3rd of September, 1976
His ma was true to her word and woke him up nice and early. He had washed himself raw in the communal bathroom down the hall, scrubbing until his skin was pink and his knuckles ached. His ma had decided that she was going to do his hair with his da's old Brylcreem, working it through until it lay flat and proper, parted on the side like his da used to wear it. She gave him his da's old cologne as well—cheap stuff that came in a green bottle, smelled like tobacco and something sharp underneath. He dabbed it on his neck the way he'd seen his da do on Sundays.
He looked at himself in the small mirror hanging crooked on the wall. His best clothes—the ones he wore to Mass when his ma could drag him there. White shirt, collar starched stiff enough to cut, tucked into dark grey wool trousers that his ma had pressed with the iron heated on the stove. Black shoes that pinched his toes but were polished to a shine. His da's old waistcoat over top, dark blue with brass buttons, hung a bit loose on his thin frame but made him look older. Proper. Respectable.
He barely recognized himself. He liked what he saw. He didn't look like some wee shite off the street who was goin tae steal yer cigarettes. He looked like someone who had power in one hand an cash in the other.
His ma walked into the room. She was wearing some of her good clothes as well—the dark green dress she wore to funerals, hair pinned back proper, a bit of powder on her face to hide the dark circles.
"Ye look good, Ro. Now ye look like a proper hard man," she said, her Dublin accent soft.
He nodded. He really did.
"D'ye think it will help?"
She moved over and pressed his collar down, smoothing it flat. "I know Tommy well enough. Respect is important to him. He's goin out of his way to come here and hear ye out. Would be easier to just do away with ye. Send ye off to Ireland and forget about ye."
"I know, ma. I know."
She gave him a long look, eyes searching his face. "Look, Ro. I don't want ye goin back to Ireland. My family, they're involved with some serious shite over there. I know ye want more than we've got. I used to see the same look in me da's eyes." She paused, hand still on his collar. "I knew after ye came home with yer da's blood on yer face and all ye took from it was 'don't be daft.' I knew ye were goin to be different. Ye've always been different. Always seein things and weighin their worth. It scares me sometimes."
That gave him pause. He knew what she meant. He knew he did that with almost everything—looked at people, situations, opportunities, calculated what they were worth, what they could give him, what they'd cost. The only time he didn't do it was when he was with his ma and Cal. They weren't worth somethin. They just were.
"Tell me this, what do ye want from the life yer tryin to live, Ro? Being a hard man is dangerous. Ye'll do bad things and bad things will be done to ye in turn. Who do ye want to become?"
He thought about that for a moment. What did he want? Everything. To be powerful. To be strong. To be rich. To be respected and feared.
What did he want to become? Well, he knew he didn't want tae just be a follower. What happened yesterday showed him that. When ye followed someone, their mistakes could become yer mistakes. Ye could practice an plan but it meant nothin if ye were followin a shite leader.
"Everything," he found himself saying. "I want everything. I want tae be the one who calls the shots. Who makes the money. Who stands at the top watchin doon."
His ma gave a sad nod, her eyes going distant. "Just like me da," she whispered. "He was the same. Nothin was enough. He always wanted more. I know I won't be able to stop ye. I watched me ma fight him at every turn. So I won't fight ye, Ronan. I'll do me best to help ye become the man ye want to become. Even if I don't like it."
He swallowed hard at that. He didn't know what tae say so he reached forward instead and gave her a hug, wrapping his arms around her thin shoulders.
"Thanks, ma."
She returned his hug with a pat on his head.
"I'm yer mammy. It's me job," she said simply.
They held the hug for a moment before she stepped back, wiping quickly at her eyes.
"Now go sit in the kitchen. Tommy will be here soon."
He did what he was told, settling into the chair at the kitchen table. His ma made a small breakfast—porridge with a bit of sugar, toast with the last of the butter—and started making a pot of proper Irish tea, the strong stuff she kept for special occasions. The flat smelled like bread and bergamot.
It was a few minutes later when they heard a knock on the door. Three sharp raps, confident.
His ma moved to open it, smoothing her dress as she went.
Ronan stood up from his chair.
