory that reporter guy had about another serial killer on the loose exactly one hundred years almost to the day after the infamous Jack The Ripper. Anything to sell newspapers. Still, there had been three or four - he couldn't remember which - remarkably similar, unsolved murders in a very short space of time. Between August and November. Strange. And then he remembered the very tall, very odd looking stranger who had been talking to Mary and Polly in the pub a couple of nights previously. He checked his watch. Ten past twelve. Too late. The last bus would have gone by now. He decided to drive by the bus stop in any case. Maybe it hadn't turned up or the girls had missed it. Remembering the tall man had unsettled him.
                              
<><><><>

He had all his little toys in the briefcase. Served them right. Nothing but trash, these women, and they would pay dearly for it this very night. He thought his head was going to burst as they drew nearer. 

<><><><>

"Your turn to ask Polly. And remember we won't have to do this any more after tonight. Think of your dreams, my girl. Always keep your dreams on your mind as you're doing it."

"Interested in some female company are you sir?" Polly smiled her sexiest smile. Mary drew her coat tightly round her against the cold November wind and her finger along the razor sharp, surgical knife. Pity it had to be the last time. Maybe it didn't. Jack had stopped at five. She could do anything better than a man. If he HAD been a man. Nobody ever seemed to think of that.

END

                                          
JOKER

It was a heavy responsibility sometimes, but where would the world be without people like him. Somebody to cheer them up when they needed it. Always on hand with a smiling face and a good joke. He could always be relied on for that. Good old Miles would always be there with some quip or other to fit the bill. Good old Miles. They often told him he should be on the stage. Maybe one day. Maybe one day.

<><><><>
 
Miles had a joke to fit every occasion. The problem with Miles’s jokes was that none of them were new. They were jokes, full stop. Story ended. Miles had no sense of humour that could be termed his own. His workmates would laugh politely and tell him he was a card, or how they would "need to remember that one" etc., and then suddenly remember something urgent they had to do elsewhere in the office. The only reason they suffered Miles’s jokes in the first place was that there was another side to Miles. Miles was dangerous! One had to be extremely careful speaking to Miles. He found every one else's business much more interesting than his own and once party to any snippet of gossip felt duty bound to bring it before as wide an audience as possible. Miles Bailey was not a nice man to know. There was no ulterior motive in his tale carrying other than the need to feel important . Miles relished feeling important. One evening his behaviour made him very important to someone and the joking had to stop. Permanently.

<><><><>

Small, bespectacled with a fixed knowing smile and birdlike mannerisms Miles Bailey didn't look like a man you could trust with a secret but it was surprising how much information he could glean from a throwaway remark or a brief conversation. He was expert in that department. Having heard something he wasn't supposed to hear in the first place, Miles would then make an assumption (almost invariably incorrect) and tell any who cared to listen, his interpretation of it. By that time it had somehow become gospel truth. Even he believed it by that time.

<><><><>

"……. No, I thought you were the milkman! I thought you were the ruddy milkman! Good, eh?" Miles repeated the punchline to his bored audience in the pub, slapping his thigh at his own joke. "Off somewhere are you? Remember that one for your criminals tomorrow then Bill. You too Sam. Oh you and Sheila off too? Pity I was just going to buy the next round. Only joking!"

"Could buy me rounds all night and I'd still sooner sit at home stone cold sober with the toothache." Bill hissed under his breath to Sam and Sheila as all three made for the door. "'Night then Miles. Pleasure as always. I'll make a note of that one for the boys in the sorting office," said Sam who happened to be a postman. "Bloody prat!" he said to his wife and Bill, the local policeman, as they reached the door and were now well out of earshot. "I don't know why we even let him sit with us."

"It's a lot bloody simpler than arresting him for talking shit!" muttered Bill morosely. "Too much sodding paperwork!"

<><><><>

Finding himself suddenly bereft of an audience Miles pressed on regardless and immediately turned his attention to the adjoining table. The very large and extremely well built younger man sitting alone there had been half-in, half-out of the conversation earlier, but was now engrossed in the sports page of his newspaper.

"Good one that eh? I've got stacks of them. People tell me I should go professional the way I can make them laugh. But there was another reason for that particular joke in that particular company. Sheila and Sam live in the next village to me but I have it on good authority, mustn't disclose the source, that Sheila entertains her milkman on a regular basis. I was probing to see if Sam knew. Clever,eh?"

The young man carefully folded his newspaper and turned to give Miles his full attention. He grinned at Miles and moved over to join him.

"You're a very funny man and that's a fact. Clever too. But I think Sam knows alright. I think he's known for quite some time as a matter of fact. I'm Johnny by the way. You see I'm Sheila's milkman. I'm also her younger brother. That of course makes Sam my brother-in-law and a very good one he is to me at that. Sheila's always been good to me since I was a kid. Trying to keep me on the straight and narrow. Got me the job as a matter of fact. It can be very hard getting a job when you've been in and out of jail as much as I have. I just can't seem to keep my temper under control. Sam suggested I take up a sport that would teach me how to channel my anti-social behaviour into something constructive. So I took up kick-boxing in jail the last time. All that has done is make me better at beating people up and I was very, very good at it before. Walking home are you? I really hope so. Give me a shout before you go and you can tell me some more of your jokes on the way home."

The young man gave Miles the most terrifying stare from narrowed grey eyes, positively burning with hatred, and strode over to bar.

Miles grasped the opportunity, crawled under the pool table and fled leaving his briefcase, mobile phone and dignity. The one thing on his mind was to escape  the young man's threats. He managed to hail a taxi luckily and shook uncontrollably all the way home. He managed to delay throwing up until he got inside his modest flat.

<><><><>

"The sooner you get word that you've been accepted for that drama college the better young Johnny. These practical jokes will have to stop or I'll have no customers left. I hate practical jokes, you know that," said Rachel the manageress. "Still, I'm glad to see the back of that little toerag."

"Well, I like Sheila and Sam and I know Barney her milkman. Barney IS her brother and he and Sam ARE the best of mates," said the aspiring actor, finishing his pint.

THE END

© Liam Leddy 2003