He had never seen Tommy McKenzie before. He looked exactly as Ronan expected from his reputation—a man in his late forties, solid but not fat, wearing a dark three-piece suit that fit him proper, the kind that cost real money. White shirt, burgundy tie with a gold pin. A heavy wool overcoat despite the September weather, well-tailored, hanging open. His hair was dark, going grey at the temples, slicked back with pomade. Clean-shaven face with sharp features—nose that had been broken at least once, a thin scar running from his left eyebrow to his hairline, another barely visible on his jaw. Remnants from the razor gang days, decades back. His eyes were dark, shrewd, missing nothing. Gold wedding band on his left hand, worn smooth from years. He carried himself like a man who'd been in charge so long he'd forgotten what it felt like not to be.
Behind him stood Big Davey. Big Davey was in his thirties, massive, six-foot-four easy, built like a brick shithouse. Wore a black suit that stretched across his shoulders, white shirt with no tie. Hands like shovels, knuckles scarred and thick. Flat nose, cauliflower ear, jaw like an anvil. Face that had taken a thousand punches and kept coming. He wasn't there to talk. He was there to do whatever Tommy needed done, and everyone knew it.
"Eileen," Tommy said, his Glaswegian accent polished but still present. "Good tae see ye. Been too long."
"Tommy," his ma replied, stepping aside. "Come in, please."
He stepped into the flat, eyes sweeping the small kitchen before landing on Ronan. He walked over toward him, footsteps measured and deliberate. Ronan stood up and moved to stand in front of him, meeting his eyes. Tommy held out a hand and Ronan took it, giving the strongest shake he could manage.
"So ye're Ronan then. Yer da used tae talk aboot ye a lot. Was proud of ye. Said ye were goin tae make it big." Tommy's grip was firm, testing. "We'll see if there's any truth tae it, aye?"
Ronan nodded. "Yes, Mr McKenzie, sir."
Tommy took his hand back and waved him off while his ma moved to take his overcoat, hanging it carefully by the door. Tommy took a seat at the kitchen table, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver cigarette case, popping it open with a practiced flick. He ran one cigarette under his nose, inhaling the tobacco, then lit it with a silver lighter. Took a long drag before blowing the smoke out slow.
"What's that smell? Ye made breakfast, Eileen?"
His ma nodded. "I did. Wasn't sure if ye would've eaten."
She plated up the porridge, setting one bowl in front of Tommy and one in front of Ronan, then poured the tea—dark and strong, steam rising.
Tommy took a spoonful, giving it a small blow to cool it before eating. "Delicious." He turned to look at Big Davey, still standing by the door like a statue. "Ye should have a bowl."
Davey just gave him a look—flat, emotionless—and stayed where he was, hands clasped in front of him.
Ronan took his own bite and they both ate in silence. Just the scrape of spoons against bowls, the sound of Callum stirring in his cot in the other room, the distant noise of the tenement waking up around them.
When both bowls were empty, Tommy set his spoon down and leaned back in his chair. Took another drag of his cigarette. His eyes fixed on Ronan, sharp and assessing.
"I heard aboot what happened from Jimmy—the big red-headed bastard who works the door at the Goldhorn. He told me what he saw an what he found in Mick's office. One of ma men cut a dozen times, dead an lyin in his own blood." He paused, the weight of his gaze settling heavy on Ronan's shoulders. "Why did yer wee team think they were daein? Attackin one of ma men? Tell me everythin."
Ronan took a breath, working to steady himself. His ma stood by the stove, still as stone, watching.
"It started with Davey's uncle," Ronan began, keeping his voice level. "His shop got robbed. They cleaned him oot—till, stock, everythin. Davey was angry aboot it. Said his uncle was a civilian, shouldnae have tae worry aboot gettin robbed like that."
Tommy's expression didn't change. "An?"
"We went lookin for the ones who did it. Found three boys on Houston Street. They admitted they'd done it, but said someone had put them up tae it. Said a man named Mick Dolan told them tae rob the shop, that he'd fence the gear an gie them a cut."
"An what did ye do with these boys?"
Ronan met his eyes. "We roughed them up. Got the information. Let them go."
Tommy took a drag, smoke curling. "Roughed them up how?"
"Punches. One got cut—smile across his face. Just tae make them talk."
"An they told ye it was Mick who set them up?"
"Aye."
"So ye went tae see Mick." It wasn't a question.
"Aye. Davey wanted tae know why Mick would send boys after his uncle's shop. Wanted his money back."
Tommy leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. "An did any of ye know who Mick worked for?"
Ronan hesitated, then nodded. "We knew he probably kicked up tae ye. Most bookies in the Gorbals dae. But Davey thought—" He stopped himself.
"Thought what?"
"Thought that if his uncle was clean, if he wasnae in the life, then it didnae make sense for ye tae send someone after him. Thought maybe Mick was actin on his own."
Tommy's eyes narrowed. "An what did ye think?"
This was the moment. Ronan could feel his ma's eyes on his back.
"I thought it was dangerous," Ronan said carefully. "I asked Davey what we'd dae if it turned oot ye had ordered it. He said we'd cross that bridge when we got tae it."
"But ye went anyway."
"Aye."
"Why?"
"Because I'm part of the crew. An because—" Ronan stopped, choosing his words. "Because I didnae think he'd actually dae anythin that stupid."
Tommy studied him for a long moment, then stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray his ma had set down. "Tell me what happened at the Goldhorn."
"We went tae the pub. The barman said it was closed. Davey told him we were there tae see Mick aboot his uncle's shop. The doorman—Jimmy—went tae get him. When he came back, he said Mick would see Davey but only Davey. Rest of us had tae wait outside."
"An ye did?"
"Aye. Me an Bam kept watch by the door. Tam an Shuggie stayed at the bar. We waited maybe five, ten minutes. Could hear voices through the door—Davey an someone else. Talkin at first, then it got louder. Then they were yellin."
"What were they yellin aboot?"
"Couldnae make oot the words. Just angry voices. Then Davey came through the door." Ronan kept his voice steady. "He had his razor oot. It was covered in blood. So was he—his shirt, his face, everythin. He told us tae get tae the car. We ran."
Tommy's expression hadn't changed, but something shifted in his eyes. "An in the car? What did Davey say?"
"At first he wouldnae say much. Just kept drivin. Said it was sorted. Tam pushed him—asked what 'sorted' meant, how bad it was. That's when Davey lost it." Ronan met Tommy's gaze. "He said Mick admitted ye'd ordered the hit on his uncle's shop. Said he told Mick he was lyin, tae tell the truth or he'd cut him. But Mick kept sayin it was yer orders. Told Davey tae fuck off back tae his shithole an he wouldnae tell ye aboot what happened."
Tommy was very still. "An that's when Davey killed him?"
"I dinnae know when exactly. But aye. Tam asked him if he'd killed Mick an Davey didnae deny it."
"What did ye say? When Davey told ye all this?"
Ronan swallowed. "Nothin at first. We were all just... quiet. Even Shuggie looked scared. Then the car broke doon a few streets from Crown Street. Engine just died. Davey told us all tae go home, that we'd meet up the next day an figure oot a plan."
"An then what?"
"Tam was angry. Said ye'd come for us. Said the doorman probably already called ye. Shuggie tried tae say it didnae mean anythin, but Tam said any bookie claimin tae work for ye wouldnae lie aboot it. That ye'd know who Davey was, where tae find him. Where tae find all of us."
Tommy nodded slowly. "Smart lad, that Tam. He was right." He picked up his tea, took a sip. "An what did ye do?"
"Bam walked me home. Then I told ma maw what happened. She called ye."
Tommy set the teacup down, eyes never leaving Ronan's face. "Let me ask ye somethin. Did ye think Mick was tellin the truth? That I'd ordered his uncle's shop tae be robbed?"
Ronan thought aboot his da. Aboot Mary Campbell's father burnin tae death in his bakery. Aboot what his ma had said—Tommy doesn't let shite like this slide.
"I thought it was possible," Ronan said carefully. "Ma da told stories aboot the work he did for ye. Some of it was rough. An I knew that if someone didnae pay their dues, ye made sure they learned. But—"
"But?"
"But Davey said his uncle would have paid if ye came askin. An if that was true, then it didnae make sense for ye tae send boys tae rob him. Seemed more like Mick might've been actin on his own."
Tommy nodded slowly. "Yer da was a good man. Loyal. Did what needed daein without question." He picked up his tea again, took another sip. "Mick Dolan got greedy. Started shakin doon shopkeepers who were already payin their protection tae me, tellin them it was extra. Pocketin the difference. I found oot aboot it last week. Was dealin with it ma way." His voice went cold. "Then yer wee mate Grant Davies walked intae ma bookie's office an cut him tae pieces before I could handle it proper."
Ronan said nothing. There was nothing to say.
"Davey's been lifted," Tommy continued. "Coppers on ma payroll made sure of it. He'll be goin away for murder. Long time. An that's the end of Grant Davies." He leaned forward again, eyes fixed on Ronan. "Now I need tae decide what tae dae with the rest of ye."
Ronan leaned back slightly, processing that. Davey was gone then? He'd thought Tommy might kill him, but he supposed throwin another body on the pile wouldnae change anythin. This way was cleaner. Davey disappeared intae the system, an everyone got the message without more blood.
"Tell me aboot the rest of the boys ye're runnin with," Tommy said, settling back in his chair, cigarette smoke curling between them.
Ronan thought aboot it. He would continue tae dae what he had been—tellin the truth. Or at least the parts of it that mattered.
"Alright. I'll start with Tam. As I said earlier, Tam thinks. He's willin tae get his hands dirty but he's not... he wasnae afraid tae call Davey oot if he was bein stupid. Pretty knowledgeable aboot stuff as well." Ronan paused. "Shuggie likes tae laugh, drink an fight. He doesnae really care what we're daein as long as we're goin tae dae one of those three things." Another pause. "An Bam? Bam's quiet. Davey always said he's slow. Maybe he is, but he's loyal. I saved him from gettin cut an he said he owed me now. Cannae be too thick if he understands somethin like that."
Tommy lit another cigarette, the flame from his lighter casting shadows across his scarred face. He sat in silence for almost a minute, just smoking, watching Ronan with those dark, shrewd eyes. The quiet stretched. Put Ronan on edge. Made the small kitchen feel smaller.
"So what we have," Tommy said finally, "is a bunch of lads I could put tae use."
Ronan nodded carefully.
"Then there's ye, Ronan Gallagher." Tommy took a long drag, let the smoke out slow. "From what yer mammy tells me, ye're well suited for this life. Ye care in small doses. An from what yer mate Tam said aboot ye, just because ye're young doesnae mean ye huvnae got it in ye."
Ronan's stomach went tight. He'd already talked tae Tam? When?
Tommy must've seen somethin in his face because he smiled—not warm, just amused. "Aye, I spoke tae Tam this mornin. Had tae get the full picture, didnae I?" He tapped ash into the tray. "Yer da saved ma life when we were younger. Took a blade meant for me. It's why I make sure tae look oot for yer family. I had intended tae let ye go off tae Ireland, but I've decided I'd rather have ye workin for me."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes boring intae Ronan's.
"We'll talk more aboot it tomorrow. Come tae the Crown—the pub on Crown Street, no the one where yer da died. I work oot the back most days. I'm no goin tae blame ye or the others for what Davey did. That's on him. But ye're mine now. Understand?"
"Aye, Mr McKenzie."
Tommy stood, stubbing oot his cigarette in the ashtray with deliberate pressure. He turned tae Ronan's ma. "Thank ye for the breakfast, Eileen. If I ever decide tae add breakfast tae the Crown's menu, I'll gie ye a yell."
His ma gave a small smile, relief clear on her face. "Thank ye, Tommy. For everythin."
He just flashed a smile—polished, practiced—and picked up his overcoat, throwing it over his shoulders without puttin his arms through the sleeves. "Come on then, Davey. Back tae work."
Big Davey opened the door without a word, stepping oot intae the close first. Tommy followed, pausing in the doorway tae look back at Ronan one more time.
"Tomorrow. Dinnae be late."
Then he was gone, footsteps echoing doon the stairs.
The door closed. The flat was quiet except for Callum stirrin in his cot.
Ronan's ma let oot a breath she'd been holdin, hand goin tae her chest. "Jaysis, Ro. That could've gone a lot worse."
Ronan just nodded. He was still processin. Davey was gone. The crew was bein absorbed intae Tommy's operation. An him? He was workin for Tommy McKenzie now.
He'd wanted power. Wanted tae be at the top.
This wasnae the top. But it was a step up from where he'd been yesterday.
An he'd learned somethin important: Tommy had talked tae Tam first. Had gotten the story from multiple angles before makin his decision. That's how ye stayed in power—ye gathered information, ye tested people, ye made sure ye knew exactly what ye were dealin with before ye acted.
Ronan filed that away. Another lesson.
"Go change oot of yer good clothes," his ma said, movin tae clear the dishes. "An then come give Cal his breakfast. I need tae sit doon for a minute."
"Aye, ma."
He stood, legs steadier than he expected, an went tae his room.
Tomorrow he'd go tae the Crown. Tomorrow his real education would start.
But for now, he'd survived. An that was enough.
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